The Adventurer's Bride
Author
June Francis
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15.0K
Chapters
14
Chapter One
Oxfordshire—March 1527
The blizzard took Nicholas Hurst by surprise and caused his spirits to plummet. He knew that if it continued snowing so heavily it would soon blanket out the unfamiliar Oxford–Witney road. Pray God, he would reach Witney before nightfall. He had made a promise to a certain lady and it was that, and the safety of his daughter, which were of the uppermost importance to him now. God only knew what Jane Caldwell would have to say when he arrived there with Matilda, although the vision of her that he had carried with him in the last few months had caused him to hope that she would welcome them both.
Nicholas still found it unbelievable at times that he had assisted at Jane’s second son Simon’s birth—an event that he sometimes spent too much time thinking about. Even so he was flattered when she had asked him to be godfather to the child. But he was also confused by his feelings towards Jane; he certainly felt a responsibility towards her and her son that was almost as strong as that which he felt towards his new daughter, but there was something else... During the three months he had been away in Europe, he had visualised the widow impatiently awaiting his return and had prayed that she would not tire of doing so. Yet surely he could not be in love with her? His feelings towards her were so different to how he had felt towards Louise, the Flemish mistress he had parted from last summer. Besides, he had vowed never to love again and had even considered joining the church. Jane was certainly no beauty like Louise and yet there was something about her that drew him...and he wanted her in his life.
He remembered his first sighting of Jane in Oxford last year. He had travelled there in company with his brother, Philip, who was intent on visiting Rebecca Clifton, whom they had known since childhood and who lived with Jane. His younger brother had in mind that Nicholas should marry Rebecca, but he had soon made it plain that was out of the question. Soon after that meeting, though, Jane had come towards him, shouting and waving a stick, hellbent on frightening off the cur trying to reach the kitten cradled in the arms of her son, James, standing at Nicholas’s side. Naturally, he had been doing his uttermost to defend the lad, despite suffering from a broken arm at the time after an attack on him in London. Her appearance had come as something of a shock for she was heavily pregnant.
That maternal aspect of her nature had been very much to the fore then, but it was during the birth of Simon that her strength and courage had hit Nicholas afresh. He had experienced emotions then that he had never felt before and when he had seen his baby daughter for the first time, he had felt overwhelmed by similar sensations. A baby was so frail, so precious. He had determined to provide for Matilda by whatever means lay in his power and Jane had formed part of his plan. Widowed the same day she had given birth, he had deemed that, given time, it was possible Jane might agree to what he had to say. He suspected that her first marriage had been one of convenience and although she might have grown fond of the husband, who had been twenty years her senior, he doubted she had loved him.
Whilst away from England, gathering information for King Henry’s chancellor, Nicholas had imagined he had seen Jane’s likeness in paintings and statues in every great house or church he had visited. Why he kept picturing her as the Madonna, a paragon of virtue, was curious, for she had cursed like a fishwife during Simon’s birth. And yet from the little he had learnt of her from his brother, Philip, and Philip’s wife, Rebecca, they believed her to be a woman of high moral standards.
Suddenly his conviction of Jane’s warm welcome wavered. It was possible that he was mistaken. She might not approve of his actions in accepting responsibility for the daughter of his erstwhile Flemish mistress who had deceived him. He groaned inwardly. It would have been wiser if he had kept quiet about the passionate feelings he had felt towards Louise. He must have been crazed to speak of it to Jane, but he had thought to take her mind off the ordeal of childbirth at the time.
Dolt!
What must she have thought of him?
And then to have told her, too, of the pain and deep disappointment he had experienced after discovering Louise had deceived him! Jane had actually thought to ask what he would have done if Louise had informed him earlier that she was betrothed to a Spanish sea captain. Would he still have fallen in love with her or had she been irresistible?
Jane’s question had taken him by surprise and he could only answer that he had no answer but that Louise’s failing in doing so had resulted in a duel with the sea captain and several attempts on Nicholas’s life after the Spaniard had died from the wounds inflicted during their duel, his younger kin having vowed vengeance. Nicholas sighed heavily. It would have been better for all concerned if he had refrained from visiting his own kin in Flanders after his travels to eastern Europe and the Far East.
