“She had been forced into prudence in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older—the natural sequence of an unnatural beginning.”
—Persuasion
BEGGING your pardon, your lordship, but I canna read.” The stocky, red-haired stable hand held a thick tome in his weather-beaten mitts. Nicholas glanced, unseeing, at the man who stood in front of a small group in a large box stall. He tried to move his leg to a less painful position as he lay half sitting, half sprawled next to a dark horse on a thick bed of straw. Her extended belly was streaked with sweat.
“Hand the book to Stevens, will you?” Nicholas asked, not bothering to lift his gaze from the mare. She was struggling less now, which worried him greatly. Her eyes were half-closed, and she flailed weakly at the air from time to time with her forelegs. He knew what was happening, and he knew what he would have to do. But he was willing to grab at any other recourse. Where was the damn stable master? Even Stevens, who usually knew where every blasted servant was at any time of day, had not been able to locate him.
“My lord, it says that ‘a maiden mare whose known foaling time exceeds two hours and who exhibits diminished strength and heartbeat should be considered beyond salvation. All efforts should be performed to save the foal. Extended time in the birthing canal may lead to suffocation. Preferred methods involve forcibly removing the fetus from the… ‘ “
“Enough, Stevens,” said Nicholas, resting his head on the mare’s flanks, “I know the conclusion.” His large hands stroked the mare’s muzzle as he whispered calming words to her now and again. He pondered if he should ask for the pistol now, and then he wondered for just the merest fraction of a second who would benefit from it more—he or the mare. The sound of someone coming distracted him.
Miss Kittridge poked her head around the stall door. “Pardon me, sir,” she said, as she kept her eyes trained on the straw just inside the stall. “This is the mare, I assume then, that is experiencing a difficult foaling, is it?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?” He lifted his head to get a better view of her.
“Our maid mentioned there was a great to-do going on here. I thought I would offer my help before relieving my father this afternoon.” She looked at the semicircle of rugged men. “Would you prefer… that is, do you want me to go away, Lord Huntington?”
Nicholas arched an eyebrow and considered the awkwardness of the situation. He was uncomfortable inviting Miss Kittridge into this crude, dark stall filled with men. He noticed a slight blush had reached the roots of the knot of wavy brown hair that threatened to become dislodged.
She was so delicate and little, almost birdlike in her dove-gray gown. Her arms were thin; he was sure they would snap in two with the merest yank. She ought to be more familiar with vinaigrettes than the two tons of prime breeding stock before her. But she had displayed her mettle in the sickroom. The least he could do, if she was indeed going to try to help his sister’s favorite horse, was to save her the embarrassment of a rough-and-tumble audience.
“Gentlemen,” he said with exaggerated politeness, “will you please leave us now? Miss Kittridge, I humbly beg your aid.” There was a disgruntled murmur from the assembled group that indicated that they did not take kindly to the invasion of a female in their domain. They stared at her in disbelief until one dark look from Nicholas dispersed the ranks. Stevens left the reference book in the stall and herded the group outside.
Miss Kittridge trod across the straw and kneeled behind the animal’s haunches, stroking the horse’s sides to signal her presence. A ripple of movement captured their attention.
“Well, at least the foal is still kicking,” she said, reaching for some clean rags nearby. She pushed her short sleeve over the curve of her slim shoulder.
“Have you ever done this before?” he asked.
“With a cow. Once.”
“I see,” he said, with a hint of doubt. “I haven’t been able to locate our stable master,” he said.
She lowered her ear to the animal’s side. “How long has she been laboring?”
“She has been pacing for at least one hour and a half,” he said, stroking the horse’s flanks. “She stopped trying to stand about twenty minutes ago.”
“That is too long for a horse, I think. Yes?”
“Most are delivered of their foals within a half hour.”
With one hand on the flank, she inserted the other into the birth passage slowly. The feeble horse raised her head and whinnied for a moment before lying still once again. Miss Kittridge looked lost in concentration on her task.
