Love in a Storm - Chapter 1
Pairing: Eddie Munson x Chrissy Cunningham (Regency AU)
Summary: A devastating loss threatens the happy marriage of Edward and Christine Munson, Lord and Lady Hurtsfield. However, when Edward is accused of a crime he didn't commit, Christine has to set her grief aside and embark on a perilous journey to prove her husband's innocence.
A/N: Here it is, the sequel to my Hellcheer Regency AU, "Love in a Mist" (sorry about the cheesy title, I'm really bad at titles!) I came across the Cato Street Conspiracy while researching "Love in a Mist" and thought it the perfect Regency equivalent of the Satanic Panic, but I couldn't work it into that story, so I had to write a sequel for it. That also means this is more of a legal drama/crime mystery than a romance, but I did try to give the Munsons' marriage some attention. I hope you'll enjoy it. And big thanks to everyone who has read, liked, commented on, and reblogged "Love in a Mist" - without you, this sequel wouldn't exist.
Warnings: childbirth, stillbirth, infertility, angst, false accusation, wrongful imprisonment, legal drama, some violence (non-graphic), some smut (non-explicit)
Chapter warnings: childbirth (non-graphic), stillbirth, angst
Chapter word count: 3.1k
Chapter 1
Yorkshire, April 1818
Edward Munson, Baron Hurstfield, was up to his elbows in sheep muck.
Lambing season was winding down, but Edward, who had always loved this time of year ever since he was a boy, refused to stay away until the last lamb was born, not just at the Home Farm but all around the village of Hurst as well. There was something magical about being out and about in the warming spring air, breathing in the sweet smell of hay, watching the newborn lambs take their wobbly first steps toward their mothers, watching the ewes welcoming their babies, eyes soft with love. Even the dirtier, more mundane work like preparing the barns, docking the lambs' tails and marking their ears, or helping an inexperienced new mother give birth could become enchanting, when there was so much life around. Edward would lend a hand whenever and wherever he could, and the tenants, having gotten used to their master working alongside them, all warmly welcomed him.
Once Edward finished mucking out the stalls, he and Farmer Hopper started spreading armfuls of clean hay on the floor of the barn. Their ewes were all seasoned mothers so there was no need for assistance, but the weather was about to turn, and the Hoppers, being old and childless, could use all the help they could get. "Ah, bless ye, Master Edward," Mrs. Hopper said, bringing in mugs of tea and a plate of scones. "Just this mornin' Jim was sayin' he didn't know how many more lambin' seasons he's goin' to see. I told him, I said, Jim, the lambs are born whether you're here or not, but he keeps fretting' about who's goin' to look after 'em when we're gone."
"If only our Jonathan was still here," Old Hopper said, shaking his head wistfully. Jonathan was their only son, killed when the war with France first broke out, nearly fifteen years ago. "Such a blessin', children, so why the Lord sees fit to take 'em away, I don't know..."
"Quit bein' so maudlin, you daft old fool," Mrs. Hopper gently chided. "Master Edward needn't hear such things, not when him and his lady are expectin'. How is Lady Christine then?" This was directed at Edward, who was reaching for a scone.
"She's well, thank you," he said, though with some uncertainty. The truth was that Christine was nervous about the birth of their first child, and that, in turn, made him nervous, so he had to find any excuse to get out of the house, for anything and everything he did irritated her now. He would've liked to stay close, but, after Christine had snapped at him "I don't need you to hold my hand every time I walk down the stairs, Edward, I'm not made of glass!", he knew he had to find some peace, for both of their sakes.
At that moment, there was a commotion from outside, and a boy burst into the barn. It was young Will, one of Edward's footmen, his hair all tousled, his face pink with excitement and effort. "Your lordship!" he exclaimed, breathless. Will, like most of the young servants, still had trouble addressing Edward by his first name with the same ease as the older ones. "Mrs. Wayne sent me—to tell you—that—" Here the boy bent double, trying to catch some air.
