The Spinster and the Earl Read online

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  Published Internationally by Lachesis Publishing Inc.

  Rockland, Ontario, Canada

  Copyright © 2013 Beverly Adam

  Exclusive cover © 2013 Laura Givens

  Inside artwork © 2013 Giovanna Lagana

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher, Lachesis Publishing Inc., is an infringement of the copyright law.

  A catalogue record for the print format of this title is available from the National Library of Canada

  ISBN 978-1-927555-29-3

  A catalogue record for the Ebook is available

  from the National Library of Canada

  Ebooks are available for purchase from

  www.lachesispublishing.com

  ISBN 978-1-927555-28-6

  Editor: Joanna D’Angelo

  Copyeditor: Giovanna Lagana

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  Dear friends and family, this book is dedicated to you. May God always fill your hearts with gladness and love.

  Acknowledgments

  My thanks to the creative team at Lachesis Publishing Inc. You turned a good story into a wonderful one.

  Coming Soon

  Book 2: Gentlemen of Honor Series

  The Lady and the Captain

  Book 3: Gentlemen of Honor Series

  The Widow and the Rogue

  THE SPINSTER AND THE EARL

  Chapter 1

  It was early morning, but dark clouds had already begun to gather above the rolling, green hills of Urlingford as a young messenger with scruffy, red-thatched hair arrived at Brightwood Manor’s front door. He hastily explained his mission to the downstairs maid, who led him into the dining nook. Lady Beatrice, the mistress of the house, sat sipping her tea, having just finished her early morning repast.

  The lad, who looked to be all of seven years, took off his cap, and respectfully bowed to the elegant lady seated calmly before him, her thick, midnight hair braided in a coronet around her head and her bright, green eyes expectantly waiting for him to speak. He took a deep breath and let it out quickly. “Mum says it be time for you t’come, my lady. The new bairn’s ready to be born.”

  She smiled reassuringly at him. “Tell your mother I’ll be attending her in a trice, Ennis. And you’ve done well, lad.”

  She picked up a hot scone and a thick wedge of cheese from the side table and passed the food to the young boy, who stared up at her with wide, blue eyes.

  “Yes, ma’am. And thankee, m’lady.” He nodded as he hurried out the door to bring back the good news that the Spinster of Brightwood would be attending his mother’s bedside.

  Lady Beatrice turned and called to her companion, Druscilla Pruit, who had been mending clothes by the hearth fire. “Mistress Ryan is about to deliver her baby. Would you be so kind as to fetch my satchel, Dru’?”

  She waved a hand vaguely in the direction of her chambers upstairs where she kept her clothes press.

  “Of course, my lady. But don’t you think it would be best for me to come with you, ma’am? ’Tis dreadfully improper the way you go gallivanting about the countryside unattended,” said the companion with a sniff of disapproval. “And for sure now your father wouldn’t approve of your venturing out alone. You never know what dangerous brigand might try to harm your ladyship. A wealthy heiress such as yourself, why she ought to be more careful with her person. There be villains aplenty who might do you a wrong turn out there on those deserted roads.”

  “Really, Druscilla.” Beatrice sighed. “You’d think I was an infant still attached to my nurse’s apron strings with the way you blather on. Now do stop all this worrisome prattle and fetch my satchel.”

  She began pulling on her gloves, her companion’s warning not ruffling her in the slightest. The village was a small hamlet of little interest to anyone, except to those who dwelled there. And no real thief worthy of his name would dream of stealing here, she told herself with the self-assurance of the highborn who had always been well protected. “Ye best fetch my shawl, too. It looks as if a tempest is settin’ to brew,” she called out to the maid’s back, her Irish brogue making its accustomed appearance.

  Despite the dogged determination of the strict English governess her father had foisted upon her as a child, she continued to speak and act like one native born to the Emerald Isles. A fact her Irish father often remarked upon in sad lamentation.

  “Such a pitiful waste o’ good blunt . . .” He’d shake his graying head in regret. “I thought to find ye a proper English gent to marry after that woman had finished with ye. But musha, musha, what’s to become of ye? There be no gentleman of proper rank t’ fix your cap upon here. If there’d been one, I’d have ferreted him out by now. And when we go about, none of them English beef-eating squires will have ye with that heavy brogue ye carry so proudly on your tongue. I’ve been asking m’self over and over again, what’s to become of ye, daughter? What’s t’ become of my lass?”

  He would then walk away dispirited by his daughter’s apparent stubbornness to not bend to English fashions.

  Upon fetching her mistress’s shawl, Druscilla won her way into accompanying Beatrice to the birthing. She made the dire promise that if she did not attend, she’d tattle to Lord O’Brien about some of his daughter’s unladylike adventures.

  Resigned to her companion’s presence, Beatrice permitted her to accompany her. The two ladies arrived at the front door of a peat-heated sheepherder’s cottage where the Ryans awaited their arrival with unconcealed relief.

  They entered the cottage where the Ryan’s large brood of children warmly greeted them. Several of the littlest ones pulled on her skirt, reminding her of the first time she’d helped deliver a baby in the family with her friend, the healer, Wise Sarah Duncan, and her mother, Gladys Clogheen of Varrik-on-Suir, who’d mentored her in midwifery and taught her healing ways.

