The next hour or so seemed to last an eternity. Star’s flanks heaved and her whole body quivered as each of the birthing pains struck, then eased—and in the too-brief intervals when her body was slack, Jamie fought to turn the foal. I sat at Star’s head, stroking her, speaking to her in low, soothing tones and trying to sound confident—all the while feeling increasingly sick to my stomach that I had brought Star here and effectively held her prisoner, only to have her die.
And then, quite suddenly and with a final grunt of effort on Jamie’s part, Star’s middle seemed to shift, fluidly, and then heave once more. “That’s done it!” Jamie still kept his voice low. “Can you come and give me a hand?”
At once, I moved to join him. And then—
The rest is all blurred together in my memory. Star’s sides still heaved as she pushed and strained. Jamie fought to keep his grip on the foal—he had managed to get a grip on the hooves and did not want to let go, since Star was badly tired after so long an effort and might lack the final strength to bring the foal into the world. But at last the black hooves emerged, then the tiny wet nose. Jamie pulled and, following his direction, I put my hands up, guiding the hot, slimy-wet body … and then there was a slither and a rush of fluid, and all at once a coal-black foal—a fine, healthy colt—was lying on the grass before us.
“You did it!”
I had been keeping my voice low, like Jamie, but at the sight of the foal—all spindly legs and blinking eyes—I could not keep back a triumphant cry. Or stop myself from throwing my arms around Jamie’s neck and hugging him tightly. “You really did it!”
I felt Jamie’s muscles tense momentarily, as with shock—but he hugged me, too, and when he drew back, I saw that his grin was the echo of the one I could feel spreading across my own face.
“I’d say Star did it, rather. All I did was help a bit.”
We were both wet and and slimy as the foal. And yet, watching as Star turned to lick her newly-arrived baby, I felt as though I had just witnessed a miracle—as perhaps in a way, I had.
We stayed, watching in silence, until both Star and the colt were on their feet. The colt was wobbly and unsteady—but already nosing at his mother’s belly to take his first drink of milk.
“Come on.” Jamie touched my shoulder and then held out a hand to pull me to my feet. “Best leave them to themselves a bit, now.”
Now that the birth was over and she was no longer afraid or in pain, neither of us wanted to risk causing any disturbance by approaching Star. We walked quietly away, back towards the edge of the pasture. Jamie glanced back over his shoulder as we came to the fence. He had to be exhausted—he had worked very nearly as hard as Star, and he was himself barely recovered, besides. But his grin had scarcely faded as he murmured, in the direction of Star and the nursing foal, “Dza devlesa.” Which I remembered meant Go with God in the Romany tongue.
He gave me his hand to help me over the fence—and then when he had swung himself over, he turned to lift me down, as before. This time, though, as he set me down on the ground, something happened. Our eyes caught and held, and—
I am not even sure I know how to describe what I felt. The nearest I can come is to say that as our eyes met, I felt something leap between us like a spark from the fire, spreading a tingling warmth across my skin.
Jamie’s hands were still at my waist, and my hands rested on his shoulders. He was close—so close that I could see the individual points of his long dark lashes, the way the sunlight ran golden across the sun-browned skin of his throat. I felt almost trapped, pinned by the weight of his dark eyes on mine. But nothing—nothing at all—like the way I had felt trapped by Aubrey. My pulse sped—and yet I did not want to look away. I did not want to move—or even to breathe—for fear of shattering the moment that seemed to stretch out between us.
I do not know who moved first. Jamie’s head bent until his forehead touched mine, and in the same moment, my hands seemed to slide of their own accord from resting on Jamie’s shoulders to twining about his neck. I felt his breath go out in a shuddering rush, and then his lips brushed against mine. Just softly, at first—lightly. But then with a half-groan, half-sigh, he pulled me closer to him, covering my mouth with his.
