Promises and Primroses

by Josi S. Kilpack

  She bent down herself, plucked another bloom, straightened, and tucked the flower into the pocket of his overcoat. “Well, the color is stark against your coat. I supposed that means you are the better canvas.”

  “Certainly not.”

  She looked from the flower to his face. Did she imagine that he leaned in, just so? She leaned forward as well, just in case, and felt an even stronger pull between them. She could see the pulse in the base of his throat and imagined that hers had sped up to match his. She was captured by his eyes and felt an unfurling inside herself. It didn’t matter what he was to her or what she was to him. She leaned in another inch, and she heard him inhale deeply, then he lifted his hand to run the backs of his fingers along the curve of her chin. She closed her eyes and savored the delicate fire of his touch.

  “Julia?”

  She opened her eyes and saw that his expression had changed. The soft desire she’d seen a few moments ago had turned to anxiety. He stepped away, and heat flushed through her chest and neck before taking over her face. She looked around at the flowers again while she mustered a polite smile. “Well, um, thank you for bringing me here, Mr. Mayfield.” My boss. My employer. The man my mother fears is a cad. “It is magical—the kind of place one can get lost in.”

  She did not meet his eye or wait for him to respond but instead lifted her skirts and followed the deer path through the meadow to the other side, where it joined the wider footpath. Her heart was pounding, her face still hot, but she was aware of Mr. Mayfield following a few steps behind her.

  They reached the main path and walked for a few minutes in complete silence. Julia tried to determine how she felt. Embarrassed, but then . . . not. She could not remember who had taken the first liberty and realized she did not care. There was something beautiful and innocent about the moment, and she refused to let regret overtake it, though she was unsure how to accomplish that.

  “The eastern edge of the estate is not far from here,” he said eventually.

  “Oh. Very good.”

  They walked in silence.

  “I do think the girls would like this place very much,” she said when the silence again became unbearable.

  “I believe you are right. Perhaps you should bring them here.”

  You, not us. Of course not us! More silence. And with the silence came memories of that moment—a moment she wished she could cut from the fabric of time and preserve forever. But she was twenty-seven years old and still a silly girl. She wanted to keep him talking. If they could talk, the words could be like steps taking them farther from this place. Maybe with enough words, they would nearly forget it. Nearly.

  “A new week is ahead of us,” she said, changing topic.

  “Yes.” He’d quickened his pace, and she glanced at him from the corner of her eye. Was he embarrassed? Angry? He continued to look straight ahead. “Queenie has me worried. She should deliver Tuesday or Wednesday but isn’t eating much.”

  Dogs. Good. They could talk about dogs for hours without inviting any of the intimacy that had been building between them so strongly a few minutes ago. They could rediscover the proper place for themselves. She caught sight of the yellow flower in his coat pocket and wondered if the one he’d tucked behind her ear was still there. She didn’t dare check.

  “Really? Is that normal for her?”

  He shook his head. “No, she lost a pup with her last whelping, but kept her strength and appetite throughout the pregnancy . . .”

  Julia

  A knock on her door caused Julia to sit straight up in bed, then wonder if she’d actually heard it. When the banging sounded again, she fumbled out of bed and made her way to the door that led to the hallway. En route, she hit her knee on the washstand, and then stubbed her toe on the footboard, causing her to wince but also wake up more fully. She pulled open the door and blinked against the light of a candle held by the new dog handler, Henry. Mr. Allen stood behind the man, a jacket thrown over his nightclothes. It must be very late Wednesday night or very early Thursday morning.

  “Mr. Mayfield needs you to come,” Henry said, chest heaving and eyes scared. “Queenie be having a rough go with the whelping. He said you would come.”

  After her conversation with Mr. Mayfield about Queenie a few days earlier, after that moment in the meadow, Julia had taken to checking on the dam every morning before looking in on Bumbleberry, who was no longer in the shed. The door that led from Queenie’s pen to the whelping shed had been open for almost a week, but she had shown little interest in it, despite her litter being nearly due. The only thing Julia had managed to get Queenie to eat was some bits of chicken she got from Cook.

