The Suspect's Daughter: Regency Romance (Rogue Hearts Book 4) (19 page)

She spoke barely above a whisper. “I still can’t believe you did that for me.”

He blinked. A reply poised on his lips, but it fell away, and he stood, so serious and focused—focused on her—that she took a step toward him. A wrinkle formed in his forehead as he watched her, wary and silent. She moved in so close that their bodies almost touched. He held his breath. Raising up on tip toe, she put her cheek so near his that he warmed her skin, an intimate position.

“Thank you,” she whispered directly into his ear. “Thank you for catching me. You probably saved my life. And I am in your debt.” Her eyes stung with tears at his valor.

A second passed. She didn’t step away. Neither did he.

He whispered a reply, “You’re welcome.”

With a flash of unaccountable boldness, she kissed his cheek and then strode away so quickly that she had almost broken into a run by the time she reached the stables.

Johnson led two horses, saddled and ready to go. One was her horse, Indigo, and the other, a gelding past his prime.

“We’re ready to go, Miss.” Johnson said. “I have the sheets and towels you asked for, and the basket.” He gestured to the bundles affixed to both horses’ saddles.

She took the reins from his hands. “We? No, you aren’t going; a lying-in is no place for a boy.”

Scowling as if she’d insulted his honor, he drew himself up. “I’m sixteen.”

She almost smiled. “Yes, well, it’s no place for boys who are almost men, either.”

A hand reached around her to take the reins for the second horse. “She’s right.” Grant’s voice rumbled next to her ear. “You don’t want to see your mother now. I’ll escort her.”

She whirled around and almost bumped her nose into Grant’s chest, startling Indigo who whinnied and pranced. Placing a soothing hand on Indigo’s neck, she glared at Grant. “A lying-in is no place for men, either.”

“I’ll only see you safely there. I won’t go inside.” At her hesitation, he moved to give her a leg up. “Don’t keep the poor woman waiting. Up you go now.” He laced his hands together.

With a sigh of exasperation, she placed her foot in his hands and let out a little gasp as he boosted her up effortlessly. “I really think this is a bad idea.”

“I’ll stay out of the way.”

“Dr. Blake will ring a peal over my head if you faint and fall off your horse.” She settled herself in the sidesaddle and arranged her skirts.

Grant stiffened. “I won’t faint,” he grumbled. “You make me sound like a weak old woman.”

Softening, she smiled gently. “Of course you aren’t. But your head injury could have lasting effects.”

With a nod to Johnson, Grant took the reins and swung onto the saddle of the other horse with practiced grace. “Lead the way.”

Honestly, the man was so stubborn! But she didn’t waste time arguing. Besides, half of her supplies were strapped to his mount. Without much of a choice, she clicked to Indigo and they were off. With Grant Amesbury at her side, they rode through the countryside. He rode like a shadow, silent and watchful. Jocelyn enjoyed the lovely day and the beauty of the countryside in spring. Moments later, she turned her attention to her silent companion.

“Are you feeling well?”

His gaze shifted to her. “Fine.” He resumed his visual scan of the area.

She smiled. “I doubt very much we’re in danger of attack out here in the open.”

“I’m sure we aren’t.” A mildly patronizing tone touched his voice.

They rode silently through the village, Jocelyn calling out greetings to everyone they saw, and stopped at the Johnson’s cottage. She glanced at the thatched roof, pleased to see that it had been recently replaced, and dismounted. Two young girls played outside next to a line of laundry dancing in the wind. Jocelyn peered at them, trying to remember their names.

“Miss Fairley!” one of the girls called.

“Good afternoon, young miss,” Jocelyn replied.

“Momma’s gonna ’ave a baby!”

“Yes, I know; that’s why I’m here.” At the girls’ questioning stare at Grant Amesbury, she gestured to him. “This is Mr. Amesbury. He’s…a friend,” she finished, wrinkling her nose at the lame explanation. But how to categorize the man lay completely beyond her.

Grant took the reins. “I’ll see to the horses. Go.”

“You should return home. I may be a long while.”

“I’ll wait.”

She shot him a grateful smile and, after tapping on the door, pushed it open. “Mrs. Johnson? It’s Jocelyn Fairley.”

“Oh, thank heavens,” a voice called out. “Momma, she’s here.”

Inside the cottage, Jocelyn took off her hat, gloves, and pelisse, and laid them over the back of a chair drawn up to a kitchen table already set with dishes. A pot of stew bubbled over a dying fire.

“In here,” called the voice from the only other room.