  Beatrice was not as exceptional a healer as Sarah, but she was a gifted midwife, and she loved children. Not only was it her duty to be able to help her community, but it gave her joy to help bring a new life into this world. Beatrice examined the laboring mother. The time to push the babe out was fast approaching. She checked the baby’s position and came to the worrisome realization that it planned to be born in a breech position. That meant the baby’s buttocks were presenting and its feet were low in the mother’s pelvis.

  “You know my sister, Fiona, my lady,” said her companion nervously. “She up and birthed her bairns in less than an hour she did . . .”

  The mother groaned and squeezed her husband’s hand.

  “We always knew that our Fiona,” continued Druscilla, “was built like a barn door and as fertile as a potato field. But we never knew how prolific she’d be until her tenth came into the world. Well, that last one for sure almost didn’t make it, my lady. It tore m’sister almost in two, birthing out our young Ian. Why, she bled for almost a full day after that . . . and the midwife had a right time of it, getting the bleeding to stop. Almost thought we’d lost her, we did.”

  The laboring mother moaned again, an overwhelming contraction overtaking her body. Her face damp with sweat, she turned pleading eyes to Beatrice. This baby was to be her tenth, as well.

  Beatrice smiled at the woman reassuringly and turned to glare at Dru’, warning her with her eyes to keep quie
t or else.

  The burly, red-haired father of the brood, who had been standing vigil for hours beside his wife and holding her hand, nodded to his pale-faced family.

  “Right, you lot, it be time for us to go.” He gently kissed his wife on the forehead. “You’re doing fine, Maureen darlin’,” he said tenderly. “I’ll be back as soon as word is sent that the baby’s come.”

  He then looked down earnestly at his eldest daughter who sat next to his wife, a young woman who had already started a family of her own and had a steady head on her shoulders. “You’ll stay, Mary, and send word to us when the bairn’s born, won’t ye, lass?” he asked.

  “Aye, I will, Da.” The dutiful young woman nodded, reaching for another cloth to cool her mother’s head. “I’ll not be leavin’ her.” She then threw a quelling glance at Druscilla.

  Druscilla, oblivious to the somber atmosphere of the room, nor to the warning looks thrown her way, paid no attention.

  The children were on the verge of becoming quite sick and the blatherskite’s chatter had been frightening them out of their wits as they watched their beloved mother reach the most difficult part of her labor.

  “We’ll be going, then,” the father said and exited the room with the other children following single file out the tiny cottage door.

  Beatrice could not fault them for leaving. Normally, the tight-knit clan stayed to welcome each new bairn into the family. But this time with the difficulty of the breech and Druscilla’s gory descriptions, she could not imagine how anyone could bear to be in the room unless one had a cast-iron stomach,

  She gently reached her hand inside the laboring mother, hoping that the baby had turned. It hadn’t. And the good Lord help her, it was still coming into the world the wrong way.

  “When Fiona wouldn’t stop bleeding, we sent for the priest to give her the last rites. I never was so scared in my entire life. My sister just bled, and bled, and then she bled some more . . .”

  “Druscilla,” cut in Beatrice, searching for an excuse to send her wearisome companion away. “I’ve forgotten an important instrument I’m in need of at Brightwood. Would you be so kind as to fetch it for me from my clothes press? It looks like a, uh . . . a funnel.”

  “Of course, your ladyship. If you’re quite certain you won’t need me.”

  “Quite certain, Dru’,” she said firmly. “And take the pony cart, won’t you? The baby won’t be coming for some time yet,” she lied.

  She heard the eldest daughter give an audible sigh as the cottage door shut, the tension in the room easing noticeably. “I’m going to need your help,” she said turning to the young woman. The contractions had been coming strong and steady and she noticed the mother beginning to feel the urge to push.

  “You’re going to have to hold your mother up as I try and ease the baby out. I’m afraid it’s decided to come out into the world feet first, m’dear.” The young woman nodded with understanding, helping her mother sit up.

  Maureen gripped Beatrice’s arm and whispered, “Please, please get this babe out . . . oh-oh, I need to push . . .”

  “Hold back, Mistress Ryan!” Beatrice urged, hurriedly washing her hands once more in the hot, soapy water beside her.

  She then put her hand inside to see where the baby was. A foot popped out, and she felt a tiny heel. She heard the mother’s panting.

  “Now,” Beatrice said, “this time when you feel the urge to push, you push with all your might. Do you understand, Mistress Ryan?” The pale-faced mother nodded and began pushing.

  Beatrice gently pulled the baby out by its feet. The buttocks appeared soon afterwards and then in cork screw fashion, the rest of the child began to slip out.

  “That’s wonderful,” she said, praising the mother. “Let the contractions do the rest of the work. You’re delivering this baby beautifully, Mistress Ryan.”

  Her hands firmly held the tiny baby’s body as the mother continued to labor. She watched as the shoulders began to make their appearance and quickly reached for a towel, holding onto the baby as she turned it 180 degrees, keeping the back upward. An arm appeared and was easily delivered, and then the other arm.

