Tremaine's True Love (4 page)

Mr. St. Michael stroked a bare hand over the lamb, who was breathing in shallow, shivery pants. The ewe stamped a hoof and came closer.

Maybe, like Nita, she dreaded to see the little one suffer and dreaded more to see Mr. St. Michael end its misery. But what could a mother do, when she had neither claws nor a full complement of teeth and her newborn was threatened by the elements and by a creature at least twice her size?

“You won’t kill him, will you?” Nita was enough of a countrywoman to know that death was sometimes a mercy, and yet she regarded death as an enemy.

“Of course not. This is valuable livestock.” Mr. St. Michael passed Nita the lamb, who weighed less than some of Susannah’s books. “If you would tuck him against my belly?”

Mr. St. Michael had undone his clothing right down to his skin and held it all open so Nita could put the wet, frigid lamb into his shirt, against his bare abdomen.

“Now do up a few buttons,” he directed. “Enough to hold the lamb against me, not enough to smother him.”

Nita had to remove her gloves to comply, and while she applauded Mr. St. Michael’s quick thinking, the notion of a half-frozen lamb cuddling against his bare skin nearly had her shivering.

The ewe stamped her hoof again and let go a bleat that surely held indignation and dismay. She advanced a few steps, as if to charge her offspring’s captor, but stopped short and stamped again.

“I’ve got him,” Mr. St. Michael said to the mother sheep. He moved closer so the ewe could sniff at his shirt. “Your little lad will be safe, as long as he keeps breathing, and now I’ve got you too.”

Like a predator striking, Mr. St. Michael scooped the ewe onto his shoulders.

After some halfhearted flailing, the ewe allowed it, though she had little choice when Mr. St. Michael had all four legs in a firm grip.

He had the entire situation in a firm grip, and Nita was abruptly glad she’d volunteered to show Mr. St. Michael this herd.

“Now what, sir?”

“To the gate, which you will have to open for us.”

Their progress was businesslike, Mr. St. Michael slowed not one bit by seven stone of mother sheep across his shoulders. By the time Nita led him through the gate, George had emerged from the cottage and was hurrying down the path.

“Are you reaving sheep, St. Michael, or have you tired of that fine coat you’re wearing?” George asked.

“The coat can be cleaned easily enough,” Mr. St. Michael said. “We found an early lamb, and he needs shelter from the elements.”

George was, in some ways, Nita’s favorite brother. He often grasped matters his older siblings had to have explained to them, but the whereabouts of the lamb eluded him.

“The lamb is inside Mr. St. Michael’s shirt, to keep warm,” Nita said. “Where is Mr. Kinser?”

“He’s snug by his fire and complaining of a chest cold,” George said. “The lambing pens are in the byre behind the cottage.”

Nita mentally added Mr. Kinser to her week’s list of patients to treat by correspondence. A chest cold was simple enough—mustard plaster for the chest, a toddy for comfort—but if ignored, could rapidly become lung fever.

Nita followed George and Mr. St. Michael up the hill to a low stone building set into the slope of the land. While the granite walls provided shelter from the wind, the cold within was still considerable.

“Can a lamb possibly thrive in here?” Nita asked.

“Lambs are tough, though he needs to nurse,” Mr. St. Michael said, which blunt reply inspired George to inspect the whitewashed stonework. “He’ll also need a thick bed of straw.”

Mr. St. Michael set the ewe down inside a wooden pen tucked against the back wall. She started up a repetitive baaing that ripped at Nita’s nerves.

“She wants her baby,” Nita said. Was desperate for him.

“She shall have him,” Mr. St. Michael replied, “just as soon as the chambermaids have tended to the linens.” He took up a hay fork and pitched a quantity of straw into the pen, his movements practiced and easy. “Mr. Haddonfield, if you could tell your shepherd it’s time to move his earliest ewes in here, their presence will add to the warmth and safety of the first lambs.”

George scowled at the ewe, whose racket had escalated. “I’ll let him know.”

“
Now
would suit, Mr. Haddonfield. Lady Nita tells me snow is on the way, and moving sheep doesn’t get easier for being done in a blizzard. A dozen ewes at least. Two dozen would be better. They’ll need hay, of course, and fresh water too.”

None of which Mr. Kinser had yet seen to.

“I doubt Difty Kinser is under the weather,” Nita said when George had marched off. “Shall I unbutton you?”