“Ah, there it is,” she whispered as she closed her eyes. Blood seeped onto her sleeve. “I almost have it. Yes, wait,” she said, as she seemed to be tugging with all her strength. “No, it’s not working. I need a brace, please. Come sit beside me.”
He crawled next to her, ignoring the sharp pain in his thigh.
“That’s it. Now, please, I need to brace my feet to gain more strength.” Her feminine voice clashed with the intense seriousness of her purpose.
“Perhaps I should do this,” he said.
“No,” she said. “It is better I do it. My hands are smaller, and I can already feel the cord stuck high up the foreleg.”
“Yes, but I have more strength.”
Her gray eyes appeared huge in her small face. He was so close he noticed the smallest freckle—or was it a mole?— under her right eye. He paused. He longed to tell her that she was the most admirable woman of his acquaintance, but he was sure gallantries held little value in her intellectual turn of mind.
“Please, I think I can save her.” She stroked the mare’s side. “But if I can’t move the cord over the leg, I will sever it and then we will have to pull the foal out immediately. I can’t promise to save either one of them. But, it is the only way, I think.”
“I would not be putting added pressure on you if I told you that this is the best mare in all of Wiltshire if not all of Christendom, would I?” he asked, dryly. “We must try to save her, first and foremost.” He grasped Miss Kittridge’s small, booted foot as she scrunched up her leg in preparation for pushing against him.
“I’ll try my very best.” She closed her eyes and pulled. He felt with surprise her great reserve of strength as she levered herself against his hands.
“Oh, I don’t know. The cord seems too short to come around. It must be tangled in several places. All right, so,” she said with effort, “I’ll need the smallest knife you have.” She removed her arm and looked down at her ruined gown.
Nicholas reached into his pocket and retrieved a small pocketknife. He unsheathed the blade and placed the handle in her small palm.
“This is perfect,” she said as she examined the tool. “All right. I’ll cut the birth cord and then try to pull the foal out. But I don’t think your mare has the strength or any natural contractions at this point to help at all, and I’m not sure I can do it alone, so you might need to help me.”
“Of course,” he said as she began the procedure.
Several long minutes passed before Miss Kittridge’s arm became slack. “Can’t quite hold onto it,” she murmured with eyes closed. “There. It’s done.” She removed the tool and returned to the work of pulling out the foal. She shook her head. “It’s not budging. It must be hung up somewhere else too. You try, now.”
Nicholas reached for the tiny foreleg and felt the soft nose right behind it. The second tiny hoof was not far behind. He pulled with all his strength and revealed the two small hooves and wet, shiny nose. Miss Kittridge grabbed one foreleg in a rag and pulled alongside Nicholas. With a sudden whooshing sound they both fell back as the entire head appeared with the cord wrapped twice around the neck. Miss Kittridge untangled the cord. They then struggled to free the shoulders before pulling out the foal.
The mare made a great effort for a few moments as if she wanted to stand, but could only lay her head back down. Miss Kittridge rubbed the foal with rags, felt for the pulse, and checked the forelegs. She laughed suddenly.
“Look, he has a blaze in the shape of a question mark! It’s almost as if he knew there was a question as to whether he would make it into this world or not.” She laughed in pent-up relief.
Nicholas looked up into her radiant smile. She looked pretty—like a whimsical fairie. Her hair had fallen from its precarious perch and a sudden beam of sunlight weaved rays through its luxurious waves. He was dumbstruck. She was not simply pretty. She was breathtakingly beautiful.
Charlotte looked away when he did not return her smile.
“I fear for your horse,” she said. “I fear she might not last. I wonder… is that a reference book?” She motioned toward the volume Stevens had left in the straw.
A familiar sick feeling snaked up his spine. “Yes.”
“Would you mind seeing if it says anything about what to do after a difficult foaling?” She lifted up her blood-stained hands. “I don’t want to dirty the book.”
He swallowed and remained rooted to the spot. He had Stevens’s name on the tip of his tongue. “I’m sorry, does it pain your leg?” She continued when he did not respond, “Why, of course it does.”