  But the tricky part of delivering the large head was not to be so quick. The baby’s chest was free and the wee bairn was making able attempts to take its first breath before being completely delivered outside its mother. Beatrice reached her hand over the baby’s face, bringing a finger on either side of its small nose and gently squeezed the nostrils shut to prevent the baby from breathing in clotted blood and choking. She then carefully guided the newborn’s head through into the world.

  “It’s a girl!” she heard the baby’s sister exclaim with delight.

  Beatrice opened the child’s mouth, spread her nostrils, and patted her back to encourage her breathing. A moment of worry flew threw her mind, but then the baby took her first breath. A wail was heard as the baby cried out with a set of healthy lungs, letting her tiny presence be known.

  Smiling, Beatrice efficiently cut the umbilical cord and washed the newborn in a clean basin of warm water, taking care with the clean rags provided, finally wrapping the newborn in a warm lambskin bunting. She brought the child to Maureen’s open arms, and joined the delighted laughter of mother and sister,

  Quickly dealing with the afterbirth, and checking that both the mother and child were doing well, Beatrice took a moment to admire the now sleeping baby. Maureen tenderly kissed her daughter’s delicate, wispy locks of bright red hair.

  “Aye, one can see she’s a Ryan already. Just look at that bonnie red hair,” she said and congratulated Maureen, who was beaming despite her exhaustion. It had been one of the most challenging births she’d ever attended and certainly one of the most rewarding.

  * * *

  Over a tankard of ale, the proud parents asked her to be their new daughter’s godmother. Considering the position an honor, she accepted with pleasure and offered to have the baby baptized in what had once been her own christening gown, a long hand-crocheted garment of snowy white satin, lace, and ribbon.

  After she toasted her new goddaughter, she took her leave. Refusing the family’s kind offer for a ride home on their nag, she began to return by foot to Brightwood Manor. “Oh, bother!” she muttered as tiny drops of rain splattered against her cheeks. She shivered a little for good measure as a chilling wind blew past, whipping up layers of her long skirts.

  Dark clouds had been brewing overhead since the beginning of the day. They now rumbled ominously as she walked the barren dirt road leading to the parish of Urlingford. Hastening her pace, she walked towards the local tavern, The Boar’s Teeth, in hopes of reaching it before the tempest arrived in full force, bringing with it a certain drenching.

  Looking out over the rolling hillsides, she spied the small village of Urlingford snugly situated at the bottom of a green valley. It looked to be a good brisk half hour’s journey. A cluster of whitewashed homes and the tall, square church’s steeple were the only buildings that recommended the tiny village. Sturdy, thatched farm houses were dotted about the countryside. The thriving sheep trade was the main staple of living for the village. She had just come from one of these small sheepherding farms.

  She sighed as she wrapped her shawl more securely around her head, preparing for a very wet walk to the village. Fat droplets of water splattered her face, as she received her own baptism from the darkening sky. She could barely make out the imposing silhouette of Drennan Castle, shrouded as it was in the approaching storm’s gray mist.

  The once imposing gothic castle had been strategically built on one of the highest hilltops in Urlingford. An ancient relic, the keep had originally been an intimidating fortification with six stone towers. But time and neglect had taken their toll as two wings of the castle were on the verge of collapse, which left just one wing stubbornly refusing to crumble around the dying earl and his two loyal servants.

  Strange, but she could vaguely make out what appeared to be a human shape standing by t
he stone boundary wall. She squinted up at the hill . . .

  It appeared to be a tall man wearing a great over-cloak, leaning on a walking stick. The form she saw was a familiar one, although blurred by the rain, she recognized it belonged to none other than old Dermott James MacCallan, the last Irish born Earl of Drennan. These past two months a cancerous growth had been eating slowly away at the venerable old gentleman’s spleen.

  Beatrice had called upon her friends Gladys and Sarah to help her attend him, along with a very properly certified doctor from Dublin. But it had all been to no avail. The old gentleman was too far gone to be saved by any herbal potion or new scientific methods. The best they’d been able to do was ease some of his suffering.

  As for his family, they had been nowhere to be seen throughout his long, painful illness. All and sundry knew he had no living descendants of his own flesh. But his three well-titled sisters, who had sons and daughters to provide for, finally deigned to pay their ailing brother a visit. Aye, she’d seen many of his relations come and go this past fortnight full of feigned solicitude and familial affection for the dying lord.

  “Come to pay our last respects to our brother,” they told her haughtily when they approached the death bed. Their faces were appropriately solemn and sad.

  But if truth be told, a more meddlesome bunch of vultures she’d never encountered before, and she’d seen plenty of them when attending to the very ill. The siblings came dressed in the black of mourning to sit beside the dying earl, advising the old gentleman to whom he should leave his title and estates. They quarreled amongst themselves in front of him until he could tolerate it no more.

  “Cease! You are driving me to bedlam itself with all your cackling prattle!” he shouted, punctuating his words with the loud smack of his cane against the side of his death bed.

  He reached out and pulled a bell rope, summoning his head butler, ordering the lot off to the dowager house conveniently situated on the other side of the village to await his impending end.