The Rake to Ruin Her

by Julia Justiss

  ‘The colt looks better today.’

  ‘Yes, he’s getting used to my touch. It also helps that he’s finally decided the leaves blowing in the trees and the grasses tapping against the railings aren’t a danger to him.’

  ‘I wish I could convince you to stop working the lead line.’

  ‘Really, Max, you worry too much. I’ve already agreed not to ride any more and train only the smallest colts.’

  ‘Even colts are large and powerful enough to do you an injury,’ he countered, concern for her sharpening his tone. ‘They may be smaller than two-year-olds, but like Balthazaar here, more skittish and less predictable.’

  ‘Skittish, yes, but none of my horses are unpredictable, if one is alert to their signals. It’s my own fault if I fail to heed what he means when he stretches his neck or pricks up his ears.’

  Concerned about the danger or not, after months of watching Caro with her horses, he still marvelled at her deft touch and the almost mystical way she seemed able to communicate with the steeds, from foals to four-year-olds fully trained and ready for sale.

  ‘If you don’t like my working with Balthazaar, why don’t you take him?’ she said, breaking in on his thoughts.

  ‘Gladly, if it will get you on the rail and me in the ring.’

  As she’d taught him, he walked slowly to the centre where she was working the colt, careful to let the horse see him and accept his presence, not taking over the reins until the animal continued his circuit at a steady pace.

  * * *

  For the next half-hour, while Caro watched, Max eased the horse through a series of patterns, exerting more and more pressure as he taught the animal to accept his commands to advance, stand, move right and left. So absorbed had he become in this slow but exacting process, he was surprised when Newman, the head trainer, appeared at the rail.

  ‘I’ll take him in now, Mr Ransleigh. Well done, by the way. You’re looking to become almost as good a trainer as Miss Caro.’

  ‘Thank you, Newman,’ Max replied, a swell of pride and satisfaction lifting his spirits at the man’s rare words of praise. ‘Still, it seems to take me so long.’

  ‘As long as is necessary, sir. You heed that old horseman’s motto: “If you think things are going too slow, go slower.” But you’ve got a real touch; the beasties respond to you.’

  ‘You do have a deft touch,’ Caro said, joining him at the rail as Newman led away the colt.

  Max’s pleasure deepened. Caro was as sparing with her praise as Newman. Growing up an earl’s privileged son, for much of his life he’d had fulsome praises heaped upon him, whether or not his performance merited it. He prized Caro’s honesty; one never had to question whether her compliments were genuine.

  ‘If I earn your approval, I’m doubly pleased.’

  ‘It’s all trust and patience, Max. This isn’t a battlefield,’ she said, gesturing towards the training paddock, ‘with a winner and a loser. Either both win, or both lose.’

  ‘Like in a marriage?’

  ‘Exactly,’ she said, then made a face at him as he snagged her elbow, pulling her down before she could clamber up the rails. ‘We’ll go through the gate, if you please.’

  ‘Honestly, you’re fussier than a brood hen with its chicks,’ she protested.

  ‘If I were truly fussy, I’d order you to stay in the house.’

  ‘Where I’d go mad within a week, cooped up with nothing useful to do. Besides, if you ordered me to remain, I’d feel nearly honour-bound to climb out of a window.’

  ‘Perhaps I’d just order you to stay in my bed.’

  Her eyes danced. ‘Now, that’s a command I might feel inclined to obey.’

  Leaning down, he gave her another kiss, his hands cradling the heavy round of her belly. He’d thought, living with her day after day, their passion would mute, or that as her body grew bigger with child, her appetite for the sensual would decline.

  But neither had happened. As her expanding belly limited certain romantic encounters, she thought of new and unexpected ways to pleasure him. He found her body, ripe with his growing child, irresistibly erotic.

  ‘You’ve made great strides as a trainer,’ she told him as he walked her out of the gate. ‘Not that I should be surprised, since you apply to that endeavour the same intensity of concentration you employed when memorising the blood lines of the stud and the system used to keep the estate books. Though I must admit, I never really expected you to stay long enough to learn it so well.’

  ‘Why should I not stay?’