“No. I shall retrieve it,” he said slowly. And suddenly he knew he would not call out to Stevens. He made his way painfully to the entrance and picked up the book. He thumbed through the pages, stopping as he came upon the diagram of a horse. A large “H” was on the top, followed by an “O,” but the rest of the letters danced a jig on the page. The well-remembered cold ring of sweat laced his neck cloth. It had been a long time since he had last tried to make sense of the letters on a page.
“What does it advise, my lord?” she asked while wiping her hands on one of the cloths.
He could not force himself to look toward her. He stared at the letter that looked like an “S” and remembered “Ssssss as in snake.” He looked below the diagram to see hundreds of letters and words. Oh, he knew the names of most, but not how to string them together. He could feel the icy fingers of dread grip his forehead.
Finally, he looked up to face her—to encounter the familiar disgust, he was sure.
“Shall I take a peek? I’ve cleaned my hands now.” She moved to sit beside him, settled the book on her legs, and began studying it.
She knew. He was sure of it, although she did a good job of hiding her shock at his ignorance. “I cannot… read.”
She continued to concentrate on the page. “Yes.”
Her small voice made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. She was so calm. He wanted to provoke her. “I am an ignorant.” She looked up, her dark eyes huge in her shadowed face.
“No, never that.”
“Then what do you call a stupid fellow too slow ever to acquire the ability to read?”
“I don’t know, but certainly not an ignorant. An ignorant would never be able to converse on world history, estate management, and law as you did with me while you were confined to the sickroom.”
“I had a patient servant willing to read aloud to me in my youth—just as you did while I was confined.”
“Well, I have the ability to read, but not the memory to store facts as you have done.”
He leaned closer to pick several strands of straw from her hair. Nicholas had a great desire to touch the smooth skin of her cheek. He had a greater desire to lay his head in her lap. But he knew, from experience, that it would scare her away. Perhaps the seeds of a great disgust of him had already germinated in her. It was amazing she had not found an excuse to take her leave of him straight away, given his sordid revelation. It pained him to think she might stay out of pity for him. Even disgust was better than pity. Why did he care what she thought? He had thought he had learned how to steel himself against those emotions long ago.
At last, he spoke. “I forced myself to memorize everything. It is an easy trick, I think, when one does not have the luxury of rereading facts.”
“Well, you must be quite clever to have secured a commission as an officer. My brother spouts the requirements of becoming an officer regularly, and I am aware that a knowledge of the written word is necessary.”
“So it is—unless one’s father is a duke, with money to bypass protocol. I, of course, secured a loyal batman willing to serve as my ‘eyes’ around the clock.”
“I had assumed your family had been opposed to the heir deserting his future responsibilities.”
“Oh, no. I rather think the circumstance was quite the opposite.” He stopped himself. What on earth was he doing, telling this girl these unsavory facts? He had no idea why he was offering any of these startling revelations, facts he had not pondered in many a year.
“Surely you jest. For I know that is your favored style, humor to avoid serious conversation.” She lowered her gaze to the book and turned the page.
He couldn’t understand why he was unable to shock her. He was uttering the most unsavory observations. Most ladies of his acquaintance would have been blubbering a bit by now or at least rendered speechless by his candor. He just wanted to turn the subject desperately now. His usual wit had deserted him.
A long silence intruded. The sound of Miss Kittridge turning the pages in the old book filled the void. He looked at her intelligent brow and wondered at the direct funnel of knowledge she could obtain from the printed word.
“It offers little information, just suggestions of care for the new foal,” she said, closing the volume. “Is there another mare nursing now? May we transfer the foal when he stands?”
Nicholas called out for Stevens, who returned in moments along with the small group of stable hands. The group gawked at the prone mare and her foal, who was trying out his legs for the first time. In a moment, Nicholas arranged for the foal to be removed to another brood mare who was with milk.
“Be she dead, yer lordship?” asked the carrot topped Scottish lad, nodding to the dam.
“No. But it is probable she is soon to be. I’ll stay with her now. Until… “ The words stuck in his throat.
“I’m very sorry we could not save her,” Miss Kittridge whispered.
