Snow lay thick over Merrow Park.
Not the soft, storybook dusting of Christmas morning, but a hard, brittle crust that squeaked under boots and turned the lanes into treacherous white ribbons. The sky had settled into a flat, leaden gray; the air held a damp, bone-deep chill that no number of fires seemed to fully drive away.
Inside, the house was as warm as Mrs. Talbot’s war on drafts could make it. Fires crackled in every grate; doors were firmly shut; tapestries had been taken out of storage and hung in chilly corridors to blunt the stone’s leeching cold.
Livia hated it.
Not the snow itself, which was objectively beautiful when viewed through a window. She hated the confinement.
“You are pacing,” Rowan observed late one morning, setting aside a letter as she trekked for the fifth time from one end of the blue parlor to the other.
“I am… moving,” she said through her teeth.
“You are wearing a path in the rug,” he pointed out.
“The rug,” she said, “does not mind.”
“Mrs. Talbot will,” he said. “She loves that rug. Something about it having survived two barmaids and a drunken baronet in 1789.”
Livia paused mid-stride. “I do not wish to know that story.”
“Nor I,” he said. “Agnes tells it at odd hours, usually after brandy.”
She resumed pacing.
He watched her.
She wore a high-waisted gown of dark blue, one she had reluctantly let out twice in the past month. The swell of her abdomen was now undeniable; even under the layered wool, there was no hiding it.
She moved with a stiffness she tried and failed to disguise, one hand often pressed to the small of her back. Her lips were compressed, her brows drawn.
He set the letter down, rose, and intercepted her on her next pass.
“Stop,” he said gently, placing his hands lightly on her shoulders.
“I am not a horse,” she snapped. “You cannot simply plant yourself in my way and expect—”
She broke off, wincing as a twinge shot low across her belly.
His grip tightened infinitesimally.
“There,” he said softly. “That. Sit.”
“It is nothing,” she said, breathing through it. “A… pull. The child reminding me it exists.”
“Nevertheless,” he said, steering her toward the chaise. “Sit. Before Mrs. Talbot walks in and sees me letting the future of Merrow bounce around like a stray turnip.”
She grumbled, but allowed herself to be lowered.
He knelt in front of her, his hands sliding down to rest on her knees.
“You loathe this,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” she said. “I loathe feeling like a… coddled ornament.”
“You are the least ornamental creature I have ever met,” he said.
She snorted. “Flatterer.”
“Pragmatist,” he corrected. “You are restless. I can see it chewing at you.” His thumbs stroked gently over the wool. “What would ease it? Truly.”
She hesitated.
“A walk,” she said at last. “Not in circles like a dog in a yard. Outside. Properly. In the woods. Without Miss Hartley popping out from behind a hedge to ask how many Greek verbs I know.”
He fought a smile. “The snow—”
“Is not glass,” she cut in. “I have boots. I have sense. I will not go charging down an icy bank like your fence at sixteen.”
He winced. “You are never going to let that go, are you?”
“No,” she said. “It entertains me.”
He sat back on his heels, considering.
In truth, the idea of her walking the uneven, snow-hid paths made his stomach knot. Every ditch, every root disguised under white seemed spitefully poised to trip her.
And yet—
She was suffocating.
He recognized the signs. He had seen them in himself, trapped once in London drawing rooms under his father’s gaze, desperate to bolt.
He did not want his child’s first experience of its mother’s face to be one of caged fury.
“Very well,” he said slowly. “We will walk. In the lower grove. Where the ground is flatter. And we will go together. With Eames. And a footman. And perhaps a battalion.”
She rolled her eyes. “One footman will suffice.”
He exhaled, defeated. “One very large footman,” he amended. “And I will go ahead and kick every stone.”
She smiled, the tight line of her mouth easing a fraction.
“Agreed,” she said. “We can compromise.”
He kissed her knuckles. “We are very good at that, when we are not shouting.”
“When *you* are not shouting,” she corrected.
He laughed.
***
The lower grove lay behind the south meadow, a small stand of oaks and beeches that had weathered more seasons than any of the people now tramping through them.
Snow lay less deep under the bare branches; the ground, though uneven, was softened by a thick layer of frozen leaves.
