“Well, young woman?” the Dowager demanded. “You’ve pushed your way in here. What have you to say for yourself?”
Gwenyth looked up at Sophia. The shadow of fear still lingered in the viscountess’s dark eyes. She was right to be afraid. The dangers of a breech were many. Gwenyth could only thank the gods Mr. Humpleby had gone no further with the delivery. Any misstep could spell tragedy for mother or child or both.
She lifted her chin first to the Dowager’s cold gaze and then to Sophia’s fearful one. “I’ll need to bring his legs down and straighten them before he’ll pass through the birth canal. There’ll be pain, Your Ladyship, but it must be done if the child is to live.”
Sophia bit her lip on another contraction. “Do what you must,” she said in a strangled whisper.
The Dowager’s brows snapped in anger. “If this child dies, I hold you responsible.”
Gwenyth acknowledged this threat with a terse nod as she positioned Sophia and motioned for Cecily to bring forth a lamp. “’Tis a responsibility I accept. I shouldn’t have allowed the apothecary to minister to Her Ladyship for so long. My hesitation cost us time and Lady Brampton energy to no purpose.”
She drew in a deep breath and, parting Sophia’s thighs, began the delicate task of nudging the child into position. Her fingers probed, finding the joint where the baby’s left hip and thigh met. Using the lightest of touches, she coaxed the leg down, straightening it as it descended. Every moment seemed to stretch to an eternity as she adjusted the leg inch by exacting inch.
Sophia grimaced in pain, her hand clutching Cecily’s as contractions spasmed her stomach. Gwenyth paused as Sophia fought the battle against the excruciating cramps. She moaned her anguish, her head tossing from side to side on the pillow. Then as the muscles eased, Gwenyth began again, carefully bringing the leg down into place.
The heat in the room closed around Gwenyth; sweat curled down her back, and she squinted against the headache brought on by such close concentration. The room was deathly silent, but for Sophia’s heavy breathing and quiet whimpers.
Finally leaning back, Gwenyth sighed. “One leg is down.”
Sophia groaned, arching her back against a contraction.
Cecily’s face whitened, her eyes meeting Gwenyth’s in almost-panic. “Can’t you do anything to help?” she asked. “It’s taking so long.”
The Dowager’s nervous fingers worried at a heavy ring upon the opposite hand. “Cecily’s right. Sophia can’t take much more of this. Aren’t there forceps for such work? Can’t you simply pull the child out?”
“You can’t force a breech,” Gwenyth explained. “You must let nature do the work.”
The Dowager’s nostrils flared with contempt. “Sophia needs modern medicine, not some hedge-row herb woman’s ignorance. Mr. Humpleby was prepared to use forceps and so would any right-thinking physician.” Disdain colored her words. “I warned Ranulf and Cecily both. You’re naught but a—”
Stung to anger, Gwenyth replied harshly. “Have you ever seen a child forced from the womb feet first, milady? I have. Dead, they are. Or with its wee neck broken, its limbs floppy and useless. It lives but an hour or two until its lungs give out. I’ll not allow that to happen to Lady Brampton’s son, and if you’re having any kind of motherly feeling in you, you’ll hush and allow me to do my work.”
The Dowager’s mouth snapped closed. She cleared her throat, but remained silent.
Gwenyth flashed a glance at Sophia whose face had grown pale as chalk at Gwenyth’s words. She wanted to kick herself for allowing the Dowager to goad her to speak so. Instead, she smiled reassuringly. “Don’t be listening to that, Sophia. It won’t be the fate of your boy. I promise you that. Now, hold on. ’Tis the right leg now.”
Sophia gamely nodded, setting her chin in a determined jut. “I’m ready.”
Gwenyth leaned forward and began the slow process all over again. Probe. Feel. Move. Pause. Adjust. Pause again. Note the position of the leg. A little farther now. Nudge downward, being sure not to hook the thumb over the leg or apply too much pressure to the fragile limb. Minute by minute, she worked until with one slippery finger, she drew the leg down and in place. Now it was up to Sophia.
The door had barely closed on Mr. Humpleby before it opened again on Derek. He wore a puzzled frown as he gestured with his thumb over his shoulder. “What the hell are you playing at, Rafe? I just saw the apothecary being bundled out of the house spouting obscenities about the stupidity of Lord Brampton and his slatternly midwife.”
