The Sister Wife (11 page)

G
abe's heart raced as he headed back to the deck, the Book tucked under his arm. He'd known Lady Mary Rose Ashley only two days, yet she was beginning to slip into his every thought, and he supposed she would be in his dreams this night.

He had to draw a halt to feelings for her that already filled his heart to the spilling point, creating havoc with his sensibilities. He'd been correct when he said he'd do just about anything in the world for her—making it clear to himself and to her that if it had been anyone else asking, he wouldn't crack open the Book of Mormon—supposedly translated from ancient Egyptian…from the missing golden plates…by a fourteen-year-old boy…shown by an angel where to find them. Only no one could verify their existence because the plates were missing. Or stolen. Or hidden. Or never existed in the first place. He chuckled. What a pile of
firlot mell
.

The whole thing was preposterous. But here he was, holding the Book in his hands because he was falling in love with a
woman he would never see again once she and her grandfather stepped off the ship in Boston, less than two weeks from now.

He shook his head at his own foolishness. No, worse than that, his own madness.

It was growing late. The passengers rested in their cabins and only the night-watch seamen remained on duty. Even with seas turning rough, late watch provided time and space to mend sails and tend to the riggings. Several hailed greetings as he strode toward the quarterdeck, where he knew he'd find the captain.

Hosea called out to him. Gabe looked up to the railing where he stood, pale in the starlit night, and gave him a mock salute. Then he bounded up the stairs three at a time.

The chief mate stood at the wheel and acknowledged Gabe with a nod as he approached. “Storm's approaching,” Mr. Thorpe said, keeping his gaze on the dark horizon.

The swells had been rising over the past hour, and now whitecaps were visible as far as the eye could see, their peaks of white froth luminescent in the starlight. The
Sea Hawk
rose and fell and shuddered. “How far out?”

“I say by morning we'll hit the worst of it, but that doesn't mean it won't be a rough night,” Mr. Thorpe said. “Signs have been apparent all day, especially before sundown.”

“This ship can take anything nature throws at it,” Gabe said.

The captain laughed. “Would you tell us otherwise?”

“My only wish is that Cunard had seen fit to outfit us with a barometer.”

The captain laughed again. “Those small enough to transport are still not accurate enough to bother with, especially considering the cost.”

“I've heard good things about a new barometer made in Italy,” Gabe said. “Talked to Cunard about it, but he's in a wait-and-see state of mind.”

“Wait till we become the fastest ship to ever cross the Atlantic,” Mr. Thorpe said, tossing a grin in Gabe's direction. “Then you can ask for a dozen barometers of any size, and he'll deliver them to your cabin himself.”

Gabe chuckled. “Unless it's his clipper we beat for the record.”

“I'd take two eyes and a good nose over a barometer any day,” Mr. Thorpe said. “I can smell storms brewing. I smelled one this morning, and sure enough, the other signs were apparent by dusk.”

“Fish?” Gabe said as the ship rose on the crest of a wave.

The captain nodded. “The passengers should be warned.”

The captain bade good evening to the chief mate and told him to give him a report at the end of his watch. Then he led the way down the steps to the main deck, Gabe following.

“It will be a long night,” he said to Gabe. “I'll get the steward to bring coffee while we record your latest findings in the log.” He gave the sextant Gabe was holding a pointed look, and then grinned. “Unless, of course, you were too busy to take readings.” Then he frowned. “What's the book?”

“The Book of Mormon, sir.”

Hosea halted. “Tell me I didn't hear you right, Gabe.”

“You did, sir. Lady Mary Rose asked me to have a look, tell her what I think.”

“I would think she'd already know her own mind on the subject.”

“Apparently not, sir. She's unsure of the leadership and bristles that she may be told what to do, when, and how.”

The captain chuckled. “What's so unusual about that? I thought most women had that character quirk.” Then he sobered. “Truly, Gabe, there's something about this new religion that doesn't sit well with me.” He looked into his friend's eyes, his concern evident. “I've always thought that when a man sets himself up as equal to God, and tells his followers that his revelations are from God, there's something to be concerned about.”

They made their way to the captain's quarters. They had just reached the door when a child shouted from several feet away.

Gabe frowned. It was the little ruffian traveling with the earl and Lady Mary Rose.

Even before he reached them, Gabe saw his tears and frantic expression. “Hurry, sirs,” Coal cried to Gabe and the captain. “You gotta do something.”