Eames, wrapped in an ancient coat that might have been his father’s, strode ahead, his stick prodding for treacherous spots.
Behind him, Rowan walked at Livia’s side, one gloved hand hovering just near her elbow, not quite touching.
Behind them, Fletcher trudged, looking as if he would rather be polishing silver.
“This is ridiculous,” Livia muttered as she picked her way carefully over a root. “I am not a caravan.”
“You are more valuable than any caravan,” Rowan said. “At least to me. And I have recently been taught not to leave valuable cargo unguarded.”
She shot him a look. “Did you just compare me to the *Prosperity*?”
“Yes,” he said cheerfully. “You are approximately as stubborn and likely to weather storms.”
Her lips twitched.
“Do you… think of her?” she asked, surprising herself. “The *Prosperity.*”
“Often,” he said. “Especially when Whitlow drones about compound interest. She and you have much to answer for in my education.”
She smiled faintly, then paused, hand going to her belly.
Rowan stopped instantly.
“What?” he asked, pulse spiking.
“Nothing,” she said, looking down. “He—she—it—objects to being compared to a ship.”
He exhaled, amusement chasing away some of the tension.
“You… feel it more now,” he said.
“Yes,” she murmured. “Like… like a fish turning in a bowl. Or a book shifting on a shelf.”
He grinned. “Only you would compare a child to a library.”
“Libraries are full of possibilities,” she said.
“Children are full of noise,” he said.
“We shall see,” she said serenely.
They walked on.
For a blessed half hour, there was no talk of ledgers or roofs. No tenants appearing with petitions. No letters from London. Only the crunch of snow, their breath, the occasional comment from Eames about this tree or that.
“You see this one?” Eames said, tapping an ancient oak with his stick. “Hit by lightning twenty years back. Thought she’d die. But she threw out new branches. Stubborn old thing.”
“Reminds me of someone,” Rowan murmured.
Livia elbowed him.
They came to a small dip in the ground where a stream, now frozen, cut through.
“Careful,” Eames warned. “Ice’ll be slick.”
“I am pregnant, not blind,” Livia muttered, stepping down cautiously.
Her boot slipped.
It was a small thing—a half-skid, a momentary loss of footing—but it sent a jolt up through her that made her gasp.
Rowan’s hand closed around her arm, steadying her.
His face had gone white.
“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “I’m fine. I—oh.”
A sharp, stabbing pain shot through her lower abdomen, startling, intense.
She gasped again, involuntary.
Eames turned. Fletcher made a strangled noise.
Rowan’s grip on her arm tightened to bruising.
“Livia?”
The pain faded as quickly as it had come, leaving a strange, hollow ache.
“I—” She swallowed. “I do not know. A… cramp. It’s… gone.”
He looked as if he might be sick.
“That’s it,” he said. “We are going back.”
“Rowan—”
“Now,” he said, the word a command in a tone she had rarely heard from him.
She opened her mouth to argue, then saw his face.
This was not about control or pride. It was naked fear.
She closed her mouth.
“Very well,” she said quietly.
The walk back took twice as long.
Eames went ahead, calling for Mrs. Talbot to send someone for the doctor.
Livia wanted to tell them to stop fussing. To say it was nothing. A twist. A pull.
But as they reached the house, another pain twisted through her, sharper, accompanied by a sudden, chilling dampness between her thighs.
She froze.
Rowan stopped, sensing the change.
“Livia,” he whispered.
She looked down.
A dark stain bloomed slowly on the front of her gown.
For a second, the world went very quiet.
“No,” she said, more breath than sound.
Rowan’s hand was suddenly under her elbow again, the other at her waist, as if he could hold everything inside by force.
“Mrs. Talbot!” he shouted, his voice cracking. “Now!”
The next minutes blurred.
Hands. Voices. The shock of being lifted—he lifted her, she realized dimly, as easily as he had on their wedding day, but his grip was fierce now, desperate.
The ceiling of the corridor slid past overhead. Mrs. Talbot’s face loomed, pale and grim. Miss Hartley appeared as if conjured, her spectacles askew.
“Bed,” Mrs. Talbot said. “Get her to bed. Feet up. Alice—hot water. Whitlow—fetch the doctor. Run, man.”
