My Husband Divorced Me While I Was Unconscious After Giving Birth to Triplets — Then My Brother Uncovered His Fraud at the Town Assembly
Part 1
Before I even regained consciousness, he froze all four of my grandfather’s estate accounts, seized control of the family timber mill, and barred the town midwife from returning to the room.
When I woke up twelve hours later in the freezing hall, I discovered my husband had claimed I was mentally unfit, while the smallest of our newborn babies had perished from the bitter cold.
He thought my quiet nature meant I would surrender everything without a word.
The biting winter of 1781 had settled over Oakhaven Manor, clinging to the frosty panes of the birthing room. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of herbs, sweat, and fear. Clara pushed again, a scream tearing from her throat, though only a whimper escaped her lips.
Her body felt torn, stretched beyond endurance. The midwife, Mrs. Gable, wiped Clara’s brow with a cool cloth, her expression a mix of concern and grim determination.
“One more, Mrs. Vanderberg. You are doing admirably.”
But Clara could barely hear her. The world swam around her, a kaleidoscope of pain and fading light. Her husband, Gabriel, stood by the fireplace, his silhouette tall and unmoving against the flickering flames. He had not offered a single word of comfort, only watched, a critical assessment in his eyes.
The first cry, then the second. Twins. A boy and a girl, tiny and perfect, placed gently into blankets warmed by the fire. A wave of profound exhaustion washed over Clara, threatening to pull her under.
“There’s one more coming,” Mrs. Gable announced, her voice strained.
Clara whimpered, her energy completely spent. Her vision blurred, the midwife’s face melting into an indistinct shape. She heard Gabriel’s voice, sharp and clear despite the haze.
“Ensure they are healthy, Mrs. Gable. And quickly.”
It was not a request, but an order. A cold, detached command that pricked at Clara even through her profound weakness.
The third birth was a brutal, drawn-out affair. Clara fought against the encroaching darkness, her body wracked with tremors. A final, desperate push, and then a faint cry, smaller than the others, filled the room. Another boy.
Three. Triplets. A miracle, and yet, a burden her body could not bear.
As Mrs. Gable bundled the third infant, a wave of fire washed over Clara’s face, followed by a sudden chill that seized her limbs. Her head lolled back against the pillows. She felt her body losing its fight, slipping away into a deep, dark void.
The midwife’s worried voice reached her as if from a great distance. “She has a fever! Quick, some cool water!”
Clara heard a faint thud, like something heavy hitting the floor. Then, nothing.
When she next registered any sensation, it was a dull ache. Not the searing pain of childbirth, but a pervasive, heavy throb. Her eyes fluttered, then opened to the dim light of the birthing room. Mrs. Gable was gone. The three small bundles, her babies, were not in the wicker basket by the fire.
Instead, Gabriel stood by the large oak desk in the corner, his back to her. A flickering lantern on the desk cast long, dancing shadows across the room. He was speaking in low tones with a thin, elderly man Clara didn’t recognize, dressed in formal attire.
The man held a quill, dipping it into an inkwell, his movements precise. Papers lay spread out on the desk, documents emblazoned with the imposing seal of the Hallowell Estate.
Clara tried to speak, but her throat was dry, her tongue thick. A raspy sound was all that escaped.
Gabriel stiffened, then slowly turned. His face was devoid of warmth, his eyes cold and calculating. He didn’t approach her. He simply watched, as if she were an inconvenient obstruction.
“She stirs,” he said to the elderly man, a note of impatience in his voice.
The man nodded, his gaze briefly flicking to Clara before returning to his task. He signed his name with a flourish, then looked up at Gabriel.
“It is done, Mr. Vanderberg. The divorce deeds are legally executed. Your separation from Mrs. Vanderberg is now formalized, and the stipulations regarding the estate assets are in effect.”
Clara’s heart hammered against her ribs. Divorce? Not separation. Divorce. The words echoed in her feverish mind, shattering the last vestiges of her strength. She had heard of separation papers, but a full divorce? The very idea was an unthinkable scandal in Oakhaven.
The elder man carefully folded the documents. “Per the agreement, total control of the Hallowell timber mill, including all four primary estate accounts, valued at fourteen thousand pounds, is now transferred to your sole management, Mr. Vanderberg.”
Clara gasped, a silent scream trapped in her chest. £14,000. Her grandfather’s entire legacy. Gone.
Gabriel offered a curt nod to the man. “My thanks, Master Reynolds. Your discretion, as always, is appreciated.”
He pressed a small pouch into the man’s hand, the jingle of coins a stark counterpoint to the silence of Clara’s despair. Master Reynolds tucked the pouch into his waistcoat pocket with a knowing smirk, then bowed slightly and quickly exited the room.
Gabriel watched the door close, then walked over to the birthing room’s primary entrance, a heavy oak door that led to the main hall. He turned the key in the lock with a definitive click.
Then he moved to the nursery door, the one leading to the adjoining room where the babies were typically kept. He opened it slightly, peering inside, then closed it firmly.
Another click. The sound reverberated through the quiet room, a final, chilling punctuation mark.
He did not spare Clara a glance. He simply secured the second lock, ensuring that no one, especially a midwife or a worried servant, could enter the nursery. He had not just signed papers while she lay unconscious from childbirth; he had sealed her off from her children and her fortune.
Part 2
I woke with a gasp, not in my bed, but on the cold stone floor of the main hall. My head throbbed, my body ached, and a brutal draft chilled me to the bone.
Twelve hours had passed.
When I stumbled towards the birthing room, the door was still locked. I hammered weakly, calling for Mrs. Gable, for my babies. Only silence answered.
A servant, weeping, finally found me. Her eyes were red-rimmed as she helped me up.
“Mr. Vanderberg has declared you… unfit, madam,” she whispered, her voice choked. “He says you suffered a madness in labor.”
My heart pounded. “My babies? Where are my babies?”
She averted her gaze, tears streaming. “The smallest one, Master Silas… the cold…”
A scream tore from me. My baby boy, dead from the bitter chill. Gabriel had killed him. And now he was telling everyone I was mad.
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