  ‘After spending your life at court, in the halls of Parliament, and engaged in great battles, I thought you would find living on a small farm deep in the countryside far too boring.’

  ‘I admit, I once thought that might be true. I’ve come to enjoy being a part of the rhythm of life on a great agricultural property, involving myself in activities I barely noticed when I lived at Swynford Court. There’s a deep satisfaction in coaxing horses to follow my lead, as I used to coax men. I think I’ve come to love it at Denby almost as much as you do.’

  ‘I’m rather surprised, though, that Colonel Brandon hasn’t been urging you to take up your position.’

  ‘I’ve stayed this long, I might as well remain until after the child comes.’

  ‘Truly?’ she asked, surprised.

  ‘Truly.’

  ‘I admit, I will feel...easier, knowing you won’t be leaving.’

  He would too, Max thought. After months with the potential of the Curse simmering at the back of his mind, he was too concerned for her welfare to tolerate the chance of being away when her time came, only if all he could do to help was encourage her. And he truly had found a measure of peace and contentment, working the stud with her, as profound as it was unexpected.

  In fact, he was beginning to wonder if he really wanted to accept Colonel Brandon’s post at all...particularly as it meant he would have to leave Caro and his child for months at a time.

  Suddenly Caro gasped, jerking him from his thoughts. ‘Oh, that was a sharp one!’ she said, putting a hand to her belly.

  ‘What is it?’ Max asked, immediately concerned.

  ‘A contraction, that’s all. Mrs Drewry, the housekeeper, says it’s quite common to have these pains off and on as I near my time.’

  ‘Are you sure? Maybe we ought to summon the midwife.’

  ‘Just like a brood hen—’ she teased before stopping in mid-sentence. Pain contorting her face, she began breathing rapidly.

  ‘Let me carry you to the house,’ Max said, his concern deepening.

  ‘I don’t need to be carried,’ she said fretfully.

  ‘Take my arm, then. We’re sending for the midwife.’

  Before she could reply, another pain hit her. She latched on to Max’s arm, her fingers biting into his flesh. To his further alarm, she made no further protest about calling the midwife.

  * * *

  Ten hours later, the contractions had not abated. Rather, they had grown steadily stronger and more frequent. The midwife had arrived to assist; Dulcie and the housekeeper scurried in and out with hot water, candles, spiced possets and lavender-scented cloths to mop Caro’s sweat-drenched face.

  Max alternately paced the room and sat by her side, wishing there was more he could do than rub her back and hold her hands through the worst of the contractions. Looking down at his wrists ruefully, he realised he was going to have bruises.

  * * *

  But as the night wore on towards morning, her suffering intensifying without the labour seeming to progress, the midwife began to exchange worried glances with the housekeeper. The relatively trouble-free months of Caro’s pregnancy had lulled Max into an increasing confidence that the uproar over the Curse was just a myth, but at the growing concern on the midwife’s face and the deep groans of misery Caro was not able to suppress, he was beginning to lose faith in that theory.

  After one particularly painful bout, when Caro lost the struggle to keep herself from scre
aming, the midwife examined her, then removed her hands, shaking her head.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Max demanded.

  ‘The babe’s turned. Most come head first, which is easiest, but I can feel the babe’s feet. It’s much harder to birth one backwards.’

  ‘Whatever is keeping the damned doctor?’ Max barked, looking over at Dulcie, whom he’d charged to dispatch one of the grooms to bring back the local physician.

  ‘I’ll check again, master,’ Dulcie said, hurrying out.

  Caro’s eyes, which she’d closed to rest between pains, flickered open. ‘Baby...is turned?’

  ‘Yes, missus, I fear so,’ the midwife said.

  She nodded absently, her face pale, her hair damp with sweat, dark circles of fatigue beneath her eyes. ‘Happens...like that sometimes...with horses. Must turn baby.’

  ‘I expect the doctor will try that, when he arrives,’ the midwife said.

  ‘Don’t wait. Do it now.’

  ‘Mistress, I’m not sure I want to try that.’

  ‘Must. Can’t...go on much longer.’

