The Wrong Bride

by Cameron May

  “Ah, Winnie, thank God! The baby’s comin’ an’ somethin’s wrong, terrible wrong. Could ye come?”

  “Yes, of course.” She frowned. “But the baby’s not due for another month. But, yes, yes, I shall come.” She grabbed the coat and scarf, leaving behind a wide-eyed, staring Isabelle and Lance, who had just come from the dining room to warm his cup of coffee.

  Lance went to the kitchen door and opened it. Winnie and Barnaby were trying their best to make it along the lane, but it had to be difficult.

  “How long?” Winnie shouted into the wind.

  Barnaby shook his head, grabbing Winnie’s hand to help her. “I don’t know. Two, three, four hours. I couldn’t keep count after a while.”

  Oh. That couldn’t bode well, Winnie decided. Both huffing and puffing, Barnaby opened the cottage door and Winnie went inside, hearing the muted sounds of pain mixed with fear. “Have you any hot water?”

  “Aye. Some on the stove.” Winnie drew off her scarf and coat, flinging them on the chair nearest the door, quickly filling a pan with heated water and dousing her hands in it.

  “Warming the hands, Barnaby, if you’re wondering. Could you make more, fill more pots and pans? We might well need it.” The poor man was distraught, the tears from his eyes not merely from the cold. He nodded and went to do whatever Winnie wanted, anything to keep busy.

  In their bedroom, Winnie saw poor Frances moaning and thrashing her head about, clutching the thin mattress with shaking hands and biting her lip. “It’s Winnie,” she said quietly, placing a cool hand on Frances’ heated forehead.

  “Thank God,” Frances said, her voice a shaking thread of sound whispering back weakly. Winnie threw up the covers from Frances’ bottom and pushed up the nightdress Frances wore, wincing when she saw what was there, blood mixed with other fluids making a watery mix on the sheets. She drew up Frances’ legs and parted them, checking the opening that presented itself.

  “Oh, dear God,” Winnie whispered to herself. She bent down and put her hand to one side of the opening, moving it inside Frances just as Barnaby came in the door to hear Frances’ groan of pain.

  “Is she gonna be alright?”

  Winnie shook her head. “I don’t know.” Sickened by the sight on the bed, shocked to see what Winnie was doing, he turned his pale face aside and left the room, stumbled to the door and opened it in case he might throw up. But the cold air was reviving, and Barnaby took in great gulps of it. Straightening, he lifted his head and saw Lance on a horse with a log attached behind trying to even the path to the cottage. Behind him, Jem was clutching two shovels, finally going around Lance and hurrying as best he could to Barnaby, stumbling through some drifts that were nearly as tall as he. “Good boy,” Barnaby said, the tears turning to ice on his face. He took a shovel from the boy whose face was a mask of worry. All Jem knew was that Frances, like a second mother to him, Winnie being the first in his mind, was in some distress, some trouble he couldn’t understand, serious trouble.

  The big man and little boy cleared the stoop and path beyond just as Lance arrived, a question on his face. Barnaby shook his head. Lance nodded and started the horse back down the lane, smoothing it again. When Lance came back with only the horse, he climbed down, walked to Barnaby and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “How’s it going, old man?”

  “I’ve no idea, an’ I’m ‘fraid o’ goin’ in to look. Never though t’ see the dear woman in such pain.”

  Though it was the last thing he wished to do, “I’ll go,” Lance said, his chin set with determination, the blonde hair whipping in the wind. If Winnie needed help, he would try, though he might well be useless. Pausing on the stoop, he took a deep breath and opened the cottage door. Looking around, he saw the pots of bubbling water on the stove with steam rising. He shut the door, walked to the bedroom, and peeked around the corner, his face turning white. His stomach clutched, but he forced himself inside the room. “Winnie? May I help?”

  “Yes, please,” she said without turning her head. “Take that sheet from the bed and tear it into strips, one rather large, the others smaller. Then I’ll need water. I’ll have to clean the mite up.” Lance closed his eyes and pushed himself from the doorway mechanically, did as he was asked and watched as Winnie cleaned the mouth and nose of the red, slick body of the infant she laid on the bed. Lance couldn’t take it either and went to join the other two outside the door.

