Blackthorne's Bride

by Joan Johnston

  Tears blurred Josie’s vision as she croaked, “I’ve missed you all so much!”

  A moment later, she was off the wagon and running for the porch. Her family didn’t wait for her to come to them, they met her halfway and crowded around her. She hugged any part of them she could reach—arms, heads, bodies cradling babies—everyone babbling unintelligible words of greeting and holding tight, as though to assure themselves that this was really happening.

  It took Josie a moment to realize that Miranda wasn’t part of the circle. She freed herself and took a step back, eyeing everyone again, letting herself enjoy the sight, and the familiar idiosyncracies, of each family member. Then she pulled free and crossed the porch to where Miranda still sat, with Jake standing beside her holding her shoulder, apparently to keep her from rising.

  “Miranda?” A second look at her sister revealed that, although she’d obviously survived the fever that had threatened her life, she was not completely well. Josie dropped to her knees before her sister and rested her head on Miranda’s knees. Her eyes slid closed, as she felt Miranda’s hand gently remove the silly hat she’d worn and caress her golden hair.

  “I’m so glad to see you,” Miranda said in a low, hoarse voice.

  Josie felt a tear slide down her cheek. They were all here, alive and well. She hadn’t realized how much she blamed herself for the breakup of her family. She was the one who’d found Jake’s advertisement for a mail-order bride in the Chicago newspaper. She was the one who’d written to him on Miranda’s behalf. And she was the one who’d urged Hannah to marry Mr. McMurtry, because she couldn’t stand even one more beating from Miss Birch.

  She’d lived for two long years with the knowledge that she was personally responsible for splitting up her family. Only somehow, despite the long separation, they’d all not only survived but apparently thrived.

  Josie lifted her tear-streaked face and searched her sister’s features, finding the warm glow of happiness in her eyes, despite her recent illness.

  “I’m so glad you’re all right,” Josie said. “I was so afraid…”

  “I’m well and the baby’s well and you’re here and we’re all back together again. Everything really has turned out happily ever after.”

  Josie gave a happy sob, and then Hannah and Hetty became watering pots, as they all gathered around Miranda’s rocking chair. The men shuffled their feet and rearranged their Western hats, while the Wentworth children held each other tight and bawled their eyes out. Well, except for Nick and Harry, who watched the girls slobber over each other with looks of disgust.

  At long last, Josie swiped at her eyes, and stood, searching for the three people she’d brought with her to Texas. She ran back to where Blackthorne waited by the wagon and hauled him onto the porch, along with Spencer and Clay.

  “This is my husband, Marcus,” she announced to everyone. “And these are my nephews, Spencer and Clay.”

  It took more than a little while for everyone to greet everyone else and for Josie to finally sort everyone out. Their family had grown so much! The two young people standing on the porch turned out to be Hetty’s stepdaughter and her husband, and the beautiful woman was married to Jake’s youngest brother, Ransom Creed. The Creed men were the sons of Cricket Creed, who’d married an Englishman named Alexander Blackthorne after her first husband, Jarrett Creed, had died in the Civil War.

  “Do you suppose that Blackthorne fellow is any relation to you?” Josie asked her husband.

  “I had an uncle named Alex Wharton,” he replied. “But he disappeared a long time ago.”

  “You look just like Alex Blackthorne,” Miranda said. “Doesn’t he, Jake?”

  Jake made a face. “Sorry to say, he does.”

  “Jake doesn’t care much for his stepfather,” Miranda explained.

  “I wouldn’t mind if I never see the son of a bitch again,” Jake muttered.

  “Jake!” Miranda chided. “Watch your manners. And your language.”

  “If your Alexander Blackthorne is my uncle Alex, then I couldn’t agree with you more,” Blackthorne said.

  “Speak of the devil,” Jake muttered, his gaze focused on four riders headed for the house. “Meet my stepfather, my mother, and my twin half brothers, Noah and Nash.”