“Please.” Mr. St. Michael stood before her, the top of his head nearly touching the byre’s rafters, while Nita undid his coat, jacket, waistcoat, and shirt. Out of medical necessity, she’d undressed grown men before—old men, ailing men, insensate men—but those experiences did not prepare her for the task she’d taken on.

Tremaine St. Michael was fit, healthy, muscular, and willing to lend his very warmth to a helpless creature. His coat was dirty as a result of the ewe’s muddy underbelly across his shoulders, and yet, amid the scent of dirt and straw, Nita could still catch a whiff of flowers.

Nita stopped short of reaching into Mr. St. Michael’s very shirt.

“Is he alive?” she asked.

The ewe fell silent as Mr. St. Michael extracted the lamb from his clothing.

“He is, but he wants his mama. She seems a sensible sort, which always helps.”

Mr. St. Michael stepped over the board siding of the pen and held the lamb up to the ewe’s nose. She licked her baby twice, and when Mr. St. Michael put the lamb down in the straw, she continued to sniff at her newborn.

“What now?” Nita asked. If the lamb died, Nita’s list of disenchantments with the Almighty would gain another item.

“Now comes sustenance,” Mr. St. Michael said, positioning the lamb near the ewe’s back legs. “If he can nurse, he has a good chance. If he can’t, then the ewe’s first milk should be saved in case more early arrivals show up in the next day or two.”

A gentleman would not have explained that much. A gentleman would not have supported the lamb as it braced on tottery legs and poked its nose about in the general direction of its first meal.

A gentleman would surely not have assisted the lamb to find that first meal, but Tremaine St. Michael did. The ewe held still—all that was required of her—and as Nita looked on, the lamb’s tail twitched.

The sight of that vigorous twitch of a dark tail eased a constriction about Nita’s heart. “He’s nursing?”

“Going at it like a drover at his favorite alehouse.”

“Good.”
Wonderful
.

Mr. St. Michael graced Nita with another one of those early-spring smiles as the lamb switched its tail again and Nita tried not to cry.

George interrupted this special, awkward moment. “Kinser says he’ll have two dozen ewes up here within the hour. He was planning to move them by week’s end, but this one caught him by surprise.”

Mr. St. Michael climbed out of the pen. “And the hay and water?”

“I’ll send some fellows over to see that it’s taken care of,” George said. “How’s the new arrival?”

“He’ll soon be sleeping, snug up against his mama, but now that the first one is on the ground, more will follow. Your shepherd will need assistance, because in this weather, somebody should check the herd for lambs regularly, even through the night. The first-time mothers and some of the older ewes will cheerfully ignore their own offspring unless reminded of their maternal obligations.”

Mr. St. Michael plucked his gloves from Nita’s grasp and met her gaze for an instant. His eyes held understanding, as if he knew that females of the human species could also misplace their maternal instincts, and no kindly shepherd would address their lapse.

“If we’re done here,” George said, “I’m for a toddy and a warm fire.”

“A fine notion,” Mr. St. Michael replied, pulling on his gloves. “Lady Nita, my thanks for your assistance.”

She’d done nothing except blink back tears and handle a few buttons, and yet, after Mr. St. Michael had boosted her onto her horse, he lingered a moment arranging the drape of her skirts over her boots.

“Not every titled lady would have tarried in the cold for a mere lamb,” he said. “I should have left the matter to Kinser’s good offices. This is his flock.”

“Kinser is likely the worse for drink.” Nita had complained to Nicholas of this tendency the last time she’d had to make up headache powders for Mr. Kinser.

“An occupational hazard among shepherds, particularly in cold weather. That was a fine little tup, and he’ll be worth a pretty penny.”

Mr. St. Michael looked like he wanted to say more. Nita plucked a bit of straw from his hair and barely resisted the urge to brush at the shoulders of his coat.

“Ready to go?” George asked, climbing into the saddle.

Mr. St. Michael swung up and nudged William forward. “I believe you mentioned a toddy, sir. I’m sure the lady would enjoy one sooner rather than later.”

They rode home in silence, the wind at their backs. Nita would enjoy a toddy, and then she’d excuse herself from whatever domestic diversions were thrown at her and bring a few extra blankets and provisions to Addy Chalmers and wee Annie Elizabeth.