Rafe dropped into his chair. “Gwenyth’s attending Sophia. Mr. Humpleby was making a nuisance of himself.” He shrugged with disgust. “What were you thinking bringing him here?”
Derek’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. “I thought haste was in order. The surgeon was nowhere to be found.”
Rafe raked a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I’m too worried about Sophia to be tactful.”
Derek cast him a skeptical glance. “And sick from drink if I read the signs right. Have you been sober at all since last night?”
Rafe shrugged, ill at ease with the uncomfortable truce he and Derek had formed. “I’m fine,” he growled, hoping his brother would drop the subject. “Sophia has asked Gwenyth to attend the birth. Mother has reluctantly capitulated.”
Derek seemed to take the hint. He quirked an eyebrow in curiosity. “What will Edmund say?”
Rafe pressed his palms into his eyes as fatigue overwhelmed him. He sighed. “Frankly, Derek, I don’t care. If the child is healthy and Sophia recovers, I shouldn’t think he’d have a problem.”
Concern colored Derek’s words. “Then I hope for your sake and Mistress Killigrew’s that everything works out to the good.”
Rafe paused, listening to the muffled sounds of struggle within, and couldn’t agree more.
Sophia had managed to push the baby’s body out, leaving only the head left within her womb. Fighting the urge to hasten the birth, Gwenyth forced herself to relax. Anything she did now would only endanger the fragile neck bones. In the end, Sophia was the only one who could free this child.
Hoping to keep the head from becoming entrapped, Gwenyth supported the baby in one towel-covered hand to keep the head flexed with the chin against the chest. “Bear down, Sophia. Follow the urges as they come. Don’t fight them now.”
Sophia groaned her agony, her hand crushing Cecily’s as she pushed. Pale but calm, Cecily whispered words of encouragement. “All is well, Sophia. Just a bit more.”
With a mighty moan of effort, the baby’s head emerged, and Gwenyth pulled him into the warmth of the towel. Silent, he blinked up at her from slate-gray eyes, a frown wrinkling his red face.
Gwenyth rubbed him briskly, bringing a flush of pink to his skin. Finally after a moment that seemed like an hour, he grunted once before opening his toothless mouth and screaming like one of the ban-Sidhe. Gwenyth placed him on Sophia’s stomach. The new mother beamed down at him through weepy, red eyes.
“There’s naught wrong with his lungs, milady,” Nellie commented proudly as she added coal to the fire.
Sophia’s face broke into a tired smile. “He takes after his father, already giving the world his opinion.”
“What will you call him?” Cecily rose from her place at Sophia’s head, accepting the swaddled bundle from her sister-in-law so that Gwenyth might finish with her and settle her more comfortably.
The Dowager, quiet up until now, began to answer, but Sophia cut her off. Despite her obvious exhaustion, already a fierce maternal will took hold. “He’ll be called Simon Douglas Xavier Fleming. After his grandfathers.”
The Dowager’s ruffled feathers settled beneath Sophia’s homage. She peered over Cecily’s shoulder and smiled a soft grandmotherly smile at her grandson. “A cherub from heaven,” she breathed. “I only hope I live to see him a man grown. You know my health…” But her heart didn’t seem to be in it. Her words trailed off as Simon swung his tiny fists up at her before opening his mouth up aga
in for another blood-curdling scream. She turned to Gwenyth, wiping her eyes. “Let it not be said that I am backward when praise is due.” Her voice had lost its hard edges. “I apologize, Miss Killigrew. You’ve done a fine thing here—for this family. I shall always remember it.”
Gwenyth sensed shame and embarrassment in the woman’s words. She dipped her head in answer. “Your apology is accepted, milady.”
Rafe burst in, eyes wide, breathing almost as labored as Sophia’s had been. “I heard a child’s cry!”
Without thinking, Gwenyth smiled and taking the baby from Cecily, handed him into Rafe’s waiting arms. Why, she didn’t know. Perhaps to capture the image of Rafe gentling a baby as he never would her child. To note the extraordinary sight of the dangerous Captain Fleming murmuring nonsense to a newborn, the child watching him intently as if he understood every word spoken.
Rafe looked up, meeting her eyes. His face shone with a joy she’d never seen there before. As if now that he held his nephew, he’d been welcomed home at last and the dark years of his exile forgotten.
