Authors: Diane Davis White
"'Twas my father's work. And his father and his before him. 'Tis my trade, and I would not live otherwise." His grandfather, hands busy, glanced sideways at the younger man. "Why do you ask? Is my way of life shameful to you?"
"Never! I should never be ashamed of any of my family... even that old devil at the manor who sired me... " David grinned at his grandfather's astonished look, "... for all his manipulations and devious managing of other people's lives."
"What mean you by that boy? Has he then managed you somehow that you dislike?"
"No... well, yes, he has. But I cannot speak of it. It would not be the thing."
"I know much more than you think, boy." He looked slyly at his grandson, as though weighing his words before he went on. "I listen at doors, late at night and early in the morning. Got the habit when your mother started sneaking off to that cottage in the woods. The one where you were... "
"Born. Yes I know."
"I was going to say conceived, but born will do." The twinkle in his grandfather's eyes belied the pain from that long ago time. He wiped a hand over his face, rubbing a finger down the side of his long, aquiline Larkspur nose. "But as I said... I know what I know, and you'd do well to guard yourself."
"And just what is it that you think you know?"
"I know the important things, lad. I know that God forgives us all, no matter our sins, if we just repent of our actions and ask him." The old man shifted in his seat and glowered at the small soldier in his hands, the knife continuing to wield the shape, the shavings dropping at his feet.
"Don't listen to that nonsense your mother spouts about mortal sin and dying without God's Grace. Foolishness of man, if you ask me."
He paused, thinking things through, for Gillian Strongbow was a man who liked to know what he said, not given to prattle or meaningless small talk. "It's a man's motives that count, oft as much as the deeds that spur them. If a man knows his honor, he has naught to worry upon when he meets his maker."
He put the carving knife in the toolbox by his chair and laid the small figure next to it, then stood to stretch. At six feet and six inches, he was a very big man, and still strong and healthy, for all of his sixty-seven years.
"I would that you could speak with Hannah. Lady Darlington, that is." David corrected himself quickly, a blush rising in his face at the slip.
"I will if someone asks me too." The old man, grinning in a very knowing way, patted his grandsons' shoulder. "Hannah will be just fine. As long as you forgive yourself, she will as well, I suspect." He paused only a moment before adding, "Given time, that is."
David looked in horror at his grandsire, the unspoken knowledge buzzing between them. There was no longer any doubt that that Gillian Strongbow was a listener at doors.
"You look a man who needs a drink. What say you we take a stroll to the Boars Head for a small pint?" Gillian reached for the oft-patched and worn coat on the back of his chair as he spoke.
"Amen to that grandfather, amen to that." David, very warm and comfortable in his own skin for a change, walked along with his grandfather's arm slung over his shoulder, their feet marking the path with a measured stride. The regard of this wise and spirited man meant a deal to David. A great deal.
It was well into the night before David saw the old man to his bed and went, not quite steadily, to the cottage. He led the stallion, instead of riding, feeling the exercise would clear his ale-soaked brain. He resolved to buy his grandfather a new coat in the morning... mayhap two.
And a new pair of boots would not go amiss. For the first time in a long time, he had no qualms about spending his allowance. Ruminating as he slouched along, he decided his mother could use a few trinkets as well and a new dress and so forth. He had spent quite a sum in his head before it ever touched the pillow.
* * * * *
.
Hannah awoke and tried to speak, but the cotton in her mouth precluded any sound escaping. She licked her dry lips and turned her head to the sound of someone moving about on the other side of the room. Straining her near sighted eyes, she tried to make out the blurry form, but she could only tell that it was a woman, by the dress and the graceful movements. Hannah croaked, trying to get her voice box to work.
The sleeping draught, for all its medicinal powers, left one with a very dry mouth, though Hannah could not know this. Mary had been feeding her small amounts of the opiate mixture for three days, doing her best to keep the girl quiet and at peace, for she had needed the rest more than anything... and a cessation from her morbid thoughts.
Mary Strongbow, upon hearing the sounds from the bed, turned and went quickly to her charge, lifting the girl's head and holding a cool glass of water to her lips. "Sip slowly child, lest you choke."
She soothed Hannah with a smile, and lay her gently back upon the pillows. She went toward the door to the anteroom, calling back in a soft voice. "I shall just get a cloth and bathe you."
Then she turned her attention to the maid in the other room. "Elspeth? Bring fresh towels, girl—and ring for her ladyship's tea. Just as I ordered it now... nothing else."
"Who... who are you madam?" Hannah fumbled for her glasses, her bulk preventing her from reaching the bedside table with the ease that her slender figure had once done. "I do not believe we have met."
"I am Mary Strongbow, and I am here to help you." Mary handed the girl her glasses and stood back, her hands folded loosely at her waist, stance correct and subservient, though her cultured voice and manner were not subservient at all. "You have been very ill, and you must needs continue to stay abed for awhile, lest you injure yourself or the child."
"Are you his mother?" They both knew who 'he' was and Mary nodded, not speaking, her eyes on the girl, a mysterious gleam therein. Her resemblance to David was not lost on Hannah.
