“My eyes?” she asked, her words soulful.
Alex was confused by her behavior. “Often matters can be determined about a patient’s health by looking into their eyes.”
Underneath his fingertips, her pulse quickened, and he felt her arm begin to tremble. My word! Was she crying?
“Miss Galbraith?”
“Tell her t’ leave,” she whispered at last. “The innkeeper’s wife?” Fiona nodded.
Puzzled, Alex motioned for the woman to step outside. She did so, leaving the door partly open.
“She’s gone,” Alex assured.
Slowly, Fiona lifted her head. Her right eyelid hung halfway down, as though stuck, and twitched madly, causing the thin ivory skin around it to pulse.
“Did something get into your eye?” Alex asked, at once concerned. He brushed his thumb near her throbbing temple and was startled when she jerked backward, as though he’d struck her.
“It oft happens when I grow upset and weary. Ever since I was a child. It starts and stops withoot warning.”
“Have you been to see a physician?”
“There isna one near Kennerith.”
Alex considered her words and hoped she wouldn’t get angry by the suggestion he was about to offer. “Miss Galbraith, I know little about afflictions of the eye, though I suspect this has to do with the nerves and not the actual eye itself. However, my uncle has studied the subject in depth and is a good friend of Dr. Thomas Young, who is quite knowledgeable in matters concerning the eye. Perhaps they could be of service to you. There is still much in the field of medicine that we as physicians do not understand and are only just discovering, but if anyone would know how to help you, these two men should.”
She sat very still, her one good eye looking at him. He was relieved to see that it was clear and alert, the pupil normal. She appeared in fine health despite her earlier encounter. If there had been any blood on her brow, it was gone now. Looking closer, Alex discerned a shallow scrape near her temple.
“You dinna think me cursed?” she asked quietly. “Or a witch?”
“Of course not!” Alex wondered how she could arrive at such a conclusion. He smiled. “At times I might think you overly determined and a little reckless, but I’ve never thought evil of you.” He cupped her face, his thumb again brushing the skin near her eye above her cheekbone, and was relieved to note that the twitching had slowed.
Her good eye lowered. “Thank ye, Dr. Spencer.”
Suddenly he became aware of how soft her skin felt, how silky her damp curls were as they brushed his fingers. He withdrew his hand from her cheek and stood. “I prescribe a good night’s sleep.” He hoped his tone sounded professional. “I shall see you in the morning.”
She looked up. “Will ye search for them this night?”
“No. To seek them in such weather would prove fruitless. I’ve given some consideration to the matter. Chances are, Beaufort continued on to Glasgow, in the hopes of finding better accommodations since that city is quite large—much larger than this. Perhaps with God’s help we shall waylay our siblings on the road tomorrow. And now, I shall bid you a good night, Miss Galbraith. Pleasant dreams.”
He moved to the doorway, barely hearing her wispy “good night” in return.
Fiona watched Alex’s back as he rode ahead of her. They were in unfamiliar territory and had been since they’d left Glasgow two days ago where he’d taken the lead. Just like her brief interlude in the small burgh of Stirling, Glasgow was a frightening experience for Fiona. Thousands upon thousands of people hurried amid huge buildings that loomed in all directions, making her want to flee the teeming city and run back to her empty, wild Highland hills, where only deer and sheep and what amounted to fewer than fifty people dotted the burgh near the castle.
Alex had seemed to understand how overwhelmed Fiona felt, for he paid solicitous attention to her without belittling her. It came as a shock that she hadn’t minded his courtesies one bit. Since the night Alex had rescued her from those drunken men, showing nothing but kindness after learning of her affliction—and not calling her evil, as others had done—Fiona had moved past the point of merely tolerating Alex’s company. She actually was starting to like it.
If her great-great-grandfather Angus knew, he would roll over in his grave.
Uneasy, Fiona fidgeted in the saddle, focusing her attention beyond Alex to the scenic area they’d entered only that morning. The gently rolling hills were mostly uniform in size with trees at their base and granite at their tops—but nothing like the untamed beauty of her Highland mountains. Black-faced sheep spotted the fertile grasses, the white wooly animals as plentiful as they were at Kennerith.