He would have bowed down to her as a peasant to his queen for her efforts if not for his infernal leg. He looked at her blood-splattered person. “I’m sorry about your gown. Of course, we will see to its replacement. It is the very least I can do to thank you for your efforts,” he said, as he looked to the group behind her. “I’m afraid I was about to end our exertions and forsake the possibility of new life when you came upon us.”
“Please, my lord, let us not talk about the gown. It doesn’t matter,” she said, as she walked to the stall’s doorway. “I’ll bring some warm compresses to comfort her in a short while. I don’t know what else to do to ease her discomfort. But I shall do a bit of research and ask my father.”
Nicholas looked down at the horse. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
He looked up to see her bow her head and walk away. No one uttered a word until she was gone.
The Scottish stable hand shook his head. “An’ me Da, he would be a sayin’ that pigs would sooner fly than a pip of a girl would no’ faint clear dead away to be performin’ the likes of what tha’ mere slip of a female jus’ did!”
A young man who looked like the other, although shorter, responded. “Yes, and Da would clobber us o’er the head if he knew we stood by like a pack of fools and did naught to ‘elp her!” That brought a round of laughter, which lightened the mood.
Stevens raised the book he held clutched in his hands. “Well, a fat lot this helped us. Thank the Lord for Miss Kittridge.”
“Yes, store that book with all the others will you, Stevens?”
Nicholas closed his eyes as he remembered Miss Kittridge’s lovely, smiling countenance. Yes, they should all say a prayer of thanks for Miss Kittridge tonight.
He was so very handsome. A slight shiver ran down her back. The three riders in the distance were just coming over the last hill before the deep valley, and she could finally discern that it was, indeed, he along with James and Lord Edwin Knightly. His shoulders were broader and his posture more commanding than that of the other two gentlemen. Her vision blurred as Charlotte put down the delicately enameled theater glasses. She hastened to shake the wrinkles from her gown and smooth back her mussed hair in the off chance the threesome turned in her direction.
It had been two days since she had seen him last. Two days of longing for even a mere glimpse of him. She was behaving like a silly goose. She refused to do so. She would behave in a normal fashion. She would converse naturally. Yes, she would return to her previous pursuit of gazing at birds. She moved back to the prickly hedgerow. The familiar scent of hawthorn and dog rose teased her nostrils. She refused the urge to look toward the riders again. Instead, she closed her eyes and picked up the distinctive call of the cuckoo. Cu-ckoo-cu-rico. And then the pounding sound of hoofbeats muffled out the birdcall. She opened her eyes.
“What’s this? Charlotte! I thought you were with His Grace.” James and the other two riders came to an abrupt stop in front of her.
“I was earlier, but Father ordered me to take some air.”
“You were looking a little green about the gills after nuncheon,” James replied. “But then, perhaps it is just the reflection of your gown.”
She looked down at her green gown with embarrassment. It was a very ugly shade now that it was faded.
She turned toward Lord Edwin. “Good afternoon, my lord.”
“It is a lovely day, is it not? I hope you have not taken your brother’s unkind remark seriously, Miss Kittridge.” He turned and gave a sweeping glance toward Lord Huntington.
“Brothers can never be counted on to behave properly, you know.”
She could not think of a way to contradict his mean sentiment without appearing as abominably rude as the younger brother. Charlotte dared to look fully at Lord Huntington. “And how is the mare today, sir?”
“She lives. But I am uncertain whether she will ever recover. She has a dazed look in the eye, still.”
“I will stop in again to look at her then,” she said.
“Are you out bird-watching, dearest?” asked James, motioning to her theater glasses. “Find any unusual feathered friends?”
“It is the first chance I’ve had since arriving.” Charlotte’s senses heightened under Lord Huntington’s serious gaze. “I was searching out a cuckoo. He is hiding somewhere in the hedge, as they are wont to do.”
“Ah, the infamous cuckoo. The usurper of the nesting animal kingdom,” said James.
“Do tell, Miss Kittridge,” said Edwin Knightly, after a small yawn.
“Oh, I would not presume to keep you from your afternoon ride.”