It was sweet—so, so sweet. For an instant, a tiny, astonished part of me stood back and registered shock that I was kissing Jamie—Jamie, who a month ago, I had never thought to see again. But then all of that was lost in the tide of feeling that washed over me, raced through my veins and banished all thought. Jamie’s lips were warm, soft and gentle, and he kissed me slowly, almost reverently. His hands came up to cradle my jaw, his thumbs skimming across my cheekbones. I shivered. I felt almost as I did as a child, the first time my father let me ride my horse at a gallop—as though I were moving fast enough to take flight. And yet absolutely, utterly at peace and safe at the same time.
It was Jamie who broke away from the kiss first, breathing hard. He stared at me, his expression as dazed as ever it had been when he was ill with the fever. And then he said something, a series of Romany words that were too low and husky—and had too many unfamiliar syllables—for me to understand.
“What did you say?” My voice, too, emerged as an uneven whisper.
“I said—” Jamie shook his head as though trying to clear it. And then he dropped his hands and stepped backwards, away from me. “I said I’m sorry.” His voice was firmer, now, flattening into expressionlessness. “I … shouldn’t have done that.”
He glanced at the sky—which to my astonishment, I saw was deepening into twilight. A pair of bats swooped and flapped high above our heads. Jamie cleared his throat and went on, “You’d better get back. They’ll be sending out search parties for you soon.”
“Jamie, I—,” I started to say. But then I stopped. Now that rational thought was returning, I had no idea what I wished to say—or whether I even wished to say anything at all. My cheeks were so hot I felt as though they ought to be glowing in the near-dark. “Goodnight, then,” I finally said. I was aware of how stilted and stiff the words sounded—but there was nothing to be done about that, either. “Thank you. For helping with Star.”
Jamie nodded acknowledgement without speaking. And I turned away—ignoring the little tightening of pain about my heart. As though a cord that stretched between us were being drawn painfully taut as I walked away, back towards Delaford House.
* * *
I set this book down an hour ago, intending to—sensibly—go to sleep. But since I am still awake, and thoroughly sick of either staring at the ceiling or imagining Henry the 8th leering at me from his perch on the wall, I suppose that I may as well finish my account of the day.
Elinor and Marianne both happened to be present when I arrived back at Delaford House. They were sitting in the parlour with Charlotte as I came in—and all three of them exclaimed in nearly simultaneous horror at the sight of me.
Not that I could necessarily blame them; I was filthy from head to toe, and blood and birthing fluids stained my dress. Rawlings, Marianne’s maid, helped me to change tonight—and informed me sourly that the dress ought to be burned, because it would never be fit even to give to the poor.
There was no way of disguising where I had been or what I had been doing—part of what I had been doing, at least. So I told them as much of the truth as I could—that Star’s foal had arrived, and I had remained with her in the pasture to help.
Marianne shook her head, holding a handkerchief to her nose. “All by yourself? For heaven’s sake, Margaret—did it never occur to you to come back and bring Dawson or one of the other stable boys to help?”
I felt my cheek prickling with a blush. It seemed as though the fact that I had been kissing Jamie must have been stamped across my face for all the world to see. I said that no, it had not occurred to me to go for help—which actually was true enough. And then I diverted attention by giving an account of Aubrey’s visit. I felt I had to—in case Aubrey should ever come searching for me again.
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My sisters’ reactions at least made me feel somewhat better. Elinor characteristically said very little, but she looked both shocked and indignant. Marianne looked rather like a simmering kettle while I told my story. And when I finished by repeating Aubrey’s magnanimous offer to forgive me—and his attempt to kiss me—she exploded. “That smug, self-centred, egotistical, bachelor’s son!”
“Marianne!” Elinor exclaimed.
Marianne tossed her head, her dark eyes dangerously alight with anger. “You needn’t chide me for language—I could have called him a lot of other worse names, besides. He had better not show his face here, unless he wants me to box his ears for him. And as for Mrs. Jennings, I could shake her until her teeth rattle for her interference!”
It was my turn to say, “Marianne,” in a warning tone. Not that I had not entertained similar thoughts of Mrs. Jennings. But her own daughter, Charlotte, was sitting just a few feet away.
