One Perfect Rose

by Mary Jo Putney

  The overseer gave a hoarse chuckle. “And I’m bloody good at it. Soon as I pass that elm tree, the girl and her brat are yours.” He cracked his whip to start the team moving, ignoring Brown’s angry protest.

  Face like granite, Stephen leaped in front of the wagon and caught the bridles of both horses. When his weight had dragged the team to a halt, he ordered, “Rosalind, get in the wagon and see how the woman is doing.”

  Crain bellowed, “Damn you, mind your own business! I’m taking this whore into Whitcombe Parish!” He raised his whip and slashed furiously at Stephen.

  Stephen jerked his arm up to protect his face. The lash curled around his forearm with a vicious crack. Quick as a cat, he grabbed the thong with both hands and yanked the whip from Crain’s grasp. The black leather sailed through the air like a furious snake.

  Effortlessly Stephen reached up and caught the handle in his right hand. Then he lowered the whip and coiled it with menacing calm. “You’ll shut your mouth and stay put, or you will rue the day you were born,” he told Crain in a voice that could have cut glass. “I promise it.”

  Crain paled and Brown swallowed hard, clearly glad that Stephen’s fury was not directed at him. Rosalind gaped at Stephen’s transformation into a man of terrifying authority. It would take a brave person to disobey him.

  A moan spurred her into action. She scrambled up the back wheel and into the wagon. Lying in a bed of hay was a terrified girl no more than seventeen or eighteen years old. Normally she might be pretty, but now her swollen body was writhing with pain, and her soft brown hair was plastered to her skull with sweat.

  “Don’t worry,” Rosalind said soothingly as she dropped into the hay by the girl and took one clenched hand. “You’re not alone.”

  “But…the baby’s coming right now.” The girl’s hazel eyes were dazed with fear, and the skirt of her shabby gray dress was soaked. “I…I’m so afraid.”

  Rosalind squeezed her hand. She wanted to offer comfort, but she was alarmed by the fact that birth was clearly imminent. If there were any complications, the girl and her baby could be dead in minutes.

  Stephen came to the edge of the wagon and briefly laid a hand on her shoulder as he looked inside. “Brown, bring a midwife or physician immediately.”

  Responding to the commanding voice, the alderman turned his horse to obey. Then he hesitated. “Promise you won’t move the wagon beyond the elm.”

  “I assure you that this wagon isn’t going anywhere.” Stephen turned to Crain. “Unless you know how to deliver a baby, I suggest you get yourself out of the way.”

  The overseer sputtered, “That little slut can’t drop her bastard in my wagon!”

  “Then you shouldn’t have put her in it,” Stephen retorted. “Now move!”

  Crain opened his mouth for another protest, then wilted under the force of Stephen’s gaze. The overseer scrambled from his seat and withdrew to a point where he could watch what was happening.

  Stephen swung into the wagon and knelt on the other side of the girl. Rosalind gave a sigh of relief. Having him near made it seem as if everything would be all right.

  “What’s your name, my dear?” he said in a voice that was startlingly gentle after the way he’d dealt with the men.

  “Ellie, sir.” She squinted up at him. “Ellie Warden.”

  “Well, Ellie, it appears that you’re going become a mother any minute. Is this your first baby?”

  She nodded.

  “Then you’re bound to be nervous, but don’t worry. Women have been having babies from the dawn of time.” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from her face. “We know what to do, so you have nothing to fear.”

  Rosalind glanced up and gave a horrified shake of her head to indicate her ignorance. Stephen saw, and responded with a faint nod that told her not to worry.

  Ellie’s hand clamped onto Rosalind’s, and she cried out again.

  “The pains are very close. It won’t be long now,” Stephen said calmly. He handed Rosalind his handkerchief and silently mouthed the words “Keep her attention.” Then he began gently adjusting the girl’s body and clothing to prepare for the birth.

  Rosalind wiped the sweaty face again. “Have you always lived in Cowley?”

