A Passionate Endeavor

by Sophia Nash

  When the young lady’s pout appeared, Dr. Kittridge cleared his throat. “Lady Susan, I am sure your tender nature will comprehend the necessity of Lord Huntington returning to his apartments at the conclusion of this repast. The gravity of his injury forces me to insist.”

  Oh, better and better. Nicholas did not have to rack his brain for an excuse.

  Lady Susan’s demure smile did not hide the angry frustration evident in her eyes.

  Nicholas turned to his sister to see if she would chime in too, but instead saw, not for the first time, Rosamunde’s timid glances toward the handsome young man seated beside her.

  “You are to enter the clergy, sir? A most admirable profession,” Rosamunde said with a shy expression.

  “There is not much choice in the matter. I’ve not the head for science, and though I would vastly prefer to take up arms with my countrymen—” Mr. Kittridge was stopped by the sound of his father clearing his throat. “I have been convinced that the clergy is the soundest profession for me,” he said with some gloom.

  The two grandmothers, seated opposite each other, forgotten at the other end of the table, began to cackle and preen their feathers in competition.

  “I have always said that I prefer a vicar’s blacks to the ostentatious gold braid of an officer,” said the Dowager Countess of Elltrope, Lady Susan’s grandmother, as she simpered and looked toward the debonair vicar.

  Nicholas’s grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Cavendish, pricked up her ears. “Good heavens, Hortense, then why ever did you marry Elltrope? Was he not an officer in the 33rd Foot before he was called home to carry on the title? His elder brother had perished, no?”

  “You know the story very well, Margarita. We have known each other this age,” the Dowager Countess replied stiffly.

  “I am honored by your sentiments, Lady Elltrope,” said the vicar. “It is not often a vicar’s craven dress is prized over colorful regimentals,” he said, his faded blue eyes twinkling.

  The Dowager Duchess harrumphed in disgust.

  Nicholas was amused. Some things never changed. His grandmother still fancied the vicar—the handsome old devil. A man whose sermons had always been mercifully short, and his kindnesses within the parish correspondingly generous. It gladdened the heart.

  It was too bad he would not find much amusement the rest of the evening. Miss Kittridge, still mortally embarrassed by his chaste kiss, would tend to his father. Obviously, she was innocent of a man’s kisses despite her intimate knowledge of a male’s anatomy. He looked at the serene expression on the lady opposite him. She was plain, it was true, but she had an intelligent mind and a kind heart. And he had a notion that if she were allowed more gaiety in her life and pretty gowns instead of the prim gray frock she wore at every occasion, she would blossom into a beautiful woman.

  If he were not the sort of man he was, he would enjoy deepening the acquaintance and giving her these things. But ladies of her ilk, or of any ilk, for that matter, were not part of the future allotted to him. He looked down at the heavy almond cheesecake Her Grace prized. One bite later, he placed the heavy silverware on the plate.

  Charlotte was mortified. She had never found herself so tongue-tied in all her life. She was behaving like a milksop debutante incapable of muttering the most insignificant of trivialities. It was absurd.

  It was those mysterious green eyes of his. Or the combination of the somber green uniform and his eyes. She gripped her hands beneath the table and tried to take hold of herself. She would not be one of those young ladies whose heads were turned at the sight of a uniform.

  At first, he had been like any other patient, although more distrustful than most, to be sure. Then when the fever had lifted, his humor and generosity of spirit had filled every hour of the time spent in his chambers—all culminating in that kiss. It was insane. It was as though she was a love-struck schoolgirl.

  And how had she dared to tap his foot? She almost thought her threadbare slipper had moved on its own volition… if she had not known better.

  She’d felt her appetite flee as the meal progressed, and the young ladies of the ton flanking either side of him flirted and charmed him throughout each passing course and remove.

  And just as she’d chosen a topic to engage his views, she looked up to see his gaze resting on her. Her thoughts died, and she was sure she looked like a beached fish, mouth agape. She snapped it shut and returned her attention to the revolting dessert. Yes, she decided, it most certainly had something to do with those all-knowing eyes.

