by Henke, Shirl
When they approached the last quarter of the track and Armbruster saw that he had not shaken the bay or the gray, he dug his spurs into the straining animal and quirted him frantically. All three horses approached the muddy area close together. By the second time around, it had become badly churned up and was treacherous. The gray's rider slowed his mount to allow for the uncertain footing, but Armbruster whipped his dun on, with Devon gaining quickly.
Just as they drew neck and neck, Armbruster tried to rein his horse closer to the inside circle of the track. It was a mistake. The animal stumbled on the slick chunks of muddy earth, sliding to his knees and sending the Jersey man tumbling over his head. Devon let Firebrand have his head now, knowing the Indian mount was used to muddy backroad trails.
By the time they had cleared the treacherous stretch, he was so far ahead of the gray that it was no contest. The winner sailed across the finish line to the cheers of his Muskogee friends as well as a good number of rivermen and farmers who had bet on him.
Surrounded by well-wishers, Devon searched for Barbara in the crowd. She stood at the edge of the press beside a very glum-looking Major Montgomery and a livid Andrew, while Weymouth strode over to collect on the bets he had placed. Hat abandoned, her hair hung in a dripping mass down her back, and her pale green petticoats were liberally sprayed with sand and mud. She looked glorious.
A small, grimy little hand tugged at the tails of his jacket as he received congratulations and was paid handsomely by numerous losing gamblers. Dev turned in irritation, expecting the urchin to beg for a share in his bounty, but when the boy whispered the message in his ear, he was amazed. He looked up and his startled eyes met Barbara's again. She nodded to him, then turned quickly and walked toward her carriage before he could shake his head in refusal.
As they rode toward Blackthorne Hill, Barbara wondered if Dev would follow her there. She had not dared to look at his face for more than a brief glance when the boy delivered her message. What would he do? If he did dare to come, what would she do?
“I say, Barbara, you are aware that my uncle Robert will be...difficult?” Andrew made a discreet cough as he waited for her to reply.
They rode side by side, accompanied by a dozen armed soldiers. Monty was taking no chance with the rebel partisans. Barbara looked over at Andrew's pale, intense face and was again struck with how little she liked the man, although he had done nothing untoward to her. She wondered how he would feel about seeing Dev at Blackthorne Hill, then answered his question with candor.
“I realize that Robert Blackthorne hates the Caruthers family. But he's ill, often confined to bed with bouts of fever.I doubt he'll be able to horsewhip me from the premises.” Or Dev. “Anyway, Madelyne asked me to come, and she needs me now that her time is near.”
Andrew flushed in annoyance. It was bad enough that Quintin's wife was breeding without this arrogant Englishwoman rubbing his nose in it. ”I should think an unmarried lady such as yourself would be better off visiting after the blessed event.”
She gave him an assessing look that revealed just a hint of her animosity. “But Madelyne needs me now.” Her voice was flat as she kicked her horse into a canter and rode ahead. Monty had wanted them to use his chair, but the thought of being confined in such a small conveyance for hours with Andrew Blackthorne had made her skin crawl.
* * * *
Madelyne could hear Delphine moving about the room, but her eyes were squeezed tightly closed as she focused on breathing.
“Jest relax now. Doan fight the pain. Only make it worse. Easy, easy.” The big black woman's hands were as soothing as her voice. She had been repeating her encouragements and offering small bits of advice for hours.
The first cramping contraction had hit Madelyne while she was overseeing the candle dipping. Delphine had arrived immediately. To her surprise the cook, who was the senior midwife on the plantation, instructed her to continue her usual activities, walking around the yard. She assigned two girls from the kitchen to stay with her and hold her up when a contraction hit her, but for hours the pains had been irregularly spaced.
When they came around ten minutes apart, Delphine ushered her upstairs but kept her walking about the large bedroom. Madelyne couldn't help but stare at the big,lonely bed where she and Quint had made love so often. If only he were here for his child's birth! When the cramps were less than five minutes apart, Delphine put her in bed and began to gently massage her rounded abdomen and press cool cloths to her sweaty face.