A deeper sigh from the wet nurse behind him interrupted his thoughts. No doubt Berthe was wishing that she had never agreed to come to England with him due to the unseasonal spring weather. It was not that he had never experienced such a storm before, but his daughter’s wet nurse had obviously not. She began to complain in high-pitched Flemish as the thick, white flakes whirled and swirled as if tossed by a giant hand. He managed to control his impatience. She had proved extremely satisfactory in caring for the child, but now he was concerned that Matilda might catch a chill.
‘There is naught I can do about the weather, Berthe,’ he said in Flemish, turning in the saddle to the wet nurse where she sat in a pillion seat, nursing the baby in a blanket. He saw the child blink rapidly as a snowflake landed on her pretty nose, and frowned. ‘Pass Matilda to me and I will put her inside my doublet where she will be safe and warm,’ he said abruptly.
Berthe’s plump face fell and she shook her head and clutched the child more tightly and muttered something that he did not catch. ‘Do what I say at once. We cannot afford to delay,’ he ordered.
Still she clung to the child. He let out an oath and, gripping the horse’s flanks with his thighs, let go of the reins and took hold of his daughter and forced Berthe to relinquish her. The woman let out a cry of anguish which took him by surprise, but he had Matilda safe now.
Opening his riding coat, he unfastened his doublet, kissing his daughter’s cold face before easing her between his linen shirt and padded doublet. Then he drew his riding coat close about him and fastened it before reaching for the reins.
He urged the horse into a trot, aware that Berthe was cursing him in her own tongue, which was disconcerting. He had treated her well since hiring her in Bruges and she had seemed grateful, but since their arrival in Oxford, her behaviour had changed and she had grown sullen and more possessive towards the child, reluctant to allow him to handle her. He would be glad when he reached Witney and Jane.
He drew down the brim of his hat in a further attempt to shield his eyes from the falling snow and fixed his gaze on the road ahead, not wanting the horse to veer off into the ditch to his left. To his right the snow was swiftly concealing the grass verge, beyond which there were outcrops of rocks and budding trees.
As he rounded a bend in the road, the wind appeared to strengthen so that the flurry of snow that hit him in the face almost blinded him. For a moment he did not see the two figures on horseback that blocked his path. Then the two horsemen started towards him and instinctively he reached for his short sword. As he raised his sword arm and drew it back, there came a shriek from behind. He scarcely heeded it, too intent on defending himself from the attackers in front of him. Angry desperation enabled him to swiftly disarm one of them with a mighty thrust of his elbow and the force behind the blow dislodged the man from the saddle.
He wasted no time seeing what happened to him, but managed to jerk his horse around to face his other assailant. Aware of Berthe’s screams as the beast’s hooves slid in the snow, she must have accidently caught him a blow on the head with a flailing arm as she tumbled from the pillion seat. Then he was fighting for his life as the other man thrust his sword directly at his chest. Fearing for his daughter’s life as well as his own, Nicholas succeeded in twisting his body in the saddle. A fist smashed into the side of his face and then he felt a blade go through coat, doublet and shirt into the hollow beneath his collar bone. The pain made him feel giddy and sick, but, summoning all his strength, he brought his weapon down on the man’s forearm. The resulting agonising screech seemed to vibrate in Nicholas’s head, but his attacker had fallen back, clutching his arm as his sword fell from his grasp.
Nicholas jerked himself upright in the saddle and dug his heels into the horse’s flanks. At the same time he heard the babble of women’s voices. As the beast started forwards, its hooves slithered in the snow and for a moment his heart was in his mouth; somehow the horse managed to get a grip with its hooves and the next moment they were off.
He heard the women cry out in Flemish, ‘Stop him. He’s got the child. Stop him!’ One was Berthe’s, but he did not recognise the other.
Aware of blood seeping through his clothing and his daughter grizzling close to his heart, he dismissed the women from his thoughts. Dizzy still from the blows he had received, he could scarcely believe what had taken place in such a short space of time. He could only pray that Witney was near and they would arrive before the light faded.
* * *
‘He should have been here by now,’ said young Elizabeth Caldwell. She was kneeling on the cushioned window seat and in the act of rubbing the condensation from the diamond-shaped pane with her black sleeve. She put her eye to the glass in an attempt to see out.
‘Master Hurst has a long way to come,’ said her stepmother, Jane, trying not to betray the misgivings she felt and which gave lie to the outer calm she presented to the children. She laid her four-month-old son in his cradle and added, ‘We might have to give Master Hurst a few more days to get here.’