  She was going to have to give up reading those poems of Byron. They were worse still than that novel she blamed for her embarrassing feminine feelings, which had heretofore remained blissfully dormant. She had put all romantical nonsense behind her years ago. Yes, she was going to have to leave off all reading of Byron and the mysterious “Lady” now.

  Chapter Four

  “She had been forced into prudence in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older—the natural sequence of an unnatural beginning.”

  —Persuasion

  BEGGING your pardon, your lordship, but I canna read.” The stocky, red-haired stable hand held a thick tome in his weather-beaten mitts. Nicholas glanced, unseeing, at the man who stood in front of a small group in a large box stall. He tried to move his leg to a less painful position as he lay half sitting, half sprawled next to a dark horse on a thick bed of straw. Her extended belly was streaked with sweat.

  “Hand the book to Stevens, will you?” Nicholas asked, not bothering to lift his gaze from the mare. She was struggling less now, which worried him greatly. Her eyes were half-closed, and she flailed weakly at the air from time to time with her forelegs. He knew what was happening, and he knew what he would have to do. But he was willing to grab at any other recourse. Where was the damn stable master? Even Stevens, who usually knew where every blasted servant was at any time of day, had not been able to locate him.

  “My lord, it says that ‘a maiden mare whose known foaling time exceeds two hours and who exhibits diminished strength and heartbeat should be considered beyond salvation. All efforts should be performed to save the foal. Extended time in the birthing canal may lead to suffocation. Preferred methods involve forcibly removing the fetus from the… ‘ “

  “Enough, Stevens,” said Nicholas, resting his head on the mare’s flanks, “I know the conclusion.” His large hands stroked the mare’s muzzle as he whispered calming words to her now and again. He pondered if he should ask for the pistol now, and then he wondered for just the merest fraction of a second who would benefit from it more—he or the mare. The sound of someone coming distracted him.

  Miss Kittridge poked her head around the stall door. “Pardon me, sir,” she said, as she kept her eyes trained on the straw just inside the stall. “This is the mare, I assume then, that is experiencing a difficult foaling, is it?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask?” He lifted his head to get a better view of her.

  “Our maid mentioned there was a great to-do going on here. I thought I would offer my help before relieving my father this afternoon.” She looked at the semicircle of rugged men. “Would you prefer… that is, do you want me to go away, Lord Huntington?”

  Nicholas arched an eyebrow and considered the awkwardness of the situation. He was uncomfortable inviting Miss Kittridge into this crude, dark stall filled with men. He noticed a slight blush had reached the roots of the knot of wavy brown hair that threatened to become dislodged.

  She was so delicate and little, almost birdlike in her dove-gray gown. Her arms were thin; he was sure they would snap in two with the merest yank. She ought to be more familiar with vinaigrettes than the two tons of prime breeding stock before her. But she had displayed her mettle in the sickroom. The least he could do, if she was indeed going to try to help his sister’s favorite horse, was to save her the embarrassment of a rough-and-tumble audience.

  “Gentlemen,” he said with exaggerated politeness, “will you please leave us now
? Miss Kittridge, I humbly beg your aid.” There was a disgruntled murmur from the assembled group that indicated that they did not take kindly to the invasion of a female in their domain. They stared at her in disbelief until one dark look from Nicholas dispersed the ranks. Stevens left the reference book in the stall and herded the group outside.

  Miss Kittridge trod across the straw and kneeled behind the animal’s haunches, stroking the horse’s sides to signal her presence. A ripple of movement captured their attention.

  “Well, at least the foal is still kicking,” she said, reaching for some clean rags nearby. She pushed her short sleeve over the curve of her slim shoulder.

  “Have you ever done this before?” he asked.

  “With a cow. Once.”

  “I see,” he said, with a hint of doubt. “I haven’t been able to locate our stable master,” he said.