“Son, what's happened?” Gabe stooped to look the child in the face.

“'Tis Mrs. Carey, sir. I think she's a-dyin'. She's screaming and hollering something terrible.” He rubbed his wet eyes with his fists, his gaze darting from Gabe to the captain, and then back again. “I'm sure of it. She's dying. Lady told Mr. Carey to fetch you or the captain or just about anybody, a midwife if there's one aboard, or a surgeon—but I took off running 'cause it didn't seem he could bear to leave Mrs. Carey, with her a-dyin' and all.” He sniffled then wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Somebody's gotta come. Please hurry!”

M
ary Rose sat at Bronwyn's bedside, holding her hand, as the
Sea Hawk
sailed deeper into the night skies and into the storm.

The twins were with her grandfather, and Coal was who knew where, having panicked at Bronwyn's crying out when the birth pangs began, mistaking Mary Rose's requests to Griffin as his own.

She swallowed hard. Truly, all she knew about childbirth was that her own mother had died giving birth to her baby brother who died within minutes of their mother. Mary Rose had been just six years of age at the time.

She had to do something. Anything. She couldn't just sit there, waiting for someone to come to her rescue.

She might be the only one to help Bronwyn. The thought terrified her, but she pushed back her shoulders and stepped outside the door. In an authoritative voice, purposely loud enough for Bronwyn to hear, she ordered the first cabin boy
who walked toward her cabin to bring two bowls, one of boiling water, the other tepid, rags, blankets, and a sharp clean-cutting instrument—though with the latter, she wouldn't know what to do. She added tweezers and a large, flat stirring spoon for good measure.

With quaking knees, she made her way over to the basin on the stand, poured cool water on a cloth, and then went back to sit by Bronwyn's side. She brushed wisps of her friend's hair from her face, and then folded the cloth and placed it on her forehead.

Bronwyn's eyes fluttered open and she gazed up at Mary Rose. “'Twill be a long night.” She winced as another birth pang shot through her body. She grabbed Mary Rose's hands and held them so tight Mary Rose thought surely her bones might break.

She gave Bronwyn a courageous and calm smile. “Just try to breathe easy and let your muscles go slack,” she said. “Babies do most of the work on their own; you just need to try to relax and let the wee one do the rest.”

Bronwyn shook her head. “Not this one,” she whispered, which worried Mary Rose further. She'd known Bronwyn to expect the best outcome no matter the signs to the contrary…until now. Her face seemed to grow paler in the dim light.

The ship rocked and swayed worse than before. Besides Mary Rose's knees feeling made of fresh-dripped candle wax, now her stomach was beginning to complain as well. She looked around for an empty basin should she need it even as she continued a soft, calming conversation about the twins, Coal, Griffin, and the adventures ahead in America. Bronwyn still clutched Mary Rose's hands as if they provided her a lifeline, but she relaxed her grip somewhat.

A quick rap sounded at the Careys' cabin door. Mary Rose crossed the room and peered out. It was the boy she'd spoken to earlier. It seemed he'd brought a small battalion of green boys with him, some carrying tubs and buckets of steaming water,
some carrying the other items she'd called for. She asked a couple with empty hands to move the table nearer the bed, showed them where to set the tubs, stacks of rags, and extra blankets.

The army of cabin boys left the room, looking somber and scared. She thought it probable that they might be as frightened as she was over the mystery of this childbirth, but as they left, they were speaking of the great squall ahead, bad enough that the captain himself was on watch with the chief mate on the quarterdeck.

At that news, her stomach lurched. She took several deep breaths, and went again to stand by Bronwyn's bedside to keep vigil and decide what to do next. If the captain was busy on watch, that likely meant he hadn't found a midwife, or had been too busy to send for one.

Another pain caused Bronwyn to cry out in agony. Tears in her eyes, Mary Rose reached for her hands and held them tight until it passed.

Bronwyn closed her eyes and Mary Rose paced, twisting her hands behind her back, searching her mind for any snatches of conversation she might have overheard during the years about what one does when assisting in childbirth. She'd not even had the experience of watching a mare foal, or even a barn cat or rabbit for that matter. She chastised herself for not paying closer attention, but who would ever have thought she would need such a skill?

She'd acted quickly and without thought when she attempted to save Coal, the team of horses, and the carriage from flying off the wharf. Surely such a thing as catching a child couldn't be much more difficult.