I need not have worried. It is practically impossible to cause Charlotte any offence. I suppose she must have heard much worse from her own husband about Mrs. Jennings; Mr. Palmer more or less loathes his mother-in-law.
“That’s all right,” she said cheerfully. “Dear Mama, she does so love to play matchmaker to all the world. I suppose it is because she had such very great success with my sister and me. She arranged my marriage to Mr. Palmer—and look how well that has all turned out. We are so exactly suited in every way. I knew from the very first moment I met him that he was just the kind of man I like.”
Marianne, Elinor and I were all silent at that. None of us, I think, knowing exactly what to say. Finally, I said, “Really? You fell in love with him the first time you saw him? How did you know?”
It must be more or less a record low point in my life, that I was actually asking for Charlotte Palmer’s opinions on love and romance. Speaking of a desire to take people by the shoulders and shake them, it is nearly impossible to be in Charlotte’s company without wanting to shake her and demand she admit that the entire world is not made of sunshine and roses. And yet it cannot be argued that she is not happy with Mr. Palmer.
“Oh yes—straight away,” Charlotte said. “We were at an assembly, and Mama had brought him over to me so that he might ask me to dance. And he scowled at her and said that he had told her again and again that he had no intention of dancing at all, because dancing was … I forget what it was he called it. Something about it’s being a vain and silly pastime, I think. But it was so droll—I laughed and laughed. And Mr. Palmer looked quite startled, and said that he had never made any girl laugh before. And I said that I could not imagine why, he was so very amusing and agreeable. And at that, he did ask me to dance after all. I knew then and there,” Charlotte finished happily, “that he was the only man in the world I wished to marry.”
I have been trying to decide ever since whether that story is strangely sweet, or very ridiculous, or rather dismal—or all three of those combined.
What I really ought to do is blow out my candle and go to sleep. But every time I close my eyes, I see Jamie again—the way he looked as I was walking away.
I had ordered myself not to look back. But I could not stop myself. I turned and looked over my shoulder—and saw Jamie, standing and watching me. The twilight was filled with dusky shadows that drained the colour from his figure, turning him into little more than a dark outline, grey-black against the deeper blackness of the trees at his back. He raised his hand, and I thought I saw him smile a little before he turned away.
What I cannot shake, though, is the feeling—gnawing as a sore tooth—that I ought to have turned around and gone back to him.
Later
I have been thinking of shapes. Not of circles and squares and so on—but the shapes of people. We are all of us born with a certain shape, I think—a certain way that we are meant to be. Like Joanna. What always strikes me most about her is that she is so very much herself—so absolutely sure of her own likes and dislikes and opinions, so secure in who she is. I suppose we all of us are, as children. But then life shapes us—or else we deliberately shape ourselves—into something quite other than we were intended to be.
Like Eliza, who should be vivacious and vibrant and merry—but instead, unless you can startle her out of it, is so very reserved and cool and controlled all the time.
Or like me. Perhaps it is seeing Jamie again, after so many years. But I have been lying in bed and recalling how there was a time when I spent every possible moment either in the stables … or with my father’s hounds … or begging Jamie to teach me his means of mounting a horse with a vaulting leap into the saddle—and cared less than nothing for fine clothes or jewels or romantic suitors.
But then when Father died—
It is difficult to explain. Our lives changed so much. Father was gone. We had to leave Norland Park, the only home I had ever known, and come to live in a tiny cottage that was scarcely a tenth the size of our old estate. Elinor, Marianne, and I suddenly had no fortune—nor hopes of ever having one—and thus small prospects of marrying well and forming establishments of our own. Not that I felt fully what the lack of fortune meant at the time—not as keenly as Marianne and Elinor; I was only thirteen to their seventeen and nineteen.
But all the same, all the changes … all the differences, the sudden yawning divide between my life as it had been before and my life as it would now become … it felt as though it would all be less painful if I were to change, as well. As though the upheaval would be easier to bear if I left my former self behind at Norland and made myself over into someone entirely new.
