At seven, Gregory thought they ought to be done. Seven was a perfectly fine number of children, and, as he told Lucy, he could barely recall what she looked like when she wasn’t expecting.
“Well enough for you to make sure I’m expecting again,” Lucy had replied pertly.
He couldn’t very well argue with that, so he’d kissed her on the forehead and gone off to visit Hyacinth, to expound upon the many reasons seven was the ideal number of children. (Hyacinth was not amused.)
But then, sure enough, six months after the seventh, Lucy sheepishly told him that she was expecting another baby.
“No more,” Gregory announced. “We can scarcely afford the ones we already possess.” (This was not true; Lucy’s dowry had been exceedingly generous, and Gregory had discovered that he possessed a shrewd eye for investments.)
But really, eight had to be enough.
Not that he was willing to curtail his nocturnal activities with Lucy, but there were things a man could do—things he probably already should have done, to tell the truth.
And so, since he was convinced that this would be his final child, he decided he might as well see what this was all about, and despite the horrified reaction of the midwife, he remained at Lucy’s side through the birth (at her shoulder, of course.)
“She’s an expert at this,” the doctor said, lifting the sheet to take a peek. “Truly, I’m superfluous at this point.”
Gregory looked at Lucy. She had brought her embroidery.
She shrugged. “It really does get easier every time.”
And sure enough, when the time came, Lucy laid down her work, gave a little grunt, and—
Whoosh!
Gregory blinked as he looked at the squalling infant, all wrinkled and red. “Well, that was much less involved than I’d expected,” he said.
Lucy gave him a peevish expression. “If you’d been present the first time, you would have—ohhhhhhh!”
Gregory snapped back to face her. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” Lucy replied, her eyes filling with panic. “But this is not right.”
“Now, now,” the midwife said, “you’re just—”
“I know what I am supposed to feel,” Lucy snapped. “And this is not it.”
The doctor handed the new baby—a girl, Gregory was pleased to learn—to the midwife and returned to Lucy’s side. He laid his hands upon her belly. “Hmmmm.”
“Hmmmm?” Lucy returned. And not with a great deal of patience.
The doctor lifted the sheet and peered below.
“Gah!” Gregory let out, returning to Lucy’s shoulder. “Didn’t mean to see that.”
“What is going on?” Lucy demanded. “What do you—ohhhhhhh!”
Whoosh!
“Good heavens,” the midwife exclaimed. “There are two.”
No, Gregory thought, feeling decidedly queasy, there were nine.
Nine children.
Nine.
It was only one less than ten.
Which possessed two digits. If he did this again, he would be in the double-digits of fatherhood.
“Oh dear Lord,” he whispered.
“Gregory?” Lucy said.
“I need to sit down.”
Lucy smiled wanly. “Well, your mother will be pleased, at the very least.”
He nodded, barely able to think. Nine children. What did one do with nine children?
Love them, he supposed.
He looked at his wife. Her hair was disheveled, her face was puffy, and the bags under her eyes had bypassed lavender and were well on their way to purplish-gray.
He thought she was beautiful.
Love existed, he thought to himself.
And it was grand.
He smiled.
Nine times grand.
Which was very grand, indeed.
Dear Reader,
Have you ever wondered what happened to your favorite characters after you closed the final page? Wanted just a little bit more of a favorite novel? I have, and if the questions from my readers are any indication, I’m not the only one. So after countless requests from Bridgerton fans, I decided to try something a little different, and I wrote a “2nd Epilogue” for each of the novels. These are the stories that come after the stories.
At first, the Bridgerton 2nd Epilogues were available exclusively online; later they were published (along with a novella about Violet Bridgerton) in a collection called The Bridgertons: Happily Ever After. Now, for the first time, each 2nd Epilogue is being included with the novel it follows. I hope you enjoy Gregory and Lucinda as they continue their journey.
Warmly,
Julia Quinn
On the Way to the Wedding: The 2nd Epilogue
21 June 1840
Cutbank Manor
Nr Winkfield, Berks.
