Elaine Coffman - [Mackinnons 06] (30 page)

Bible. De Compiegne
.

Judging from the way he looked, the name must have exploded
like cannon fire inside his head. “That’s it!” he said. “That’s where I’ve
heard that name before.”

“What?”

“The Bible,” he repeated. “The one in my mother’s old
trunk.”

“What Bible? What trunk? Fletcher, you are as pale as a fish
belly. Are you all right?”

He grabbed her and kissed her hard. “You wonderful, adorable
woman. You may have given me just the break I need.”

She gave him a bewildered look, albeit a curious one. “I
have?”

“Yes, I think you have.”

First she looked pleased, then she looked puzzled. “What
have I given you?”

At that, Fletcher threw back his head and laughed. “If you
promise not to throw any more fits between here and your house, I’ll tell you.”

“If you stop making foolish statements about giving up your
search, I’ll stop throwing fits.”

“Agreed,” he said. “Now, about that name—Madeline de
Compiegne. I knew I’d heard it before, but I could not remember when or where.
Not until you picked up your Bible. Then it all came back to me. It’s in the
Bible.”

“Fletcher, I hate to disappoint you, but I was raised on
scripture. The name Madeline is not in the Bible anywhere. Mary, yes.
Magdalene, yes. Madeline, no.”

He laughed. “I didn’t mean it was written in the scriptures
and I did not mean the name Madeline. It’s the last name, de Compiegne, that is
so familiar.”

She cringed at his botched pronunciation of the French name.
“De Compiegne isn’t in the Bible either,” she said.

“It is in the Bible I’m speaking of,” he replied.

She crossed her arms in front of her. “And which Bible would
that be?”

“There is an old trunk at Caithness. One that has been in my
mother’s room for years. Inside it is an old French Bible. I would swear the
name written on the inside of that Bible is Madeline de Compiegne.”

“Well, fancy that,” she said, a pleased look on her face. “I
may have given you the break you needed after all.
Me
,” she said, poking
herself in the chest and giving him a superior look, “who could not find her
head with both hands.”

“Okay, so I was wrong…for the first time in my life.”

He received a jab in the ribs for that. “Fletcher Ramsay,
‘Thou
shall not bear false witness.’
Exodus.”

“I wasn’t bearing false witness,” he said. “I was telling a
lie.”

The laughter that followed was good for them, she decided.

They rode along in silence for a while. Then Cathleen said,
“Now that you’ve got a new clue, what are you going to do about it?”

“We are going to Caithness to see that Bible, of course.”

“We?”

“We. As in you and I. Surely you know you can’t stay here.
It isn’t safe.”

She frowned, shaking her head. “I can’t go to Caithness with
you.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve things to attend to at home.”

“Such as?”

“The animals and the farm chores.”

“Which Robert and Fionn can handle while you are gone.”

“The owls have to be fed frequently.”

“Give the owls to Fionn. You told me yourself he loves
them.”

“Aye, he does.”

“Well, let him take your orphans home with him to care for
them there.”

“And there’s the typhoid.”

“Which is on the wane.” He stopped the carriage again.
“Cathleen, mankind managed to survive for centuries without you. I think it is
capable of doing so again.”

They left for Caithness Castle early the next morning, going
on horseback to make better time. Two hours out of Glengarry, the sky grew
dark, the rumble of thunder booming like cannon fire in the distance. A jagged
bolt of lightning split the sky, lighting up the moors like a sunny summer day.
The rain began to fall, first coming with great splatters, then coming down
faster, until everything in front of them looked like a dull gray curtain.

The beck nearby, which had been gurgling merrily, was now
running swiftly with a great rushing sound. The wind came up, pelting the cold
rain against them, whipping it beneath her bonnet. Soon she was soaked and her
bonnet dropped dejectedly.

Fletcher knew he wasn’t faring any better, for he was soaked
as well—the rain running off the brim of his hat in little rivulets, running down
inside his collar and soaking his shirt.

He looked at Cathleen, who was shivering from the cold. All
around them there was nothing but grayness broken by the swaying branches of
the trees that lined the beck, the muddy tracks of the road ahead.

“We have to find shelter,” he said, his words almost drowned
out by the thunder. “We’ll leave the main road here. We’ll be safer out on the
heath, away from the trees.”

She nodded, urging her horse closer to his as she followed
him to a trail that wound across the moors. A nearby tree branch cracked under
the burden of wind, sending a shower of leaves over them and causing the horses
to become skittish. Urging them forward, they picked up the pace.

It was growing darker now, and Fletcher wondered if they
would be able to find shelter in the blackness that surrounded them. They rode
for what seemed at least another hour when a bolt of lightning lit up the sky
and he saw what appeared to be a house in the distance.

As they rode closer, another lightning bolt illuminated the
darkness, and he saw that they had come upon a large farmhouse, its roof
covered with thatch. A sheepdog barked as they rode up to the front door.

There was no other sign of life.

“You go on inside,” he said, dismounting and coming around
to help her down. “I’ll see to the horses.”

