The ruin of Halton Castle loomed behind the courthouse as she walked past. The latter was a fine building, so much grander than that at Sydney. But the country is so very different—the luxuriant verdure of spring, late blossoms, wildflowers: primroses, daisies, buttercups, harebells, chicory, foxgloves, bluebells, honeysuckles, daffodils, poppies, and forget-me-nots. She had, indeed, forgotten—the joy of a glorious English spring.
Ben, safely in his wrap, the guitar and red blanket across her back, her small bag containing the precious necklaces and apron—the road was rough, but she had walked worse.
On the third day, the weather turned, and Elizabeth sought shelter in a small inn on the outskirts of Buxton. The crackling fire was welcome, and the food, though expensive, was good and warming—Cheshire soup, filled with potatoes, leeks, carrots, oatmeal, cheese, and good brown bread alongside. Outside, the wind howled, catching the eaves, banging the shutters, rain hurtling itself against the slate roof and gritstone walls.
The tavern door swung open, and a draft of cold, rain-laden air blew across the room.
“Oi, close the bloody door!” the innkeeper shouted at a man cladin cloak and dripping hat who stood at the threshold.
“Hold your tongue, Hugh Wilde; the weather’s as foul as your speech!”
“Sorry, your lordship, didna recognise ye. What’re ye doing out on a night like this?”
“’Tis Lady Rushton; her time’s come early. I thought Mrs. Craddock, the midwife, may have come here, for she’s not at her house, miserable as it is.”
“Gone to her sister in Chapel, won’t be back till Monday.”
“Damn the woman. Are there any others in the village? Knutsford and Bakewell are too far to go on a night like this.”
Elizabeth couldn’t let a poor woman labour alone. Now, she must leave the warmth she had paid for with the last of her coin.
“My lord, I am a midwife—perchance, I can assist your wife?”
“Who are you? Not from hereabouts, I’ll warrant. Passing through and hoping to get yoursticky fingersonto my silverware. Be off with you.”
She was angry again. Always. Just lurking beneath the surface.
“Oh, so quick, my lord, to disparage me, without even the courtesy of knowing my name and disposition. Well, I trust you luck in birthing the child yourself. ‘Twould be different for me—I’ve delivered nigh on fifty babes, but that is of no concern of yours.”
Deliberately, she turned her back to the man—Lord Rushton?—and pulled a piece of bread from the loaf. “And, my lord, close the door promptly when you exit, because little Ben objects to the cold.”
Angrily, he strode to the bench, took Elizabeth by the shoulder, twisting her to look at him. She swatted his arm away. Bumper, lazing by the fire, stood up, his hackles raised, adeep, guttural growl resonating in his throat.
“Touch me again, and I’ll not restrain the dog. He’s a mean boy when aroused.”
But confrontation would achieve nothing. “My lord, both of us need to calm ourselves. I’ve had a long day, and you are much distressed. Ira furor brevis est: animum rege, qui nisi paret impera—Anger is a momentary madness, so control your passion or it will control you. I’m sure Horace had the right of it.
Rushton stared at the woman—ill-dressed, sitting alone in a tavern, a large savage dog by her feet. And now, quoting Latin as though it were the most natural thing for any woman.
“You’re a midwife? What do you here?”
“Walked from Runcorn, off the brigUnicornfrom the Cape. Bound for Bakewell. I was midwife to the 73rd in Sydney, New South Wales. Now rejoining my husband in Derbyshire.”
“’Tis true, you’ve birthed some fifty babes?” He looked wildly around the room, but there was no one else. The women of the inn had fled—none had the experience of assisting a birth, certainly not a lord’s wife. Elizabeth saw fear, then resignation, cross his face. She stood.
“Come, my lord, let me gather my belongings. Is your carriage nearby? For it’s blowing an awful gale outside.”
The manor was a large, imposing building, but Elizabeth didn’t linger at the entrance.
“You,” she gestured to a footman, “take the dog to the kitchen; he needs feeding and a warm place to lie. It will keep him content, and he’ll know where I am.”
A maid was descending warily down the stairs. “Are you the midwife, ma’am? Poor Lady Rushton’s in such a bother.”
Elizabeth followed the girl up the stairs to the mistress’s chamber. Inside, a rather young woman, more of a girl, lay groaning on the bed. Oh, ‘tis so similar to poor Marthaat Baulkham Hills.
“Take little Ben and place him in the crib. He’s overlarge, but very weary, so he’ll sleep well. Now, I need warm water, a good strong soap, and some clean rags. Be about it, girl, quickly now!”
“Ma’am, you are rather too free with your instruction. Perhaps ask me or the housekeeper of your requests beforehand.” Lord Rushton entered the room, scowling at Elizabeth.