My dearest Gareth—
I hope this letter finds you well. I can hardly believe it has been almost a fortnight since I departed Clair House for Berkshire. Lucy is quite enormous; it seems impossible that she has not delivered yet. If I had grown so large with George or Isabella, I am sure I should have been complaining endlessly.
(I am also sure that you will not remind me of any complaints I may have uttered whilst in a similar state.)
Lucy does claim that this feels quite unlike her previous confinements. I find I must believe her. I saw her right before she gave birth to Ben, and I swear she was dancing a jig. I would confess to an intense jealousy, but it would be uncouth and unmaternal to admit to such an emotion, and as we know, I am Always Couth. And occasionally maternal.
Speaking of our progeny, Isabella is having a fine time. I do believe she would be content to remain with her cousins throughout the summer. She has been teaching them how to curse in Italian. I made a feeble effort to scold her, but I’m sure she realized I was secretly delighted. Every woman should know how to curse in another language since polite society has deemed English unavailable to us.
I am not certain when I will be home. At this rate, I should not be surprised if Lucy holds out until July. And then of course I have promised to remain for a bit of time after the baby arrives. Perhaps you should send George out for a visit? I don’t think anyone would notice if one more child was added to the current horde.
Your devoted wife,
Hyacinth
Postscript—’Tis a good thing I did not seal the letter yet. Lucy just delivered twins. Twins! Good heavens, what on earth are they going to do with two more children? The mind boggles.
“I can’t do this again.”
Lucy Bridgerton had said it before, seven times, to be precise, but this time she really meant it. It wasn’t so much that she had given birth to her ninth child just thirty minutes earlier; she’d grown rather expert at delivering babies and could pop one out with a minimum of discomfort. It was just that . . . Twins! Why hadn’t anyone told her she might be carrying twins? No wonder she’d been so bloody uncomfortable these last few months. She’d had two babies in her belly, clearly engaged in a boxing match.
“Two girls,” her husband was saying. Gregory looked over at her with a grin. “Well, that tips the scales. The boys will be disappointed.”
“The boys will get to own property, vote, and wear trousers,” said Gregory’s sister Hyacinth, who had come to help Lucy toward the end of her confinement. “They shall endure.”
Lucy managed a small chuckle. Trust Hyacinth to get to the heart of the matter.
“Does your husband know you’ve become a crusader?” Gregory asked.
“My husband supports me in all things,” Hyacinth said sweetly, not taking her eyes off the tiny swaddled infant in her arms. “Always.”
“Your husband is a saint,” Gregory remarked, cooing at his own little bundle. “Or perhaps merely insane. Either way, we are eternally grateful to him for marrying you.”
“How do you put up with him?” Hyacinth asked, leaning over Lucy, who was really beginning to feel quite strange. Lucy opened her mouth t
o make a reply, but Gregory beat her to it.
“I make her life an endless delight,” he said. “Full of sweetness and light, and everything perfect and good.”
Hyacinth looked as if she might like to throw up.
“You are simply jealous,” Gregory said to her.
“Of what?” Hyacinth demanded.
With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the inquiry as inconsequential. Lucy closed her eyes and smiled, enjoying the interplay. Gregory and Hyacinth were always poking fun at each other—even now that they were both nearing their fortieth birthdays. Still, despite the constant needling—or maybe because of it—there was a rock- solid bond between them. Hyacinth in particular was viciously loyal; it had taken her two years to warm to Lucy after her marriage to Gregory.
Lucy supposed Hyacinth had had some just cause. Lucy had come so close to marrying the wrong man. Well, no, she had married the wrong man, but luckily for her, the combined influence of a viscount and an earl (along with a hefty donation to the Church of England) had made an annulment possible when, technically speaking, it shouldn’t have been.
