Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

“Nor do I,” she’d said, wondering what that had to do with anything, but he still opened the letters.

The letter contained little news, not a word, in fact, about her father. Her mother, of course, believed her to be living in San Francisco, happily, with her new husband. She finished the letter and folded it back into its envelope. She would answer it and give it to Ira to post from San Francisco. The deception would be maintained.

Suddenly she felt more lonely than she’d ever felt in her life. Empty. Tears sprang to her eyes and slowly trickled down her cheeks.

“Byrony.”

She gulped and swiped her hand across her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Ira, truly I am. It’s just that—” She broke off, uncertain of what words would spill out of her mouth.

He rose and crossed over to her. “Poor Byrony,” he said, stroking her shoulders. “It’s been very hard for you, hasn’t it? I shall make it up to you, I promise.” He sighed. “You are so very young. You need gaiety and parties.”

“People,” she said. “I need people.” Suddenly she wanted desperately to ask him about Brent Hammond. She had to bite down on her tongue not to. Instead, she said, “Tell me what happened to Mr. and Mrs. Saxton.”

He looked relieved, abundantly so. “It’s odd, the entire business. I heard rumors in the early summer that Mrs. Saxton was trailed by a bodyguard. Then there was a fire at one of Saxton’s warehouses. They left San Francisco, so I was told, in midsummer and returned some three weeks ago. As far as I know, everything is fine between them. Whatever mystery there was, if there was one, has been cleared up.”

She didn’t really care, but pretended to listen.

They were both startled at the sound of a piercing scream from above.

“Oh, my God,” Ira said, and dashed from the sitting room to the stairs.

She trailed after him. Eileen blocked her at the bedchamber door. “No, Miz Butler. I don’t think you should come in. The baby wants to arrive a bit early. Mr. Butler is going soon to fetch the doctor.”

“Take care of her, Eileen,” Ira said. He looked at Byrony but didn’t really see her. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

She stood for a moment in the narrow hallway. As a young girl, she wasn’t allowed anywhere near a woman giving birth. She supposed men had made that rule, their belief being that if a woman witnessed the agony of birth, she wouldn’t want to go through it herself. Then, she thought, what would happen to the human race?

Byrony sat downstairs, huddled in her favorite chair, a novel on her lap. She heard every scream. It was dreadful. She’d never thought about birthing a child, not really. It went on and on. Dr. Chambers, a small, balding man who appeared to regard his fellow humans as so many insects to be tolerated, remained upstairs. Ira periodically came down. He looked exhausted, and so worried that Byrony’s heart went out to him.

“God, how much longer?” he asked, running his hands through his hair. He looked disheveled. She’d never before seen him only in trousers and shirt, his sleeves rolled up. His forearms were very white with light sprinkles of fair hair.

She didn’t know what to say. He paced, his eyes going every few moments toward the ceiling. “The baby is a bit early, thank God. She didn’t get too big. Why doesn’t it come?” There was a piercing scream, and Ira went white. He moaned as if the pain were his, and rushed out of the room. Byrony heard his steps on the stairs.

Byrony’s book fell unnoticed to the floor as she rose. She went slowly to the foot of the stairs. She heard two men’s voices raised in argument. Then another agonizing cry.

An hour passed, then another. There were no more loud screams. Suddenly she heard a thin wailing sound. The baby. She ran up the stairs, but Eileen blocked her view of Irene at the door.

“No, Miz Butler,” she said firmly. “Not yet. The baby’s here, a little girl, and the mistress will be fine, I promise you.”

It was well past midnight. Byrony, attired in her nightgown and robe, was sitting downstairs, waiting. She looked up to see Ira, his face utterly transformed.

“It’s over,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Irene is sleeping now. The child is small but Dr. Chambers believes she will be fine.”

“Does the child look like Irene?” She cursed herself the moment the question slipped out.

“It’s hard to tell,” he said, appearing not to notice. “Actually, she has a lot of almost white hair. Her eyes are blue, but Eileen says that all babies start that way. Jesus, I never want to go through that again.”

Irene probably doesn’t either, she thought. Byrony had feared that the child would look like Irene’s lover, though she hadn’t the foggiest notion of what that man looked like. Irene had ignored her one tentative question about him. She saw Ira sag with fatigue into a chair. He was asleep in a moment. It was odd, she thought, watching him. He was her husband, yet she’d never seen him dressed as he was now, never seen him asleep. She didn’t know him. A stab of elation went through her. It was over. Soon their exile would end.

Brent looked up from the papers he was reading, and smiled. “Well, Maggie, how was business last night?”

“Much the same. My girls are all exhausted. Lordy, so many horny men.” She paused a moment, sighing. “Felice miscarried. Saint tells me she’ll be just fine. The little idiot must not have been careful. I will box her ears when she recovers.”

Brent knew she was worried, even though she spoke in the most clipped of tones. Oddly enough, this madam cared about her girls, as if, almost, they were her children, which was silly, of course, since several were older than Maggie.

“As for you, Brent, I wish you hadn’t removed Celeste.”

“I don’t like to share my women, Maggie, you know that. Come on, duchess, sit down and relax for a while.”