‘But he promised he would arrive in time for the fourth Sunday in Lent,’ said nine-year-old Margaret agitatedly. She was the older sister, fair-haired and blue-eyed and more slender than Elizabeth, so that the black gown she wore hung on her spare frame. ‘We cannot have the ceremony on that day without him being here.’
‘That is true,’ said Jane, picking up her darning. ‘But he is Simon’s godfather by proxy and it is but a matter of him repeating the vows your Uncle Philip made for him.’
Jane had almost convinced herself that she was a fool to believe that Nicholas Hurst would keep his promise. She found it difficult to banish the Flemish woman, who had been his mistress, from her mind or approve of his actions in going in search of her last November. Yet who was she to judge his behaviour, having not always behaved as she ought? But she was not going to dwell on a period in her life that she deeply regretted.
She had heard naught since concerning whether Nicholas had found Louise or not. Before he had sailed for Flanders he had sent her a message, agreeing to be Simon’s godfather and suggesting in the meantime that his younger brother act as his proxy, saying he hoped to be with her on the day in March set aside to venerate the Virgin Mary at the very latest. So Philip had taken Nicholas’s place at Simon’s baptism and his wife, Rebecca, Jane’s sister-in-law, had filled the role of her son’s godmother.
Due to the children’s father, Simon Caldwell, having been killed in an accident the day of his son’s birth, Jane and the children were very much in need of a man in their lives, despite most considering her a capable woman—after all, she had kept house for her brother, Giles, after their parents’ deaths until her marriage.
It had felt odd at first being a widow and she had found herself wishing fervently that Nicholas Hurst had not gone away. She had thought when he had changed his mind about entering the church, having spent a short time with the Blackfriars in Oxford, that their becoming acquainted could have partly been the reason behind his decision. Then out of the blue he had decided to return to Flanders. It had come as a terrible shock. Especially when Rebecca, who had lived with Jane and her husband, had married Nicholas’s brother, Philip, and accompanied him to the king’s court at Greenwich.
Sad to say Jane missed Rebecca more than she did her husband. Simon had been a widower and stonemason when her brother had introduced them. Simon had had two young daughters in need of a mother and so her brother had arranged a marriage that was very convenient for both of them. It had worked out far better than she could have hoped, although her husband had spent a large part of his time away from home, working on various building projects. His death had been the result of a fall from scaffolding at a church in Oxford. She had spoken to him often enough about his being too old to do such climbing, but he had not listened.
Of course, his sudden passing had been completely unexpected, taking place as it did the day of the younger Simon’s birth. The house in Oxford had become a place of mourning. Her husband had been kind and they had relied upon him in so many ways, to deal with the tasks that fell to a man, especially when it came to dealing with the finances. She could not say that those years married to Simon had been delightful, but she had grown fond of his girls and he had been appreciative of all she did, especially when she had given him the son he had so wanted. He had provided her with all the necessities of life, except that need to be loved. Her husband hadn’t had a romantic bone in his body and could not be said to cut a heroic figure. There were times when a woman longed for such attributes in her man, despite knowing there were other essential traits necessary in a husband.
She still had much to learn about the adventurous Nicholas Hurst, but from the moment Jane’s brother’s widow, Rebecca, had opened the pages of the printed book concerning his travels and read aloud of his adventures to her and the girls, Jane hadn’t been able to get him out of her dreams. Not that she had ever revealed how she felt to anyone. The fact that Rebecca had known the Hurst brothers since she was a young girl and had visited their shipyard at Greenwich meant that she was able to paint vivid word pictures of Nicholas’s appearance to her listeners. Such descriptions did not appear in his book so were especially appreciated by Jane.
The day she had actually come face-to-face with him was one she would never forget. Especially when his behaviour in defending her son lived up to what she had expected of him. Then she had gone into labour, having received the news that her husband was unconscious after a fall.
By the saints, what an experience that had been, what with the famed explorer seeing her in such a state! And yet Nicholas had achieved all that she had asked of him and the three of them had survived the ordeal of childbirth. How had he felt deep inside with her being another man’s wife? How much had Simon’s sudden death reflected on that memory for him?
One thing was for certain: she had determined he would play a part in Simon’s life if it were in her power to bring it about. Hence the reason for asking Nicholas to be his godfather.
A sigh escaped her. How she wished her appearance had been different that day. He could have only compared her unfavourably with the wanton Louise who had been his mistress. Distracted now by the thought of the Flemish woman, she wondered if he had found her. What of the child? Had both been delivered safely from the ordeal of giving birth? If so, had he decided to wed the woman whom he’d felt so passionately about? Her heart ached at the thought.
