The Inconvenient Duchess

years ago. The Lady Bethany died…’ the air became thick and caught in his throat ‘…died in childbirth.’
    In his mind, he could still hear the screaming. They’d sent him away from the bedroom, but the sight of her, struggling for breath and screaming, had followed him as he wandered through the house. And the screams had echoed in the distance, as he sat on the stairs. He’d prayed, ‘Let it be over. Dear God, let it end. I can’t do this. I can’t. There must be a way out.’
    Then the screams had stopped. He’d listened for the cry of the child, but none had come. And he’d gone to the room. But there’d been so much blood. Too much blood.
    ‘Your Grace?’
    He snapped back to attention. His hands were slick with sweat on the reins, and he was urging the horses. He relaxed his grip. ‘Where is it we’re going, Steven? To find Maggie’s mother?’

    She’d been at a neighbouring farm, and had gathered her things and run for the wagon she’d come in. Then he’d driven on to the inn with Steven, and sunk down at a table in grateful silence, with ale in front of him, and listened to Steven brag to the other men there about the great lady who had come to see his granddaughter.
    How long should they wait? For Bethany, it had been many hours. All day. And it was late in the evening when…
    He shook his head to clear the image. He was a fool to attempt marriage again. And to wander into one as ill omened as the last.
    Perhaps the results would be different, this time. By next year, he could be holding his son. With Miranda, smiling down at him as he did so. He tried to imagine her, straining and afraid, as Bethany had been, but could see only that confident chin come up, defiant of the pain. She’d swear like Maggie had done and she’d never let death take her or their child.
    ‘Steven, are you ready to go back to your house, man?’

    They pulled the carriage up in front of the cottage as the sun was setting, and Steven’s daughter rushed into the yard to meet them.
    ‘Oh, your Grace, thank you for bringing your wife to us.’ She’d dropped into a curtsy.
    ‘It was luck that we happened along when we did,’ hemumbled, not sure what he’d done to receive the thanks, other than running from the problem as fast as he could.
    ‘With your permission, Maggie would like to name the boy Marcus, in your honour.’
    ‘Thank you…’ He struggled to remember her name. ‘Thank you, Jane. But surely the father…’
    ‘The father run off, the fornicating bastard,’ said the ringing voice of the meek and gentle Maggie. ‘And deserves no credit since he had the pleasure and I’ll have the work.’
    ‘Would you like to come in, your Grace, and see the little one?’
    He nodded cautiously, and was led into the freshly scrubbed room to see the mother and infant.
    ‘My wife?’ He looked around.
    ‘Is out back, your Grace. Washing.’
    ‘Here, your Grace.’ She’d stepped beside him, without his noticing. ‘It went well,’ she murmured. ‘No problems. You needn’t have worried. There’s screaming and mess, but these things usually sort themselves out just fine.’
    He glanced down at her. She’d noticed, before, when he couldn’t stay. Her face was bland, unaccusing. Matter of fact, about an area where she obviously knew more than he.
    ‘Fine. Let us go, then, and leave these people to themselves.’
    They walked back to the carriage, followed by many thanks and offers of a smoked ham and some preserves delivered to the kitchen of the great house, and were on their way.
    He looked over at her, fading next to him in the gloom. ‘Thank you for assisting them.’
    ‘It is my duty, is it not, to help those in need?’
    ‘But many women would have shirked it. Or been unable. Or worse, useless.’
    She shrugged. ‘I’m sure there are many things that the last duchess could do that I’ll have no skill at.’
    ‘Like embroidery and watercolours?’
    She smiled.
    ‘My late wife had a lovely singing voice, and a beautiful face. I thought, at the time, it was enough. But they meant nothing in the end.’
    ‘I sing as well as any crow.’
    ‘But you are a most handsome woman.’
    ‘Not the great beauty that she was,’ Miranda pointed out.
    ‘Few are,’ he replied. ‘And she had the good sense to die young, so as not to spoil the effect with age.’
    She started next to him, and then kept still.
    ‘My mother was also a great beauty, but with a heart like a block of ice and a