A heavy weight of hopelessness pressed against her chest. Giving the two of them one long look, she turned away only to find Cecily’s sober gaze settle on her.
“He loves you still.” The young woman spoke so as not to be overheard by the others. “It’s obvious to anyone who sees the way he watches you.”
Gwenyth shook her head in denial. “His heart lies elsewhere. ’Tis best this way—for both of us.”
Cecily’s eyes crackled. “And so you’ll just leave him to Anabel?”
Gwenyth offered a smile tinged with bitterness as she wiped her hair back from her face. “For good or ill, I leave him a life to do with as he pleases. Fate wouldn’t be giving him that chance with me.”
To end the conversation, Gwenyth moved away, leaving Cecily to watch her with a sharpened gaze and a mind awhirl with questions.
Chapter 29
Cecily reclined upon a cushioned bench. Sunlight streamed through the trees above her head, seeping into her bones and easing the stress of the last frantic hours. She’d escaped to the gardens hoping for peace and quiet to savor the moments of Simon’s birth, but it was not to be. Anabel had arrived in company with Gerald to inquire after Sophia, and together with Derek, the three of them had intruded upon her refuge.
Normally, Gerald’s presence would have sent her into transports of delight, but today she was hard-pressed to show even a slight interest in any of her guests. She was too charged with the rush of excitement the baby’s arrival brought to spare a thought for Gerald. Ignoring the sulky, affronted looks he kept casting her way, she closed her eyes, picturing Simon’s tiny curled fists and rosebud mouth. So perfect, so innocent. She wondered if he would ever know the full story of his eventful birth.
Derek interrupted her musings. “Are we boring you, moppet? Perhaps we can have Mr. Minstead recite one of his odes about your eyes.”
Cecily felt a blush steal across her cheeks.
Gerald cleared his throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never written anything about Miss Fleming’s eyes, but I have begun working on one comparing Lady Woodville to the ravishing Helen of Troy. A few lines only, but I’d be happy to share them with you.” He shot Cecily a smug look.
Anabel preened.
Feigned horror danced in Derek’s eyes. “Thank you, no. I’ve been awake for twenty hours, in the saddle for twelve. But if you have a poem in your arsenal in praise of sleep, I’m all ears.”
Cecily’s heart gave an odd little flop at Gerald’s jibe. Had he really favored Anabel Woodville with a poem? She knew she should feel crushed, but all she felt was annoyance. Did he think fear of Anabel would keep her more biddable? She gritted her teeth. She was no one’s fool, and so Mr. Gerald Minstead would find to his cost. Still somewhat focused on Simon’s birth, she swallowed hard and set her chin in challenge. “It must be nice to have a talent for scribbling rhymes, but it pales when compared with wrestling death and winning. Now, that’s a calling I can admire,” she said with a defiant smile.
Gerald’s brows wrinkled into a frown, his mouth opening and closing like a codfish, and Cecily felt a twinge of satisfaction.
Anabel’s green eyes sparkled with mischief. “It sounds as if the Flemings owe Miss Killigrew quite a lot. I wonder what her fee for delivering a child is? A pair of laying hens and a sack of flour? But perhaps she’ll waive it. After all, you’re almost family.”
Remembering the pain in Gwenyth’s eyes this morning and the heartrending entreaty to the heavens she’d witnessed the night of Rafe’s betrayal, Cecily’s throat closed around a tight knot.
Derek’s expression never changed, but Cecily knew him well enough to sense the anger seething beneath his calm exterior. His eyes sparked with a glacial blue fire; his voice carrying a quiet authority. “She saved my sister-in-law and delivered my nephew. I consider her family already—as should you.”
Anabel met his icy gaze without flinching. “Is that a threat?”
“Consider it advice. Look elsewhere for escape, and leave Rafe and his woman alone. He deserves a chance at happiness, at least.”
Anabel raised a brow in surprise. “Quite a change of heart for you, isn’t it? You’ve made no secret of your wish that Rafe had never returned home. Why such a turn-about?”
Derek shrugged. “Chalk it up to Christian charity, and leave it at that.”
Anabel sniffed. “Despite your title, you’ve not a godly bone in your body, Derek Fleming.” She arched a brow in speculation. “Could it be you wish for Rafe to go through with this ridiculous lopsided match to ruin any chance he might have for a return to polite Society?”