She squared her shoulders and told herself to believe in Nicholas’s promise. He had said he would come. If all was well with him, then God grant that he would be here soon. She would welcome him warmly despite there being still eight months of the mourning period to endure.
Of necessity she’d had to sell the house her husband had left her in Oxford and rent a smaller one here on the outskirts of Witney in order to be able to support herself and the children. She had dared to consider entering the cloth trade, despite it being very much the precinct of men. For that she had been offered assistance by Rebecca’s father, Anthony Mortimer.
Just like Nicholas, he was a much-travelled man. Indeed, they had not known of his existence until his sudden appearance a few months ago. He had contacts abroad that he was willing to share with her and she had appreciated the help he had given her so far, but she sensed that was causing him to believe he had more influence and control of her situation than she desired. She suspected that he thought if he were to find her a weaver than she would look upon himself with much favour. Several times he had spoken of feeling lonely and she guessed that he might be looking for a wife to share the house he was having rebuilt at Draymore Manor.
She felt a tug on her sleeve which roused her from her reverie.
‘Mama, what if Master Hurst has not changed his mind and intends keeping his promise, but has lost his way in the snow?’ said Elizabeth, gazing up at her.
‘That is a foolish thing to say,’ cried Margaret. ‘Master Hurst is a great explorer! He has travelled to the Americas and to the Indies and been all over Europe. He will not get lost.’
Jane’s elder son, James, looked up from the wooden-jointed soldier he was playing with and said in a voice that had not so long ago lost its babyish lisp, ‘But the snow will cover the highway. His horse might wander off or lose its footing. It’ll be dark soon.’ Eagerly he added, ‘Perhaps he needs a light to show him the way!’
‘A light in the window like a beacon leading him here,’ said Elizabeth excitedly, gazing at her stepmother. ‘Shall I fetch the oil lamp, Mama?’
Jane nodded, glad to be active, which was strange considering how tired she was. She’d risen early that day to go over her accounts and later she had interviewed a man she had hoped would be willing to weave the thread she spun, but without any luck. She found this deeply discouraging and wondered if the time she spent teaching her stepdaughters to spin was just a waste. A depressing thought considering she had been so delighted when she had discovered that she had not lost the skill taught to her by her own mother.
‘I deem it would be wiser if we set the lamp in the window upstairs,’ said Jane. ‘Due to the dip in the street, its light might not be seen if we were to have it down here.’
So a lamp was duly set in the window that jutted out over the ground floor where the family hoped and prayed for Nicholas Hurst’s arrival. Jane placed the cooking pot on its chains above the fire and added more onion, beans and turnip to the broth she was making and waited in frustrated silence.
* * *
As Nicholas rode on through the falling snow, his head throbbed and his shoulder was aflame with pain. He had to reach Jane—only she could ensure Matilda’s survival now. He fumbled inside a pouch at his waist for a kerchief and managed to drag it out and ease it beneath his doublet where the blood still oozed from the wound in his shoulder. Pray God it would stop bleeding soon.
So far he could hear no sound of pursuit, but that did not say he was not being followed. He could make no sense of what had occurred and how Berthe and the other woman had been involved! His mind strayed to that difficult time back in Bruges six weeks ago. After the death of Matilda’s mother in childbirth, Nicholas had let it be known that he desperately needed a wet nurse prepared to travel to England and stay there for a year. The woman his Flemish kin had found him had refused his more-than-generous offer to accompany him to England. He had been so relieved when Berthe had come forwards that he had not bothered with references. She had appeared sensible and trustworthy and in desperate need of help herself.
Her story was that her husband had been killed in a skirmish involving the French and the troops of the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V. The information she had been able to provide about the movements of the Emperor’s army had been extremely useful. She had been left almost penniless with her own infant to support after her man’s death and soon after her baby son had died. Fortunately she was still producing milk in abundance to be able to give succour to his daughter and she had seemed more than willing to accompany him to the house of Jane Caldwell in England.
Jane! He had to reach Jane.
Was that a light ahead? He pushed back the brim of his hat in the hope of being able to see more clearly and his spirits rose, only to be dashed as the light vanished. He groaned, wondering if he was hallucinating. A wail from the babe that curled next to his heart recalled him to the present and was incentive enough for him to spur the horse on in the hope that he had not imagined that light and that Witney and Jane lay ahead just over the next dip in the white landscape. It would be terrible, indeed, for them to have survived the journey from Flanders, only for them both to perish in this snowy wilderness.