  Icy shards of panic sliced through Max’s veins. If Caro, who never gave up on anything, felt she couldn’t bear much more, things were very bad indeed.

  ‘Do you know what to do?’ he asked the midwife.

  ‘Aye, sir, but ’tis difficult. And will be very painful for your lady wife.’

  ‘If you can’t get it to turn, the baby is going to kill her,’ Max said harshly, putting his worst fear into words for the first time. ‘I’ll hold her. You turn the child.’

  ‘Oh, sir, I be not sure I want to—’

  ‘Do it,’ Caro said again, not opening her eyes. ‘Mrs Thorgood, you...know what to do. Do it now.’

  The midwife took a deep breath. ‘Hold her still as you can, sir.’

  Murmuring encouragement, Max slipped his arms around Caro’s shoulders, leaning her back against his chest. At his nod, the midwife went to work.

  With a wail, Caro bucked in his arms. Ignoring her agony, the midwife pushed and pulled at her belly, while Caro writhed in his arms. Nausea rose in Max’s throat, but he choked it down. If Caro could endure this, so could he.

  Finally, with a cry of triumph, Mrs Thorgood said, ‘Look ye, sir, the babe be turning!’

  Max wasn’t sure exactly what he was seeing, but the contours of Caro’s belly shifted, as if a leviathan inside was flexing and stretching. A few moments later, the midwife said, ‘Babe’s crowning! Hold on, missis, won’t be much longer now!’

  The rest of the birth seemed to happen all in a rush. What seemed a very short time later, the midwife had eased the slippery body free, wiped its mouth, given it a slap on the bottom, and as Max heard his child’s first cry, wrapped it in soft flannel and handed it to him. ‘It’s a fine son you’ve got, Mr Ransleigh.’

  Exhausted himself, Max sat back, looking with wonder at the miniature face peering resentfully up at him from within the flannel folds. ‘It seems my son isn’t any happier about his passage into this world than his mama.’

  Despite his light words, Max’s heartbeat sped and a sense of awe and humility filled him as he looked at the miracle in his arms. He reached over to grasp Caro’s limp hand.

  ‘We have a son, Caro. It’s over now, sweeting.’

  ‘Not quite,’ the midwife said. ‘There’s the afterbirth to come.’

  Before Max could ask what that meant, Caro groaned. Suddenly the sheets beneath her turned red, as if a swift crimson tide had flooded the shore.

  ‘What’s happening now?’ he demanded.

  The midwife’s face blanched. ‘She’s bleeding, poor lamb. Oh, if it weren’t the same thing what killed her poor mama!’

  Max had seen blood on the battlefield, severed limbs, men missing arms, hands, bodies missing heads. But this was Caro, and a fear he’d never felt when facing the enemy’s guns flooded him as the stain on the linen grew wider and wider.

  ‘Can’t you stop it? Stanch it somehow?’

  ‘It comes from within her, sir, where the cord attaches. It’ll stop on its own...if it does.’

  Before the blood loss kills her, his mind filled in the unspoken words.

  ‘What can we do, then?’

  ‘Pray,’ the midwife said.

  So, tucking her cold hand in his, Max prayed. Surely she’d not suffered all the agonies of birth to slip from him now. He pleaded, bargained, begged the Almighty, promising to do whatever the Lord directed, if only he would spare Caro’s life.

  She seemed so still, her pale face waxy. But suddenly he realised the red stain was not getting any larger.

  ‘It’s stopped,’ he whispered to the midwife. ‘Is she safe now?’

  ‘Depends on how much blood she lost. And whether fever sets in.’

  Max stifled a curse. Each time he thought all the perils had ended, another presented itself. The midwife and Dulcie tried to talk him into leaving the room, bathing and changing out of his stable-grimed clothing, taking some dinner, but Max couldn’t bring himself to leave her side. He felt the wholly illogical but none the less overwhelming conviction that if he left the room, he’d lose her for ever.

  So he choked down some soup the housekeeper insisted on bringing him and, as the long hours of the night crept

  towards morning, he dozed fitfully.

  * * *

  Max came fully awake just before dawn...when he realised the cold hand he’d been holding was now burning hot.