  “I just need a moment.” She turned back to get her shoes, leaving the door open so she could see, at least somewhat. When she appeared in the hallway less than a minute later with the laces of her boots tucked into the tops and cinching the sash of her dressing gown around her waist, both Henry and Mr. Allen looked at her with surprise.

  “Perhaps you ought to dress yourself properly,” Mr. Allen said, followed by a discreet cough.

  “If Mr. Mayfield has requested my help now, he surely needs me now.” She walked between the two men and heard Henry follow behind her as she hurried down the servants’ stairs and through the hallway and kitchen. She pushed through the door and was immediately hit in the face with a hard rain. She gasped and pulled back inside. But Henry was right behind her, so she stumbled backwards into him. She had not realized before now that he was soaking wet.

  “The storm is somethin’ fierce, it is,” Henry said, staring past her into the dark.

  She set her jaw and hurried into the night and the rain—there was nothing else to do.

  By the time she reached the whelping shed, the bottom six inches of her dressing gown were coated in mud, as were her boots, the laces of which had fallen out. She let herself into the shed, Henry right behind her, and he pushed the door closed against the wind and rain. She wiped at her face in hopes of clearing her vision. Once she could see, she took in the room. Two lanterns hung from the walls, the whelping box was in the center of the floor, as it had been for Bumbleberry, and Queenie lay on her side, panting heavily with her eyes closed. Nothing seemed especially wrong until Julia looked at Mr. Mayfield. He held a towel in his lap, rubbing something inside it.

  “A pup? Already?” Julia asked.

  “Henry found it in the yard around midnight,” Mr. Mayfield answered.

  “Don’t know how long it been there,” Henry said. “I been checking on Queenie every few hours the last few nights. This time I found a pup. Still warm.”

  “The sack was broken, but Queenie had left it and gone back to her shelter.” Mr. Mayfield continued to rub the pup, but looked at the dam. “Henry carried her in here, and she’s straining some, but . . . she doesn’t seem to care what’s happening. She seems asleep most of the time.” He looked at Julia with heavy, frightened eyes, and she read what he didn’t say aloud: “I wasn’t sure what to do.”

  Julia moved around to the side of the box closest to Queenie’s head. She pulled off her muddy shoes and dressing gown, all of which were only a burden. She pushed her hair from her face and caressed the dam’s head.

  “Queenie,” Julia whispered, stroking the dog with slow, even movements. “What is wrong, my girl?”

  The dog did not respond, but her chest heaved with panting breaths.

  “I think she is unconscious,” Julia said softly. “When was she last responsive?”

  “Perhaps ten minutes,” Mr. Mayfield said. “Have you seen something like this before?”

  “Not like this, no,” Julia said, still stroking the dog as she thought over her experiences. What would her father do? With one hand, Julia pulled back the side of the dog’s mouth to inspect her teeth, then assessed her belly. She’d always felt Queenie was older than Mr. Mayfield knew but hadn’t taken the time
to determine it for herself. “Queenie is not your pureblood dam, is that right?”

  “No, that is Sheila, and I’ve only bred her once. Queenie is bred for size, agility, and speed.”

  “And the breeder you bought her from said she was two years old?”

  “Yes, and had birthed one successful litter. I’ve bred her twice since.”

  “I am sorry to say this, Mr. Mayfield, but I would guess Queenie is nearly eight years old. If you bought her as a breeding dam, she likely had ten or more litters before coming to you.”

  “The seller said she’d only had the one,” Mr. Mayfield repeated, confused.

  Julia smiled kindly. “He lied.”

  Mr. Mayfield’s expression fell.

  “Tell me about her last litter.” She lifted one of Queenie’s paws and separated each toe, watching to see if the dog responded to what should be uncomfortable.

  “There were ten puppies—a large litter. Nine survived.”

  “What about the one that didn’t survive? What went wrong?”

  “The whelping took several hours, and she was exhausted by the effort of it. The last puppy was stillborn, but with a litter that size, I didn’t find that too unexpected. I waited two cycles to allow her to regain her strength before I decided to breed her again.”