Rowan laid Livia gently on their bed.
Blood.
Too much blood.
Terror hammered in her throat.
“Rowan,” she gasped, clutching at his hand. “Rowan—”
“I’m here,” he said hoarsely, his other hand pressing a cloth Mrs. Talbot thrust at him against the worst of the flow. “I’m here. Breathe. Breathe, love. Don’t—you don’t—”
He could not finish the sentence.
She gripped his fingers hard enough to hurt.
“I will not—” She shut her eyes, forcing the words out through pain and fear. “I will not let *this* break us.”
“It will *not*—” he started, voice raw.
Pain stole her breath.
Darkness pressed at the edges of her vision.
She heard Miss Hartley’s brisk tones, Mrs. Talbot’s mutters, Rowan’s curses.
Then, blessedly, the doctor’s calmer, more distant voice.
“Out, Your Grace,” he said firmly. “Let us do what we can. You cannot help by hovering.”
“The hell I can’t—” Rowan snarled.
“Rowan,” Livia gasped, forcing her eyes open. “Go.”
He stared at her, stricken.
“I can not—”
“You *must*,” she said, seizing a thread of the steel that had built ships and bullied bankers. “If you stay and they cannot—cannot—” She swallowed. “You will see. You will not forget. Go. Please.”
His face twisted.
“I promised—” he whispered.
“You promised to break *with* me,” she said. “Not to watch me bleed. Go. Or I will… divorce you from my deathbed.”
A choked laugh escaped him.
“Merciless,” he whispered.
“Always,” she breathed.
He bent, pressed his forehead to hers for half a second, then straightened.
“I will be outside,” he said to the doctor, to her, to God, perhaps. “If you… *fail* her, I will burn your practice to the ground.”
The doctor did not flinch. “Noted, Your Grace. Now get out.”
Rowan hesitated one second more, then tore himself away.
The door shut behind him with a soft click.
The world narrowed to pain and voices and the iron taste of fear.
***
Rowan paced the corridor outside their chamber.
He had thought himself familiar with fear.
He had been wrong.
This was not fear of loss on paper, of houses, of reputation. This was not even the fear he had known as a boy, watching his father’s temper mount.
This was… primal.
He could feel it in his bones, like cold.
On one turn, he nearly collided with Whitlow, who skidded to a halt, face chalk-white.
“Your Grace,” Whitlow stammered. “The… doctor says… he… needs you to… not shout at the door.”
Rowan laughed, a high, strangled sound.
“Does he,” he said. “Shall I embroider him a cushion as well?”
Whitlow flinched.
“Sorry,” Rowan muttered, dragging a hand over his face. “That was—sorry.”
“It’s…” Whitlow swallowed. “It’s all right, Your Grace. I—I… she’s strong. Mrs. Talbot’s with her. And Miss Hartley. They—they know things.”
Rowan leaned his head back against the cool stone wall.
“I am the most useless man in England,” he said quietly.
Whitlow shifted, clearly torn between terror and the urge to say something comforting.
“You’re not,” he said finally. “You’re… you’re here. That’s… something.”
Rowan closed his eyes.
He heard, faintly, through the thick door, a cry.
His stomach turned over.
“Grain,” he muttered to himself, nonsensically.
He thought of Livia in the woods, telling him to shut up. In the library, rolling her eyes at his dramatics. In bed, laughing and weeping as the child within her fluttered for the first time.
He thought of Harcourt.
If—
He could not complete the thought.
He pushed off the wall and strode to the stairs.
“Your Grace?” Whitlow squeaked. “Where—”
“To the study,” Rowan said. “I cannot—” He gestured vaguely toward the door. “If I stand here, I will break it down. And that will not help.”
Whitlow nodded, bobbing like a cork. “Yes. Yes. The study. Good. Numbers. I’ll—bring you… brandy?”
“No,” Rowan snapped. “Tea. Or Mrs. Talbot will murder us both.”
In the study, he found himself standing before the fire, hands clenched on the mantel so tightly his knuckles stood out white.
On the desk, a stack of untouched papers waited: Derby reports, tenant petitions, a letter from Lady Agnes complaining about the quality of London’s hams.