She felt the last contraction ease and opened her eyes. “Delphine, do you think Barbara will come? It's been nearly a week since I sent the letter.”
“She say she comin'. She be here. Doan worry ‘bout nothin' else now but this here little one. Won't be long now.”
Voices echoed from downstairs and then the sound of footfalls on the carpeted stairs. Shortly, the slight, rumpled figure of Noble Witherspoon appeared at the door.
“What you doin' here?” Delphine drew herself up to her full magisterial height of five feet ten inches.
By comparison, the five-foot-three-inch physician seemed puny, but he was undaunted. “I've been caring for Mrs. Blackthorne ever since she became pregnant. I'm here to deliver the baby.” He opened his bag and began to sort through it.
”I been deliverin' all the babies born on Blackthorne Hill for forty years,” Delphine replied, affronted.
“Well, Quintin Blackthorne is my friend. I've treated him and will do the same for his wife. You don't have leave to be such a tyrant just because Quint freed you, Delphine.”
The big black woman made a snort of disgust and narrowed her eyes on the little doctor. “Jest cause he done freed me doan mean I free him—or his family!”
Madelyne began to laugh as the two antagonists squared off on opposite sides of her bed, but then another pain gripped her, far worse than any before it. “You two had better call a truce and attend to the business that brought us all together,” she gasped. ”I think the new master of Blackthorne Hill wants to be born!”
* * * *
The slaves' grapevine moved with incredible speed. At Blackthorne Hill, the mistress had just brought Master Quintin's son into the world. Within a few hours word had spread to the Golden Swan.
Devon Blackthorne sat at a corner table, nursing a mug of ale and wrestling with his conscience when he heard Polly excitedly receive the news. Should he go to meet Barbara? No, of course not. It was a reckless, foolish thing to do. She was all but engaged to her fish-eyed colonel—who also happened to be a fabulously wealthy viscount, he reminded himself glumly. She was better off among her own kind. But he did owe it to Madelyne Blackthorne, living all alone with hateful old Robert, to look in on her and her newborn baby.
“You're fooling yourself, my man,” he muttered as he shoved back his chair and rose.
“Where ‘er you goin', you young devil? I got at least three of my girls upstairs pinin' somethin' awful to have you in their beds,” Polly said as she gave Dev a hug. “You just arrived last night and didn't even ask for Moll. She's in a real taking, I don't mind tellin' you.”
“Tell her I slept alone, Polly,” he said. “Really, I was pining for you, but since you've reformed, well...” He gave her a wink and a kiss on the cheek.
Blushing like a schoolgirl, Polly chuckled. “Go on with you. Such honeyed words. You'll bring down a dozen black bears from the hills with such sweet talk.”
“Well I'm heading for the Hill. Better to face a dozen bears than beard Uncle Robert in his own lair. Wish me luck, love.”
Her ruddy, weathered face lost all traces of humor. “Dev, you know how Robert feels. Why—”
“I just heard the news about my cousin's heir. I've met Quint's wife. She's as good and kind as she is loyal. Quint doesn't deserve her. She's alone and could probably use a bit of cheering, don't you agree?”
Polly gave him a highly dubious look. “You, Andrew, and that fancy English ladyship all goin' to get on together?”
&
nbsp; Dev shrugged, but his usual careless insouciance was missing. “I'm used to handling Andrew. I'll let you know about the Englishwoman,” he added, patting her well-padded rump as he tossed a coin for the drink on the scarred table.
“Good luck, Dev. Yer gonna need it.”
When Devon arrived at Blackthorne Hill, everyone was thrilled about the birth of the heir. The stableman who took his bay had been busily collecting on a bet with the smithy regarding the child's sex. He regarded Devon with round-eyed wonder.
“Ain't seen you, Mastah Devon, in many a long year, sinc't you be a tad. Growed up real good.”
“Thank you, Obediah. I appreciate the welcome, knowing full well how my uncle feels about me.”
“Good luck, Mastah Devon.”