She looked ahead to a river they were approaching. At this point, it wasn’t wider than any others they’d crossed, but the bridge was in sad repair, the stones soft and crumbling away at a few places, and it didn’t look capable of bearing their weight.
Fiona guided Skye beside Alex, who halted his horse and stared at the flowing peat-brown water. Here it must be deep, for Fiona couldn’t see bottom. Alex’s expression reflected the doubt she felt. He looked up and down for another way across, then guided Barrag along the rocky bank. Soon, they saw a lad of about eleven years. He was crouched near the water’s edge and appeared to be looking for something. At their approach, he lifted his head.
“Do you know of another way across?” Alex asked. “The bridge doesn’t appear safe. We are headed to Gretna Green.”
The lad eyed them a moment before he straightened and pushed a tangle of wild, barley-colored hair from his eyes. “Aye, that I may, bu’ it’ll be costin’ you.” He spoke in the familiar Highland brogue, making Fiona feel less homesick. For the past few days she’d heard nothing but the broad Lowland way of talk from a Scotsman.
Alex raised his eyebrows. “What is your price?”
“I dropped me reed in the river.” He pointed to a slim stick with holes, floating out of his reach. It was stuck against some tall grasses growing in the water. “Fetch it, and I’ll show ye the way across. I even ken a shortcut, if ye’ve the stomach for it.”
“My, but that does sound intriguing,” Alex said with an amused smirk. He swung down from Barrag. “Very well. Show me this reed, and I’ll do my best to retrieve it.”
The boy again pointed it out, and Alex hunched down, putting one hand to a rock on the bank and reaching toward the reed with the other. His fingertips barely brushed the stick. He stretched farther, lost his balance, and fell into the river with a loud splash.
“Oh my!” Fiona chuckled and nudged Skye closer. She watched Alex surface, then grab the bank and hoist himself out. He snatched up his hat floating nearby and stood, river water streaming from his clothes.
The boy let out a delighted whoop. “Me reed!” He plucked it from the water. Alex’s thrashing about had caused the stick to move within the lad’s reach. “It’s thanks I’m owin’ t’ ye.”
Alex’s expression was stiff. “So happy to oblige,” he muttered, removing his coat and waistcoat and wringing out the dripping material. “And now if you’ll show us your shortcut?”
“Aye.” Smiling, the boy raised the reed to his mouth and fingered the holes, producing pathetic gurgling notes. He shrugged. “It needs only t’ dry. Come along then.”
Alex moved to Barrag, his polished black boots making squishing sounds. “How well I can relate,” he said under his breath, and Fiona chuckled. Once he mounted, he looked her way.
She couldn’t prevent the grin that flickered on her lips at the sight he made. His dark hair was plastered to his head in little waves. His pantaloons and shirt clung to him, outlining upper arms and a chest that looked surprisingly toned and accustomed to a hard day’s work. Fiona would have thought that doctors engaged in little exercise except to visit their patients.
Alex returned her smile as he donned his dry cloak. “Indeed, judging by your expression, I must look a sight. Happily, the sun is shining, and the day is quite pleasant.�
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Fiona was certain his explanation of the sun’s warmth must be what made her insides glow. She couldn’t remember feeling this light and carefree in a long time. Forcing her focus on the wee piper leading the way and not on the tall Englishman riding beside her, Fiona sobered, reminding herself that she was on a mission. There was no place for foolish thought.
They followed the lad through a cool forest. Here, a shallow burn bubbled over gray rocks, and birdsong filled the trees. A woodpecker’s taps clattered from somewhere upstream. The boy continued to lead them, playing his gurgling reed.
“Christopher!” A fair-haired girl with freckles burst through a stand of firs and came running toward them. “The bairn comes, and Mam says I maun fetch Daddy. There be trouble. She canna stop screaming.” Terror etched the delicate features of the child smaller than Christopher.