  She lowered her ear to the animal’s side. “How long has she been laboring?”

  “She has been pacing for at least one hour and a half,” he said, stroking the horse’s flanks. “She stopped trying to stand about twenty minutes ago.”

  “That is too long for a horse, I think. Yes?”

  “Most are delivered of their foals within a half hour.”

  With one hand on the flank, she inserted the other into the birth passage slowly. The feeble horse raised her head and whinnied for a moment before lying still once again. Miss Kittridge looked lost in concentration on her task.

  “Ah, there it is,” she whispered as she closed her eyes. Blood seeped onto her sleeve. “I almost have it. Yes, wait,” she said, as she seemed to be tugging with all her strength. “No, it’s not working. I need a brace, please. Come sit beside me.”

  He crawled next to her, ignoring the sharp pain in his thigh.

  “That’s it. Now, please, I need to brace my feet to gain more strength.” Her feminine voice clashed with the intense seriousness of her purpose.

  “Perhaps I should do this,” he said.

  “No,” she said. “It is better I do it. My hands are smaller, and I can already feel the cord stuck high up the foreleg.”

  “Yes, but I have more strength.”

  Her gray eyes appeared huge in her small face. He was so close he noticed the smallest freckle—or was it a mole?— under her right eye. He paused. He longed to tell her that she was the most admirable woman of his acquaintance, but he was sure gallantries held little value in her intellectual turn of mind.

  “Please, I think I can save her.” She stroked the mare’s side. “But if I can’t move the cord over the leg, I will sever it and then we will have to pull the foal out immediately. I can’t promise to save either one of them. But, it is the only way, I think.”

  “I would not be putting added pressure on you if I told you that this is the best mare in all of Wiltshire if not all of Christendom, would I?” he asked, dryly. “We must try to save her, first and foremost.” He grasped Miss Kittridge’s small, booted foot as she scrunched up her leg in preparation for pushing against him.

  “I’ll try my very best.” She closed her eyes and pulled. He felt with surprise her great reserve of strength as she levered herself against his hands.

  “Oh, I don’t know. The cord seems too short to come around. It must be tangled in several places. All right, so,” she said with effort, “I’ll need the smallest knife you have.” She removed her arm and looked down at her ruined gown.

  Nicholas reached into his pocket and retrieved a small pocketknife. He unsheathed the blade and placed the handle in her small palm.

  “This is perfect,” she said as she examined the tool. “All right. I’ll cut the birth cord and then try to pull the foal out. But I don’t think your mare has the strength or any natural contractions at this point to help at all, and I’m not sure I can do it alone, so you might need to help me.”

  “Of course,” he said as she began the procedure.

  Several long minutes passed before Miss Kittridge’s arm became slack. “Can’t quite hold onto it,” she murmured with eyes closed. “There. It’s done.” She removed the tool and returned to the work of pulling out the foal. She shook her head. “It’s not budging. It must be hung up somewhere else too. You try, now.”

  Nicholas reached for the tiny foreleg and felt the soft nose right behind it. The second tiny hoof was not far behind. He pulled with all his strength and revealed the two small hooves and wet, shiny nose. Miss Kittridge grabbed one foreleg in a rag and pulled alongside Nicholas. With a sudden whooshing sound they both fell back as the entire head appeared with the cord wrapped twice around the neck. Miss Kittridge untangled the cord. They then struggled to free the shoulders before pulling out the foal.

  The mare made a great effort for a few moments as if she wanted to stand, but could only lay her head back down. Miss Kittridge rubbed the foal with rags, felt for the pulse, and checked the forelegs. She laughed suddenly.

  “Look, he has a blaze in the shape of a question mark! It’s almost as if he knew there was a question as to whether he would make it into this world or not.” She laughed in pent-up relief.

  Nicholas looked up into her radiant smile. She looked pretty—like a whimsical fairie. Her hair had fallen from its precarious perch and a sudden beam of sunlight weaved rays through its luxurious waves. He was dumbstruck. She was not simply pretty. She was breathtakingly beautiful.