  “I was born in Norfolk, and my pa brought us here ten years ago,” Ellie replied, seeming grateful for the distraction. “He was a carpenter and he had a good job. Bought us a little cottage and fixed it up ever so nice, but after he died three years ago, there was no money. We’ve no family here, so my ma had to ask for parish relief to keep us from starving.” Another pain struck. She closed her eyes, and her hand clamped fiercely on Rosalind’s, but she did not cry out.

  When she could speak again, she continued, bitterness in her voice, “The vestry men said everything of value we had must be sold to pay back the parish funds. When my mother was dying, they took the feather bed from underneath her and sold it. Then when she was gone, they took the cottage away from me. And now they’re throwing me and my baby away as well.”

  How could men calling themselves good Christians behave so vilely? Thomas Fitzgerald, who’d never set foot in a church in Rosalind’s memory, was a thousand times better a man than the vestry council. Clamping down on her anger in favor of more practical matters, Rosalind asked, “Can your child’s father help you, Ellie?”

  The girl’s face twisted. “Danny and I were going to be married, but there were no jobs here, so he went into Wales to work at a slate quarry. He…he was killed in an accident the day before coming home to be wed.” She drew a shuddering breath. “We…we only did it once. He never knew he was going to be a father.”

  “You’ve been unlucky, but that’s over now,” Stephen said soothingly. “Soon you’ll be holding your baby in your arms.”

  For a moment Ellie relaxed. Then another pain convulsed her. “Jesus help me, I’m dying!”

  “No, you aren’t,” Stephen said firmly. “This may hurt like the devil, but that’s normal. You’re doing very well. The baby’s coming quickly now, and everything will be all right. I promise it.”

  The next painful minutes blurred together for Rosalind. She held Ellie’s hand and made encouraging remarks. Her gaze avoided Stephen and the progress of the birth. Though she’d treated fevers and bruises in the troupe, that was very different from midwifery, and she didn’t want to risk fainting or anything equally foolish.

  Ellie gave a last wrenching cry. Then silence, until a thin, indignant wail sliced the air. Stephen said triumphantly, “Well done, Ellie! You have a handsome little boy.”

  Rosalind glanced up and saw that Stephen was cradling a red-faced, kicking infant. The baby looked small in his large hands. He used handfuls of hay to carefully wipe the tiny body clean. By the time he’d finished that task and cut the cord, the afterbirth had been delivered. He said with a smile, “You did a swift, efficient job, Ellie. You obviously have a talent for making babies.”

  Ellie gave a crooked smile and reached out. “I want to hold him.”

  Stephen laid the infant in his mother’s arms. He stopped crying immediately. Wonder spread over the girl’s face. “He is beautiful, isn’t he?”

  “He is indeed,” Rosalind said warmly. Surreptitiously she flexed her numb right hand, trying to restore sensation after the effect of Ellie’s paralyzing grip.

  Travelers were approaching. She looked up and saw a small, sturdy woman driving a pony cart at a fast clip with Mr. Brown trotting behind. The woman halted her cart by the wagon. “Are you the girl…? Ah, I see you are.”

  She leaned forward for a closer look. “And what a fine healthy boy you have there! I’m Mrs. Holt, the midwife. Didn’t want to wait, did you, my dear?” She gave a deep chuckle. “But I wager you’ll want some help learning how to care for him. I’ll take you both to my house. You can stay until you’re stronger.”

  Stephen climbed from the wagon and said quietly, “I’ll take care of her expenses, Mrs. Holt. See that the girl gets some
new clothing for herself and the child.”

  The midwife nodded. “Can you move them into my cart?”

  Stephen opened the end of the wagon and slid his arms under the new mother, ignoring the fact that Ellie and her gown were a filthy, bloody mess. Effortlessly he lifted mother and baby together and transferred them to the cart, which was padded with old quilts. Rosalind followed with Ellie’s pathetically small bag of possessions.

  Mrs. Holt swiveled in her seat and took the infant, wrapping him in a worn, clean towel while she crooned nonsense talk. Then she returned him to his mother. Rosalind smiled wearily, glad Ellie would be under the care of a woman who clearly loved her work and her patients.

  Mr. Brown said nervously, “The fact that Mrs. Holt is taking the girl into Whitcombe doesn’t mean this parish is responsible for her.”