"Mistress Strongbow, I would be grateful for your help. I cannot seem to move and my bed is soaked." The girl smiled timidly at the woman, and she squirmed uncomfortably, the covers shifting to expose the bright red blood that had seeped into the sheets.
Elspeth—just entering the room—gasped and dropped her armful of linen, her eyes round with horror. Mary spun about, fixing the maid with a warning look and shoved her from the room, hissing, "Do not show her your fear, for she knows naught about it, and I would have her untroubled. Get gone with you and fetch the doctor here immediately."
Turning back into the chamber, Mary went to the bed and lifted the girl, cradling her gently as she helped her to the chair, shielding her from the bed with her body. She crooned, "Now shall we get you out of this and into something dry?"
Stroking Hannah's hair back from her face, smiling and doing her best to hide the grave concern in her eyes, she asked, "Are you then in any pain, Milady?"
Hannah, looking down at her bloodied night rail, spoke in a whisper, her heart hammering against her ribs at the sight. "No... but what is this? Am I losing my baby?"
"Nay, you are not. 'Tis just something that happens sometimes with a false labor such as you have experienced. Do not fret child, for the doctor will come soon, and I am here."
Looking at the girl with a no nonsense set to her face, she continued, "You have been through much Hannah, but you need not worry, for I shall protect you, and I vow you shall have your babe and all will be well."
Hannah allowed the woman to change her gown and move her to the anteroom where she settled her on the small settee, and returned to the inner chamber to clean up the mess. She was not surprised when Hannah screamed in pain, for the labor had begun in earnest, and it was only the residual of sleeping draught with its drop of laudanum that had kept the girl from feeling it until now.
The child was coming early after all, it would seem
.
Mary went quickly to the hall and called a footman, instructing him and sending him on his way, then pulled the still bleeding girl to her feet, guiding her back to the bed, stripped of all linen. She lay Hannah upon the bare mattress and guided her hands to the strips of cloth tied to the bedposts.
"Hold these when the pain comes and pull hard upon them. Bear your weight down and fix your heels into the mattress... like so." Shifting the girl about with practiced ease, she set her feet in the proper position, with legs bent at the knee and back flat. She moved her hands over the swollen belly that held her grandchild, feeling for his position. "He is low but not turned yet. We will have to get the little fellow headed in the right direction, will we not?"
She tried to keep her voice light, and was gratified when Hannah, her eyes trusting as they rested upon Mary, nodded and whispered her agreement.
"Now 'tis true you are bleeding some, but you are young and healthy, if not so strong at the moment. You are not to worry."
Mary looked down at the trickling stream and went to work, packing the girl with strips of linen, taking the cold water from the pitcher and saturating the cloth, to help clot the blood and slow the flow.
Her hands were sure and her manner serene and confident, and that confidence transmitted to the laboring girl, who began to relax, trusting this woman who was the mother of her silent lover.
With some insight Hannah knew from where the man got his tenderness, for his mother—despite the down turned bitter look of her mouth upon occasion—was a gentle woman. The pain gripped Hannah hard, and she fumbled above her head for the straps. Grasping them as instructed, she dug her puffy feet into the mattress as the pain intensified, moving from her back to her hips and around her belly, taking her breath so that she could not scream.
She had not thought the pain could be worse, but it was and when the contraction finally waned, she lay bathed in perspiration, panting and faint.
"That's right little one. You have done well." Mary placed a cool damp cloth on Hannah's brow and ran another over her arms and across her chest, murmuring to her, encouraging her, nurturing her in a way that reminded Hannah of that other one, the one who had brought her to this.
.
* * * * *
.
"Doctor, I cannot agree with you in this matter." Mary fixed the elderly man with a glare that would wither roses and pressed her hands before her in her most regal stance. "To bleed a person who has already lost so much blood... surely even you can see there is no sense to it. Take that nasty jar of leaches and toss them, or I shall."
"Mistress Strongbow, I must protest your vile disregard for my profession... "
"Your profession, good doctor, has done more to kill birthing women than any other cause known to mankind. As well, I care not for your prostrations, only for the safety of my charge. Your use here will be only to help me turn the babe if he does not drop soon.
"Mayhap you'll be useful otherwise as well, but you will not bleed her. 'Tis folly at its worst, like pouring water over a drowning man."
"I shall not stand for your insolence and shall go the Marquis this instant. We shall see who is in charge here." The good doctor drew himself up in indignation, reaching for the latch handle.
Mary hissed at him, a malevolent gleam in her dark eyes, "Go then, you cursed old fool and find out what the Marquis will tell you when you seek to throw
me
from his house."
The doctor knew when he was beaten. Mary Strongbow was known to all in this remote community as the former mistress of the Marquis of Darlington, and she would hold sway over his decision in this matter.
He turned wearily and retrieved the jar of leaches from the bureau and went to the footman outside the door. "Remove this jar good fellow. They shall not be used this night."
The footman complied, hurrying along the passage, on fire to tell the other servants the of incident between Mary Strongbow and Doctor Huckaby, and the tale was spread through the village within an hour.