* * *
Jane could bear the waiting no longer. The snow had stopped falling and she had an urge to take a walk along the High Street and see if she could see any sign of their expected guest. She would not go far as it would be unwise to leave the children alone for long, despite Margaret being a sensible girl who knew to keep the younger ones away from the fire and the cooking pot.
She went out in the gloaming and had just walked past the Butter Cross when she saw a rider coming towards her. His hat and clothing were blanketed in snow and the reins lay slack in his grasp. His shoulders drooped and his head had fallen so that his chin appeared to have sunk onto his chest. He drew level with her and would have gone past if she had not realised with a leap of her heart that it was Nicholas; swiftly she seized the horse’s bridle and brought it to a halt.
‘Master Hurst!’ she cried. ‘What has happened to you?’
Nicholas forced his eyes opened and gazed down at the woman dressed in black, who stood looking up at him from concerned brown eyes, and he felt such relief. ‘Jane Caldwell?’ he said, the words slurred. ‘It is you, isn’t it, Jane?’ He reached down a hand and placed it on her shoulder.
‘Indeed, it is,’ she replied, her heart seeming to turn over in her breast when she noticed that his right cheekbone was bruised and swollen. ‘You are hurt. Is it that you came off your horse?’
He shook his head, only to wince. ‘No, I was attacked. The villains would have killed me, but I managed to escape.’
She gasped in horror. ‘I thought your enemies had been dealt with!’
Vaguely he realised that she was referring to those who had attempted to kill him in Oxford last year in an act of revenge. Feeling near to collapse, he muttered something in way of reply.
She realised that now was not the time to discuss the matter. ‘My house is not far away. I will lead you there.’
He smiled wearily. ‘If it had not been for the light, I might have gone astray,’ he said unevenly.
Jane wondered if he meant the one that she had placed in the window upstairs and she rejoiced. ‘A guiding light was James’s idea.’
‘He’s an intelligent lad,’ said Nicholas, forcing the words out.
She nodded, his words pleasing her so much. It was essential that he liked the children and they him. Suddenly she became aware of a bulge beneath his riding coat and that it was moving. At the same time she heard a sound reminiscent of a baby grizzling. ‘What is that noise?’
‘Noise?’ He blinked at her. ‘I have been hearing it for some time and it distresses me. You will help me, Jane?’
‘Of course,’ she replied, puzzled, thinking that possibly he had a small dog hidden beneath his coat. ‘Although I would have thought you’d know there is no need for you to ask such a question.’
‘Perhaps not, but it is good manners to do so. The baby...’ he said.
‘Simon,’ she said, reminding him of her son’s name, concerned that he might have forgotten it.
‘No, it is a girl,’ he muttered.
She looked at him askance. ‘You have a baby girl concealed beneath your coat? How did you come by her?’ Even as she spoke a thought occurred to her and her heart sank.
‘It is a long story and it is much too cold out here to tell it now,’ he gasped, placing an arm beneath the bulge. He gritted his teeth as pain shot through his shoulder with the movement and he felt blood well up from the shoulder wound.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked, her eyes widening with concern.
‘A blade pierced my shoulder. A mere scratch!’ he lied. ‘It is more important that Matilda is fed. I thought with you having your son to nurture that you could give succour to her as well.’
Matilda! Jane’s disturbed brown eyes met his hazel ones. ‘I fear that I must disappoint you. I cannot do what you ask!’
Nicholas looked at her in shocked dismay. ‘Never did I think to hear you speak so, Jane Caldwell!’
‘Do not take on so,’ she cried, hastily seizing the bridle again and hopping to one side so as to avoid the horse’s hooves. Her voice dropped. ‘It brings a flush to my cheeks to speak of such to you, but I have no choice but to refuse your request because I—I...’ She floundered, embarrassed to speak of such a personal matter to a man, yet it was this man who had assisted at the birth of her son. She added in a rushed whisper, ‘My milk has dried up and I cannot feed even Simon. No doubt it is due to the sudden death of my husband and all the extra work involved in selling the house. It has been such a worry thinking about how I am to provide for the children, what with trying to find a weaver willing to work with me—a task which appears to have proved beyond even Master Mortimer’s abilities so far.’ She took a breath, realising she was gabbling to cover her nervousness. ‘Now let us not discuss this matter further right now. We must get you and the child indoors without further ado!’