“Am I to understand your mother is in childbirth?” Alex asked.
The girl looked his way, surprise in her eyes—whether from his drenched condition or the sudden realization that her brother wasn’t alone, Fiona wasn’t sure. The child nodded.
“Is there a midwife present?”
The girl shook her head, her lower lip beginning to tremble as her eyes filled with tears. “An’ we havena doctor, either.”
Alex hesitated, pensive. His gaze went to Fiona, and in his eyes, she sensed an apology. He looked at the frightened girl. “You have a doctor now. Take me to her.”
Chapter 6
With little recourse, Fiona also decided to delay the journey and followed the trio. Her own mother had died in childbirth, and Fiona’s heart ached in empathy at the fear she’d seen on the children’s faces. If she could do something to help, she would. She could still remember Gwynneth and herself as wee children, huddled in each other’s arms as they listened to their mother’s screams from a far-off chamber. Later, their father came to tell them that the baby and their mother were dead. Months later, he was killed in an accident—his neck broken from a fall off his horse, an accident no doubt aided by the endless drams of ale he’d drunk in a futile effort to numb his grief.
Fiona hoped these children weren’t to experience a similar childhood. She had lived a pleasant life at Kennerith, once she and Gwynneth moved in with their grandparents, but rarely a day went by that she didn’t miss her mother or wonder about her.
They approached a small cottage. Instantly Alex dismounted and hurried inside after the boy and girl. Fiona followed.
A glance in the next room revealed a woman who lay deathly still on a crudely made bed. At first Fiona feared it was too late, but when Alex took her hand, the woman stirred. “I’m Dr. Spencer,” he said reassuringly, “and I’m going to try to help you.”
The woman said nothing, only closed her eyes. As Alex bent over her, Fiona turned to the children behind her. Beside Christopher and his sister, a child of approximately three years stood, her curled index finger hanging from her mouth. The wee tot stared at her mother’s inert form. Fiona closed the door and gently drew the small lass away. She studied the humble dwelling, noticing the distinct smell of cooked haggis. Obviously the woman had been preparing a meal before her pains struck.
“Are you hungry?” Fiona asked the children.
All three shook their heads no.
A low, eerie moan from the next room quickly grew into a pitiful wail, then a scream. The small child ran to her sister, throwing her arms around the girl and burying her face in her frock. After the scream died away, Alex stepped outside, closing the door behind him.
“Miss Galbraith, if I might have a word with you?”
Fiona moved his way, the grave look on his face sharpening her apprehension.
“The baby is turned around,” he said, his voice low, “and I must confess, I’ve never been faced with a breech presentation. Your prayers would be most appreciated.”
“Of course.”
Alex eyed the three sober faces of the children. “Perhaps it would be best if you took them outside. If I need you, I’ll call.”
He reentered the small room, and Fiona herded the children outdoors. The sunlight warmed her shoulders, chasing away the chill of death that seemed to pervade the hut. The children stood as though uncertain. She must give them something to do to get their minds off what was happening inside the cottage.
Fiona looked at Christopher. “Have you any idea where your father might be?”
The boy nodded. “He went to a nearby burgh.”
“Perhaps you should fetch him?”
“I am no’ allowed, bu’ Garth may do so.”
“Garth?”
“My brother. He tends the sheep in the high pasture.”
Fiona felt a measure of relief. “Fetch Garth, then, and be quick aboot it.”
“Aye.” The boy raced toward one of the nearby hills.
Fiona felt a tug at her skirt and looked down at the smallest girl.
“Please t’ tell me,” she whispered, her blue eyes huge. “Is my mither t’ die?”
A rush of emotion swept through Fiona, threatening to close her throat. She crouched low and took gentle hold of the girl’s shoulders. “We’ll pray for her—aye? And for the bairn. My grandmother oft spoke that the Almighty protects what is His own and listens t’ the prayers of His children. Will ye pray with me?”
The girl nodded.
“What’s your name?”
“Marget.”
“And I’m Sadie,” her sister said.
“I’m Fiona. Sit ye doon, the both of you, and let us pray.”