He ignored them.
Instead, he went to the small drawer where Livia kept her private things when she used the room—a lockbox of notes, her favorite pen, the folded letters she had written and received.
His fingers found the letter she had left him on their wedding night.
*Let us be dangerous together.*
He unfolded it with shaking hands.
He read, forcing his eyes to trace the familiar script, as if the act could anchor him.
*If we begin to break, we must drag each other out. We must not let our worst impulses rule. I give you leave to do that for me. I hope you will give me the same.*
He laughed once, without humor.
“Very well,” he whispered. “I will not let my worst impulses—panic, rage, smashing in doctors’ skulls—rule. If I can… help it.”
He read the line again.
*We will not let this marriage be a ledger entry. Or a calculation. We will not plan for disaster as we say our vows.*
Too late, he thought.
They had planned.
They had feared.
And yet, here they were.
He folded the letter, pressed it against his breastbone.
“Come back,” he whispered to the empty room. “Come back to me, Livia. I do not know how to be… this… without you.”
***
Hours—minutes—years later, footsteps sounded in the corridor.
Rowan jerked upright.
The door opened.
The doctor stood there, his face lined with fatigue, his sleeves rolled up, his cravat askew.
Rowan’s heart stopped.
“Well?” he demanded, the word more a growl than speech.
The doctor exhaled.
“Your Grace,” he said. “She is… alive.”
The room swam; Rowan clutched the back of the desk.
“And the child?” he forced out.
The doctor’s gaze dropped, just for a moment.
“I am… sorry,” he said quietly. “It could not be saved.”
For a second, Rowan heard nothing but a rushing in his ears.
Then, distantly, his own voice.
“Is she—” He could not seem to find words. “Will she—”
“She has lost… much blood,” the doctor said. “She is weak. But her pulse is… steadying. She is young. Strong. If we can keep fever at bay, she should… recover. Physically.”
Physically.
The word hung between them.
Rowan swallowed.
He wanted to smash something. To roar. To demand to know what use any of this was if—
He did none of those things.
He had promised.
“To her?” he asked, his voice hardly more than a croak. “Have you—”
“She knows,” the doctor said gently. “There was no… hiding it. She was… awake.”
Rowan’s knees nearly gave.
“May I see her?” he asked, hating the tremor.
“Not yet,” the doctor said. “She is… exhausted. We have given her something to help her sleep. Mrs. Talbot is with her.”
Rowan’s hands curled into fists.
“I am her husband,” he said. “Not… some distant cousin to be sent word. I will not be kept from her.”
“I do not say you must stay away,” the doctor said, calm. “Only… wait a little. Let her rest. In an hour, perhaps two, when she wakes, she will need you. You cannot help her now. You can, however, help her later by not collapsing at her bedside.”
Rowan sank onto the edge of the desk.
He wanted to argue.
He also recognized, dimly, that if he went in now and saw her pale and limp and surrounded by bloody linens, he might… break in ways that would not assist anyone.
He tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling.
“Go,” he said hoarsely. “Do what you must. If you need anything—”
“I will send Whitlow,” the doctor said. “He seems… eager to be useful.”
He left.
Rowan sat in the empty study, the fire popping quietly, the letter a weight in his pocket, and felt something inside him crack.
He had thought, when his father died, that he had exhausted his supply of tears.
He had been wrong.
They came now, hot and silent, trickling down his face as he stared unseeing at the wall.
He did not sob. He did not wail.
He simply… wept.
For the child he had begun, against his will, to imagine.
For Livia, whose fear had been justified and who had risked anyway.
For himself, selfishly, for the thing he had allowed himself to want and lost.
After some time, he became aware of another presence.
Lady Agnes stood in the doorway.
“You cry beautifully,” she said briskly. “Very dignified. Ten out of ten.”
He scrubbed at his face with the heel of his hand. “Aunt. How—”
“Letter from Mrs. Talbot last week,” she said, coming in without waiting to be invited. “Said you were expecting. I came down to cluck. Arrived this morning to find instead that all hell had broken loose.”
He winced.
“How—” He swallowed. “How much do you know?”
“Enough,” she said, her keen eyes softening. “Not all. I did not push. Talbot glared at me until my curiosity crawled away under the dresser.”