Mortified and deeply concerned by the mention of Master Mortimer, Nicholas could only stare at her as he swayed in the saddle, clutching his shoulder. ‘I beg your pardon. I have no experience of such matters. Does young Simon still live?’
‘Aye, I have hired the service of a wet nurse who has ample milk,’ she said. ‘I do not doubt Anna will be willing to provide for Ma-Matilda, as well, for a small fee.’
He could not conceal his relief. ‘You will arrange it?’
‘Of course, I would not have any child starve.’ She wasted no more time in talk, but swept before him like the galleon he had likened her to when first he saw her, leaving him to follow on his horse.
He swore inwardly, deeply regretting the faux pas he had made, and, summoning his remaining strength, told the horse to walk on. He had no idea if there was stabling at this present house of hers. If not, then he would have to find the nearest inn and stable the beast there.
As soon as Nicholas saw the house, which was at the end of a row of terraced dwellings constructed of the local stone, he realised that the knocks he had received had done more than make him dizzy, they had caused him to momentarily forget that Jane’s husband had left his financial affairs in a mess. Hence her reason for moving to Witney to a much smaller house than the one he had visited in Oxford. There was no way she would have been able to afford the luxury of her own stabling even if she owned a horse.
She suggested that he ride his mount to the back of the house where there was a garden and leave the horse there for now. ‘I will send for Matt, the son of the wet nurse, and he can stable it for you at the Blue Boar Inn.’
As he was feeling extremely weary, Nicholas agreed. He dismounted with difficulty, glad that there was no one there to see him narrowly avoid falling flat on his face. He stumbled to his feet and struggled with the straps of the saddlebags, pain stabbing through his shoulder and down his side and arm like a skewer. At last he managed to complete his task and, not having the strength to throw the saddlebags over his uninjured shoulder, carried them dangling from his left hand towards the rear door of the house.
Fortunately it was unlocked and he pressed down on the latch and entered the building. He found himself in a darkened room and almost fell over the loom that was there, narrowly avoiding bumping into a spinning wheel and several baskets on the floor. Before he could climb the two steps that led to an inner door, it was flung wide from the other side and Jane stood there, holding a candlestick that provided a circle of warm light.
‘This way,’ she said.
He thanked her and entered the main chamber of the house. Instantly the two girls and the boy who were waiting there rushed over to him. He dropped the saddlebags.
‘You’ve come, you’ve come,’ cried Elizabeth, hugging as far as she could reach of his waist whilst James’s small arms wrapped around one of his legs and Margaret stood close by, beaming up at him.
He had never expected such an enthusiastic welcome, although he remembered the children being friendly enough at their first meeting last year. He had been told to tell them stories and had done his best. He thought how different this greeting was from that of his elder brother Christopher’s sons and daughter, whom he scarcely knew. They were inclined to be tongue-tied in his company, as if overcome by his presence. He felt tears prick his eyes. If it had not been for Jane ordering the children to allow Master Hurst to warm himself by the fire, he might have been completely unmanned.
She set a chair close to the fire and bade him be seated. On unsteady legs he crossed the floor, hesitating by the cradle to gaze down at the child sleeping there.
‘He has grown,’ he murmured.
‘What did you expect? He is more than four months old now,’ said Jane, her face softening.
Without lifting his head, he said, ‘I will never forget seeing him born. It was a happening completely outside my experience.’
‘That was obvious,’ she said unsteadily.
He looked up, caught her eye and she blushed.
They continued to stare at each other, both remembering the forced intimacy of Simon’s birth at a time when they were only newly acquainted.
He recalled her cursing him and his rushing to carry out her commands, fearing she might die before the midwife arrived. She had called him a lackwit when he had not reacted fast enough, for Simon’s birth had been imminent. When the boy’s head had appeared, the ground had appeared to rock beneath Nicholas’s feet and he had thought he would swoon. Fortunately her unexpectedly calm voice had recalled him to his responsibility towards both mother and child. He had once seen a calf born and although that experience was definitely different he had managed to react in a way that met Jane’s approval.
As for Jane, she was thinking that it was probably best that they had never met before the day of Simon’s birth, otherwise she would never have had the nerve to order him around the way she had done. Hearsay was not the same as actually meeting someone face-to-face. Of course, she had known more about Nicholas than he did of her, yet setting eyes on a real live hero was a very different matter from one who lived in the pages of a book and somehow seemed larger than life.