  Josie stared in disbelief at Alexander Blackthorne. “I can’t believe it,” she whispered. “That man looks exactly like the painting of your father at the Abbey.”

  “That’s because he’s my father’s twin brother. The one who tried to steal the dukedom,” Blackthorne replied.

  “That sounds like the son of a bitch, all right,” Jake said.

  “Jake, stop it,” Miranda said.

  As Alexander Blackthorne dismounted, he approached his nephew and said, “I’d know those features anywhere. You must be the latest Duke of Blackthorne.”

  “That would make you the bastard who tried to steal my patrimony,” Blackthorne shot back.

  The transplanted Englishman laughed, but it wasn’t a mirthful sound. “I decided if Randy wanted the dukedom enough to lie through his teeth for it, he could have it. We both knew the truth.”

  “Are you saying I’m not the rightful duke? That you are?” Blackthorne challenged. “My father proved in court—”

  “That he had the funds to pay a nurse to perjure herself. But, as I said, I’ve got a new life here in Texas that suits me a lot better than my life in England ever did. I prefer to stay as dead as I’m sure my brother believed I was.”

  “Are you suggesting my father—” Blackthorne began.

  “I’m saying I have no intention of returning to England. Ever. You’re welcome to every moldy old stone in Blackthorne Abbey. They’re yours with my blessing.”

  “That’s good. Because I have no intention of ever giving up a single one of those moldy old stones to anyone. Ever.”

  “Are you two done?” Josie asked, her hands on her hips. “Because we have a celebration to start.” She turned to Jake and said, “I’d like a little of whatever is in those cold glasses. And please get something for my husband and his uncle—your stepfather—while you’re at it.”

  “I’d do it, if I were you,” Blackthorne said with a chagrined smile. “These Wentworth women can be hell on wheels.”

  “Don’t I know it!” Jake replied with a laugh, as he disappeared into the house.

  “Wait a few months, and we’ll have our own little hellion on wheels,” Josie whispered in her husband’s ear.

  Blackthorne looked stunned for a moment, then picked her up and whirled her in a circle, as he announced to the gathered crowd, “We’re going to have a baby!”

  His announcement was greeted with a host of whoops and hollers.

  Josie looked down at the smiling face of her husband, then at the joyful faces of her family, and knew she’d never been happier than she was at this very moment. She took Blackthorne’s face between her hands, kissed him tenderly on the lips, and said, “Thank you for bringing me home.”

  BLACKTHORNE WAS BESIDE himself. His wife was being torn in two, and there was nothing he could do to save her. In fact, he was the one who’d subjected her to such punishment. If only he could take her pain on himself!

  “Owwww,” he muttered. Josie was squeezing his hand so hard, he thought she might break his fingers. He’d had no idea she was so strong. But then, it took a great deal of strength to push a babe out of one’s belly, and she was working very hard at it.

  They’d come to the glass summer house for a picnic and sent the carriage away so they could be alone. He’d felt perfectly safe doing so, because the carriage would only be gone for two hours, and it was a full two weeks before the baby was due to arrive.

  He’d spread out a soft blanket inside the glass house because clouds were threatening rain, and began setting out the picnic lunch he’d had Cook prepare for them.

  Josie had wandered down to the pond to listen to the frogs and watch the turtles plop into the water from their warm stones. She returned ju
st as he finished arranging everything. She leaned a shoulder against the doorway, rested a hand on her belly, and said, “I think it’s time.”

  “Yes, lunch is ready. Come sit down.”

  “I mean time for the baby.”

  He’d felt a small spurt of panic and tamped it down. “That’s ridiculous. It’s another two weeks before—”

  She closed her eyes and breathed slowly for several moments.

  He was on his feet beside her by the time her eyes reopened. “What’s wrong?”

  She smiled wanly. “My water broke when I was down at the pond. I was having a few twinges when I woke up this morning, and a few more throughout the day, but they seemed too inconsequential to be labor.” She soughed out a long breath, her eyes bleak. “I guess I was wrong.”