  “Don’t worry,” Stephen said dryly. “Mrs. Jordan and I will bear witness to the fact that the baby was born in Cowley Parish.” He turned to Crain, who had come to reclaim his wagon. “I shall call on the chief man of your vestry council tomorrow with some suggestions as to how they may best support Ellie Warden and her son.”

  “’Tis none of your affair,” Crain growled. “And she made a mess of my wagon.”

  Stephen simply repeated coolly, “I shall call tomorrow.”

  Belligerence gone, the overseer climbed into his wagon and turned to head back toward his own town. After a quick businesslike exchange between Stephen and Mrs. Holt, the alderman and the midwife took Ellie and her baby away.

  As soon as they were out of sight, Stephen sank down by the edge of the road, braced his elbows on his knees, and buried his head in his hands. “Thank God it was a simple, uncomplicated birth. Heaven knows what would have happened otherwise.”

  Rosalind gave a shaky laugh and dropped down beside him. Now that the crisis was past, she felt weak all over. “You were wonderful! Are you a physician?”

  He looked up, “Not at all. Merely a farmer who’s delivered his share of foals and calves and lambs.”

  Rosalind stared. “Good heavens, all your confidence was false?”

  He cocked a brow with mock disdain. “I may not be much of an actor, but I can play the role of a doctor.”

  Rosalind collapsed against the grassy bank and began to laugh helplessly. “Wretched man! I thought one of us knew what to do.”

  “I knew the principle for humans is the same as for livestock,” he said mildly.

  “So that’s why you cleaned the poor infant with hay!” She laughed even harder, and Stephen joined in. She felt very close to him, and more than a little awed. He was no physician, yet he could deliver a baby. He was a gentleman, yet he cared about the fate of a desperate girl who had been rejected by her own community. And though he claimed to be merely a farmer, he was used to being obeyed, which implied ownership of an estate.

  Nonetheless, he was here, and his presence had been a godsend. She studied his face fondly. “You’re very brave. Most men would bolt when confronted by a strange woman in labor.”

  “Someone had to do something, and it was clear that I was the best qualified.” He smiled reminiscently. “My head groom once treated me to a detailed description of how he had delivered his daughter when his wife went into labor too quickly to get the midwife. At the time, I rather wished he had kept the subject to himself, but what he said came in handy today. His daughter is a lively little thing of five, and God willing, Ellie’s baby will do equally well.”

  His expression was wistful. She realized that he liked children and probably had none of his own. A great pity—and a lack that she could identify with all too easily.

  Her exhilaration faded and she relaxed, her gaze on the summer sky. “We have less than an hour to get back to Whitcombe, clean up, and prepare for tonight’s performance.”

  He groaned. “I’d forgotten all about that.”

  “Which proves you’re not really an actor.” Rosalind got to her feet and offered a hand to help him up as he had done with her earlier in the afternoon. Sternly she said, “The show must go on, Duke Claudio.”

  Stephen smiled and accepted her help in rising. “Since the role involves me kissing you, I believe I shall be able to manage.”

  Rosalind blushed a little but said primly, “It was very conscientious of you to take me off for private practice.”

  He gave a shout of laughter. Then they resumed their walk to Whitcombe. Hand in hand.

  Chapter 11

  Lord Michael Kenyon pulled his horse to a halt in front of Dr. George Blackmer’s house, then swung wearily from the saddle. He hoped the blasted man would be in because Michael had ridden a long way to find answers and was in no mood to wait.

  The elderly servant ushered Michael into the doctor’s dispensary, where Blackmer was using a mortar and pestle to grind some chalky substance. Michael had met the man only once before, at the funeral of the Duchess of Ashburton, his sister-in-law. The circumstances had not been such as to give him much faith in the physician’s abilities.

  Blackmer glanced up, then scrambled to his feet. “Ashburton! I’m glad to see that you’ve returned. I’ve been concerned.”

  “Look again.” Michael removed his hat so the physician could see his face more clearly. “Not Ashburton, but Ashburton’s brother.”

  Blackmer stopped in his tracks. “I see. Sorry. You do look much like him.”