“Oh, Miss Fairley,” came Mrs. Johnson’s voice. “Hurry. I think it’s coming soon.”

Jocelyn tied on her pinafore before she stepped into the bedroom of the modest cottage and into almost total darkness. Shutters covered the window, and rags stopped up every crack. Knowing of the custom to keep out possible bad air, a practice Aunt Ruby soundly discounted, Jocelyn paused to determine how to proceed.

Tear-filled moans reached her ears, spurring her to action. She called out, “It’s too dark in here. I need some light to see. Quickly, open the shutters.”

“Oi, miss, it’s bad for the baby,” said the young girl’s voice.

“I don’t know how to help her if I cannot see what I’m doing. Hurry now.”

With a patter of bare feet, the shutters flew open. Mrs. Johnson sat propped against pillows in bed, her hair loose and pain twisting her face. A birthing chair sat next nearby. Her eldest daughter, Beth, stood wringing her hands.

A neighbor younger than Jocelyn, Mrs. Black, sat next to the laboring mother. Mrs. Black turned worried eyes to Jocelyn. “I’ve only done this once. I don’t know what to do.”

Jocelyn sat on the mattress. “How close are they?”

Mrs. Johnson let out a wail, her face scrunched in pain.

Mrs. Black shook her head. “So close she can’t hardly catch her breath.”

That close? Oh, heavens. What if the midwife didn’t arrive in time? Shutting down her fear, Jocelyn focused on the mother. “Mrs. Johnson, don’t hold your breath. Breathe in and blow out your breath hard.”

Jocelyn knelt and placed her hand on the tightened abdomen. Once the labor pain passed, she pressed gently with both hands, feeling the outline of the baby with its head low in the womb.

“Do you feel the urge to push yet?” With her hands still on the abdomen, she felt the next labor pain tighten the stomach.

“No,” the woman gasped. “Just hurts.”

Trying to sound cheerful and competent, Jocelyn said, “You’ve done this what? Five times now? Six?”

Drenched in perspiration, Mrs. Johnson cringed. “Six.”

Jocelyn nodding, remembered that one of the woman’s children had died as an infant; another died as a toddler. She couldn’t imagine anything more heartbreaking than losing a child.

Rallying, she focused on the present and kept cheer in her voice. “You’re an experienced mother. You know what to do. When you feel the urge to push, tell us and we’ll move you to the birthing chair.”

Teeth gritted, Mrs. Johnson nodded again. The pain passed, and she relaxed into the pillows.

“Everything is going to be fine,” Jocelyn said. “You’re doing very well. Keep breathing; don’t fight the pains when the next one comes.”

From the front room, Grant called “Miss Fairley? Do you want these bundles?”

“Yes. Can you bring them inside?”

“They’re here.”

Jocelyn turned to Mrs. Black. “I need the bundle. Leave the basket of food on the table for the children.” To Beth standing off to the side, she said, “Bring me a rag or sponge and a cup of clean water.”

They ran to carry out her instructions. Within a moment, Jocelyn had her needed supplies. Beth stood nearby, anxious and pale-faced, a girl barely out of childhood who didn’t appear strong enough to witness such a difficult event.

Jocelyn gave her a task to get her out of the room. “Feed the gentleman who is waiting for me, and make sure the children eat. Boil enough water for a bath. Then pick a big bouquet of wildflowers for your momma.”

Beth nodded, cast another frantic glance at Mrs. Johnson, and left the room.

Jocelyn waited until the next pain passed before pressing the cup of water to the mother’s lips.

“Take only a sip; don’t drink too much,” Jocelyn cautioned. Dampening one of the cloths she’d brought, she wiped the mother’s face and brow.

Several agonizing moments passed with Jocelyn and Mrs. Black each holding one of Mrs. Johnson’s hands, bathing her face and murmuring encouragement. Finally, the mother felt the urge to push. Jocelyn and Mrs. Black helped move the surprisingly calm woman into the chair. With the next pain, she pushed. She pushed, and pushed, and pushed. But nothing happened. Six children should have speeded up the process. A slow fear built up in Jocelyn that something was terribly wrong.

She carefully washed her hands, and knelt in front of the mother. “Mrs. Johnson, listen carefully. I need to check the baby. I’ll try not to hurt you.”

Mrs. Black nodded and gritted her teeth. Trying to imagine she was helping birth a horse instead of touching a woman in such an intimate way, Jocelyn reached in and felt for the baby. Her fingers encountered the baby’s head. She ran her fingers around it, searching for something amiss. There. The cord. The umbilical cord shouldn’t be on the top of the head. She slid a finger around it, and pulled it off. Just as another tremor of pain tightened the abdomen, Jocelyn slid her hand out.