* * *

“I cannot fathom why Elsie Nash has not remarried,” Kirsten remarked when she, Susannah, and Della were tooling home, hot bricks at their feet, scarves wound round their necks. “She is the dearest woman.”

“Perhaps she’s content to be a member of Edward’s household,” Susannah said. “He has no lady of his own, and a widowed sister-in-law makes a fine hostess.”

Susannah, in her sweet, determined way, aspired to become Edward Nash’s lady, and Mr. Nash seemed keen on the idea too.

“Elsie can waltz,” Kirsten said. “Do you suppose Edward can? You might offer to teach him, Suze, if he hasn’t acquired the knack.” Because for all his memorized couplets of Shakespeare, Edward Nash was in line for a mere baronetcy when some great-uncle or second cousin died. He was rural gentry until that distant day, and likely ignorant of the waltz.

“How would one offer such lessons to a gentleman?” Susannah asked.

In a lifetime of trying, Kirsten would never be as innocent or good as Susannah.

“One asks him, in a private moment, if he might assist one to brush up
her
waltzing skills before the assembly,” Kirsten explained. “One stumbles at judicious moments in judicious directions when such assistance is rendered, apologizing all the while. One is befuddled by the complexity of the steps.”

Susannah’s consternation was both amusing and worrisome. In the absence of any real authority over her own person, a woman benefited from having a bit of guile.

“Nita doesn’t care for Mr. Nash,” Della said from the backward-facing seat. Little more than her face showed from a swaddling of blankets and lap robes. “I can’t say I do either.”

“Have you a reason for your dislike of Edward?” Susannah asked.

“Elsie Nash is not happy in her brother-in-law’s household,” Della said.

Kirsten didn’t particularly like Edward Nash either—he had too high an opinion of himself for a man who’d inherited his holdings and done little to make them prosper. He was handsome, though, and he doted on Susannah. Edward and Susannah would have lovely, blond, handsome, poetry-spouting children together.

A dozen at least.

“Widowhood is not generally a cheerful state,” Susannah said.

“Elsie’s husband died more than two years ago,” Della countered. “She has a child to love, and yet she’s not—”

“She’s not at peace,” Kirsten ventured. “Maybe she’s lonely. Pity Adolphus is too young for her.” Because George, despite his grand good looks and abundant charm, would likely never marry.

“She moves like an older woman and has silences like an older woman,” Della said, “as if her heart ached.”

“All the more reason to cheer her with some waltzes,” Susannah replied. “Might we persuade Mr. St. Michael to stay a few extra days? He has the look of a man who knows what he’s about on the dance floor, and our gatherings never have enough handsome bachelors.”

Kirsten and Della exchanged a glance that had nothing to do with planning the local assembly, for Susannah had done it again: arrived for innocent reasons at a suggestion that had not-so-innocent possibilities.

“Nita volunteered to ride to the sheep pastures with him in this weather,” Della said quite casually, “and she was out late last night with Addy Chalmers.”

“Which you had to mention at breakfast,” Kirsten reminded her.

“I like Mr. St. Michael,” Susannah said. “He doesn’t put on airs.”

The gentleman had an odd accent—mostly Scottish with the occasional French elision, which combination would not endear him to Polite Society’s loftiest hostesses. He was in trade, and he had a brusque quality that made Kirsten leery, though Nita could also be quite brusque—as could Kirsten, all too often.

“You ask him to prolong his stay, Suze,” Della said. “Tell Mr. St. Michael we’re shy a few handsome, dancing bachelors, then have Mr. Nash give you some waltzing lessons.”

Susannah’s brows drew down, and as the coach clattered from rut to bump to rocky turn, her gaze became sweetly, prettily thoughtful.

Also determined.

* * *

“Lovey, if you put fewer cakes on the tray, then the Pontiff of Haddondale might not stay as long.” Nick punctuated this observation with a kiss to his wife’s temple. “Not that I’d encourage my dearest lady to anything approaching ungraciousness.”

Though, of course, his wife was
incapable
of ungraciousness. Leah was also incapable of idleness, which was why Nick had had to track her down to his woodworking shop, to which she alone had a spare key.

“I do wonder how Nita put up with Vicar,” Leah said, glowering at a stack of foolscap on the workbench. “If he didn’t feel compelled to add a line of Scripture to his every observation, he might also be on his way sooner. I fear he aspires to match his son up with our Della, which match you will
not
approve, Nicholas.”