Nicholas dipped the currycomb into the bucket of soapy water and began to scrub grime from the mare’s coat.
Perhaps there was a wife on a nearby farmstead who would be willing to aid her, someone he could fetch for her. Or perhaps Mistress Stewart had some plan of her own.
Nicholas was suddenly irritated to find himself so caught up in her plight. This wasn’t his baby. He hadn’t put her husband in the grave. She wasn’t his wife. He had promised to protect her only so long as he sheltered beneath her roof, and he was strong enough now to pack his things, saddle Zeus, and ride west along the Ohio River as he’d planned.
So why didn’t he leave?
Because I’d never forgive myself if I left her out here, helpless and alone.
But what could he do to help her? As a man who’d once bred prized horses, he knew a great deal about helping mares to foal, but next to nothing about childbirth. He was the oldest and could remember when his mother had been brought to bed with the youngest of his siblings. He’d been six when William, the second of his younger brothers, had been born. He’d heard his mother’s moans, had feared she was dying. He’d managed to elude the servants set to watch him long enough to creep upstairs and open the door to his parents’ chamber. There, he’d caught just a glimpse of his mother, clad in her shift, leaning back against his father’s chest, her hands clasped tightly around his. Her eyes had been closed, her face wet with sweat and twisted with pain. Then his intrusion was discovered. After his nurse had led him away, she’d promptly given him a sound swat on the behind.
His father had spoken a little of birth to him, describing the wonder of watching as Nicholas and his siblings were born. And Jamie, his uncle and perhaps closest friend, had confided in him of the helplessness and wrenching guilt he’d felt holding his wife, Bríghid, as she had labored to bring their two sons into the world.
Surely Jamie and Bríghid would have more children by now. Six years was a long time, and they had been deeply in love.
Nicholas had been a man and newly returned from Oxford when his mother had given birth to little Emma Rose. As he’d sat below with a glass of brandy in hand, he’d found himself enraged that his father had not exercised better restraint and had thus forced his mother to endure this anguish again. He’d told his father so, only to receive a tongue-lashing from his mother the next day.
Emma Rose.
His stomach knotted at the thought of his littlest sister. When he’d ridden away she’d been only three. She’d be nine by now—a spoiled little princess with their mother’s red-gold curls and their father’s deep blue eyes. Strange to realize that in all these years he’d not thought of her.
An unexpected shard of pain sliced through his gut, made it hard to breathe.
Nicholas fought to squelch the sudden rush of emotion. He dipped a bit of old wool into the bucket and began gently to wash the valley between the mare’s empty teats. She tried to pull away from him, raised one hoof off the ground as if to kick.
He stroked her flank, spoke softly. “Steady, girl.”
What was wrong with him? First the nightmares. Then memories of Lyda and his baby. Now his family.
He needed to return to the wild, where the emptiness and the wide-open spaces would drive aught else from his mind. He needed to gaze upon the dark waters of the great river to the west, listen to the friendly chatter of beavers busy with their dams, sleep under an endless heaven bright with stars. He needed to ride away. But first he would find a farmwife to help Mistress Stewart and see her safely settled out of harm’s way.
***
Bethie’s water broke just after she’d gone to bed. On the brink of sleep, she felt a trickle of liquid between her thighs, feared for a moment she had wet herself. She sat up, only to have the trickle become a torrent as warm water spilled from inside her. And she knew.
Her time had come.
She rose, changed into a dry gown, put birthing linens on the bed, added wood to the fire, set water on to boil for tea. Then she took out the fresh linens she’d set aside for the baby, a knife to cut the cord, and a length of yarn to bind it. Beyond that, she did not know what to do. Although her womb had begun to tighten, the pangs were far apart and caused her little pain. She drank her tea, rocked in her rocking chair, tried in vain to ignore the fears that had assailed her these past months.
Would she know what to do? How badly would it hurt? What if something went wrong? Would the baby be born alive? Was this the end? Would she die tonight and the child with her?
There were many worries, but no answers.
Then, believing it was best to sleep while she could, she crawled back into bed and closed her eyes. But her fears would not leave her, and she slept but little.
Finally, sometime in the dead of night, she gave up trying to sleep and began to alternate pacing the floor with rocking in her chair. Her pangs began to grow stronger and more frequent. Each started as a tightening across her lower belly that spread to her back. But still the pain was bearable.
Her fears began to lessen. She could do this. She could bring her baby into the world alone. She could survive.
***
“Nicholas, you bastard! What did you say to them? Help me! Oh, God, help me!”
Josiah’s desperate screams mingled with Eben’s, as Wyandot warriors used flaming torches to shove the young men, who’d been cut free of their ropes, into the fire pits. The women had smeared them with pitch to ensure that they burned.The two tried to escape, staggered from the flames, only to be pushed in again.
Tied to the post, Nicholas fought to free himself, fought to stay conscious.Why weren’t they burning him?Why were the women bathing his wounds, rubbing salve on his burns?
“Let them go!”He’d glared at Atsan, shouted his words in Tuscarora, in French, in English. “Take me, but let them go free! Take me!”
