Wayward Winds (29 page)

 55 
A Skeleton

Gifford Rutherford could hardly believe his good fortune. Whether the report was true or not hardly mattered—it was so deliciously certain to ruin the man!

At least in that vixen Amanda's eyes, which was all that mattered.

Struggling to keep a smile from breaking out over his face, Gifford nodded soberly, as if the information contained in the brief communication were all but worthless, then folded it, paid the man whose services he had made use of, and closed the door.

Now he could give vent to his delight.
Ha, ha!
he laughed loudly as he walked upstairs to his study, pulling out the sheet and reading its opening line again.

RAMSAY HALIFAX, 27, EMPLOYER THE DAILY MAIL, STEPSON OF LORD BURTON WYCKHAM HALIFAX (D. 1908), WAS SEEN IN MOROCCO. . . .

Ha, ha, ha! Just wait
till that fool Amanda learns of this!

It would probably be best to keep his son from knowing the
full
truth of what he had discovered, which was that there might not be a grain of truth in it. That
some
people believed it was good enough for him.

Now all he had to do was put the skeleton in the man's closet, and that would be the end of Ramsay Halifax.

Ha, ha, ha!
It was really too good to be true. Heathersleigh would be in the bag after this.

Gifford calmed and fell to thinking.

What was the best way to proceed—leak the information to the
Times
? No, they would probably never print it without substantiation of the source.

One of the rags would be best. The
Sun
 . . . the
Mirror
 . . . it hardly mattered, as long as it found its way into print.

He'd take it to Elmer Farmon. After the loan he'd approved for him, his solicitor would probably do anything he asked.

Two hours later the attorney and financier discussed the communiqué the former had received behind the closed doors of the latter's office.

“They'll want to know where it came from,” said Farmon.

“Make something up,” replied Gifford. “You solicitors are good at that.”

“I can't
lie
 . . . even for you. I would be disbarred if it were discovered.”

“You would likewise be disbarred if your financial affairs were closely examined, my friend,” said Gifford. “Don't make me remind you that you owe your reputation at present to my signature on your loan documents.”

Farmon squirmed slightly in his chair. The fact that every word the banker spoke was true only made him hate him the more.

“My financial difficulties won't alter the fact that they will want to know where this came from,” he said, lifting the sheet of paper and holding it toward the banker.

“Then be creative,” said Gifford, turning to go. “Frankly, I don't care how you do it, but I want to see this in print. Otherwise, the bank is going to find your file at the top of the stack when the time comes for its next loan audit. I presume I make myself clear.”

 56 
Stormy Birth

A blustery wind blew out of the north over Devonshire early one evening during the first weeks of 1912, picking up force as the night advanced. By the time the residents of houses large and small took to their beds, they fell asleep hoping their roofs would still be above them when they woke in the morning. Rain was likely.

George Rutherford carted cot and blankets up to the little room in the garret which he had gradually converted into his own private workroom, office, and laboratory. Now that it was supplied with electric light and power for his experiments, he spent a good deal of his time in the lofty perch above the three inhabited floors of Heathersleigh. On nights of heavenly commotion such as this, he always slept here. If the roof blew off, he wanted to witness the event!

Below him, sister and parents slept comfortably in their own beds, secure in the knowledge that this was not the first wintry storm to blow over Devon, nor would it be the last, and that the walls of Heathersleigh would not budge from the fierce blast.

When the galloping sound of horse and rider approached, none heard the sound amid the tumult. A minute or two later Sarah Minsterly, who never slept well during a storm, jumped out of her bed with heart pounding in answer to the sound of the urgent fist upon the door.

With candle in hand, for she was not yet accustomed to the ease of flipping a switch to produce light, she made her way up the stairs to her master and mistress's quarters.

She knocked lightly on the door.

“Lady Jocelyn . . . Lady Jocelyn,” she called out as loud as she dared while continuing to knock. She timidly opened the door the slightest crack. “Lady Jocelyn,” she called inside.

A moment later Jocelyn was at the door in her dressing gown.

“I am so sorry, Lady Jocelyn,” said Sarah, “but it's Mr. Osborne . . . he's downstairs, mum—he's afraid for his wife.”