Unless there were complications.

The word had been repeated through the years when relatives talked about the passing of Mary Rose's mother in childbirth. To Mary Rose, childbirth and complications equaled death.

She looked down at Bronwyn with affection, her eyes filling again. What if there were complications? She could not stand by and do nothing. It wasn't her nature.

She measured time by her heartbeats; a minute passed, and then two. And then another. Outside, the wind blasted and moaned and soon the patter of rain hitting the overhead ventilation door turned into a downpour. Bronwyn endured another contraction, sobbing as she cried out in pain.

Mary Rose had had quite enough. She bent close to Bronwyn and whispered, “I'll be right back, dear one. I promise. Nothing is happening right now, so I'm going to the captain to ask the whereabouts of the midwife I ordered him to find.”

Bronwyn managed a small, lopsided smile. “You gave an order to the captain?”

She grinned. “In a manner of speaking, though I'm not certain anyone delivered it. Poor Griffin is frightened out of his wits, and Grandfather is trying to keep him calm, and who knows if the captain or anyone else paid attention to a scared little boy carrying a message such as I sent. I'm going to march right up to the quarterdeck, look the captain in the eye, and demand that he find a midwife for us right now.”

Bronwyn nodded, a hint of a smile still on her face. “Hurry,” she said.

She grabbed her cloak and slipped through the doorway, surprised to find one of the cabin boys standing outside her door. “Mr. MacKay told me to stay,” he explained, “and let him know if you be needin' anything.”

For an instant, she considered sending him for the captain but realized he would not be allowed on the quarterdeck, so she said, “Just stay here, and if Mr. MacKay comes by, please ask him to wait here with you. I need to have a word with him.”

“Aye,” the boy said.

Mary Rose pulled her cloak closer and, head down, made her
way toward the quarterdeck. The wind whipped her clothing as the ship dipped and swayed, the deck waves now crashing high enough to send foam racing across the slick surface. She lost her footing twice, regaining it each time. Above the sounds of the wind and rain she heard the chief mate calling out orders to the starboard watch. Ropes flew every which way, rigging clanked, some sails were hoisted down and others shot up to the tops of masts.

It wasn't safe to continue on to the quarterdeck. Neither could she return to Bronwyn without help. She took one more step and slipped again, sliding toward the rail.

A strong arm came from behind and caught her around the waist, holding her fast until she regained her footing. Before she could turn around to see who it was, she was back to the safety of the lower deck.

Soaking wet, she whirled from the man's hold.

Gabriel MacKay stood in front of her. “It's getting tiresome, these rescues of the Ashleys,” he said. Though his words were half in jest, his eyes flashed with anger. “What did you think you could accomplish by going on deck in such a storm?”

She gave him what she hoped was an equally withering look. “I sent for a midwife at least an hour ago for Bronwyn Car—”

Taking her elbow, he propelled her toward her cabin, growling between clenched teeth, “You could have been killed out there. Besides, no one is allowed on the quarterdeck, fair weather or foul. Don't you know that?”

She glared at him. “You can make me walk the plank tomorrow, but for now, you—or someone, anyone—must find a surgeon or a midwife. Someone who knows how to deliver a baby.”

“The boy Coal told the captain earlier. He gave the second mate the order to go over the manifest. That's been done, and indeed, there is a midwife on board.”

Mary Rose let out a long sigh. “Has she been contacted?”

“Yes, she's gathering her things and should be at the cabin now.”

He kept his hand cupped beneath her elbow longer than she thought necessary. But she didn't pull away from him; instead, she relished the warm strength of him striding next to her. And she didn't want to think what might have happened had he not been there to catch her when she slipped.

When they reached her door, she looked up at Gabe. The anger in his eyes had dissipated, and in its place was something akin to tenderness.

She turned and stepped inside just as she heard Bronwyn's cry turn into a long wail. Mary Rose rushed over.

“There's something…wrong,” Bronwyn breathed once the contraction was over. “The baby is blocked somehow from passing through the birth canal. I can feel it…in my…bones.” She started to cry. “Help me, Mary Rose…”

The pure agony of the sound brought tears to Mary Rose's eyes.
Complications.

A light tapping sounded at the door. Without waiting to be invited in, a tall, slender woman entered and strode over to Bronwyn.