"Tell me what? Come off it, man!"
"—that it's—it's—" Now his stammering was due more to shyness rather than breathlessness. "It's—starting, my lord," finally he finished.
"What's starting?" Edward asked, mystified.
Mrs. Hopper put a hand on his arm. "I think the boy meant Lady Christine's labor," she said gently.
Edward turned to Will, eyes wide. The boy nodded, flushed with pride for having delivered such important news. Edward threw down the scone and bolted out of the barn, and Will scrambled to follow behind, as the Hoppers looked on, smiling indulgently.
***
Edward saw the gig of Dr. Sinclair in the stable yard of Hurstfield Hall and felt a bit easier. Running inside, he found the house suspiciously quiet. He hadn't known what to expect - for all his association with reform-minded ladies, childbirth was not something he was familiar with. It was not a topic often discussed in salons and drawing-rooms, no matter how liberal they were. Still, he'd thought there would be maids scurrying to and fro and the doctor shouting for hot water and clean towels. Or was it clean water and hot towels?
As he hovered by the door leading to the staircase, unsure if he should go up or not, Mrs. Wayne, the housekeeper, came down.
"How is she? When has it begun? Has Dr. Sinclair been here long?" he asked, shrugging off his coat. Before Mrs. Wayne could answer, he heard a scream of pain, almost inhuman in its intensity, from upstairs and rushed toward it. Mrs. Wayne had to hold him back.
"Calm down, Master Edward," she said, taking his coat. "Dr. Sinclair and the midwife are up there wi' her now. They're takin' good care of her. You best get yersel' out of those boots and wash yer hands first. It'll take some time. The first child always does."
***
It did take a long time. The screams of pain became, if possible, louder and wilder, like knives twisting in Edward's guts, then, even more frighteningly, they became weaker, more like moaning or whimpering, as if Christine could no longer find the voice or the strength to cry out. Several times Edward rose from his seat just on the other side of the door, trying to get inside, only to be politely but firmly barred from it by the midwife and the doctor. Clearly, they believed a husband had no business in the birthing room. Mrs. Wayne brought up some food and drink, but his stomach felt like it was on fire and he couldn't eat anything. If he had been a smoker, he might've burned the carpet down with the ashes from his cigars, but he had given up smoking after marrying Christine, for she disliked the smell. He even started praying, but he had never been much of a praying type, and he didn't know what to say except for "God, please help them", and then, as the hours dragged on, "God, please help her", as he no longer thought of the child, only wanting Christine's agony to end.
When darkness began to fall, Dr. Sinclair finally emerged from the room, his face gray and drawn. Edward jumped up, then backed down again when the doctor shook his head. "I'm afraid her ladyship is having a difficult time of it, my lord. The child is not lying well, and they're both weak."
Edward could feel blood draining from his body, leaving it icy cold. "What are you saying?"
"I shall try my utmost, but you may have to make a choice—"
"Save my wife," he said, before the doctor could finish. "Whatever you do, try to save my wife."
Dr. Sinclair shot him a look. It wasn't an answer he was accustomed to receiving, Edward knew. He and Christine had discussed this. It was a difficult conversation, and Christine had balked at the idea, but having grown up without a mother, Edward had tried to convince her of how difficult it would be for a child.
"It wouldn't be like that for our child," she'd protested. "You would be there for him. Or her."
"Yes. But I'd much rather have you with me. We can have other children. But there is only one you." And at that, she had finally acquiesced. Yet, for all their discussion and preparation, Edward would never dream that it would actually come to this...
"May I see her?" he asked.
This time the doctor nodded.
***
Christine didn't realize that a person could feel so much pain and not die. It was as if all the cramps of her monthly Curse from the past nine months, and even before that, had accumulated into an ocean of pain, washing over her in waves after relentless waves, flooding every fiber of her being, drowning her, the brief moments of reprieve so fleeting that they were all swallowed up by those waves. The doctor had given her copious amount of laudanum, and she sunk into a fog somewhere between half-awake and half-dreaming, drifting amongst ghastly, shadowy things that howled and hissed and clawed and ripped at her, drifting with no anchor, drifting until they tore her apart.
