Deryn Lake - Death at the Wedding Feast

John put his head on the counterpane and laughed. And in the laughter tears came until he was sobbing uncontrollably with joy at the successful birth of his gorgeous twin boys and the safe delivery of that most wonderful creature, the Marchesa di Lorenzi, clearly very much alive and no worse that he could see for the experience.

There was a knock on the door and two maids came in, each carrying a baby in her arms.

‘Your sons, Milady,’ said the older girl and bobbed a curtsey.

John stood up and took the two bundles from them, then he held them out to their mother. ‘We made these,’ he said.

She grinned at him and then put the babies to her breasts.

‘You’re feeding them yourself,’ he said, delighted.

‘Of course,’ she answered. ‘I read the paper by Carl Linnaeus and that convinced me it was by far the best way. Besides, it will slim my figure and I intend to go riding again soon.’

‘You are a miraculous being,’ he said in amazement, watching his two sons taking milk contentedly.

‘And you,’ she answered, ‘though closely resembling an oversized lime, are a genuinely nice man. Now be off with you. Leave me in peace with my sons.’

‘Any ideas on names?’ asked John from the doorway.

‘I thought perhaps Jasper and James. Do you like those?’

The Apothecary repeated them under his breath, looked at the two tiny boys, then said, ‘I can’t think of anything nicer.’

Lady Sidmouth would not hear of him going back to Elizabeth’s mansion that night, and so he not only was invited to dine with them but offered a small guest room into the bargain. He had wanted to see Elizabeth again but was told that she slept once more, but he was allowed another quick peek at his sons before they were put down for the night.

Observing them closely he noticed that even at this early age they were totally the same. Both dark-haired, their eyes still baby-blue, they nonetheless had noses that were destined to be strong and lips that were going to be passionate. At least that is what John told himself fondly as he observed their tiny little hands, kissed their minute feet and tickled them under their wobbly infant chins. So he was in the first throes of delightful fatherhood as he made his way downstairs, only to be halted by the sound of muffled giggling. He turned to see who it was and cast his eyes on two young women he had met before, namely Lady Sidmouth’s daughter Felicity and her cousin, Miranda Tremayne. Knowing that he was the object of their derision, presumably because of the hideous colour of his clothes, John gave them a florid bow.

‘Good evening, ladies. I trust I find you well.’

They bobbed brief curtsies that suggested he was hardly worth the courtesy. Then Miranda spoke.

‘Good evening, Mr Rawlings. I have remembered the name correctly, have I not? La, what a flutter with the house full of babies. How do you like your little bast- I mean your sons?’

‘I like them very well,’ John answered evenly.

Miranda continued, ‘We were saying how well Lady Elizabeth looks despite her ordeal. We think it is nothing short of a miracle at her age.’

She had made this kind of remark once before, at Lady Sidmouth’s summer ball to be precise, and John felt his fury grow. ‘Elizabeth is a remarkable woman,’ he said, ‘and has been through many ordeals to become the person she is today.’

There was another muffled giggle and he realized that his answer could have been taken two ways.

‘But one thing,’ he continued firmly, ‘that one could never say about the Marchesa is that she is shallow. She is like steel compared with many of the drooping lilies that one sees around one. Would you not agree?’

There was silence, then Felicity said, ‘Shall we go down to dinner?’

‘After you, ladies,’ said John, and felt that he had just won that round.

During the night he was awoken by the sound of crying, and for a moment thought he had gone back in time and that it was Rose who wanted him. Then he came to his senses and was just about to get out of bed when he heard footsteps in the corridor and realized that maids had already picked the infants up and were at this very moment carrying them in to their mother. He thought of Elizabeth being woken up by two hungry boys and decided that as soon as she was on her own he would creep into her room and tell her how much he loved her.

He lay awake listening for the sound of the maids returning the boys to the nursery. Eventually he heard them, then the house grew silent and still once more. Softly John got out of bed and walked across the corridor to where Elizabeth lay sleeping. Her black hair was spread across the pillow like a fantastic web, shot with silver where the moon peeped in through the vents in the curtains. Walking quietly, John went to the window and drew them apart a little. Far below him the sea churned and leapt, and the Apothecary spared a thought for the many poor devils spending the night on the treacherous waves. Then he pulled the curtains closed and turned back to the bed.

A great surge of emotion filled him as he looked down at the woman who had so courageously undergone the mighty experience of giving birth. Then he bent and gently kissed her on the cheek before snuggling in beside her and — oh so gently — taking her in his arms and falling asleep.

As dawn came creeping over the River Exe John kissed Elizabeth, who still slept deeply, and then went back to his own room where he enjoyed a couple of hours of perfect, dreamless sleep before the smell of distant cooking woke him up. Ringing for hot water, he washed, shaved and dressed in his terrible lime green suit then went down to the breakfast room. It was empty except for Lady Sidmouth who, as usual, was doing her busy bee act.

‘Ah John,’ she said, raising her quizzer to her heavily-lidded dark brown eye the better to observe him. ‘You look well and rested — but the colour of that suit is enough to put one off one’s food. Would you kindly remove the jacket?’

John did so and, helping himself to a substantial amount from the servers placed on the sideboard, sat down in his violet waistcoat and prepared to tuck in. But the fork was only halfway to his mouth when the door opened and Miranda Tremayne, eyes downcast and looking excessively prim, entered and sat down.

Lady Sidmouth said, ‘There have been some interesting changes since you were last here, John.’

‘Oh really? And what might they be?’

Miranda spoke up, eyes still not raised. ‘I have become betrothed, Mr Rawlings, and indeed am due to be married in June.’

‘How very delightful. And who is the lucky bridegroom?’

Lady Sidmouth interrupted. ‘Miranda has done very well for herself. She is to marry the Earl of St Austell and will go to live in his grand house in Cornwall.’

‘What a good match,’ John murmured politely.

Miranda looked up and straight at the Apothecary and he noticed that her eyes were shuttered, all her secret thoughts hidden from the world. ‘The Earl is a very gracious man and I care for him greatly,’ she said, just a fraction defiantly.

‘What Miranda is trying to say,’ Lady Sidmouth put in, ‘is that she doesn’t give a toss for the fact that he is fifty-two years her senior; in fact she snaps her fingers at it. She says she loves the man and there’s an end to it.’

‘I am so pleased to hear it,’ John answered politely. ‘Tell me, where did you meet him?’

‘He is one of society’s doyens in Cornwall. It was at a hunting assembly at Lord Austell’s home that I was presented by my cousin Robin. They ride to stag on Exmoor, you know.’

‘Yes, I did know,’ John muttered.

‘Well, he was so handsome and debonair — as only an older man can be — that I fell in love with him at first sight.’