He knew that ordinarily Cathleen would have been a bit shy
about dashing into someone’s house uninvited, but she was shivering, and her
clothes were soaked through to her skin. He figured that was enough incentive,
and he was right.

With mud-logged feet, she made her way to the front door.
Finding it unlocked, she knocked. No one answered. She knocked again and then a
third time. When she opened the door, a blast of wind whipped it out of her
hand, driving it back against the wall with a loud crash.

Hearing the sound, Fletcher turned. He called to her,
telling her it was only the wind, but she said that she thought she had heard
someone scream.

“Go on inside,” he said.

Cathleen nodded, then bent down to remove her muddy shoes
before going inside, wrestling the door shut.

Fletcher put the horses and the sheepdog in the barn, then
came inside to find her standing just inside the door, shivering.

“What are you doing?”

“Waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness,” she said.

He grunted and stood beside her, unable to see anything
either, for the interior was dark and chilled from the downpour.

He waited for a few minutes, until his eyes adjusted and he
saw a fire laid in the fireplace, ready to be lit.

“Is anyone here?” he asked, looking around.

“No, I don’t think so, but it doesn’t look deserted. It is
well kept and furnished.”

“Perhaps they are just away.”

“Aye. Should we stay?”

“We don’t have a choice. It’s raining a blooming river out
there.”

Fletcher found a lamp on a table and lit it, sending a
golden glow into the room to chase away the dark gloom. “There,” he said,
“that’s better.”

“Aye,” she said, still shivering, staring wistfully at the
fireplace.

He gave her an understanding smile. “I’ll start a fire in a
minute. I want to look around first.”

She nodded and, rubbing the chill from her arms, moved
closer to the fireplace, as if to make certain that he wouldn’t forget.

He lifted the lamp and made his way farther into the house,
going into a small bedroom, finding a little bed neatly made. Just then he
heard a moan coming from the room next door. Hurrying there, he paused a moment
at the door, listening.

When he heard nothing, he knocked. No one answered, so he
slowly opened the door and looked inside.

A young woman lay in the bed, very pregnant and, judging
from the look of things, in very advanced labor.
Damn! Not here… Not now!

In spite of the chill in the room, the woman’s gown and the
bed were drenched with sweat. Her face was pale, her forehead ashen and shiny.
Fletcher did not know ‘come here’ from ‘sic ‘em’ when it came to childbirth,
but he knew one thing. Something about
this
particular birth was not
right.

Feeling inept but knowing that the woman needed help, he
stepped closer to the bed. “Are you all right?” he asked softly, not wanting to
frighten her.

She opened her eyes, and the, moment she saw him she reached
for him. Her hands twisted in the folds of his jacket, clutching him as if she
never intended to let him go. “Help me,” she whispered. “I am dying. The babe
willna come.”

“You are going to be fine,” he said, patting her hand. “Is
there anyone here with you?”

Too weak to hold on to him, she fell back against the bed,
shaking her head from side to side. “No, no one.”

“Your husband?”

“Went for the doctor,” she whispered weakly. “Gone too long.
Help me. I know I’m dying.”

Fletcher’s heart hammered in his chest. He believed every
word the woman had said. She did look like she was dying, and he did not know
what to do about it. He could not ride off and leave her in this state.

Cathleen…

He turned toward the door, intending to go after her, when
he saw her standing in the doorway. He looked at her stricken face, her hands
tightly clenching the fabric of her rain-soaked skirts, and he knew he would
get no help from that quarter, for it was the same look of terror he had seen
on her face that day in the meadow when she saw the ewe giving birth.

“Cathleen…”

“No,” she whispered.

“Love, this woman needs our help. She’s all alone. There’s
some problem. The baby won’t come. We’ve got to help her.”

Cathleen stared at him as if in a trance. “No,” she
whispered, and began backing through the door. “I can’t!” she cried. “You know
I can’t!” She whirled around then and dashed from the room.

He caught her in the kitchen and spun her around to face
him. “All right, dammit! I’ll do what I can. At least you can help by getting
that fire started,” he said, nodding in the direction of the fireplace.

He gave her a gentle shake to make sure she understood. “Can
you get the fire started?”

“Aye,” she whispered.

He thought back to the times when his mother had given birth
and her friend Molly Polly had come to help. “Put some water on to boil,” he
said. “Then see if you can find some clean cloths, a knife, and some twine.”

He looked at her standing there in the middle of the
kitchen, her face frozen, her eyes huge with fright. “Do it, dammit! At least
help me with this! You can’t let that woman die in there, just because you’re
afraid.”

She stood as still as a block of ice.

His heart went out to her and he reached out and took her in
his arms. “It will be all right, Cathleen,” he whispered. “Don’t worry, love.
It won’t be like before. This time, I’m here. I won’t let anything happen. It
won’t be like your mother. I promise you, she’ll make it. But you’ve got to
help me. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

“Can you help me?”

“Aye,” she said weakly. “I’ll see to the fire.”

“Good girl,” he said. “That’s my lass.”