  Charlotte looked away when he did not return her smile.

  “I fear for your horse,” she said. “I fear she might not last. I wonder… is that a reference book?” She motioned toward the volume Stevens had left in the straw.

  A familiar sick feeling snaked up his spine. “Yes.”

  “Would you mind seeing if it says anything about what to do after a difficult foaling?” She lifted up her blood-stained hands. “I don’t want to dirty the book.”

  He swallowed and remained rooted to the spot. He had Stevens’s name on the tip of his tongue. “I’m sorry, does it pain your leg?” She continued when he did not respond, “Why, of course it does.”

  “No. I shall retrieve it,” he said slowly. And suddenly he knew he would not call out to Stevens. He made his way painfully to the entrance and picked up the book. He thumbed through the pages, stopping as he came upon the diagram of a horse. A large “H” was on the top, followed by an “O,” but the rest of the letters danced a jig on the page. The well-remembered cold ring of sweat laced his neck cloth. It had been a long time since he had last tried to make sense of the letters on a page.

  “What does it advise, my lord?” she asked while wiping her hands on one of the cloths.

  He could not force himself to look toward her. He stared at the letter that looked like an “S” and remembered “Ssssss as in snake.” He looked below the diagram to see hundreds of letters and words. Oh, he knew the names of most, but not how to string them together. He could feel the icy fingers of dread grip his forehead.

  Finally, he looked up to face her—to encounter the familiar disgust, he was sure.

  “Shall I take a peek? I’ve cleaned my hands now.” She moved to sit beside him, settled the book on her legs, and began studying it.

  She knew. He was sure of it, although she did a good job of hiding her shock at his ignorance. “I cannot… read.”

  She continued to concentrate on the page. “Yes.”

  Her small voice made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. She was so calm. He wanted to provoke her. “I am an ignorant.” She looked up, her dark eyes huge in her shadowed face.

  “No, never that.”

  “Then what do you call a stupid fellow too slow ever to acquire the ability to read?”

  “I don’t know, but certainly not an ignorant. An ignorant would never be able to converse on world history, estate management, and law as you did with me while you were confined to the sickroom.”

  “I had a patient servant willing to read aloud to me in my youth—just as you did while I was confined.”

  “Well, I have
the ability to read, but not the memory to store facts as you have done.”

  He leaned closer to pick several strands of straw from her hair. Nicholas had a great desire to touch the smooth skin of her cheek. He had a greater desire to lay his head in her lap. But he knew, from experience, that it would scare her away. Perhaps the seeds of a great disgust of him had already germinated in her. It was amazing she had not found an excuse to take her leave of him straight away, given his sordid revelation. It pained him to think she might stay out of pity for him. Even disgust was better than pity. Why did he care what she thought? He had thought he had learned how to steel himself against those emotions long ago.

  At last, he spoke. “I forced myself to memorize everything. It is an easy trick, I think, when one does not have the luxury of rereading facts.”

  “Well, you must be quite clever to have secured a commission as an officer. My brother spouts the requirements of becoming an officer regularly, and I am aware that a knowledge of the written word is necessary.”

  “So it is—unless one’s father is a duke, with money to bypass protocol. I, of course, secured a loyal batman willing to serve as my ‘eyes’ around the clock.”

  “I had assumed your family had been opposed to the heir deserting his future responsibilities.”

  “Oh, no. I rather think the circumstance was quite the opposite.” He stopped himself. What on earth was he doing, telling this girl these unsavory facts? He had no idea why he was offering any of these startling revelations, facts he had not pondered in many a year.

  “Surely you jest. For I know that is your favored style, humor to avoid serious conversation.” She lowered her gaze to the book and turned the page.

  He couldn’t understand why he was unable to shock her. He was uttering the most unsavory observations. Most ladies of his acquaintance would have been blubbering a bit by now or at least rendered speechless by his candor. He just wanted to turn the subject desperately now. His usual wit had deserted him.