When Devon reached the big house, he stood on the front stoop for a moment, looking about the scattered buildings of Robert Blackthorne's kingdom. The creek he and Quint used to swim in was just over the hill, and the dairy where they stole cream was down the road. Bittersweet memories of a childhood long past and a friendship sundered by war flooded his senses. Even though Robert Blackthorne had forbidden their association, he and Quint had been like brothers, stealing off to play together in secret. He pushed away the melancholy thoughts and let the heavy brass door knocker fall.
Almost instantly it was answered by a small black girl, barely old enough to be serving as a maid. A raspy voice called out from behind her, “Place is becoming a damned wayfaring inn. Who—” Robert stopped abruptly at the foot of the wide circular staircase and stared in amazement at Devon. His face, pale and haggard, quickly darkened with apoplectic fury. “What, by all that's holy, are you doing in my home?”
“You've always been in a poor position to invoke anything holy, Uncle Robert,” Devon replied as he walked slowly across the entry hall to where the old man stood.
“Get out, you mongrel savage!”
”I may be one quarter Muskogee, but at least I wear the king's colors—unlike your own treacherous son,” Devon said with a smoothness he was far from feeling.
Robert's face went from ruddy to purplish. “I'll have you horsewhipped. I'll do it myself!” He took a step toward Devon with his fist raised, only to stagger and fall backward, clutching the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. His breath came in great labored gulps, and his face was beaded with perspiration.
Devon instructed the serving girl to run and fetch Delphine, but before she even reached the end of the hallway, Andrew had entered the room and took in the scene.
“I heard Uncle Robert shouting. Small wonder. What crack-brained whim possessed you to come here?” he asked as he knelt beside his brother, who had eased Robert to a reclining position on the carpeted steps.
“I've met Quint's wife and had a feeling she might enjoy a friendly face,” Devon said, noting the way Andrew stiffened.
”I am her friend. She certainly doesn't need to visit with a half-caste scoundrel like you.”
Andrew's voice sounded pompous and at the same time oddly wary to Devon's ears. Before Devon could reply, Barbara's voice interrupted him. He turned and drank in her radiant beauty.
“Carry him upstairs to his room,” she instructed the two brothers, then turned to Toby. “Send for Dr. Witherspoon.” When the elderly servant left, she watched Dev as he and Andrew lifted the unconscious Robert and ascended the stairs with him.
So you came after all.
“Why are you here? Don't give me that twaddle about seeing Madelyne, either,” Andrew hissed as they laid Robert on the big walnut four-poster bed in his room.
“Madelyne did ask to see your brother, Andrew,” Barbara said as she looked at Dev's hands, busy unfastening Robert's shoes. “And I wanted to talk with him as well. After all, he was responsible for my winning a great deal of money.”
“Monty and I lost even more,” Andrew replied stiffly, wanting desperately to get the troublesome female out of the room so he could talk to Devon alone.
“Your brother really is a reckless gambler if he let Andrew here influence his betting,” Devon said to Barbara as he peeled down Robert's stockings.
”I know only too well how reckless Monty can be,” she replied softly, her eyes locking with Dev's.
“Speaking of reckless, coming here was really a rash, inconsiderate thing to do. You knew how Uncle Robert would react,” Andrew interjected.
“Here's Toby. Let him tend to your uncle, Andrew,” Barbara said as the valet entered the room and hovered worriedly at the foot of the bed. Delphine, with her medicine basket, followed immediately behind and began to shoo the useless white folks from Robert's sickbed.
Barbara linked her arm through Dev's and led him toward the door. “I fear I must take things in hand, Mr. Blackthorne, since your brother is being such an absolute beast. We were never formally introduced. I am Lady Barbara Caruthers.”
“I remember you well, your ladyship,” he replied, his voice laden with double meaning, “from the racetrack. Devon Blackthorne, at your service.” He lifted her hand from his arm and kissed it gallantly. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled in warning as he felt Andrew's cold pale eyes on the two of them. This is madness.
“You'll have to leave, of course,” Andrew said peremptorily.