Then the anchor came - a familiar hand in hers, strong, warm fingers holding her own quivering ones in place, a soft voice calling her name. She forced herself out of the fog and saw her husband's face coming into focus amongst the flickering candles, pale with concern, but still smiling that smile she loved so much. "Sorry I'm late, sweetheart," he said, brushing his lips over her clammy forehead, her sweat-tangled hair.
She tried to smile back at him, but her smile died before it reached the corner of her lips. She lifted a hand toward him, only for it to fall back on the counterpane. "Do I have something in my hair?" he said, reaching up and pulling out a bit of hay from his brown curls, which he always wore too long. Christine briefly wondered if the child, the child that refused to be born, would have Edward's brown hair or her gold.
She wanted to speak but her voice had gone hoarse. Eventually, she managed to croak out, "The letters."
"What did you say?" Edward asked.
"The letters. Read them."
His face changed, fear coming into his eyes. "No. Not yet."
Christine felt another wave of pain cresting, threatening to sweep her away. "Read them. Promise?"
He swallowed hard, his lips trembling. "I promise."
A shadow fell over them. It was Dr. Sinclair, touching Edward on the shoulder. "My lord, I think you ought to step outside now."
"No, let me stay with her, please. She needs me." His fingers gripped hers more tightly, but Christine tried to pull away. Once before, Edward had lifted her out of a world of pain and death. He might not be able to do it again this time, not when there were two of them to be saved. She didn't want him around to see this.
"Go," she whispered, then his hand slipped from hers and the wave engulfed her again.
***
Edward felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. He sat up from the chair where he'd been for nearly twenty-four hours, blinking blearily, rubbing out a crick on his neck. Mrs. Wayne was looking down at him, with Dr. Sinclair standing by her side. The moment Edward made out their expression in the gray morning light, his heart stopped cold in his chest for a second, then started hammering. They all wore the same somber, sorrowful look of funeral attendees. There was blood on Mrs. Wayne's usually spotless apron, and blood on Dr. Sinclair's hand.
"What's happened?" he asked in a shaky voice.
"Oh, Master Edward—" Mrs. Wayne blurted out, tears streaming down her face.
"We've done everything we could, my lord..." Dr. Sinclair said, bending his salt-and-pepper head.
"What's happened to my wife?!"
"Her ladyship will recover, God willing," the doctor said. "But the child..."
Edward didn't hear the rest of the doctor's sentence. He staggered into the bedroom. There, lying amongst blood-splattered sheets, was Christine, as white as the sheets themselves, her eyes wide and unblinking, though her chest still rose and fell with a shallow breath. In the corner of the room, the midwife, sniffling and wiping at her eyes, was wrapping something tiny and gray into a towel.
***
Later, he didn't know how much later, for he had lost all sense of time, Edward went into his study and dug through the top drawer of his desk for the two letters that he had put there for safekeeping, three weeks ago. They were addressed to "My Edward" and "My child" in Christine's neat, elegant hand. When she put them into his hands, Edward had tried to laugh it off, but she had made him solemnly vow to open them in the event she didn't survive childbirth. It was a cruel irony that she hadn't prepared for the possibility that she would survive, but their child didn't.
Gathering up the letters, he returned to the bedroom. Dr. Sinclair had left. Before leaving, the doctor had tried to tell Edward something about complications and how future pregnancies might be affected, but he was no longer listening. Now the midwife was going too, bobbing a curtsey to him as she went out. Her eyes were still red. Edward found himself wondering why she kept working as a midwife, if the sight of a dead child affected her so. She must have seen so many of them. But perhaps it never became easier, no matter how often it occurred.
