Dangerous Magic (21 page)

Gwenyth felt the weight of Rafe’s stare. She yearned to reach out and catch a whisper of what he was thinking as he stood over her. But she dared not. Last night had shown her his reaction to such an intrusion. Instead, she remained where she was, eyes closed, breathing steady. Finally, he moved away. His footsteps retreated. She opened her eyes. His shoulders were hunched, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

She’d hoped to avoid such an encounter. Packed and ready to leave Bodliam, she’d been forestalled by the arrival of Derek with the apothecary. Mr. Humpleby’s hairless, mottled head had sprouted moles like toadstools, and his glassy eyes and gray pallor reminded her of a fish on the turn. If Gwenyth read the signs right, his fingers shook with more than nerves as he clutched his bag and stared up into the domed hall with amazement.

She couldn’t in good conscience leave Sophia to this man’s care. But talking had gotten her little but the Dowager’s contempt and a cold, squint-eyed stare from the man. She’d withdrawn, but only as far as the saloon, to wait upon the call she knew would come. Once the child lay safe in Sophia’s arms, she’d stay no longer, but slip into the night and be gone from there before Rafe or the others knew she was missing.

Rafe had just reached the door when Cecily appeared, almost running headlong into him in her haste. Fear rose from her like steam as she clutched at his lapels. “Is Gwenyth within?”

Rafe took her by the elbows to steady her. “She sleeps.”

“I need her. Sophia needs her. Things are worsening and this man, Mr. Humpleby—he’s hinting that the child has died. Sophia is beside herself.”

Before Rafe could answer, Gwenyth uncurled from the chair, tucking her feet into her slippers. “I’m awake and only waiting on a word to help if I can.”

Rafe flashed her a curious look, but Cecily’s gaze was wide and fearful.

“I’ll not be standing by and letting that man frighten Sophia to a state.” Gwenyth took Cecily’s hand and drew her back to the stairs. “Come. I have questions, but we can walk and speak at the same time.”

Rafe held back as if he might leave for the safety of the dark saloon, but Gwenyth paused and swung around. “I’ll need you there. If I’m to be treading on the toes of this man and your mother, I could be using someone to look threatening.” She sized him up, refusing to give in to the awkward tension hanging between the two of them. Instead, she offered him a thin, brittle smile. “And you’re looking as disreputable a character as I could want.”

Rafe’s body tensed with uncertainty. “I really don’t think—”

Gwenyth interrupted him. “In the main, that’s true, you don’t think, but it’s not your head I’m wanting, only your authority.”

Rafe grimaced and opened his mouth as if he might respond, but at a pleading look from Cecily he swallowed whatever hurtful comment he thought to make. Instead he bowed them before him while he followed reluctantly behind.

Nellie’s head was pressed against the closed door to Sophia’s bedchamber when the three of them entered the outer sitting room. Red with embarrassment, she straightened, running a nervous hand down her apron.

Though Cecily’s information had worried her, Gwenyth offered the lady’s maid an encouraging smile. “Is the apothecary in with Her Ladyship?”

“No,
Mestres.
He’s stepped out for a bit. He’s said since nothing’s happening any minute, he’d like a bit of a break.”

Gwenyth was relieved she’d only have to fight her way past the Dowager. “Nellie, could you be finding me a bit of oil? Warmed if you can be managing it.”

Obviously happy to be doing something helpful as well as getting away without a scolding for eavesdropping, Nellie curtseyed and raced from the room.

Setting her shoulders against the resistance she knew she’d find waiting for her and focusing her mind on the work ahead, Gwenyth opened the door. Fear, worry, pain and despair met her on a draft of smothering heat. Sophia lay propped upon a bank of pillows, hair loose in dark straggly rattails over her shoulders, eyes closed. Her narrow face seemed gaunt and wraith-like against the starched linen of the sheets, a sheen of sweat glistening on her skin. Her stomach remained a monstrous mound beneath the bedclothes, and she shuddered with each passing contraction.

Before Gwenyth moved forward or even spoke, she opened her mind to the Sight, sending out a fragile thread of awareness. It curled around Sophia like a ribbon of thought, answering Gwenyth’s silent prayer. Without realizing it, she let out the breath she’d been holding. Despite Mr. Humpleby’s panicked assumptions, she felt it—the child lived.

The Dowager rose from her place at Sophia’s side. Her eyes flashed fire, but her hands trembled with worry rather than wrath. “What are you doing here? I thought I told you we had no need of your medieval herbal hocus-pocus.” She raised an imperious hand, her finger pointed accusingly at Gwenyth. “Get out!”

“But, Mama—” Cecily argued.

Gwenyth felt the steady presence of Rafe at her back. “Perhaps we should let Sophia decide who stays and who goes,” he said calmly, pushing Gwenyth into the room.