He almost smiled.
She sat opposite him, arranging her skirts with more vigor than elegance.
“Do not give me platitudes,” he said abruptly. “I cannot bear them.”
“Good,” she said. “I have none. They are a waste of breath.”
He inhaled, shaky.
“Is she…?” His voice broke. He cleared it. “How is she?”
“Sleeping,” Agnes said. “White as chalk. Angry as a wet cat even in her unconsciousness. She tried to fight the doctor when he suggested laudanum. That is a good sign.”
He pictured it—Livia, even bleeding, arguing with a man in a wig—and something like reluctant hope stirred.
“And you?” Agnes asked.
“I—” He looked down at his hands. “I do not know. I thought… I was ready. We had… spoken. Planned. We knew this could happen.”
“Knowing it and living it are not the same,” she said softly.
“No,” he said.
She regarded him.
“Do you remember,” she said slowly, “when your mother lost the baby? You were… eight.”
He flinched. “Yes,” he said.
“She lay in that bed,” Agnes said, her gaze distant, “for weeks. Your father would not allow anyone to see her. Said it was women’s business. Said it would… distract you. As if grief were a toy.”
Rowan’s jaw clenched.
“I remember,” he said. “I remember… hearing her cry through the door. And not being allowed in.”
Agnes nodded.
“I swore then,” she said, “that if any woman under my care ever went through such a thing, I would not let the men hide from it. Or hide *her.* It… adds a layer of cruelty.”
He looked up at her.
“I asked,” he said, voice rough. “To go in. They would not let me. She—she told me to go. To spare me. I understand why. I also—”
He broke off.
“You also feel shut out,” Agnes said. “Useless. Ashamed of your own relief at not seeing what would haunt you.”
“Yes,” he whispered.
She reached across and rested a hand, light and rare, on his wrist.
“Listen to me, boy,” she said quietly. “You cannot spare yourself pain and spare her at the same time. One of you must see the other’s wounds. Else you stand back to back and bleed alone.”
He swallowed.
“When she wakes,” Agnes went on, “she will be in a strange place. Her body will feel… alien. Betrayed. Her heart will be… worse. You must go in. You must sit. You must… *stay.*”
“I—” He stared at the fire. “What if she blames me?”
Agnes snorted. “For what? Being born a man? You did not kick her in the belly, Rowan. This is not some moral failing. Bodies fail. Blood misbehaves. Your job is not to find the why. It is to be there *anyway.*”
He nodded, slowly.
“And if she pushes you away?” Agnes asked.
He laughed bitterly. “Have you met Livia? She has been pushing me away since the day we met.”
“Exactly,” Agnes said. “She will likely try to push now. Out of fury. Out of pain. Out of a misguided attempt to protect you the way she tried to do earlier. You must be… gently stubborn. Like mildew. Present, inescapable, and very hard to scrub out.”
Despite himself, he choked on a laugh.
“Mildew,” he repeated.
“Yes,” she said. “Love is mildew. It clings. Do not let her bleach you.”
He wiped his face again.
“You are very bad at metaphors,” he told her.
“It runs in the family,” she said dryly.
A knock sounded.
Mrs. Talbot’s blunt face appeared around the door.
“Your Grace,” she said. “She’s awake. And she’s askin’ for you.”
Rowan shot to his feet so quickly he nearly overturned the chair.
Agnes rose more sedately.
“I will sit with Harcourt’s girl while you… redistribute your face,” she said. “Go on. She’ll bite you if you keep her waiting.”
He did not argue.
***
Livia lay propped against pillows, looking as if a strong breeze might blow her away.
Her skin was nearly as white as the sheets. Dark shadows bruised the skin beneath her eyes. Her hair, usually so carefully arranged—even when she claimed not to care—hung in a loose, damp braid over one shoulder.
She looked up as Rowan entered.
Her eyes were clear.
That unnerved him more than any delirium would have.
“Hello,” she said.
He crossed the room in three strides and stopped at the side of the bed, suddenly afraid to touch her.
“Hello,” he managed.
“You look terrible,” she observed.
A hysterical laugh bubbled up; he swallowed it.
