The Worthington Wife

by Sharon Page

  Strains of music came to them from the other side of a meadow—the jaunty notes of a fiddle, the jingle of a tambourine. And laughter. A group of children exploded out of the tall meadow grass, chasing a young, barefoot girl who ran like wild.

  Julia had gathered control of herself, and she turned to Cal. “There are several Roma families who come here to live in the summer and autumn. In return they work to pick fruit and to pick hops later on. Hop picking is grueling work and the hop juice stains your hands terribly.”

  “I would’ve thought the earl would have run them off his land.”

  “Not the old earl—Anthony’s father. He appreciated their help with the work. They provided the labor he needed only when it was required, and they were quite content to camp and receive a stipend for their work. Though when John was the earl, briefly, he expressed dislike of the gypsies and did say he should not let them stay. Pegg, the land agent, talked him out of it.” She dismounted and smiled at Cal. “Shall we go and say hello?”

  * * *

  Cal watched as the children spotted Julia and ran to her. She laughingly greeted them all and his heart gave a pang. Something he’d never felt. He never wanted to be tied down. Yet he watched Julia and felt yearning.

  He also knew he’d frightened her with his speculation. Why else would she have jerked on the reins and made her horse shy?

  “You have all grown so much!” she declared. She carried on as if nothing had happened to disturb her. At first, that used to irritate him. He wanted to smash her sangfroid. Now—hell, now he found he admired it. Lady Julia Hazelton was tough and strong.

  She motioned to Cal. “This is the Earl of Worthington.”

  The girls, all dark-haired and lovely, curtsied to him. The boys bowed.

  He dismounted also and tied the reins of his horse to a tree, leaving Empress alongside Julia’s mare, and he followed Julia into the camp.

  Three caravans—wooden structures with domed roofs, all painted in bright colors—stood around a fire pit. Older men sat and smoked. A young man played a fiddle, all the while watching a young woman who worked with other women, preparing food. Others sat and sewed. The people treated him with deference, though they gave his clothing strange looks. Cal grinned at her. “Even to the gypsies, I guess I make a strange-looking earl.”

  “Isn’t that what you wanted?” she responded teasingly. Then she left him to go and speak to the women of the camp.

  Was she really teasing? Disapproving? That was the power of her controlled, ladylike expression. He couldn’t tell what she meant. Couldn’t see into her heart. And he wanted to know.

  He wanted to break through that ladylike armor. Was she a mass of pain, passion and fear inside, and she’d never learned how to let it out? Was that why she’d been locked in grief for so long? That was another thing the villagers told him—that Lady Julia had spent too long grieving.

  He stood, watching Julia, then felt someone staring at him and turned.

  A woman with a grizzled, tanned face and white-streaked hair was seated in a chair by the fire. She motioned Cal to join her and handed him a drink—strong coffee. The gypsy woman smoked a pipe, and he had the sense she was someone of importance. Brightly patterned skirts spread around her. An embroidered vest and white blouse covered her upper body. Smoke wreathed her.

  “I’m Genevra. So ye’re the new lordship, are ye?” she asked. “Ye don’t look all that happy to be in the role, milord, I would say.”

  “I never expected to be an earl,” he said.

  “Aye. I thought not. Ye look like a wild one.” Genevra chuckled deeply. “I notice ye’ve barely taken your eyes off Lady Julia for all the time ye’ve been here.”

  His cheeks felt hot. “I like looking at her.”

  “I can see ye do.” She wagged a finger at him. “She’s not for you.”

  It was true, but her nosiness made him angry. “I don’t see that’s your business.”

  “Ye’ve got a hot head, too.”

  “I’m the earl around here. Did you pass personal observations on my uncle?”

  “No. But then, he’s not like you.” She leaned toward him confidingly. “I’m happy Lady Julia did not marry Lord Anthony, the old earl’s son. No good would have come of that. Not when the curse claimed her.”