“I won’t have that woman in here. She may have pulled the wool over your eyes, Ranulf, but I know a grasping social climber when I see one. Midwife, bah! Strumpet, more like. Was I still the mistress of this house I would have sent her away with a flea in her ear long before this!”

Rafe moved around Gwenyth. Taking his mother’s arm in a firm grip, he pulled her aside. His voice was harsh, his impatience palpable. “You’re not mistress here, Mother. Sophia is, and it’s her decision to make.”

The Dowager spluttered. “I will not—”

Rafe cut her off. “It’s Mr. Humpleby or Gwenyth. There’s no one else.”

Sophia blinked open weary, red-rimmed eyes. In a voice bereft of hope, she whispered, “She may stay. It’s too late for help or hindrance now.”

Crossing swiftly to Sophia’s bedside, Gwenyth took up the woman’s hand. “Look at me, Lady Brampton. Look at me and listen carefully.”

Sophia turned her head upon the pillows, her usual sparkling black eyes faded with pain.

Gwenyth tightened her hold on Sophia’s hand, wishing she could will her the faith she’d need to trust her words. “The child is alive. He waits only for you. Between us, we can bring him forth, and you can meet him yourself.”

Behind her the Dowager huffed her skepticism, but Sophia’s eyes glimmered with the faint stirring of a new hope.

“How do you know this? How can you be—” A contraction strangled the last of her sentence. Her face twisted with pain as she tensed.

Rafe cleared his throat as if warning Gwenyth to tread carefully. She ignored him and as the contraction eased, she answered clearly and without a trace of hesitation. “Aside from my skills as a midwife, I carry the gift of Sight within me. It is a talent of feeling those around me and knowing things not normally clear to mortal kenning. I feel the child as I feel you or Cecily or…or Rafe. I would not offer you such a promise without an assurance of its truth.”

Sophia caught and held Gwenyth’s gaze. After only a moment, she smiled, her fingers answering Gwenyth’s grip with a squeeze of her own. “I don’t know why I believe you, but I do. Stay. Please.”

Gwenyth answered Sophia’s smile. “I’ll not leave until the boy is swaddled and lying in your arms.”

The Dowager and Sophia both started with surprise, but Gwenyth was saved from explaining her certainty of the child’s gender by Nellie’s appearance. “Your oil,
Mestres.
”

Gwenyth rose and took the bowl from Nellie. Placing it on a nearby table, she warmed her hands before the fire before dipping the tips of her fingers into the oil, and rubbing it into her palms. “Rafe, if you could wait outside the door. When Mr. Humpleby returns, tell him to stay with you in the sitting room.”

Rafe withdrew, relief clear on his face as Gwenyth returned to Sophia’s side. Pulling down the coverlet, Gwenyth placed her hands upon the top of Sophia’s swollen stomach. Gently pushing the top sides of the womb inward and squeezing, she felt the baby move in response to her nudge.

“I felt it! I felt the baby!” Sophia exclaimed through gritted teeth, the last shadows of doubt lifted from her face.

The Dowager moaned and fluttered a handkerchief. “Bless the Lord,” she whispered.

With Cecily and Nellie watching intently, Gwenyth kept working. Pausing only at each hard pain, she moved her skilled hands across Sophia’s stomach, judging where the child was and how he lay. It was obvious that despite Sophia’s labors, something kept the child from progressing normally. Dropping her hands down, she felt with thumb and forefinger. It took her only a moment to understand the problem. She grimaced as she straightened.

Cecily caught her momentary look of displeasure. “What is it?”

Gwenyth wiped her hands on a towel. “The baby lies feet first in the womb. A difficult birth, but not impossible.”

Rafe marked the corners of the sitting room like a prisoner pacing his cell. Something he was all too familiar with. Just being in the room with Sophia, in such close contact with her suffering, had made his heart race and his stomach lurch. He’d held firm, but every second he remained had seemed like an eternity. Fearing she meant for him to stay through Sophia’s trials, he’d thanked the Lord when Gwenyth had released him from the room.

Beyond the doors came the soft murmur of women’s voices and every now and then Sophia’s strangled moan of pain. He shook his head, in awe of the strength and courage it took to birth a child. Although he’d faced death and danger, he couldn’t fathom Sophia’s bravery, knowing not as she was brought to bed whether she would ever rise from it again, or if the child would be born healthy and whole or wither and die in her arms hours after taking its first breath.

He ran a tired hand across his stubbled chin, and an image of Gwenyth struggling to give birth just as Sophia was, flashed into his mind. Struggling to give birth to a child—his child. He’d seen the daughter Gwenyth desired. At the stream bank, he’d seen her, a dark-haired child with eyes as blue as an autumn sky and skin as white as milk. With such a vivid picture always before her, it was no wonder Gwenyth sought to bring the dream to life.