  Since Michael had been hearing that all his life, it was not news that interested him. “I was away from home and didn’t receive your letter until yesterday. I came at once, of course, but when I stopped at the abbey, I was told that my brother left over three weeks ago, and they haven’t heard a word from him since then. What the devil is going on?”

  Blackmer sighed. “So the duke has not been visiting you in Wales. I had hoped that he might be there.”

  “No, nor is he in London, because I was there until a few days ago,” Michael said impatiently. “Your letter said that my brother is seriously ill. What is wrong?”

  Blackmer hesitated, as if wondering how to break the news. “He has a tumefaction, a deadly internal disease that is destroying his stomach and liver. He will almost certainly be dead in a matter of months.”

  Michael went rigid. Blackmer’s carefully worded letter hadn’t led him to expect such bad news. Stephen was almost never ill. He’d visited Michael and Catherine in Wales only a couple of months earlier and had been in the best of health. How could he suddenly be dying? Tightly Michael said, “There is nothing that can be done?”

  Blackmer looked away uncomfortably. “Prayer, perhaps.”

  Michael had to fight off an impulse to strike the man. There was no point in killing the messenger. Another unpleasant thought occurred to him. “Might Stephen have left because the illness has affected his mind?”

  “Certainly not,” the physician said, startled by the suggestion. “My guess is that the duke wanted some privacy to come to terms with his affliction.”

  Michael could see Stephen doing that. Still…“Three weeks’ absence seems excessive. Might his illness have worsened suddenly, so that he is lying ill somewhere?”

  Blackmer shook his head. “Possible, I suppose, but very unlikely.”

  Michael weighed what to do next. Stephen had spoken well of Blackmer’s skill, but for a country physician that meant dosing fevers and setting broken bones. The man hadn’t saved Louisa, and he obviously hadn’t the vaguest idea what to do for Stephen.

  Perhaps Ian Kinlock could help. A surgeon friend of Catherine’s, he’d saved Michael’s life after Waterloo with a daring experimental procedure. Kinlock was now at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital in London, working at the frontiers of medical knowledge. If anyone could help Stephen, it would be Ian. All Michael had to do was locate his brother and get him to London.

  Intensely relieved at the prospect of positive action, Michael said, “Thank you for your information, Doctor. Good-bye.” He spun on his heel and headed toward the door.

  “What are you go
ing to do?” Blackmer asked.

  “Find my brother, of course,” Michael flung over his shoulder.

  “Wait! I want to come with you.”

  Michael paused, saying impatiently, “Why the devil would you want to do that?”

  Blackmer looked down and absently touched the stone mortar on the table in front of him. “He’s my patient. If you can find him, I should be there.”

  Michael frowned, on the verge of flatly refusing to allow the other man to come. He didn’t want the company of a stranger, and he really couldn’t tell Blackmer that his goal was to find Stephen and take him to a different doctor. Still, Michael had to admire the man’s conscientiousness. He compromised by saying, “I suppose you can come if you wish, but you’d better be a good rider. I won’t slow down for you.”

  “I’ll manage,” Blackmer said tersely. “But I’ll need a little time to make arrangements and ask another physician to look after my patients. It’s late in the day now. Can we start in the morning?”

  Michael glanced out the window and saw how low the sun was in the sky. “I suppose so,” he said reluctantly. “I need to question the abbey servants and write some letters. Until tomorrow, Dr. Blackmer. Meet me at the abbey at dawn.” Then he left, telling himself that surely Ian Kinlock could help Stephen if anyone could.

  He refused to believe that his only brother might be beyond help.

  After his visitor left, Blackmer sank back into his chair, shaken. Like his late father, Lord Michael had his full share of Kenyon abrasiveness, with the addition of an army officer’s formidable air of command. Traveling with him would not be easy, and not only because Kenyon had years of experience with hard campaigning.

  Blackmer had met Lord Michael only once and had been left with the impression of a man who looked much like Ashburton but with ramrod posture and piercing green eyes. He had not expected to see such unmistakable pain at the news that his older brother was critically ill. Most men would secretly rejoice at the news that a dukedom would fall into their hands in a matter of months.