He went to the basin and poured water over his hands, then
picked up the soap. When he had finished scrubbing, he dried his hands and
turned to see that Cathleen had the fire going.

“Do you need any help?”

She shook her head. “I can manage.”

He started for the woman’s room, saying as he passed, “Say a
prayer for me.”

“I already have.”

He took a deep breath. “I cannot ever remember feeling so
alone.”

She gave him a soft look. “
‘As I was with Moses, so I
will be with thee: I will not fail thee, nor forsake thee. The Lord is with
thee withersoever thou goest’,
” she said. “Joshua.”

Fletcher gave her one last look, then turned and went to the
woman again. This time, she did not open her eyes. “I’m going to try and help,”
he said, “but I’ll be honest with you—I don’t know the first thing about
delivering a baby. If you can help me in any way, please speak up.”

She shook her head weakly. “Too late,” she whispered. “The
babe willna come.”

He heard a noise and turned to see Cathleen standing in the
doorway, her face pale, her eyes huge and filled with fright. She held a pan of
hot water.

“Bring the water over here, where I can get to it,” he said.

Cathleen did not move.

“Damn,” he said, crossing to where she stood, taking the
water from her. “Go get the other things. Hurry!”

By the time he had put down the water, she was standing in
the doorway just as she had done before, her face a mask of fear, her color
gone, her breathing rapid. He went to her again, took the things from her, and
put them on a clean cloth on the table beside the bed.

He looked back at her, saw that she had not moved, then
looked again at the woman, swallowing back the taste of his own fear. He could
not do this alone. “Cathleen, something is wrong. I don’t know what to do. The
baby won’t come. You’ve got to help me.”

She said nothing.

“Cathleen! Did you hear me?”

“Aye,” she whispered.

“Please. Help me. Help her.”

“I canna.” Tears formed in her eyes.

“I know you aren’t the kind to stand and watch a woman die
without lifting a finger to help. Is your fear more important than this woman’s
life?”

She was silent for a long time, and then, when he thought he
had lost the battle, she walked toward him, stopping a few feet away. Her eyes
were glassy and her breathing was rapid as she glanced down at the woman.

“You’ve worked with the doctor before,” he said. “You must
know what could be wrong. Cathleen, this poor soul looks as if she’s been at
this for hours. What can it be? Help me.”

He swore inwardly, seeing her frozen countenance, thinking
that he would get no help from her, when suddenly she said, “Perhaps the babe
is turned wrong.”

“Turned wrong?”

“Feet first, it willna come,” she said, glancing down at the
woman again.

He saw her sway on her feet. “Take a deep breath, Cathleen.
Don’t pass out on me now. I need you! Don’t look if it makes you faint. Just
tell me what to do. How can I tell if the baby is feet first?”

She took a deep breath and turned her face away. “You will
feel the foot,” she said. “It will be first.”

Feel the foot? How?

He remembered a similar problem, with a horse that was in
foal. The foal had one foot out, and the only way his stepfather could help the
mare was to put his hands inside and turn the foal around, so that it came out
head first.

Fletcher looked at the woman’s distended stomach and felt a
flush of heat sweep over him. There was a world of difference between putting
one’s hand inside a woman’s body and that of a horse. Besides, how would he be
able to tell if that was the problem here? For a moment he felt dizzy, but he
told himself this was no time to get queasy and afraid. One terrified person
was enough.

He looked at Cathleen. She looked as if she could pass out
any minute. If putting his hand inside the woman was necessary, what other
choice did he have? He couldn’t let her die.

He reached out, intending to smooth the woman’s wet hair
back from her forehead, when he remembered that he had just washed his hands.
He settled for a few words of comfort and assurance.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.” He
pulled back the sheet and saw that her gown had ridden up, leaving her huge
belly exposed. Her legs were naturally spread wide. He didn’t know why he did
it, but he pushed both legs up until they were bent at the knees, and saw that
it gave him better access.

He put his hand on the woman’s stomach. It was rock hard and
cramping. There was no sign of a baby’s head, but the area beneath her hips was
wet and streaked with blood. He put his hand just inside the birth canal,
groping, feeling, until he touched something. He felt around it. “Jesus, a
foot,” he whispered. “The baby’s foot.” He glanced at Cathleen. “I can feel
it.”

She stared at him, then down at the bed. He knew the moment
she saw the blood, for her face grew deathly white. “What do I do now?” he
urged, afraid she might faint before she could tell him. “Tell me what to do!”

“Turn it,” she said, turning her face away and grabbing the
bedpost for support. “You will have to turn it.”

All right, Fletcher. You’ve got a foot here. What are you
going to do with it? You’ve got to push it back, Fletch. Push it back as far as
you can, then see if you can turn the baby.

He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer. “You must have
had a reason for this. I’m certain of it. I don’t think it would be very
sporting of You just to leave me here now…not like this. We’re in this thing
together, right?”

He did not expect an answer, of course, but an earnest
prayer was always in good order, and the good Lord knew that if this prayer was
anything, it was earnest.