But that was all water under the bridge. Hyacinth was now a sister to her, as were all of Gregory’s sisters. It had been marvelous marrying into a large family. It was probably why Lucy was so delighted that she and Gregory had ended up having such a large brood themselves.
“Nine,” she said softly, opening her eyes to look at the two bundles that still needed names. And hair. “Who would have thought we’d have nine?”
“My mother will surely say that any sensible person would have stopped at eight,” Gregory said. He smiled down at Lucy. “Would you like to hold one?”
She felt that familiar rush of maternal bliss wash over her. “Oh, yes.”
The midwife helped her into a more upright position, and Lucy held out her arms to hold one of her new daughters. “She’s very pink,” she murmured, nestling the little bundle close to her chest. The tiny girl was screaming like a banshee. It was, Lucy decided, a marvelous sound.
“Pink is an excellent color,” Gregory declared. “My lucky hue.”
“This one has quite a grip,” Hyacinth remarked, turning to the side so that everyone could see her little finger, captured in the baby’s tiny fist.
“They are both very healthy,” the midwife said. “Twins often aren’t, you know.”
Gregory leaned down to kiss Lucy on her forehead. “I am a very fortunate man,” he murmured.
Lucy smiled weakly. She felt fortunate, too, almost miraculously so, but she was simply too tired to say anything other than “I think we must be done. Please tell me we’re done.”
Gregory smiled lovingly. “We’re done,” he declared. “Or at least as done as I can ensure.”
Lucy nodded gratefully. She, too, was not willing to give up the comforts of the marital bed, but truly, there had to be something they could do to end the constant stream of babies.
“What shall we name them?” Gregory asked, making silly eyes at the baby in Hyacinth’s arms.
Lucy nodded at the midwife and handed her the baby so that she could lie back down. Her arms were feeling shaky, she didn’t trust herself to safely hold the baby, even here on her bed. “Didn’t you want Eloise?” she murmured, closing her eyes. They’d named all of their children for their siblings: Katharine, Richard, Hermione, Daphne, Anthony, Benedict, and Colin. Eloise was the obvious next choice for a girl.
“I know,” Gregory said, and she could hear his smile in his voice. “But I wasn’t planning for two.”
At that, Hyacinth turned around with a gasp. “You’re going to name the other one Francesca,” she accused.
“Well,” Gregory said, sounding perhaps just a little bit smug, “she is next in line.”
Hyacinth stood openmouthed, and Lucy would not have been at all surprised if steam began to shoot forth from her ears. “I can’t believe it,” she said, now positively glaring at Gregory. “You will have named your children after every possible sibling except me.”
“It’s a happy accident, I assure you,” Gregory said. “I thought for sure that Francesca would be left out as well.”
“Even Kate got a namesake!”
“Kate was rather instrumental in our falling in love,” Gregory reminded her. “Whereas you attacked Lucy at the church.”
Lucy would have snorted with laughter, had she the energy.
Hyacinth, however, was unamused. “She was marrying someone else.”
“You do hold a grudge, dear sister.” Gregory turned to Lucy. “She just can’t let go, can she?” He was holding one of the babies again, although which one, Lucy had no idea. He probably didn’t know, either. “She’s beautiful,” he said, looking up to smile at Lucy. “Small, though. Smaller than the others were, I think.”
“Twins are always small,” the midwife said.
“Oh, of course,” he murmured.
“They didn’t feel small,” Lucy said. She tried to push herself back up so she could hold the other baby, but her arms gave out. “I’m so tired,” she said.
The midwife frowned. “It wasn’t such a long labor.”
“There were two babies,” Gregory reminded her.
“Yes, but she’s had so many before,” the midwife replied in a brisk voice. “Birthing does get easier the more babies one has.”
“I don’t feel right,” Lucy said.
Gregory handed the baby to a maid and peered over at her. “What’s wrong?”
“She looks pale,” Lucy heard Hyacinth say.
But she didn’t sound the way she ought. Her voice was tinny, and it sounded as if she were speaking through a long, skinny tube.