  He stared at her with disbelief. “But the carriage isn’t coming back for two hours!”

  “I know.”

  “You can’t have a baby out here in the middle of nowhere with only me for a midwife.”

  “Maybe it won’t come to that,” she said, laying a comforting hand on his arm. “Maybe the carriage will be back in time for us to return to the house and summon the doctor.”

  “Maybe it won’t.”

  “Everything will be fine, Marcus. Women deliver babies every day.”

  “And die doing it!” He immediately regretted suggesting that such a disaster might befall his wife. But his memories of Fanny’s difficult delivery and subsequent death had never been far from his mind during Josie’s pregnancy.

  “Let me help you clear off the blanket,” she suggested. “I’m going to need a place to lie down.”

  “I’ll take care of that. You…” He couldn’t think of a thing to suggest that she do.

  “I’ll remove my undergarments.” She must have seen the shock on his face, because she explained, “Because they’re wet. Not because I believe I’ll be delivering a child anytime soon.”

  He did his best to create a comfortable bed for her, taking off his coat and waistcoat and balling them up to make a pillow for her head, but she seemed unwilling to settle in one place.

  “I’m feeling fine,” she assured him. “I’d rather walk than lie down.”

  So they walked—and talked—for the next two hours, and drank lemonade, and talked some more, while he searched the darkening clouds on the horizon for any sign of the carriage. He checked his grandfather’s gold watch often, watching the minutes tick by with a sick feeling in his stomach.

  The Pinkerton who’d bought his gold watch from the Sioux had delivered it to Miranda, and she’d returned it to him when they’d traveled to Texas. His whalebone-handled knife was gone forever, but he would have willingly given it up a thousand more times to rescue the woman who’d become his wife.

  He was checking his watch again, noting that three hours and ten minutes had passed since Josie’s water had broken, when she announced, “I think I’ll lie down now.”

  Another hour passed while he sat on the blanket by her side, watching her face to see how much pain she was enduring, as the contractions came and went. She bit her lip until it bled, trying not to cry out. He’d never admired her more.

  “Where in bloody hell is that carriage?” he muttered when another thirty-four minutes had passed. She was more restless now, unable to find a comfortable position, moaning pitifully when the pains came and grasping his hand like a lifeline.

  “This is all your fault,” she muttered.

  “Yes, my dear.”

  “You’re the Dastardly Duke. I never should have married you.”

  His brows rose at the appellation, but he merely replied, “You’re right, my dear.”

  “I’ll never forgive you for doing this to me.”

  “No, my dear.”

  “You’re a beast.”

  “Yes, my dear.”

  “It hurts, Marcus,” she cried, her eyes pleading for some surcease from the pain.

  “I know, my dear,” he rasped.

  “Make it stop! Please, make it stop!”

  “Soon, my dear.” He dampened one of the numerous table napkins Cook must have thought they would need and dabbed the silky cloth against her forehead.

  She shoved his hand away and said, “That’s not where it hurts!”

  “Whatever you say, my dear.”

  Blackthorne was fighting his terror in the only way he knew, by acting calm and rational and unflappable. He felt anything but. He’d made it through the nine months of Josie’s pregnancy without collapsing with fear, because she’d always been so cheerful…and so healthy. Now her face looked wan, and beads of sweat—no dewy perspiration for his Josie—had formed in the space above the lips he loved to kiss, and on her worried, furrowed brow.

  She suddenly began to grunt and growl, like an animal fighting to escape an inescapable trap.

  “Josie? What’s happening?”

  “I need to push!”

  This was all his fault. Who took a nine-months-pregnant woman for a carriage ride to a glass summer house in the middle of nowhere, with a fierce thunderstorm threatening to erupt at any moment, and then sent the carriage away, so they could have the illusion of being entirely alone?

  He’d felt so sure there was no possibility of danger to his wife. He’d been told it usually took a whole day for a woman’s first baby to be born. Besides, it was two full weeks before their child was due to arrive.