  He called for the midwife, who touched her forehead and roused the maid to send for cool water. He was bathing her hands and face with sponges dipped in cool water when at last the doctor arrived.

  ‘Thank heavens you’re finally here,’ Max cried, overwhelmingly relieved to have someone with medical expertise to buttress his ignorance.

  Quickly the midwife related to the doctor what had transpired. After checking the baby and pronouncing him healthy, Dr Sawyer came back to Caro’s bed.

  ‘The fever’s not breaking,’ he observed. ‘I should bleed her.’

  It was the common medical practice, Max knew. ‘But she’s already lost so much blood,’ he protested.

  ‘Bleeding is the only thing that will remove adverse humours from the body,’ the doctor said. ‘It may seem harsh, but better harsh remedies than to lose your wife, eh? If you’ll move aside, sir, I’ll get started.’

  Panicked indecision, worsened by fatigue, distress and the horror of having to stand by impotently while Caro suffered, held him motionless, stubbornly clinging to her hand. He was no medical expert...but on some subconscious level, he felt beyond doubt that bleeding Caro now would kill her.

  ‘I can’t let you,’ he said at last. ‘She’s too weak.’

  ‘She’s too weak to support the contagion in her blood. If I don’t remove some of it, I assure you, she will die.’

  ‘I can’t let you,’ he replied desperately.

  ‘You wish to go against my considered medical opinion, Mr Ransleigh?’ When Max nodded, the doctor said, ‘Then there is nothing else I can do for her. But know this, sir; if the worst happens, her death is on your hands.’

  Considerably affronted, the doctor gathered his tools and left the room. Max stared down at Caro, tossing her head restlessly on the pillow.

  Had he just condemned her to die? Would she die anyway, no matter what anyone did?

  Max had commanded men in battle, ordered troops into positions that had resulted in the death and maiming of many men. But never had he given an order that might have more dire consequences than this one.

  His back ached, the stubble on his cheeks itched and he was tired beyond comprehension. But as dawn moved into daylight, he waved away again any suggestion that he leave Caro to the midwife’s care and sleep.

  He would see her face when she woke...or watch her breathe her last.

  He’d thought he’d felt helpless after Vienna, when control over his future had been wrenched from his hands. He’d thought he’d reached the depths of despair after his father
had repudiated him and Wellington had refused to have anything further to do with him. But never had he felt as despairing and helpless as he did sitting by Caro’s bed, his numb hands bathing her face as Mrs Drewry and Dulcie changed tepid water for fresh.

  Unable to bear the thought that he might never talk with her again, he said, ‘Newman told Dulcie that Sultan is pacing his stall. It seems he knows you are ill and is concerned for you. He wants his favourite rider back again. The grooms are putting the two-year-olds on lunge lines today and half the four-year-olds began dressage; you should see Scheherazade high-stepping, as if he were born to the knack! But I’ll need your help with the colts who aren’t yet saddle-broken; I still don’t know how to do that. Your son is waiting to become acquainted, too. You do know you have a son, don’t you?’

  She lay still and silent now. His vision blurring with unshed tears, Max continued, ‘He’ll need you to sit him on his first pony, teach him to train his horse and read its moods, as his mother can. Caro, you can’t l-leave me yet. There’s too much left for us to share.’

  On and on he talked, as if he could hold her to life by the power of his voice. That slight figure on the bed, now shivering with fever, now burning his fingers with her heat, had been the sole focus of his life for nearly six months now. Every day, she’d come to fascinate him more than she had the first time he’d met her, in that preposterous gown and those ridiculous glasses.

  She’d touched his soul as profoundly as she’d pleasured his body. He couldn’t envision a future without her. As soon as she was out of danger, he’d write to Colonel Brandon, turning down the post. What need had he to puff himself off with a high government position, trying to persuade his father or anyone else he was important?

  He belonged at Denby Lodge with Caro...whose opinion of him was the only one that mattered.

  Why had he not realised until this day, when he might lose her for ever, how much he’d come to love her?

  Finally, some time after noon, exhaustion claimed him. Slumped over her bed, he fell asleep, his head resting beside hers on the pillow.