  Mr. Mayfield was passionate, but not yet an expert. Julia moved to another paw, spreading the toes again. On the second one, Queenie tensed. Julia paused, then did the next toe. Queenie tensed again.

  Julia looked at Mr. Mayfield, who was still rubbing the puppy they both knew was already lost. “I believe I know what to do, Mr. Mayfield, but I will need you to do everything I ask of you.”

  He nodded vigorously. Julia looked at Henry. “Take the pup from Mr. Mayfield into the house. See if you can warm it by the fire. Blow into its face and try to clear its nostrils.” The effort was likely futile, but it would give Henry something to do and allow Mr. Mayfield to help her directly.

  The pup was passed over, Henry left, then Mr. Mayfield rolled up his shirtsleeves and knelt on the floor of the shed. Their gazes met across the box.

  “Thank you,” he said softly.

  Julia shook her head. “Don’t thank me yet. This will likely be a long night for all of us.”

  She turned her attention to Queenie. She rolled the dam onto her other side, eliciting a whimper in the process. That was good, even though the sound hitched Julia’s heart. She guessed that Queenie’d had a stroke.

  Hours later, as the birds began to chirp, Julia found herself alone with Queenie in the shed. Mr. Mayfield had taken the four surviving pups—one had been stillborn—into the house nearly half an hour ago. She’d told him they needed the warmth of the fire, which they did, but she was also trying to spare him these final administrations. Queenie lay on a blanket on the floor in front of Julia, the stillborn pup between her front paws.

  “You did a wonderful job, Queenie,” she said, stroking the dog’s side as the breaths came slower, with longer pauses between. Julia had ceased the regular, and painful, methods of reviving the dam, finally letting her rest. The dam had fully roused only once during the whelping, and then fallen immediately back into unconsciousness. Julia and Mr. Mayfield had delivered the puppies without her help, and now, the task done, her body was failing completely. “Four puppies, Queenie. Four beautiful, healthy pups.”

  Another breath. Another pause. Bit by bit, Queenie’s body relaxed, her mouth hung open, and her tongue lolled to the side.

  “Bumbleberry will be a good mother to them,” Julia continued, her throat thick.

  Another breath. Another pause.

  “Mr. Mayfield will care for them as best he can. He didn’t know you were so used up. If he had, he’d have never asked so much of you.”

  Another breath. Another pause. Then nothing.

  Julia pursed her lips together to keep from crying. She waited another minute, and then pulled the corner of Queenie’s blanket over her and the tiny pup that had never taken a breath. Julia sat back against the wall of the shed and let the exhaustion and emotion envelop her. She was sobbing with her head on her knees when she heard the door of the shed creak open.

  Thankfully, it was Henry and not Mr. Mayfield. He looked from her to the blanket and back to her. “She dinna make it?”

  “No,” Julia said in a tremulous voice, wiping at her eyes. “I don’t want Mr. Mayfield to trouble himself.” She’d watched him wrestling with his emotions as the whelping had progressed. He’d never been involved in a situation like this.

  “I understand.” Henry stepped inside and lifted the blanket-­encased body from the floor.

  Julia came to her feet and tucked the corners of the blanket in around Queenie. “I don’t know what to do with her,” she said, resting her hand on the dog’s head.

  “I do,” Henry said. “Donnah you worry.”

  She wiped at her eyes again. “Where is Mr. Mayfield?”

  “In the kitchens.” Henry nodded toward the house. “Did ya hear that first puppy revived?”

  She looked at him in shock. “It did?”

  Henry grinned widely, showing his missing eyetooth. “Almost an hour after I done took it in. Jacob had taken over, and he must have the right touch.”

  “I thought there was no chance,” Julia said, her chin trembling as more tears threatened. She was completely wrung out and unable to school her thoughts or demeanor the least bit.

  “Well, there was. I’ll take care of our Queenie.”

  Julia nodded, wiped at her eyes again, and then rested her forehead on the wall of the shed for another minute or two until she felt as though she had control of herself.