She walked with grace, carrying herself in a way that seemed ageless, and Mary Rose thought of something she'd read many years ago. The Anglo-Saxon word for midwife was
med-wyf
, which meant “wisewoman.” This woman's wide intelligent eyes and hair the color of lightning in a black sky made her seem as though she was of some medieval line of wisewomen.

She carried a leather valise, which she opened, removing several instruments. “My name is Grace Carolyn Brumby,” she said. “I'm a midwife, and I've come to help in any way I can.” Without waiting for a comment or answer, she turned her attention to Bronwyn, probed the sides of Bronwyn's face, felt for her pulse in
her neck and then her wrist. She lifted Bronwyn's right foot and pressed her fingers around the ankle. She did the same with the left. “Very swollen,” she said, mostly to herself.

“Let's have a look now, shall we?” She pulled back the blanket at Bronwyn's feet.

Mary Rose had already propped Bronwyn's back and head with extra blankets and pillows and now she helped the midwife lift Bronwyn's legs into position. “Our little one is not cooperating, that's the trouble,” Grace Carolyn said after the examination. “We have a wee behind where the head should be.” She looked up at Mary Rose. “And she's not yet sufficiently dilated for me to turn the baby.”

Bronwyn cried out as another strong contraction hit, this time sobbing hysterically as the midwife laid out her tools on the table. Mary Rose held the lamp steady as she took at least a dozen small pots of dried herbs from the valise and lined them up on the table. Each was labeled: Squaw Vine, Beth Root, Goldenseal, Blue Cohosh, Chamomile, and St. John's Wort. Next she brought out some oils: lavender, rose, almond, and jasmine. The last item was a sturdy but shallow clay dish. In it she spilled some juniper twigs and berries and the seeds from another pot labeled Ashen-keys.

She asked Mary Rose to lower the lamp and reached for a juniper twig, igniting the short slender wood. Then she dropped the enflamed twig into the clay dish. Immediately, the fragrance of juniper filled the room.

“For cleansing,” the midwife said.

She mixed the oils together, and their fragrance wafted throughout the room, mingling with the scent of juniper.

Mary Rose was surprised when she poured some of the liquid into her palms, and then instructed her to massage it into Bronwyn's hands, wrists, arms, neck, and shoulders.

While Mary Rose was doing as asked, Grace Carolyn poured small measurements of the dried herbs into a shallow ceramic dish and crushed them with a pestle. As they worked, Bronwyn would cry out, though Mary Rose noticed her cries becoming weaker and, when sobbing, no tears came to her eyes.

The midwife stirred the mixture into a cup of water. The fragrant earthy scent reminded Mary Rose of the ancient woods near Ashley Manor.

“You'll need to hold her head,” Grace Carolyn said. “Careful now…” She drizzled spoonfuls of the medicine on the inside of Bronwyn's cheek until the glass was empty. Bronwyn lay back against her pillow, her breathing shallow.

“First we relax the muscles,” she said, “so I can turn the baby. I'd rather not use forceps, but if I must I will.”

The
Sea Hawk
hit a large swell, and as it crested, she slammed down, the table shifted, and the pots of medicine tipped. The rain was as loud as any thunder Mary Rose had ever heard, and the wind wailed and moaned. With every move of the ship, Mary Rose imagined it breaking to pieces and wondered how the vessel could withstand such punishment. Her knees threatened to buckle beneath her, and then she turned to Grace Carolyn, expecting to see the same fear Mary Rose felt in her eyes. But the midwife seemed unconcerned: The storm could rage, the ship creak and groan, but it seemed she possessed an unshakable tranquillity.

“Now we pray,” Grace Carolyn said. She knelt beside Bronwyn's bed, and Mary Rose knelt beside her.

The midwife held Bronwyn's hand with her left and Mary Rose's with her right.

“Almighty God and Father of all mercies, we give you thanks for your child Bronwyn,” she prayed. “We bless you for her creation, and for the creation of the child she carries, we bless you
most of all for your immeasurable love for them and for her friend Mary Rose, and for me. I lay this mother and child at the feet of the risen Christ: though we hold them dear and beg that you might turn this child so he may be born and so the mother will live, we know your love for them is far greater than ours and that your will for them goes far beyond what we can imagine is best. So we ask that your will be done, trusting in your immeasurable love that you showed in the redemption of this world through your Son, our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.”