“No, no. We are all agog,” he insisted with a charming smile.
“I am afraid it is an ugly story. The mother cuckoo’s modus operandi is to find another bird’s nest, wherein she places one of her small eggs.” She motioned toward a nest barely visible in the hedgerow. “And the mother cuckoo—”
“Or the hatchling nudges the other bird’s eggs or baby birds from the nest, thereby ensuring the young cuckoo’s complete care and protection by the host mother bird,” finished Lord Huntington as he removed his beaver hat and ran a hand through his sweat-streaked hair. “I did not know you were fond of bird-watching, Miss Kittridge.”
She watched the beautiful layers of his hair rustle in the slight breeze. There were so many different shades of brown ranging from sun-streaked to the darkest end of the spectrum. She had dared to stroke his hair several times when he had been asleep or delirious in the sickroom. She knew exactly where the fine strands became coarse below his temples.
Before she could find her tongue, her brother interrupted. “Actually, Charlotte is more interested in sculpting the bird forms she studies in the field.”
Charlotte could feel her cheeks warming. She detested being made to stand center stage. She moved the small sketch pad she held to behind her back, and felt the knot in her stomach tighten.
“Miss Kittridge, you amaze us all every day. Your talents are boundless,” replied Lord Edwin, laughing. “Where do you find the time for all these wonderful pursuits?”
“They are just that, pleasurable pursuits that I engage in whenever an hour or two of liberty presents itself. I fear my efforts are not in the talented realm as you suggest.”
“Perhaps we could take a lesson from you one afternoon, my dear. It would be a wonderful diversion for a dreary day. Or at least my brother and sister should join you, as they seem to be the more artistic members of the family tree. Never an interest in the written word had you, Nicholas?” Lord Edwin said before turning the subject. “But always the willing hero. Much more important that.”
Charlotte turned to catch the granitelike expression on Lord Huntington’s face.
“I daresay we are interrupting Miss Kittridge’s solitary pursuit. Let us ride on,” replied Lord Huntington. “If we dally any further, we won’t have the chance to inspect the planting in the far fields and the herd of cattle.”
“Well, I for one, have had enough of a ride to last me a fortnight. And I suspect Kittridge is of the same mind.” Lord Edwin looked toward James. “Care to ride back to join the ladies for afternoon refreshments? My brother will keep us out here until nightfall with his infernal interest in all things agricultural.”
James looked indecisive. “Well, all right, I suppose. That is if you don’t mind, Lord Huntington?”
“Not at all,” Lord Huntington replied, looking relieved by the promise of solitude.
She wanted to ask about his leg, as she could see him rubbing it. But she did not want to embarrass him. She could tell by the taut skin of his cheek and the beads of sweat on his brow that he was in serious pain. It was far too early for him to be riding. It had been only four weeks since his arrival, and he had broken his leg a month before that time. At least he still wore the stiffened bandage.
The threesome began to move off. “Charlotte, dearest, best retrieve your bonnet, lest a freckle or two appear,” her brother said in mock playfulness.
“The air has only brought a pleasing color to your sister’s cheeks, Mr. Kittridge,” said Lord Huntington. He looked at her for a moment before turning away from the others to canter off through the valley.
She waved her hand, a silent good-bye on her lips. A pleasing color. He thought she had a pleasing color on her cheeks. She touched her face in wonder. She would not replace her bonnet now for her life.
Her brother and Lord Edwin made their good-byes, and she was left to ponder the meeting in the afternoon’s glorious sunshine.
She placed the sketch pad at the bottom of a nearby shaded stile and clattered to the top. Seating herself on the old timber, she retrieved a small volume from her pocket. Lady Rosamunde had lent it to her one evening as she sat watch over the ailing duke. She ran her fingers over the gilt lettering, Pride and Prejudice. She couldn’t wait to read it. So much for her vow to stop nurturing her newly formed romantic turn of mind. The devil with it. If she would never have her heart’s desire, at least she could live vicariously through the mysterious “Lady’s” characters. Ah yes, the Devil was very clever in providing excuses for her behavior.