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.
About the Author
JULIA QUINN started writing her first book one month after finishing college and has been tapping away at her keyboard ever since.
The New York Times bestselling author of fifteen novels for Avon Books, she is a graduate of Harvard and Radcliffe Colleges and lives with her family in the Pacific Northwest.
Please visit her on the web at www.juliaquinn.com.