  “Well?” Barnaby asked.

  “All I can say is, thanks be to God I am not a woman,” Lance said. A smile eased up the corners of his mouth. “But it appears you have a son, Barnaby. And if Winnie has anything to say on the matter, both mother and child will survive.”

  A bark of a sob tore from Barnaby’s mouth, and he put his hand there to stifle more from coming. “Aye.” He shook his head. “’Tis a wonder, a child comin’ a bit late in life, fer both me an’ the missus. I’d no idea what Winnie was doin’, but I know one certain thing, that the wife and little one wouldn’ta made it without Winnie, bless her.” He looked at Lance. “D’ye think I might go in?”

  Lance grinned. “I think you’d better.” He watched Barnaby straighten and walk into the cottage, then turned to Jem. “I’m guessing we men are useless here, Jem. How about coming home with me—say, have you had breakfast yet?” Jem shook his head. “Well, we’ll see what Isabelle can fix up for us. It certainly won’t be anything like what Missus Frances can do, or Winnie, for that matter.” He patted Jem on the shoulder. “Everything’s going to be alright.” The boy let out a breath of relief and smiled, remembered his manners and looked up to thank Lance.

  In the cottage, Barnaby held his old hat over his chest and stared down at Frances, her face gray, and the little bundle beside her. He shook his head, bent down and reached for Frances’ hand, held it loosely and gave a light squeeze. “The heart is so full, an’ I thank ye with all of it.”

  Frances’ smile was weak, but it came. Barnaby thought that even though it would be unmanly, he might start bawling. Instead, he shuffled his feet when Winnie came in with a bowl of leftover, warmed thick stew and tea. She put the tray on the end of the bed, picked up the bundle and, with a smile, handed him to Barnaby, whose eyes grew big and uncertain. Then Winnie calmly helped Frances sit up and take in the stew, buttered bread and tea. When that was finished, Frances was exhausted. Winnie helped her lie down, straightened the covers, took the baby from Barnaby and lay him close to Frances, under the covers to keep warm. Then she crooked a finger at Barnaby.

  “You, sir, are to wait on Frances hand and foot for at least two days, more if you think she requires it, and it may. She has had a hard time of it and is weak. The baby’s coming time was misjudged, I think, since he seems hale and hearty, and you needn’t worry on that score. I’ll send Isabelle and Jem down with food, and I don’t expect Frances to show up for work for at least two weeks, and then only in the mornings. After that, we’ll have to figure something out, I expect.”

  Barnaby nodded his head. “What was that thing ye were doin’ t’ the woman? I thought ye was hurtin’ her.” It had almost made him sick, all of it.

  Winnie looked at Barnaby, her hair all loosed and face wearing signs of stress. “The baby was turned, Barnaby, but then, all at once, almost without thought, I remembered lambing time, and the lambs that had to be turned right. Oh,” she said with a smile of memory, “I was such a pest, always into this or that. But lambing time was fascinating, and I saw some of them delivered that way, so…,” she smiled again. “I’m glad we went over what the midwife told Frances, in excruciating detail, I might add, or I would have been nearly as lost as you.”

  “Thank ye, Winnie. I’m ever in your debt.”

  She put her hand on his arm and looked up. “As I was in yours once, Barnaby. Now, check on Frances every now and then, make sure she doesn’t roll over on the baby. Give her plenty of tea or whatever she wishes to drink.” She chuckled. “There’s plenty of hot water for that.”

  More instructions
came as Winnie was about to leave. “I’ll send Isabelle over with clean linens and other things for Frances, and to help with whatever needs to be done. It might be best if you don’t share the bed for a time, it being so small and all, and, as for the rest, you’ll know what I mean,” she said simply, “You’ll be kind enough to wait until Frances says you may.”

  “Aye, o’ course,” he said, somehow not shocked by her frank talk. “I’ll keep meself busy,” he told her. “Got a crib to finish, a house to keep tidy fer Frances, time to think on how best to help the missus. God thank ye, Winnie, as do I.”

  Barnaby watched the little girl, he sometimes still thought of her that way when he saw her tired or unhappy, which at times she appeared to be, put on the old, worn coat and scarf and step outside the door. Then he went to have a look at his son and wife.