So I tried to be exactly like Elinor and Marianne. Well, Marianne, chiefly—she seemed by far the more interesting and exciting to me, at thirteen. I imitated her manner of hairdressing, her style of clothes, even her way of speaking. I watched her fall in love with John Willoughby with absolutely rapturous attention—impatient all the while for the time when I should be old enough to have admirers and romantic affairs, too.
Even Marianne’s infatuation with Willoughby ending so badly was, strangely, no deterrent to me.
Then I fell in love—I thought I fell in love with Aubrey Neville.
And now—
Now I feel a little as though I have been caught up in an ocean current, tumbled about with sharp-edged rocks and shells and sand, and then cast back onto the shore again—except that I have not yet been able to determine exactly where it is that I have landed.
Tuesday 22 June 1802
It is very late—or very early, depending on one’s perspective. I woke to the sound of footsteps in the hall outside my door, and peeped out to see Mr. Palmer’s figure, just slipping into his own room. Which means, I suppose, that come morning, we shall be treated to another round of exclamations from Charlotte on Mr. Palmer’s hysterically funny habit of going for walks by moonlight. I could not fall back asleep, though—so I have taken up this book instead.
I have been avoiding writing in this journal for the last two days. Just as—if I am honest—I have been avoiding going back to see Jamie. I have not even ventured up to the north pasture to see Star and her foal. Though I did at least tell Dawson that the foal had been born—and he has been up to check on her from a distance—so I know that all is well.
I despise feeling like a coward—and yet my face has been burning at even the thought of facing Jamie again.
That seems an incredibly petty worry just now. As I write this, I would be positively delighted if my most serious concern was dreading the embarrassment of seeing Jamie after our kiss the other day.
To tell it all properly, though, and from the beginning:
I had—finally—nerved myself to return to the north pasture, intending to visit Jamie’s camp after I had seen Star. As it happened, though, I never had the chance.
I was not sure whether the foal’s birth would make Star less skittish and afraid, or more so, since she now has her baby to fear for and defend. Dawson had gone to see her—but at my request, he d
id not actually approach her, only left her some oats and hay. Star and the foal were standing together in the centre of the pasture when I arrived—Star browsing in the grass, her foal butting her as he guzzled milk.
Star’s head lifted and she pricked up her ears as soon as she caught sight of me at the fence. I held my breath, waiting to see whether she would remain where she was or run away to the far end of the pasture, as before. As it happened, though, she did neither. She lowered her head and then with careful, delicate steps made her way to where I stood. The baby trailed behind her.
I almost forgot about Jamie as I stood, motionless and breathless, watching her approach. Slowly, she walked straight to where I stood—and then she poked her long neck over the fence and gave a soft whinny of greeting.
“Hello,” I whispered. I rubbed her velvet-soft nose. “Did you want to introduce me to your little one?” I looked down at the spindly-legged foal beside her. Though he was already much steadier on his legs than he had been just two days ago. “He is beautiful, isn’t he? We shall have to think of a name for him. Something appropriately noble.”
A footstep sounded behind me, making my heart contract. But it was only Marianne.
I took a breath, trying to steady my pulse. “Marianne! What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see Star, of course. And the baby,” Marianne said. She was wearing an open robe of pale lilac over her cream-coloured muslin morning dress, with a wide-brimmed bonnet of braided straw to shade her face. “I have not yet been up here to see her. She is beautiful,” she added.
Star had stiffened at the sight of Marianne and moved away from the fence. But she did not squeal or rear up and race away as before, only walked to stand some fifteen paces away, with the foal still at her side.
Marianne had also, it transpired, wished to ask whether I would accompany her on a visit to Elinor. I said that I would. Ignoring—once again—that there was a sharp stab of disappointment mixed in with the relief I felt that I would not after all be able to visit Jamie’s camp.
Margaret Dashwood's Diary Page 14