  The worst was over, but there were still issues to address regardless of how tired she felt. She put on her boots, encrusted with mud, and threw the still-wet dressing gown around her shoulders. The rain was less intense than it had been, but she was muddy and wet again by the time she let herself into the kitchen. She stood on the mat, dripping and shivering.

  Several heads turned to look at her, but she only saw Mr. Mayfield sitting in a chair by the fire, a blanket on his lap. She took off her boots and walked barefoot across the cold flagstones to him. When she arrived, he looked up with a question in his eyes. She smiled sadly but said nothing. She reached out and turned back the corner of the blanket. Five tiny white-and-brown pups barely moved within the nest he’d made for them.

  Julia felt tears threatening but resisted. “They are beautiful.”

  “They are,” Mr. Mayfield said.

  Julia rested her hand on his shoulder as though it were the most natural thing for her to do, and he placed one of his hands over hers just as easily.

  “We should introduce them to Bumbleberry as soon as possible,” Julia said.

  Mr. Mayfield held her gaze, then he pulled the corners of the blanket over the pups and stood. When Julia turned toward the door, five different staff members tried to hide the fact that they had been watching the interaction. Julia was too tired to care what they thought.

  She went to the back door and sat heavily on the bench. She dreaded having to put her wet and muddy boots back on.

  Mr. Mayfield watched her for a moment before turning toward the housekeeper. “Mrs. Allen, have we any work boots Miss Julia could wear?”

  “Certainly, sir.” She nodded and left down the servants’ hallway.

  Mr. Mayfield nodded toward her boots. “Those should be put in the fire, Julia. They are unsalvageable.”

  “They are not,” Julia said, pushing them beneath the bench and feeling her heart flutter at him having called her Julia. Not Miss Hollingsworth or even Miss Julia. “I can save them with a brush and some water. But I would appreciate another pair on loan until I have the chance.” Mud had gotten inside the boots, which was quite uncomfortable.

  Mr. Mayfield looked around the othe
r staff members until his eyes landed on Mr. Allen. “Will you please send a note to the vicarage requesting that Mrs. Oswell come and care for the children today? Tell her that Miss Julia and myself were up all night with a new litter. Have Jacob deliver the note immediately.”

  Julia tried to amend the request. “That is not—”

  She stopped when he turned to her with a look that said quite clearly that he would not be swayed. The argument disappeared in her throat; in truth, she wanted nothing more than to sleep.

  “Yes, sir.” Mr. Allen left the common area for the office he shared with his wife.

  Mr. Mayfield turned to Cook and Colleen, the only two staff remaining in the kitchen. “Miss Julia and I will need breakfast when we return, something hot and filling.” He turned to Colleen. “Prepare Miss Julia a bath in the copper tub in the upstairs washroom. Make sure the water is hot so that she can bathe when we are finished with breakfast.”

  “Yes, sir,” both women said, but Julia cringed, knowing that her relationship with Colleen was only going to get worse after this. But a hot bath and a hot meal sounded too divine for her to argue against.

  Mrs. Allen returned with a serviceable pair of boots, only slightly too big, and an overcoat with patched sleeves and missing buttons. She would look like a scarecrow, but she would be warm and dry. “Thank you, Mrs. Allen.” Julia pushed her arms into the sleeves, pulled the collar around her neck, and smiled at the housekeeper. “Wonderful.”

  Mrs. Allen held out an umbrella, nodding toward Mr. Mayfield. “To cover the pups.”

  Julia thanked her again, and then she and Mr. Mayfield made the journey to the dog yard, Julia holding the umbrella over the precious cargo he carried.

  “It’s too cold for the pups to be outside,” Mr. Mayfield said as they approached the pen.

  Julia agreed. “The shed, then,” she said and opened the door for him. It was warm, though a bit more coal would warm it up even more. She closed the door to Queenie’s pen and opened the door leading to Bumbleberry. Half an hour ago, Queenie had taken her last breath in this shed. Poor Queenie.