“Lucy? Lucy?”
She tried to answer. She thought she was answering. But if her lips were moving, she couldn’t tell, and she definitely did not hear her own voice.
“Something’s wrong,” Gregory said. He sounded sharp. He sounded scared. “Where’s Dr. Jarvis?”
“He left,” the midwife answered. “There was another baby . . . the solicitor’s wife.”
Lucy tried to open her eyes. She wanted to see his face, to tell him that she was fine. Except that she wasn’t fine. She didn’t hurt, exactly; well, not any more than a body usually hurt after delivering a baby. She couldn’t really describe it. She simply felt wrong.
“Lucy?” Gregory’s voice fought its way through her haze. “Lucy!” He took her hand, squeezed it, then shook it.
She wanted to reassure him, but she felt so far away. And that wrong feeling was spreading throughout, sliding from her belly to her limbs, straight down to her toes.
It wasn’t so bad if she kept herself perfectly still. Maybe if she slept . . .
“What’s wrong with her?” Gregory demanded. Behind him the babies were squalling, but at least they were wriggling and pink, whereas Lucy—
“Lucy?” He tried to make his voice urgent, but to him it just sounded like terror. “Lucy?”
Her face was pasty; her lips, bloodless. She wasn’t exactly unconscious, but she wasn’t responsive, either.
“What is wrong with her?”
The midwife hurried to the foot of the bed and looked under the covers. She gasped, and when she looked up, her face was nearly as pale as Lucy’s.
Gregory looked down, just in time to see a crimson stain seeping along the bedsheet.
“Get me more towels,” the midwife snapped, and Gregory did not think twice before doing her bidding.
“I’ll need more than this,” she said grimly. She shoved several under Lucy’s hips. “Go, go!”
“I’ll go,” Hyacinth said. “You stay.”
She dashed out to the hall, leaving Gregory standing at the midwife’s side, feeling helpless and incompetent. What kind of man stood still while his wife bled?
But he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to do anything except hand the towels to the midwife, who was jamming them against Lucy with brutal force.
He opened his mouth to say . . . som
ething. He might have got a word out. He wasn’t sure. It might have just been a sound, an awful, terrified sound that burst up from deep within him.
“Where are the towels?” the midwife demanded.
Gregory nodded and ran into the hall, relieved to be given a task. “Hyacinth! Hya—”
Lucy screamed.
“Oh my God.” Gregory swayed, holding the frame of the door for support. It wasn’t the blood; he could handle the blood. It was the scream. He had never heard a human being make such a sound.
“What are you doing to her?” he asked. His voice was shaky as he pushed himself away from the wall. It was hard to watch, and even harder to hear, but maybe he could hold Lucy’s hand.
“I’m manipulating her belly,” the midwife grunted. She pressed down hard, then squeezed. Lucy let out another scream and nearly took off Gregory’s fingers.
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” he said. “You’re pushing out her blood. She can’t lose—”
“You’ll have to trust me,” the midwife said curtly. “I have seen this before. More times than I care to count.”
Gregory felt his lips form the question—Did they live? But he didn’t ask it. The midwife’s face was far too grim. He didn’t want to know the answer.
By now Lucy’s screams had disintegrated into moans, but somehow this was even worse. Her breath was fast and shallow, her eyes squeezed shut against the pain of the midwife’s jabs. “Please, make her stop,” she whimpered.
Gregory looked frantically at the midwife. She was now using both hands, one reaching up—
“Oh, God.” He turned back. He couldn’t watch. “You have to let her help you,” he said to Lucy.
“I have the towels!” Hyacinth said, bursting into the room. She stopped short, staring at Lucy. “Oh my God.” Her voice wavered. “Gregory?”
“Shut up.” He didn’t want to hear his sister. He didn’t want to talk to her, he didn’t want to answer her questions. He didn’t know. For the love of God, couldn’t she see that he didn’t know what was happening?
And to force him to admit that out loud would have been the cruelest sort of torture.