“You are—” He broke off, swallowed. “You are… alive.”
“So they tell me,” she said.
He sank onto the chair beside the bed.
For a moment, they simply looked at each other.
“I am sorry,” he blurted.
She frowned. “For what?”
“For—” He gestured helplessly. “The walk. The ice. The… everything. I should have said no. I should have—”
“Stop,” she said sharply.
He did.
“Do not,” she said, her voice low and dangerous, “steal my agency. I wanted that walk. I argued for it. I knew the risk, such as it was. You did not drag me out there by the hair.”
He flinched.
“Even if you had,” she went on, “you did not cause this. Nor did I. Nor did the ice. Nor did the gods of barley. Sometimes… things simply… go wrong.”
Her mouth trembled.
He reached, instinctive, and took her hand.
She let him.
“I will not forgive you,” she said, “if you make this… about your guilt. Mine is quite enough.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
“Very well,” he whispered. “I will feel guilty… quietly, in corners, when you are not looking.”
She huffed a breath. “You may feel what you like. Just… do not let it drive you away. I could not bear… to lose you as well.”
His head snapped up.
“You will not,” he said fiercely. “I swear—”
She squeezed his fingers.
“I know,” she said. “I… believe you. It is… inconvenient.”
His laugh came out broken.
“How do you feel?” he asked, because he could not ask *What do you feel* yet.
“Empty,” she said simply.
The word struck him like a physical blow.
“Physically,” she added. “And… otherwise. As if someone has scooped out a part of me and left… quiet.”
He swallowed hard.
“I do not know yet,” she admitted, surprising him, “how I feel… about *it.* About what we… lost. I am… numb. And then… angry. And then… nothing. And then… I remember the… quickening… and I cannot breathe.”
He shifted, unable to bear the distance, and very carefully eased himself onto the edge of the mattress beside her, his arm sliding around her shoulders, slow as if approaching a skittish horse.
She did not flinch.
She leaned, instead, just a fraction, into him.
“We do not have to decide now,” he said. “How to feel. We can… let it… arrive. In its own… inconvenient way.”
She gave a small, strangled laugh.
“We are very bad,” she said, “at not deciding.”
“We can learn,” he said.
They sat, pressed together, listening to each other breathe.
After a long time, she spoke again.
“Do you… still… want…” She trailed off, unable to finish.
“A child?” he supplied softly.
She swallowed. “Yes.”
He stared at the canopy.
“I do not know,” he said honestly. “Today… I cannot imagine risking this again. Tomorrow, perhaps, I will feel differently. Next year, differently again. My heart is… not a steady thing. It… surges.”
She nodded, eyes on her hands.
“Yours?” he asked.
She was silent for so long he thought she would not answer.
“No,” she said at last. “Not… now. Perhaps… not ever. I cannot tell if that is fear. Or sense. Or both. I will not… promise… anything. Not… about that.”
He turned his head, studying her profile.
“You do not need to,” he said. “We made a treaty, remember? No numbers of children agreed upon in advance. No spares for the sake of genealogical neatness.”
She snorted weakly.
“You are certain,” she said, “you will not… resent… me? If we never…”
He tightened his arm around her.
“If I ever do,” he said quietly, “then I have become my father. And I beg you now, in advance, to throw me out.”
She turned her face into his shoulder.
“I will,” she whispered.
He smiled grimly into her hair.
“Good,” he said. “We are agreed.”
They sat like that until her breathing slowed, her body relaxing, the weight of her against him growing heavier.
“Sleep,” he murmured.
“I am tired of sleep,” she mumbled into his shirt.
“Sleep anyway,” he said. “You nearly died. You are allowed.”
“Do not,” she muttered, words slurring, “say ‘nearly’ like that. It sounds as if you are keeping score.”
He laughed softly.
“I will keep no scores,” he said. “Only watch.”
Her hand, still in his, loosened.
He stayed.
For once, he did not think about ledgers or roofs or Derby.
He thought only of her.
And of the line they had just walked—between love and loss, between hope and hurt—and the fact that, battered and bleeding and exhausted, they had not let it push them apart.
They had, somehow, broken toward each other.
Agnes, he thought, would call it mildew.
He would call it… grace.
***