  Lance was waiting for her a little apart from the cottage, the cob hitched up to the cart. It would be slow going down the lane and he would walk leading the cob, but he felt the easing of her body, the gratitude she felt. Winnie smiled, gave him her hand, and he helped her into the seat. The hand he relinquished was trembling, her face pale. Sympathy washed over Lance and something else, too, a kind of pride in this woman who was like no other.

  When Lance came in after stabling the cob and pitching some hay down to him and the other horses, he found Winnie in the kitchen already sorting out Isabelle’s new duties, with Jem in the kitchen awaiting his orders. “Wouldn’t you like to rest, Winnie? You must be stressed.”

  “I am,” she said honestly, “but it’s better to be busy and not think about it.” She looked at him. “Thank you for helping.”

  “It was so little,” Lance replied. He’d tried not to watch but couldn’t help it, and when he saw Winnie bringing out the baby, was afraid he might faint. Hurriedly, he busied himself with doing as she asked, glad when finished and he could remove himself. But Winnie came out of the bedroom carrying a bloody sheet and the infant, while he stood like a statue in the small sitting area as she washed the newborn and swathed him in half a large strip, then left to tend to the strained mother, wrapping her sore bottom in the other half. When Winnie left Frances’ bed again, on her way to the kitchen area, he came to himself and went outside.

  Every morning for a week, Winnie had breakfast ready. Isabelle served, then went with Jem to Barnaby’s cottage with warm food from the kitchen. They helped with straightening the cottage, care for the baby, and visited with Frances. The second week, Frances was up and working lightly, slowly getting her strength back. When she returned in two weeks, Jem and Isabelle fetched for her, with Barnaby ready to take her back after the midday meal. Isabelle and Winnie handled the supper, and Jem helped in the scullery and laundry.

  “What do you think we ought to do, Winnie?”

  “Hmm?” She turned from looking out the window. “Oh, yes. I don’t know. It’s working well so far, don’t you think? I asked Frances if she’d prefer staying home, I could find another cook, I suppose, but she said she’d still have to cook, and she does like the salary.”

  “I do think it’s going well. But what are you thinking about, Winnie? You’ve been staring out the window for the last half-hour.”

  “I don’t know.” She turned away to stare out the window again.

  “Don’t know?”

  “That’s right. I don’t know.” Lance frowned. Ever since the last gathering, Winnie had been different. He’d gone to her newer bedroom one evening when she disappeared after supper, and her door was closed. That wasn’t different, but it was also locked. That was different, unlike her. Why had he gone there? He couldn’t remember, but for some reason he’d wanted to talk to her.

  “I’m thinking of trying to go into town tomorrow, if the roads are dry enough. Would you like to come?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said with a sigh, “though I suppose we might use a few things for the pantry.” She paused. “On the other hand, Barnaby could just as easily pick up whatever we needed.”

  “If that’s what you wish.”

  “Yes, I believe it is.” Winnie turned back from the window. “I shall make a list.”

  In one of the taverns later, Lance remarked to Barnaby, “Have you noticed a difference in Winnie?”

  “What d’ye mean?”

  “She’s quieter, almost withdrawn, goes through the motions, like, when spoken to, she responds, otherwise, she keeps her own counsel.”

  “Aye, we all do at times.”

  “I worry about her.”

  “She’ll be alright. Mebbe has things on her mind the lady can’t confide in anyone.”

  “Not even you?” Lance chuckled.

  Barnaby laughed, too. “Aye, she’d not be closemouthed with me likely. Plain as day wi’ me after little Freddie was born, tellin’ me to wait ‘til Frances asked me to share the bed, if ye take the meanin’.” He turned to Lance. “Still can’t get over what she did with the little critter.” He told Lance what Winnie had said about always being under foot everywhere, about the lambing. “It gave me the feelin’ she grew up lonely, even though she had a ma and pa and sister. Mebbe she was jes’ different.”

  “She is that, alright,” Lance agreed.

  Barnaby frowned. “In a good way.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Well, I’m ready to go, ifn’ ye be. Work’s pickin’ up an’ I like to be around the wife and little tadpole when I’m not workin’.”