“There. That should do it.”

The mother pushed, letting out a hard groan. A tiny baby entered the world into Jocelyn’s out stretched hands. Mrs. Johnson let out a sigh of relief, her body going limp and her head falling against the back of the seat.

Jocelyn gazed down at the baby, still blue from not having taken a breath yet. A miniature, perfect little human. How amazing. What a miracle!

Wait. What was that? Peering closer at the baby’s neck, she found the umbilical cord wrapped several times around the baby’s neck. Cold dread spread through her. With trembling fingers, she carefully removed the cord and massaged the baby’s delicate skin. Jocelyn held the wet baby upside down, rubbing its back to encourage it to take its first breath. Nothing. She patted the baby’s back. No response. She swatted the baby’s bottom. Again, no breath. No sign of life. Shockwaves ran down Jocelyn’s spine and her limbs turned icy. She smacked the baby’s bottom so hard her hand hurt. Nothing.

“Bring me a bowl of warm water and one of cold water. Hurry!” Her panic colored her voice and Mrs. Black raced to obey.

When the water arrived, Jocelyn dipped the infant first into warm water then cold in an attempt to shock the baby into breathing. Nothing. She rubbed him hard with a towel, turned him over, and rapped hard between his shoulder blades. No response.

This child would never take a breath. Never feel his mother’s arms, her kiss, her love. Never feel the sun on his face, see a rainbow, smell flowers. Never take a step. Disbelief crept over Jocelyn in a slow current, leaving her cold and empty.

“It’s a boy?” The mother said, staring down at the silent baby in Jocelyn’s arms. “Hasn’t he started breathing yet?”

Empty, moving like an automaton, Jocelyn wrapped the small, lifeless form in a blanket. “I’m so sorry.” Her voice caught. “The cord…” tears cut off her words and she sat mute and shocked.

The mother blinked. “Well, slap his rump. Make him breathe.”

Shaking her head and blinded by her tears, Jocelyn held him up. “I tried all that. He can’t. He’s…the cord was wrapped around his neck. He never had a chance.”

Staring, Mrs. Johnson demanded, “What are you saying?”

Steeling herself against the truth, Jocelyn steadied her voice. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. He’s gone.”

The mother shook her head, her voice growing in volume as she repeated, “No. No! NO! Give him to me!”

Wordlessly, Jocelyn obeyed. Sorrow left her stunned. She couldn’t think of what to do next. What would Aunt Ruby do? Drawing on some inner reservoir of strength, she ran through the after-birth process in her mind. She squared her shoulders. She had work to do.

She fell into a numb, afterbirth routine, moving automatically, emotionlessly, her ears almost deaf to the mother’s cries and attempts to get her baby to breathe.

The mother continued wailing, hugging the lifeless little body frantically. Her friend sat with her arms wrapped around the mother, weeping tears of sympathy. Jocelyn gently but firmly moved the mother from the birthing chair to the bed and urged her to lie down.

Beth stood in the doorway, holding a bouquet of wildflowers. Her eyes were wide and her mouth slack.

Jocelyn could think of nothing to say to her. Numb, bereft, Jocelyn removed her stained pinafore and wrapped it up with the soiled linens into a bundle. She stood staring down at the floor, forcing herself to listen to the mother’s grief.

Bleak sorrow pushed back through her carefully constructed stoicism, and the impassivity that had insulated her during the last few minutes crumbled. Failure rose up and condemned her with sharp cruelty. Had she done all she could? Was there more she should have done, or should not have done? Had she failed this sweet mother, and this perfect, innocent babe?

Grief bored a hole through her, leaving wreckage in its wake. The image of the still baby lying in her hands superimposed itself over her vision like an apparition. Outside, all sound hushed. No birds sang, no children played, no workers’ song broke up the deathly silence. Anguish and loss reigned as cruel monarchs. Distant thunder rumbled as clouds cast a pall over the land.

“We need to go. There’s a storm coming.” Grant Amesbury’s voice reached her.

His voice nudged her to action. And there was nothing she could do here.

“I’m sorry,” Jocelyn whispered one last time to the family.

Still grappling with her own helplessness, she headed to the door with the bundle of soiled linens under her arm. A tall frame blocked her path. Grant Amesbury stood in the doorway, his broad-shouldered form silhouetted by the gray sky outside.