He went to sit by the bed and held Christine's hand, as he had done once before, back when he hadn't known how much she would come to mean to him. Mrs. Wayne came in and offered to switch places with him so he could eat something or have some rest, but he refused. There would be things to take care of, a burial to organize, all the pretty little things that Christine and Mrs. Wayne and the maids had made, as well as a crib sent all the way from Naples by Christine's mother, to be put away. But they could wait. For now, he only wanted to be with his wife, just the two of them.
It was dark again when Christine's eyes fluttered open. How small, how wasted she looked! He was used to seeing her brilliant blue eyes light up whenever they rested on him, but now they remained faded, like the sky over the Dales during the winter months, obscured by fog and rain.
"Did you see him?" she asked, her voice muted. Him. It was a boy.
Edward could only nod. He had seen plenty of death in all his time on the farms. Lambs born dead, sheep and dogs and other animals killed by diseases or accidents or predators. Even a person or two. But faced with the death of his own child, his son, he hadn't been able to comprehend it, the pain, the injustice of it. Could it even be said that the child had died, when he had never lived, when he hadn't even drawn a breath? No. That wasn't true. He had lived. For nine months he had lived, in his mother's belly and his father's mind, in both of their hearts. And now he had died.
Edward wondered if it was his fault. Should he have told Dr. Sinclair to save the child instead? Should he have insisted on staying with Christine? Would his presence have given her the strength to save their son? They would never know.
"I'm so sorry," Christine said.
"Sorry for what?" Edward bent down to her.
"I shouldn't have agreed to let Dr. Sinclair save me."
Edward's heart twisted. It was bad enough for him to think these things. He wouldn't let Christine go down that path as well. "No. Don't say that. Don't even think that."
But she wasn't listening. "How can I live, when our son died? What kind of a mother would I be? What kind of a wife am I?" Her face crumpled, and she tried to curl in on herself, but her body went stiff, and a choked-back groan escaped her.
Edward climbed into bed and gathered her into his arms. He didn't dare to hold her too tightly, for fear of hurting her, so he let her rest on him, while her tears soaked into his shirt. His chest ached with his own unshed tears, but he told himself he must stay strong for her. He reached into his pocket for the letters, opened the one addressed to him first, and started reading out loud.
"My beloved Edward, I know you must be grieving right now, and you're no doubt throwing your whole being into it, just as with everything you do, but I implore you..."
"What are you doing?" Christine asked, her voice muffled against his chest.
"I promised I would read the letters. So I'm reading them."
"Not to me. They're for you, and—and—" And the child that they would never know.
"Just listen, will you?" He cleared his throat, and continued. "... but I implore you not to dwell on it. Please take care of our child. Teach him or her to be kind, and honest, and brave, as you are. Tell him or her about me. You're a much better storyteller than I, I know you will do me justice. Please continue to live and love with all your heart, as I would like to think of you. And if you think of me, please think of me out in the garden, amongst the flowers and the trees, watching you always, with love. Christine."
"Edward..."
"No, please, let me finish. I know this one is not for me, but please listen." He opened the other letter. "My dearest child, I am sorry I cannot be here to say these words to you myself. Please know that I love you, I have loved you even before I knew you, and I will always love you. Please be a comfort to your father. He can be exasperating sometimes"—here he paused and looked at Christine with a wry grin—"Do you really find me exasperating?"
"Only sometimes," she said, and a ghost of a smile crossed her lips.
"...but everything he does comes from a place of love and sincerity. Think of me fondly. Your mother." He put the letters down and lifted her hand, kissing it, then kissing her forehead, her cheeks, and her lips. He tasted tears, hers or his, he did not know. "This is the kind of wife you are, Christine Connyngham Munson. This is the kind of mother you would be. And shall be. Full of love and always thinking of others, even when you're not around. So stop blaming yourself. I won't hear of it."
Christine let out a sob, and was still again. They lay together like that, with his arms around her and his head cradled on his chest, while the crib stood empty in the corner of the room, until the gray spring dawn broke again outside the windows.
Chapter 2
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