  Except it had decided to be born today.

  Something terrible must have happened to delay the coachman this long. Four hours and fifty-two minutes had come and gone, and now his wife was going to bear their first child on a blanket on the floor of the summer house, with the Duke of Blackthorne playing midwife.

  “If you have to push, then push, my dear.”

  “Will you stop calling me that?”

  “But you are, Josie. The dearest thing to my heart. I love you, and I won’t be able to bear it if you leave me. So you’re going to bear down with all your might, and push our child out into the world. That’s an order! Do you hear me?”

  His wife laughed. It was a huffing sound, but it was definitely laughter.

  “Did you just laugh at me? After all I’ve been through today?”

  She laughed again. And then groaned and made an awful grinding sound in her throat. And then, to his astonishment, she began to swear like a drunken sailor. He listened in awe to the foul words coming out of his precious wife’s mouth. Where had she learned such coarse language?

  Suddenly, she yelled, “It’s coming!”

  Blackthorne looked at the items he’d collected in preparation for this moment. He’d laid out a table napkin in which to wrap the newborn, and he had the sharp knife Cook had sent along to slice the ham sandwiches, with which to cut the cord. Finally, he’d brought the London Times to read, imagining himself with his head lazing on Josie’s thigh down by the pond. He planned to use that to wrap up the afterbirth.

  He’d never been more grateful than now for the fact that the hostler at Blackthorne Abbey had allowed a young boy of ten to watch the birth of a foal, explaining each step of the way what was happening. At least he had some clue how to help his wife. But he’d never imagined the terrible pain she would have to endure.

  And he had no idea what he was going to do if there was some complication.

  “I can see the head!”

  His wife said nothing, merely grunted and growled like some dangerous, helpless beast.

  “And now the shoulders,” he said.

  A moment later his tiny, perfectly formed daughter slid into his hands. She lay there for a moment without a sound, and then opened her eyes and looked at him.

  “Is the baby all right?” Josie asked anxiously. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “She’s perfect. She’s just staring at me with very wide blue eyes.”

  Josie pushed herself up on her elbows. “I want to see her. Hand her to me, Marcus.”

  Before he could do as she asked, her eyes widened and she
said, “Oh. There’s more.”

  “I know, my dear,” he said quite calmly, because he knew the worst was over, and that this was merely her body pushing out the birth sac, which was no longer needed. He quickly swaddled the baby in the waiting table napkin and laid her at Josie’s side, then grabbed the newspaper he knew he would need.

  Except, what came out next wasn’t the afterbirth.

  “Oh, my God!”

  “What’s wrong, Marcus? Am I dying? I must be. The pain is back!” She began panting and grunting and groaning again, and pushing and straining and…

  “It’s another baby! It’s twins!”

  Between huffing and puffing, Josie said, “We shouldn’t be…surprised. Twins run…in both our…families.”

  A moment later, another perfect little girl slid into Blackthorne’s hands, but this one was yelling her head off—which set the other one to crying. He quickly wrapped his daughter in a second table napkin he’d hastily shaken free of crumbs and laid her on the blanket on Josie’s other side. Then he retrieved the newspaper for the second time, as both afterbirths made their appearance. He set the newspaper aside, then washed his hands with leftover lemonade, which made them cleaner but left them sticky.

  Blackthorne swiped his hands on his trousers, which were already a lot the worse for wear, before clasping them together, so his wife wouldn’t see how badly he was still shaking. Unfortunately, she was looking right at him, and he realized he wasn’t fooling her.

  “It’s all over, darling,” she said, smiling and reaching out her hand to him. “Come here. We’re all fine. Both of our daughters seem to have very strong lungs.”

  Blackthorne felt like crying. With relief. And with joy. Then the heavens did it for him, releasing torrents of rain that pounded on the glass roof. The rhythmic sound seemed to fascinate the two babies, who suddenly stopped crying.