“He most certainly will not. Madelyne has just given Blackthorne Hill its new heir. She wished to see Mr. Blackthorne,” Barbara said, giving Andrew one of her lightly scolding, frivolous-belle smiles as she whisked Devon down the hallway toward the stairs.
Andrew seethed with impotent rage, but held his peace. He knew which direction the wind blew. Ever since old Robert had fallen ill and Quintin had fled in disgrace, Madelyne had taken over running the plantation. Now that she'd also provided a male heir, no one would do anything on Blackthorne Hill without her approval. Even that prim-faced old housekeeper kept her distance. He would do nothing to displease his “dear cousin” until Quintin was dead and she safely wed to him.
As they walked downstairs, Andrew watched Barbara and Devon with interest. Was the chit so intent on foisting his half-caste brother on him just because she disliked him—or was there something between Devon and the arrogant English beauty? He dismissed the idea as absurd. There was no way they could even have met before the other day at the race. Still, Devon had always had a way of charming women into simpering idiocy. Again he cursed his father for his ill-considered second marriage and the fates for giving the offspring of that union his striking handsomeness whilst he, the pure-blooded heir, resembled his mother's undistinguished-looking family.
“While you escort Devon to see my dear cousin, I shall attend to some pressing matters belowstairs. Tell her I'll be up to see her and the boy before dinner.” Lud, what a ghastly ordeal the meal would be, sharing table with his savage half-brother and the spiteful Barbara Caruthers!
* * * *
“So, this is the new heir of Blackthorne Hill. A little on the small side, but I imagine he’ll grow,” Devon said as Madelyne lifted the mosquito netting from the baby's cradle. His eyes danced teasingly as he made his inspection.
“His name is James Quintin Blackthorne, after my grandfather and his father—and he is not small,” Madelyne replied proudly as she lifted the dozing infant from the cradle. “Here, lift him and see for yourself.” She extended the small wriggling bundle toward the young bachelor.
Devon threw up his hands in mock surrender. “I'll take your word for it, Madelyne. He looks right lusty.”
Madelyne lightly caressed the cap of fine black hair on the babe's head. “He has his father's hair and soon will have the green eyes, too,” she said softly.
“Have you been able to get word to Quint that he's a father?” Devon tried to keep the edge from his voice.
Madelyne shrugged helplessly. “I've as little liking for the Liberty Boys as they have for me, but I sent a message through indirect sources. I don't know how long it will take or if it will reach him.” Or if he even cares.
“Nonsense, if even half of
what we hear about those rebels is true, he'll receive every detail of young James's birth in a trice,” Barbara said soothingly, knowing how heavily the matter weighed on Madelyne's mind. “I'm certain someone at the Golden Swan will get through to him.”
“Polly's place?” Devon asked in amazement.
Barbara turned to Devon with a superior smile. “You've only just arrived in Savannah, Mr. Blackthorne. My brother has had Mistress Bloor on his list of suspected rebel sympathizers for some time now. You really should get on better with Monty, you know.” She cocked her head at him coquettishly.
“Damn if a man knows who's friend and who's foe in this accursed war,” Devon said in amazement, recalling how he and Barbara had found Quint hidden at the Swan. Perhaps ...
Madelyne's chin went up as she held her son. ”I knew Quint was a rebel, Devon.” She could no longer make herself use the word “traitor.” ”I couldn't betray him. Censure me for it if you will. I've already done so a thousand times, yet I would not see my husband die.”
Devon sighed in frustration. “Neither would I, Madelyne, now that the shock of betrayal has worn off. But we're men on opposing sides in war.”
“And nothing's to be gained by discussing this further,” Barbara said, steering Devon toward the door as she spoke to Madelyne. “You feed the young master there, and I'll be up to help you decide what dress to wear to dinner tonight. With Devon as a guest and Robert confined to bed, we should have a perfectly delightful time of it.”
“If we promise not to discuss politics,” Devon said, smiling at Madelyne.
“My lips are sealed,” she replied as the baby began to cry loudly.
“Mine, too, but obviously Master James's aren't.” He gave both women a lopsided smile as he left the room.