  “You’re saying there’s a curse on Lady Julia?” There were gypsies in America, and they were driven away even there. People were suspicious of them, and many believed they could lay curses. He didn’t.

  “Does she have to cross your palm with silver to escape it?” he asked mockingly, remembering his dark-haired mother with her long-lashed Irish blue eyes, telling him of pixies, leprechauns, spirits. He had loved the stories as a boy, got impatient with them as a youth. He didn’t believe in fortunes and fate.

  Genevra shot him a haughty look. He’d offended her. “There is no curse on her. But if she had married Lord Anthony, there would have been. Have you not heard of it? You being the earl now, I thought someone would have told you. They’re all afraid of it, up at the house. Oh, they deny it, but they are. If Lady Julia had married Lord Anthony, the curse would have been on her. That would have been a tragedy. She is good, kind and generous of spirit. Her soul is pure.”

  The gypsy blew a ring of smoke. It rose above her, lingered like a halo, then blew apart. “It will touch the woman you marry, milord.”

  “What is this curse?”

  “The curse befalls whoever marries Lord Worthington, milord. A century past, the Countess of Worthington ran down one of our children with a carriage. The child’s mother cursed whoever became the Worthington Wife. Callous and heartless, that countess was, and she paid the price. She lost six of her eight children to illnesses and accidents. Even the current countess has suffered much loss and much pain.”

  “I don’t believe in curses. You can’t say a few words and change someone’s fate.”

  “But someone did with yours, milord, when they told you that you were the new earl.”

  He lifted his brow at her, and she laughed merrily. The sound was low and husky. “The funny thing about curses, milord, is that we make them come true when we seek hardest to deny them. Or avoid them.”

  Then the fiddling music grew louder and faster. In the center of the camp, the children danced. Two girls clung to Julia, dancing with her. Julia twirled and laughed, nothing like a cool and austere lady.

  And Cal couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  8

  A Birth at Lower Dale Farm

  “Do you believe in the Worthington Wife curse?”

  Julia looked up, startled. “They told you about that?” They were riding down the lane to Lower Dale Farm. Cal looked magnificent in the saddle.

  “The woman called Genevra did,” he said.

  “She told me not to marry Lord Anthony because of it—she read my palm and gave me a serious warning. She was so intense that I was quite frightened,” she admitted. “In fact, I was—I was very angry with her. I thought the whole thing was a joke in poor taste. There was...quite a row over it. Anthony’s father went to see her. Her words had made Anthony rethink our engagement. The whole story of the curse is rather terrible.”

  “Genevra told me that the Countess of Worthington was cursed one hundred years ago, after she ran over a gypsy child.”

  Julia nodded. “That is the story. Terrible things did happen to that countess, though I suspect that was due to the lack of medical knowledge and the countess’s selfish character and not a curse. I don’t believe in curses.”

  “The current countess has been through a hell of a lot of trouble,” Cal said.

  She frowned. “I don’t believe the current Lady Worthington has suffered because of angry words spoken by a bereaved woman who had suffered unimaginable pain. But superstitions run deep in the country. Many t
enants of the estate believe in it, especially with all of the tragedy that had befallen Lady Worthington. It has led to fear for the gypsies. Terrible, prejudicial fear.”

  Some villagers had said that the curse had touched her the minute Anthony proposed to her, the moment he intended for her to be his wife...

  “What’s wrong, Julia?” Cal asked gently. “You look so sad. Have I scared you?”

  She could brush him off with a false smile, but she didn’t. “Some said falling in love with me was what killed Anthony. That the curse took him away from me because I was to be a Worthington Wife.”

  “Who said that? Damn, that’s a cruel thing to say.”

  “I knew it couldn’t be true. But it did hurt.”

  “Sure it did. Tell me who said that.”

  His dark brows were drawn together in anger. Outrage—over someone saying something to her that hurt. He was noble. Julia knew she could do what she’d set out to do—make him care about Worthington. But what had he meant when he’d said he couldn’t live with himself if he lived here as the earl? That was the key. If she could change his mind on that, she would win. She would save Worthington. And give it a master who was obviously worthy of it.

