The Scottish Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 6)

Both Leo and Max were yelling even before the wagon pulled to a halt.

Mary Rose was awake, had awakened before Mr. Randall had carried her to the wagon and carefully laid her on a pile of smelly blankets. All three children had hovered over her on the bumpy ride back to Glenclose-on-Rowan.

She’d been content not to move, to let everything settle, she told the children. She smiled now up at Meggie. “I just feel a bit strange, Meggie, nothing bad, I’m sure of it.”

“You’re awfully pale, Mary Rose.”

“Well, I landed against the brick hearth. It was very hard and unforgiving. But I’ll be fine. I just feel a bit dull, heavy.”

“If you’re all right, then why do you look like you want to cry?”

Shouting voices poured out of the vicarage.

“I won’t cry. Please, love, don’t make a fuss. We don’t want to worry your father.”

But Meggie just shook her head.

Tysen was beside that old doddering wagon in an instant. He saw Mary Rose lying there, covered with blankets, so pale and listless that he knew she was dying. He’d never been so afraid in his life.

He climbed up beside her, studying her face closely before he said, “Mary Rose, are you all right?”

His beloved face was above her. He was worried. She wanted to weep. “It was an accident, a very silly accident, Tysen. I am quite all right, I just landed against a brick hearth at the inn in Grapple Thorpe, that’s all, and—” Suddenly she grabbed her stomach and cried out.

The pain lessened. “I don’t understand,” she said, and then the pain slashed through her again. This time it didn’t stop, just kept on and on, tearing at her insides, making her cry and whimper, making her twist, trying desperately to get away from it. She heard Tysen say, his voice hoarse with shock, “Oh, my God, she’s bleeding.” He’d been about to lift her out of the wagon and he lifted his hand. It was covered with blood.

“A miscarriage.”

Was that Sophie who had said that? The pain tore through her again, harder this time, deeper, and she wanted, quite simply, to die.

What was that Sophie had said? A miscarriage? Mary Rose was pregnant? She was losing her babe?

“Tysen,” she said and grabbed at his hand.

“It will be all right, Mary Rose, I swear it to you.” Then she was in his arms, and the pain was twisting and tearing her insides apart.

“A babe? Tysen, am I losing our babe?”

“Hush, Mary Rose. Please, it will be all right.” Tysen carried her to their bedchamber, aware that Sophie and Alex were running ahead of him, yelling out orders to Mrs. Priddie. Sophie was spreading towels on the bed.

He laid his wife down, only to have her clasp his hands so tightly she hurt him. “It’s all right,” he said over and over. She was lost to him for several moments. He felt the dreadful pain in her. He knew the exact moment when her body expelled the babe. Blood, so much blood, on his hands, his arms, covering her gown, weighing it down, stark red against the white towels.

She was crying, and he was holding her tightly against him, rocking her, talking nonsense, really, but he just couldn’t stop himself.

He heard Alex yell, “Fetch the doctor, Douglas, quickly! She’s bleeding too much!”

Tysen simply pulled away from her. “Hold still,” he said, his voice harsh enough to get through to her. Then he was between her legs, jerking away the bloody gown, tearing away her petticoats and chemise. So much blood, and it was nearly black now, that blood, and it was not only her blood but also the bloody waste that had been their babe.

“Mary Rose, listen to me.”

She forced herself outward at that hard voice, saw Tysen between her legs at the foot of the bed. “Stay with me,” he said, then pressed a towel wrapped around his fist as hard as he could against her. “I mean it, Mary Rose, you will stay with me, look at me. Damn you, don’t leave me. Open your eyes. That’s right.”

He knew little about childbirth, even less than that about miscarriage. He’d prayed with many women who had lost their babes, but he’d never seen it happen. He’d consoled men who’d lost their wives to childbirth. Oh, Jesus. He was the father of three children, yet he’d never been in the same room when Melinda Beatrice had given birth. He remembered her yelling. And now he shuddered.

So much blood, covering his hands. He pulled away the towel and took another one from Sophie and pressed it against her again.

“It will be all right, Mary Rose.” It was his litany, he thought. Oh, dear God, what else should he do?

It seemed a lifetime had passed and another begun before Dr. Clowder ran into the bedchamber, took in the situation at a glance, and very gently pushed Tysen away.