But his words last night had killed the child as surely as if he had taken a blade to her throat. If she’d been a mingling of him and Gwenyth then by his taunts and by his actions, he’d ended any hope of her existence beyond Gwenyth’s Sight, and his own brief glimpse of what might have been.

He sank into a chair, dropping his head in his hands. Only the abrupt opening of the sitting-room door made him look up.

“
Ahem.
You must be Lord Brampton. I’m Mr. Humpleby. So sorry to bother your…your wait.”

Rafe lifted his head, focusing bleary eyes on a shriveled, gremlin of a man with a great bulbous nose and a wide mouth full of yellowed teeth.

Without waiting on a reply, Mr. Humpleby rambled on. “I only stepped out for a breath of air. Your wife’s time is not yet at hand, and as you know—” he cracked his mouth in a wide leering grin, “—a watched pot never boils.”

Rafe decided not to contradict the apothecary’s misperception. If he thought Rafe was Edmund, so much to the good. It might help should there be trouble keeping the ghoul away from Sophia. “Lady Brampton told me you think there is some trouble with the child…that it might even be dead already.”

Mr. Humpleby’s complexion went from pale to waxen. He cleared his throat, a prominent Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in agitation. “I did…did speculate that the child might be stillborn. Your wife’s condition seemed serious and there…there had been no movement in some time.”

Under Rafe’s riveting stare, he squirmed like a fish on a hook. His words tumbled out faster and faster. “As well, it is always…always best to prepare for the worst, I think. That way, if the child does arrive healthy and whole, it’s all to the good.”

Anger quickly overcame exhaustion. “Is that how you conduct all your business, sir? By telling your patients they are doomed to a swift and painful death?”

Mr. Humpleby twitched, his round, watery eyes widening in horror. “Oh…oh no, milord. That is, it’s been a bit of time since I worked on anyone what wasn’t at death’s door. Paupers and homeless, workhouse laborers and the like. It’s a great honor to wait upon your wife, milord. A great honor, indeed. You can’t imagine the difference between what I see in them parish houses and this lovely home you have here.”

“I hope it’s quite a big difference,” Rafe replied dryly.

The apothecary coughed into his hand. “If you’ll just excuse me, milord,” he said, changing the subject. “I’ll look in on Her Ladyship. She’s probably thinking I’ve abandoned her.” He gave a leering wink. “Although after her labor, the last thing she wants to see is a man, eh?”

Rafe schooled his features to show none of his growing revulsion. He made up his mind that if it took drawing a weapon on this horrible man to keep him from Sophia, so be it.

As Mr. Humpleby moved to the inner chamber door, Rafe stepped menacingly into the apothecary’s path. “We’ve made other arrangements, sir. Your services are no longer needed.”

Mr. Humpleby spluttered, his fuzzy gray brows waggling in disbelief. “But, milord. I don’t understand. Your wife is in labor…” He gestured toward the closed door.

Rafe scowled. “I’m aware of Lady Brampton’s condition. I’ve brought in someone else. You can rest assured she’s under the best care. Miss Killigrew—”

“Your mother told me all about her. A dealer in charms and potions! She’ll do more harm than good!”

Rafe assumed his iciest pose; his fingers twitched as he fought the urge to slam the man against a wall. “Thank you, Mr. Humpleby. Someone will show you out.” He reached to ring the bell pull.

“But Mr. Fleming brought me all the way from Bouchard Abbey, and that’s a good two hours’ ride.” His voice took on a whiny, wheedling tone. “Happily ensconced in front of a fire, I was. Enjoying a pint after a day of tending to the parish’s poor. But I dropped everything to come here.”

“I’ll see you’re compensated for your time and trouble.” A footman appeared at the door. “Good night, Mr. Humpleby.”

The apothecary cast Rafe an evil look but allowed the servant to show him out. Before the door closed behind them, Mr. Humpleby looked back over his shoulder. “Pretty thanks I get. We’ll see what that young snippet of a girl will do for Her Ladyship.”

Rafe gave a shuddering breath. No weapon had been needed, but how he wished for one. A slide of his blade between Mr. Humpleby’s ribs would do wonders for his temper and the apothecary’s nasty disposition.

A cry from the other side of the door rose the hairs on the back of his neck. Gwenyth’s quiet voice murmured something and the sounds diminished. Despite the eerie silence, he knew a battle was being fought beyond that door. Gwenyth would do everything she could to save Sophia and her child. He only prayed it would be enough.

Gwenyth tried not to let the worry she felt show upon her face. The child lay bent with his knees curled tight against his chest, his buttocks pressed against the neck of his mother’s womb. Gwenyth would have to reposition him for birthing and then hope nature would allow for the rest.

“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 again 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.”