  “Cal, it was nine years ago. You aren’t intending to be angry with people over thoughtless words after so long. But I do appreciate you acting the knight in shining armor. For me.”

  “You don’t have to tell me, Julia, but if I find out who hurt you that way, I’ll make sure they regret it,” he growled.

  That was Cal—he was driven by vengeance. “There is a difference between revenge and justice. And I don’t need either, Cal.”

  “There’s not a lot of justice in this world, Julia. Sometimes a man has to help it along.”

  He said it so coolly, and a shiver rushed down her spine.

  She slowed her horse to a walk, negotiating the narrow, rough lane that led down to the large, impressive farm. It was time to change the topic of conversation. Brightly, she said, “Lower Dale Farm is the most productive on the estate—the one Anthony was exceedingly proud of, for he and the farmer, Roger Toft, decided to start raising a new and hardier breed of pig and developed better ideas for the rotation of crops.”

  These had been her ideas, too, and Anthony had agreed, rather than tell her such areas were not for women. Some men would have rejected anything she’d said on principle.

  Cal grinned, apparently forgetting his anger. “You’re glowing, Lady Julia. I never thought any woman would find crops and pigs sexy.”

  He let the last word come out in his low, deep voice. She felt a pang of—of something intense that rushed right down to her toes.

  He’d said that word to shock her. She lifted a brow at him. “Perhaps they have better sex appeal than some men.”

  He gave her his cocky grin. When he did, she could see his Irish side in the roguish nature of that smile.

  “I have to admit I was impressed at you chasing the Brands’ pigs,” he said. “I didn’t expect that of a duke’s daughter.”

  “I am a rather unusual duke’s daughter.” She stopped. For a moment, there was silence. Muted baas of sheep. Clucking and honking from the birds. She locked gazes with Cal. “This farm is successful because this is more than the livelihood of this family—it’s their life. Mrs. Toft is expecting another child—their fifth. Why should all their hard work be destroyed?”

  Cal opened his mouth to answer, but a piercing cry drowned out his words. Julia stared at the house and Cal asked, “What in hell was that?”

  It came from the farmhouse—Julia’s favorite house on the Worthington estate. But now she looked at it as horror took a twisting grip on her heart. She knew what it was.

  With legs trembling, Julia urged her horse to a canter. “It was a woman’s scream.”

  It came again and quivers of terror shot down Julia’s spine as she neared the house. She’d heard cries like this before. Mrs. Toft was pregnant and had told Julia, last week, that she was very close to her time—

  “I think a woman’s in labor,” Cal shouted as he caught up behind her.

  She reined in and all but flung herself off the horse. Cal followed with a smooth flowing movement. He raced to the door with her—and Julia came to an abrupt halt.

  Mary Toft—the oldest girl at age twelve—rushed out of the doorway and hugged Julia. “Me mum is poorly, they say. I’m so afraid.”

  No. Oh no. “Poorly” was an adult way to hide terrible news. Julia tried to hide the shaking that threatened to overtake her. She crouched down. “I don’t know what’s happening, my dear. But I think everything will be all right. Where are your brothers and your sister?”

  “They’re hiding in the kitchen. Father sent us outside, but we didn’t want to go.”

  She must stay strong for the girl. She gently squeezed the child’s hand. “Let me go inside and find out what is happening, Mary.”

  Her heart was in her throat. She remembered Zoe’s cries of pain...then Zoe had lost the baby. Julia’s strength was failing. Her legs wanted to collapse. But she propelled herself forward.

  Cal’s hand gripped her wrist before she could go through the door. “Julia, don’t go in there.”

  “I have to. I—I am needed. I must do something.”

  “I’ll bring the children out. Stay out here with them.”

  “No. I can’t just sit by and not help.” Pushing away from him, she ran in, but could feel him close behind her.

