Balfour appeared almost pathetic in his desire to be of service to his wife. “Of course. Anything.”
“You need to be here,” Ned told him. “However, Mars?”
The earl stepped forward, almost as eager for action as Balfour.
“Fetch Gemma Estep.”
Chapter Seventeen
Ned was never far from Gemma’s thoughts in spite of her doing everything she could to keep busy.
She told herself she had regrets about turning him away. She was also grateful that he had come to her . . . that her feelings, especially the depth of them, were not one-sided. He loved her.
And she believed him. After so many betrayals, she hadn’t lost her ability to trust. Who knew that would be such a gift?
She also loved him enough to let him go. To do what was best for both of them.
Even if she and Ned defied convention, if they eloped or ran away, the giving up of dreams that had meant so much to them would hang over their heads.
No, the only option was to do what was honorable. Or so she kept telling herself.
Her only antidote was work. She and Fitz had hung shelves and then she’d finished creating smelling salts with the awakening scent of peppermint. Her soaps were almost ready to be wrapped in paper and string, and she’d put her ointment for joint pain in small tins that Mr. Pointer, the tinker, had found for her.
That man was a godsend. She’d given Mr. Pointer a list of things she wanted and when he had them, he paid a call. Other items had to be ordered in the post, which took forever and was usually more costly.
She’d focused on what she could have, not what she couldn’t. Just as she must with Ned Thurlowe.
Except . . . he had told her he loved her. Loved her.
And she held those words very close in her heart.
They were well into the afternoon when she heard a pounding on the kitchen door. She opened it cautiously. Lord Marsden was outside.
“Good afternoon, my lord.”
“Gemma, I don’t have time for manners. I require your assistance immediately. Mrs. Balfour is in labor and Thurlowe requested your help.”
“My help? I’m not a midwife.”
“I only do what I am told. Please come.”
“Let me gather my herb bag.”
“As long as you do it immediately.”
Within minutes she was sitting behind Lord Marsden on the biggest horse she’d ever seen. She’d thrown on a cape but she’d been in too much of a hurry to fool with a bonnet.
“Hold on,” he warned, and it was a good thing Gemma listened. Otherwise, she would have rolled off the back of the horse when the animal leaped into motion and hit the ground at a gallop. They raced through the village and would probably have run over anyone silly enough to step in their path.
Cradling her bag of herbs, teas, and salves between herself and Lord Marsden’s body, Gemma prayed she would survive this trip. The horse continued to pick up speed as if he was some ethereal creature.
Gemma had never been to the Balfour home, although she’d heard much about it. Mr. Woodman was one of the carpenters and his wife, Agnes, always had tidbits of gossip lavishly shared amongst the matrons.
Now, charging up the drive, she could see Mr. Balfour pacing in front of the house, waiting for them. The beast came to an abrupt halt. Mr. Balfour had hurried forward and offered a steadying hand, which Gemma appreciated because she was ready to fall off the horse. Without a word to Lord Marsden, Mr. Balfour directed her up the stairs and through the front door.
“I am Brandon Balfour. Thank you for coming, Mrs. Estep,” he said as they walked. He hustled her up the stairs.
“Gemma,” she said, correcting him. “Please call me Gemma, and I am not a midwife.”
“She’s adamant that we know that,” Lord Marsden said, following up the stairs behind them. He’d handed his horse off to a stable lad and hadn’t bothered to remove his gloves or hat.
“Thurlowe sent for you and that is all that matters,” Mr. Balfour said as a way of explanation. Like his friends, he was a broad-shouldered, handsome man. “Please, this way.” He escorted her down a carpeted hall. The walls showed signs of where repairs were being done. “Pardon us,” he murmured. “We are making changes to the house.”
Gemma had heard of the renovations the Balfours had undertaken. She was curious. After all, she was making her own changes to The Garland. However, now was not the time to exchange thoughts on their projects.
From a door at the end of the hall came the sound of a woman’s sharp cry of pain. A cry Gemma remembered too clearly coming from her own lips.
She tried to slow her step. “I’m not a midwife,” she repeated almost breathlessly, when in truth, what she didn’t want was to relive those moments of her own daughter being born. The daughter who she’d longed for and who had not lived.
Except, Mr. Balfour kept pushing her forward. He wasn’t about to let her resist. They reached the door. Mr. Balfour knocked.
It opened. Ned was there. He appeared tired, exhausted . . . and she sensed something else. He was afraid.
In that moment, her reservations about helping with this birth vanished. Instead of herself, she thought of a patient in need, and the man she loved—and she did love him—asking for her help. When he looked at her with an expression that conveyed his need for her presence, all resistance ceased to matter.
He pulled her in. He shut the door, and she felt as if she’d entered a different world.
The drapes were pulled against the afternoon sun. The golden lamplight cast globes of light on the huge four-poster bed with its white sheets. There was a surreal calm inside the bedroom punctuated by the sound of a woman’s breathing as she prepared for her next contraction.
Kate Balfour lay in the middle of the bed. She was pale. Too pale. She almost blended with the sheets. A maid held her hand while another sat in a chair, her head down as if defeated.
“How long has she been like this?” Gemma murmured.
“Labor started yesterday evening.” Ned drew her to a far corner of the bedroom. He whispered, “I believe the cord is entangled.”
An entangled cord? Anytime she’d heard of an entangled cord, it had meant death. The cord prevented the baby from leaving the womb. Gemma knew that much. The cord could suffocate the child, who would then need to be removed from the mother, an always dangerous and tragic task. Or, if the labor continued on without respite, both baby and mother would eventually die.
“Dear Lord.” She looked up at Ned, wanting to help him and knowing she couldn’t. “I’m not a midwife.”
“I know. I didn’t ask you here for that purpose.”
“Then what can I do? I’m willing to help. I will do anything.”
He smiled. “I knew you would. What I need is for you to work your Gemma magic.”
“What?”
“Your Gemma magic,” he repeated calmly, even as Mrs. Balfour gasped in pain.
Gemma’s immediate response was to go to her. Ned turned her to face him. “I could lose her. I could lose the baby. I don’t know how I can face Balfour if that happens.”
Her heart broke for him. “This isn’t in your hands, Ned.”
“Right now it is. I must do something that may be unorthodox.”