“Are we no’ t’ kneel?” Sadie asked.
Fiona’s limbs were tired from the long ride, and the cool grass felt good. “I dinna think the Lord should mind this once.”
The two girls sat cross-legged on the ground with Fiona, the three of them forming a circle. Closing her eyes, Fiona murmured a heartfelt prayer. She felt first Marget’s cool hand slip into hers, where it lay on her lap, then Sadie’s slid into her other one. At the unexpected contact, Fiona’s words abruptly stopped, and she almost lost all train of thought. Then with eyes still closed, she continued the prayer and gently squeezed each of the girls’ hands.
Alex released a weary breath. He wiped off his hands and arms with a spare cloth he’d found, directing a smile toward the exhausted but happy mother and the sleeping babe beside her. There for a while, he had thought he might lose them both. He’d heard of physicians’ attempts to manually turn the child while in the womb, but most all such cases ended in death for both mother and child. Alex had stood, uncertain, as he debated on the right course to take, trying to reassure the tortured woman, do his work, and pray at the same time. Miraculously, the babe turned of its own accord—or perhaps the Lord’s hand had nudged it? In his profession, Alex occasionally witnessed wonders that couldn’t be attributed to medicine, and with the many prayers being lifted up on this woman’s behalf, Alex wouldn’t be surprised if divine intervention had been the cause this time as well.
Now, many hours after their arrival to the cottage, Alex pulled down his rolled-up sleeves, fastened them, donned his wrinkled and damp waistcoat and overcoat, grabbed his hat, and stepped into the next room.
A stocky man with a red face immediately rose from a chair, fear written upon his features. Earlier, when the husband arrived, he had rushed into the room, paled, and stumbled back out.
“She’s dead,” he now whispered.
“She’s alive and well,” Alex contradicted. “As is your son.”
“Son?” A radiant smile crossed the man’s craggy features. “Might I see them?”
“Of course. She’s weak, as is to be expected, but she’s awake.”
The man walked into the next room, closing the door behind him, and Alex took a chair at the table. Fiona set a bowl of stew in front of the oldest girl and then eyed him.
“You look wearied,” she said. “Are ye hungry? There’s a good barley stew t’ fill your belly … unless you would prefer the haggis.”
At the
spark of mischief in her eyes, Alex couldn’t resist. “Which is …?”
“The liver, heart, and lungs of a sheep cooked in its stomach, along with suet, oats, and onions. Make no mistake about it, ’tis a food for warriors. All my ancestors ate haggis before doin’ battle.”
He didn’t point out that the sheepherder and his wife hardly looked like warrior material, though after what that woman had been through the past several hours, perhaps they were. The ingredients didn’t sound appealing, but Alex had a fondness for steak and kidney pie, which was somewhat similar, he supposed—though baked in a crust and not a sheep’s stomach.
He watched her walk to the fire pit in the middle of the room and dish stew into a bowl. “I shall take a serving of the haggis,” he said.
She spun around in surprise, then gave a slight nod. “Very well.”
When she began to tip the stew back into the hanging pot, Alex added, “No—I’ll take that, too. I’m quite famished, actually.”
Fiona set the food before him and sank to a chair. Alex looked at the shiny brown and unappealing mass, a mix of mashed potato and rutabagas on the side, tentatively took a bite of the haggis and chewed. She watched him as though waiting for him to retch or explode, Alex wasn’t sure which. The dish wasn’t as tasty as the favored kidney pie, rather gamey with a strong distinctive flavor, but it was edible. He took another bite.
“You like it?” she asked in surprise.
“I wouldn’t ask our cook to put it on Darrencourt’s menu, but it will suffice.” He smiled at her, and she looked at the fire, seeming uneasy.
“About this delay, you have my apologies, Miss Galbraith, but I simply couldn’t ignore a woman in need.”
“You didna hold me here. I stayed of my own accord.”
Wishing to reassure her, Alex said, “I’m reasonably certain we still have a chance to reach our siblings in time.”
British Brides Collection Page 56