  The cries and moans led her up the narrow wooden stairs to the largest bedroom. Julia walked into the heat and shouting and frantic activity of childbirth. Oh, heavens.

  Mr. Toft was glued back against the wall, horror on his face. On the bed, Elsie Toft was half sitting, with women supporting her. Hair plastered with sweat, her face both white with shock and red with strain. She grunted and scrunched up her face, then screamed. “I can’t do it no more.”

  The women eased Mrs. Toft back and she collapsed limply on the bed, her eyes shut.

  “The babe is stuck. Wedged.” That was Mrs. Thomas, the local midwife, speaking quietly. A broad, strong woman with a ruddy face. Her sleeves were rolled up, her apron wet and streaked with blood.

  Such agony went across Mrs. Toft’s face that Julia’s heart broke.

  “What about the doctor?” she asked. “We must bring him. He would know what to do.”

  “That fool with the clean sleeves? I doubt—” Turning around, the midwife stopped in midsentence. “My lady, whatever are you doing in here?”

  “I’ve come to help. I could bring the doctor.”

  “Aye, he should be fetched. But I fear he won’t know what to do.”

  One of the other women said softly, “How long has she got?”

  “Not long, the poor thing. She hasn’t got the strength anymore.”

  “And the baby?”

  Roger Toft let out a sob. He was a huge, broad-shouldered man with a barrel chest and enormous arms. And it was awful to watch him break. Sobs racked him.

  Julia didn’t hear Mrs. Thomas’s answer. The room seemed to swim around her. It shimmered, the way the air did on a hot day.

  “I will get the doctor,” she cried. She ran out of the room as if being chased by demons.

  If only she had her car. She would have to ride back to Brideswell and drive from there.

  But as she spun on her heel to rush to her motor, her legs buckled beneath her. A strong arm slipped around her waist and she was taken down the stairs and outside. She was deposited on an upturned bucket and she looked into concerned, sky blue eyes.

  Cal.

  “You almost passed out in there. I’ll get the doctor.”

  “I can do it.” She had to do something. That funny feeling—that dots were exploding in front of her eyes—was going away. “How ca
n you be so calm?”

  “I’ve done this before.”

  “You’ve helped a woman give birth before?”

  “I helped my mother when I was a boy. Her mother had been a midwife in Ireland, and she’d learned a few things from her mother. When any woman was giving birth in the tenement, she would ask for my mam.”

  His mam. The word made her want to cry. This “Mam” might lose her battle—

  Standing over her, he shook his head. “You’re white as a sheet. You need a drink. Something strong, if they’ve got it.”

  “I am fine. I should be useful.”

  “Fainting won’t be of any use.”

  “I am not going to faint. I wouldn’t allow myself to.”

  “I don’t think you’ll have a choice, doll. Stay out here until I get back. Don’t go back inside. My guess is that your snooty Society wouldn’t approve of you helping at a birth.”

  “I don’t care about that!”

  “God, you are an amazing woman. You shouldn’t have been born a duke’s daughter. You’re a real person.”

  That was the strangest thing anyone had ever said to her, yet it touched her heart like no flowery compliment had ever done. But then the worst agonized cry she’d ever heard came from the bedroom. “I must go,” she said. When he shook his head again, she cried, “You are hardly in a position to dictate to me. I am tired of being told what I can and cannot do. I am a grown woman, capable of making choices. Capable of doing what is necessary to do! I absolutely must be the one to go. You don’t know where the hospital is.”

  “I’m telling you what to do to protect you.”

  And she saw then, as she almost screamed with frustration, that she did not want to be protected. An English lady’s life was all about being supposedly protected, but you were really not protected at all. You still knew loss and pain, heartbreak, desperation and desolation. All you were protected from was taking some control of your life.

  “Don’t. I refuse to allow anyone to protect me from life anymore.” Courage and determination surged through her. She could do this—ride like the wind to Brideswell. She was going to do it. Julia leaped to her feet.