  Barnaby had certainly settled into the married state, Lance thought with a touch of envy. He sighed. “I didn’t see anyone I know here, so I guess we’ll head out.” Not meeting up with friends or even acquaintances had been disappointing, but, like Barnaby said, there was work to do, more every day. Lance was thinking of bringing in more help somehow, though Jem was coming along and taking on more responsibility.

  At home, he walked into the warm kitchen where Winnie was seated at the table with Jem, going over lessons. “Look at all the mail we received, Winnie. There must be a dozen pieces or more. They’re all addressed to me, but more likely they’re meant for you, the first few are from our most recent visitors. I didn’t check them all, but you may go through them. I’m going out to help Barnaby with stock before it gets dark, and then, I’ll be in for supper.”

  “I’ll help, too,” Jem said eagerly.

  Winnie laughed softly. “Tired of lessons?”

  “No, no, of course not,” he said quickly, looking from Winnie to Lance, who chuckled.

  After they left, Winnie picked up the packet tied with twine. Lance was right, there was quite the stack of letters. Going through them one by one, he was right about that, too. Most were from their former guests, pleasant letters thanking Lance for the hospitality, some of them going into detail about their enjoyment of their stay. A few issued invitations, mostly for the spring when the weather turned warm, the others would write later in the year again. One envelope Winnie turned over and over in her hands, not recognizing the name of the sender. That one would be left for Lance to open and read.

  The missive was on his plate at super, the others, opened, were laid on his desk. He picked up the piece of mail and looked at it, frowning. “Why, it’s from Uncle Harry, the old blackguard. He must be all of seventy, maybe eighty, and as mean as they come, I’ve heard. By the way, Winnie, I looked over the others, and, since I’m so terrible at writing, do you think you could handle it for me? I have the feeling the replies would be done much sooner and in a better hand than I could manage.”

  “No, I don’t mind. I rather enjoy writing. I didn’t go over the letters carefully, so I’ll do that first.” She looked across at Lance who was again scanning the letter in his hand. “May I ask what it says?”

  “Of course. It seems we’ve been invited to spend a couple of weeks at his estate, mentions my service,” Lance said. “Perhaps I should have applied to him for help in purchasing a commission, though I hear he’s something of a pinchpenny. In the end, it might have done nothing for me. But all that�
��s in the past, of course.” He raised his eyes from the writing to Winnie’s face. “Do you wish to go? Perhaps a change of scenery would do the both of us good, d’you think?”

  “A pinchpenny?” Winnie chuckled. “Someone after my own heart.” She paused. “I don’t know if it’d be proper to go, what with our situation here. It’s nearly time to make a decision.”

  Lance folded the letter into its original shape. “Yes, it is. I’ve been thinking about that, too, Winnie, wondering if we couldn’t come to an accommodation. We’ve not been so terrible together, have we?”

  Her face turned pale. “I don’t see how we can turn back, after all we’ve said to each other…”

  “You’ve said to me, Winnie,” he told her with a frown.

  “It isn’t only that,” she said.

  “Then what is it, for God’s sake? I don’t know what’s happened to you, Winnie. You’ve gone somewhere, and I can’t find you. Not literally, of course, but…you know what I mean. I’d like to see the old fellow before he dies, and I’ve very much appreciate it if you would come. I rely on the stability you give my days, and it would comfort me to have you along whilst I navigate this new development. Just this one, last thing, please. Are you so eager to see the back of me? Do you not think if might give us some good to have a leave of this place where all our troubles started? Perhaps give us a fresh perspective. What do you say, Winnie? It might seem odd that I have a wife and didn’t bring her along.”

  Just this one last thing? Winnie looked down at her plate and swallowed. Was she eager to take leave of him? Her feelings had shifted recently, and Winnie didn’t know what she wanted. But there had been a different note in Lance’s voice, that perhaps he didn’t want to separate from her, that he depended on her somehow. The idea took away her breath for a moment. “What do I say?” She lifted solemn blue eyes to him. “I say yes, Lance,” she said quietly.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Quite an expense, hiring a driver,” Winnie said, not complaining, merely musing.