This Golden Land

"Wood crafts vivid sketches of women who triumph over destiny."

—
Publishers Weekly

"Entertainment fiction at its best."

—
Booklist

"Absolutely splendid."

—Cynthia Freeman,
New York Times
bestselling author

"Wood creates genuine, engaging characters whose stories are fascinating."

—
Library Journal

"A master storyteller."

—
Tulsa World

"[Wood] never fails to leave the reader enthralled."

—Elizabeth Forsythe Hailey, author of
A Woman of Independent Means

Other Books By

BARBARA WOOD

Virgins of Paradise

The Dreaming

Green City in the Sun

Soul Flame

Vital Signs

Domina

The Watch Gods

Childsong

Night Trains

Yesterday's Child

Curse This House

Hounds and Jackals

The Divining

Books By

KATHRYN HARVEY

Butterfly

Stars

Private Entrance

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This Golden Land
Copyright © 2012 Barbara Wood. All rights reserved.
This book or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This Golden Land
is a work of historical fiction. Although some events and people in this book are based on historical fact, others are the products of the author's imagination.

Cover design by Gina Binkley
Interior design by Mike Penticost

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Wood, Barbara, 1947-
This golden land / Barbara Wood.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-59652-859-8
1. Midwives--Fiction. 2. English--Australia--Fiction. 3. Young women--Australia--Fiction. I. Title.
PS3573.O5877T47 2012
813'.54--dc23

2012006390

Printed in the United States of America
12 13 14 15 16 17 18—0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

L
ADY
M
ARGARET AWOKE IN SUDDEN PAIN.

     Lying in the darkness, trying to determine the hour of the day, she heard the rain pelting the mullioned windows and remembered that she had decided to lie down before dinner.

     She must have fallen asleep—

     Another sharp pain.
No! It's too soon!

     With great effort—the baroness was eight months pregnant—she managed to sit up and swing her legs over the side of the bed. It had been daylight when she had come into the bedroom; now it was dark and no lamps were lit. She groped frantically for the bell rope and as she gave it a pull, she felt warm dampness spread beneath her.

     "No," she whispered. "Please God, no . . ." Another sharp pain made her cry out.

     By the time the housekeeper arrived, the pains had become stronger and closer together. Mrs. Keen rushed to the bedside where the glow from her oil lamp fell upon bed sheets soaked in blood. And Her Ladyship—
"Dear God," whispered the housekeeper as she eased the shockingly white baroness back down onto the pillows.

     "The baby," gasped Lady Margaret. "It's coming . . ."

     Mrs. Keen stared at her. Lady Margaret's long red hair, streaming down her back and over her shoulders, made her seem younger than her twenty-three years. She looked frail and vulnerable. And now the premature pains.

     Earlier, when Lady Margaret had said she was feeling out of sorts, Lord Falconbridge had gone himself to fetch the doctor at Willoughby Hall. But that had been hours ago. Had the storm washed the road out? "Don't you worry, Your Ladyship," Mrs. Keen crooned. "Your husband and Dr. Willoughby will be here shortly."

     Leaving a maid to sit with the baroness, the housekeeper flew down the stairs, calling for Luke, her husband, who was the estate manager.

     Falconbridge Manor exploded with life as word of Lady Margaret's premature labor brought maids, footmen, the butler, the cook and assistant cooks from their rooms and various tasks, some of whom had been in the process of getting ready for bed, with others still dressed in work uniforms. Lord Falconbridge was extremely rich, and the manor, dating back to William the Conqueror, required a large staff.

     Luke Keen, having just come in from seeing to the hunting dogs, the cold and damp of the evening on his tweeds, said, "What's all this then?"

     The housekeeper took her husband to one side. "Her Ladyship has begun labor. She is three weeks early. Something is wrong. You must send someone to find His Lordship and Dr. Willoughby. They should have been here by now."

     He nodded gravely. "I'll send Jeremy. He's our fastest rider."

     A scream from the second floor made them look up and then at each other. Luke twisted his cap in his hands. His sister, God rest her, had died in childbirth. "Should I go for Doc Conroy?"

     Mrs. Keen bit her lip. Although John Conroy lived just on the other side of the village, and he
was
a doctor, he did not belong to the same social class as the baron and his wife. Conroy took care of the villagers and the local farm folk. And there was that
other
matter about Dr. Conroy, which Mrs.
Keen knew displeased Lord Falconbridge. His Lordship would certainly not approve of such a man, doctor or no, laying hands on his wife.

     But then, recalling Lady Margaret's miscarriage the year before, that had very nearly taken her life, the housekeeper said, "Very well, Mr. Keen, ride into Bayfield yourself. And pray that Dr. Conroy is home!"

     As Keen saddled his horse he wondered if he was doing the right thing. Lord Falconbridge had a terrible temper and took it out on everyone when something was not to his liking. He was also a man to lay blame. Poor Mrs. Delaney, the cook who had been at Falconbridge Manor for thirty years—out on her ear because His Lordship insisted that it was her onion soup that had caused his wife's miscarriage. If something happened to Lady Margaret or the baby tonight, who would the baron blame? Keen and his wife could not risk losing their positions. Times were hard and jobs were scarce.

     On the other hand, Keen told himself as he mounted the horse, His Lordship could be generous with rewards. If the Keens, by their quick action, saved Lady Margaret's life, and the baby's, there was no telling what favors His Lordship could bestow on them. Perhaps a retirement cottage of their own, and a small pension . . .

     As Luke Keen rode off into the rainy night, he prayed that he wasn't about to make the worst mistake of his life.

     It was good to be home, Hannah Conroy thought as she set the table for supper. Good to be back in Bayfield, back in her own home where a fire burned cozily against the miserable night, while her father worked in his small laboratory off the parlor. This past year in London, the intensive training in midwifery at the Lying-In Hospital—with the lectures and demonstrations and exams, the long hours on the wards, taking care of patients, emptying bedpans, mopping floors, and living in cramped quarters in a dormitory with one afternoon off each week for church and personal laundry—it had all been worth it. Perched on the fireplace mantel and ready to be hung out on the lane was the freshly painted new shingle:
Conroy & Conroy ~ Physician & Midwife.