Derek plucked a rose from the bush beside him. Twirling it between his fingers, he smiled. “Think what you like. I’ve warned you. It’s up to you to heed or ignore my words as you choose.”
Anabel smoothed her hands down the thin silk of her gown, aware of the way her movements accentuated her shapely curves. She tossed her auburn curls, her green eyes shining with malice. “You’re a fool if you think this woman is anything more than your brother’s fancy-piece. He’s gulled you all into accepting his whore as a member of the family, but I know the truth.”
Cecily seethed with an uncontrollable fury. Putting aside good manners and good sense, she rose in an agitated flounce of skirts. “How dare you speak of Miss Killigrew as if she were muck beneath your boot heels! She’s twice the woman you’ll ever be. Miss Killigrew heals the wounded and cares for new mother and child with never a complaint. She’s an accomplished weaver whose wares find their way into the fanciest manors and houses in Cornwall. All this and she holds a loving heart and a forgiving spirit. You’re naught but a mean-spirited…conniving…witch!” By the time Cecily finished, her heart thundered in her chest, and her breathing came in ragged gasps.
Now that it was over, she felt drained. What on earth would her mother say when she found out what she’d done? She hugged herself to stave off the nervousness coursing through her. She didn’t regret speaking out, but she did wish she’d been less public about it. Gerald looked at her as if she’d lost her mind, and Anabel’s face had grown pinched and pale.
Derek seemed to sense her fears. He crossed to her side, placing a brotherly arm around her shoulders. Looking down at her, he gave her a reassuring smile. “Though I find fault with your execution, your heart’s in the right place.”
Cecily buried her face in his jacket. “I only hope I haven’t made things worse,” she murmured.
Derek leaned close to her ear and whispered, “Could it get any worse, moppet?”
Despite her firm resolve to leave Bodliam, Gwenyth had fallen into an exhausted sleep as soon as she left Sophia’s bedchamber. She’d not even taken the time to shed her stained gown before she flopped down upon the bed. Upon waking, she was horrified to find she’d slept half the day away.
Did some small part of her want to stay? Want Rafe to take her in his arms and convinc
e her to tempt fate with him? With that kernel of thought taking root, she’d walked to the grotto, but the craggy outcropping of rock sat empty. The lake shore drowsed in the afternoon sun, quiet but for the spill of water over the rocks, and there had been no reassurance to banish the dream’s dark prophecy.
Now, climbing the stairs back to her room, Gwenyth remembered Rafe cradling Sophia’s child. It brought a fresh wave of anguish, almost buckling her knees with its power. She would leave Bodliam now—today. Better to withdraw knowing Rafe was, if not hers to keep, then at least safe and whole. She could not now imagine the world without him striding through it.
She entered her room, halting in surprise as Anabel looked up from a chair by the fireplace. The prayer rug lay across her lap, her hands spread possessively over the center square. “I was admiring your weaving. Beautiful work. Quite out of the commonplace, but I’ve been told everything about you is out of the commonplace.” She gestured for Gwenyth to come forward as if she were the owner and Gwenyth the awkward guest. “I needed to speak with you. I thought here would be best. Away from prying ears.”
Her words were sharp as crystal, and Gwenyth sensed Anabel’s strength of mind as she spoke them. Any insecurities were so well buried not even Gwenyth’s Sight could delve deeply enough to unearth them.
Closing the door behind her, Gwenyth shed her cloak upon a chair as she crossed to the window. Unlatching the casement, she spied Rafe crossing the lawn. He walked head up; his strides long and easy, and she felt that perhaps she was seeing him as he must have looked in his youth before he left for Ancamna.
Anabel came up behind her. “The view from this side of the house has always been especially fine,” she said knowingly.
Gwenyth turned, leaning back upon the sill, choosing her words as she might her steps through a boggy moor. “We need not be wasting our time speaking in riddles. You’ve treed me, my lady, now say your peace.”
A ghost of a smile touched Anabel’s lips. “I like your directness, Miss Killigrew. It’s a worthy trait. But in the world you’re about to enter it will serve you ill. Where all is nuance and perception, you’ll find your forthright nature a handicap.” She glanced out the window. “And so shall Rafe.”
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