Already Jocelyn was hurrying along the corridor and toward the stairs with the housekeeper at her side. With the benefit of light, she flew down the main staircase. She found their midnight caller at the door where Sarah had left him.

“Andrew . . .” she said as she hurried toward him.

“It's Sally, Lady Jocelyn,” the frightened man replied. “It's her time, mum, but Doc Cecil's away from the village for two days.”

“Is she—”

“Yes, my lady, that's what I'm telling you—‘bout half an hour ago. I didn't know who else to turn to.”

“You did just the right thing, Andrew,” replied Jocelyn, wide awake and already making hurried plans. “You get back to her and make her as comfortable as you can. Build a fire and boil water. I'll be there in ten minutes.”

“Thank you, mum!” replied Osborne, already disappearing back outside into the blackness.

“Sarah,” said Jocelyn, turning to her housekeeper, “go wake Hector.”

Sarah turned toward the servants' quarters while Jocelyn ran back upstairs, turned on the light, and woke her husband.

“Charles . . . Charles,” she said, “Sally Osborne's baby is coming and Cecil's away. I need to get to her right away.”

“A nurse's duties never stop,” said Charles groggily as he sat up. Jocelyn was dressing as she spoke.

“Would you ride over and get Maggie and bring her to me?” Jocelyn was saying. “Sally's larger than I've ever seen. I have the feeling it might be twins, and I've never delivered twins on my own.”

By now Charles was out of bed and looking for his trousers.

“How are you going?”

“I'll have Hector hitch the buggy. No, come to think of it,” she said, pausing a moment, “you'll need the buggy for Maggie. I'll just ride over.”

“Take the car,” said Charles. “It will be faster.”

“I've never driven at night.”

“It's no different than daytime. Just turn on the headlights, and watch for rabbit and deer.”

“All right, I suppose that's best.” Already she was disappearing from the room.

“I'll be there as soon as I can!” called Charles after her.

————

Forty minutes later, though it was approaching two o'clock in the morning, the small cottage of Andrew and Sally Osborne on the eastern edge of Milverscombe had turned into a beehive of activity. Thankfully the rain had not yet begun. All the newcomers, as well as Sally's husband, who had been out in the approaching storm, were dry.

Maggie and Jocelyn were busily engaged in the business which women of all eras have performed since time began—with boiling water and hot rags and soothing words, doing their best to ease new life into the world with as little of the inevitable pain as possible. Catharine, who had been awakened by the commotion and come with her father, and who shared her mother's gifts of ministry and compassion, tenderly sat at the head of the bed keeping Sally's forehead and cheeks cool with a moist cloth and dry towel. Maggie and Jocelyn held each of Sally's two hands, watching progress, applying new hotpacks as needed, with Jocelyn gently encouraging and giving Sally instructions alternately to breathe, then push, then relax.

In the only other room of the cottage, meanwhile, Charles kept the fire blazing and the water hot. For his purposes the kettle was required not for rags and towels, but for the brewing of strong tea to settle the nerves of poor Andrew, who paced the floor nervously awaiting the birth of his firstborn.

A knock on the door sounded. Charles went to answer it. There stood Agatha Blakeley who lived but two or three cottages away.

“I heard there was a birthin,'” she said. “I came to see if I could help.”

“Come in, come in, Mrs. Blakeley,” said Charles, smiling warmly. “The women are in the bedroom with Sally now. They will be grateful for your company.”

Returning his smile with more feeling than it would have been possible for her to express—for she owed her husband's sobriety and dawning interest in life to Sir Charles, not to mention her son's education—Rune Blakeley's wife hurried through the room to join the women.

The ordeal of the new mother and the anxious waiting of her man lasted about another hour.

Suddenly from the bedroom a cry was heard. Andrew Osborne leapt to his feet in a panic of eager terror. He began pacing in earnest, waiting for the door to open and expecting an announcement. When several minutes passed without news, he began to worry. He was almost on the verge of entering the sacred chamber when suddenly he heard another cry.

Jocelyn appeared at the door a minute or two later, ragged and perspiring, hair flowing off her head in every direction, but breathing obvious happy sighs of relief. A great smile was on her lips.

“Congratulations, Mr. Osborne,” she said, “you are the father of
two
strapping young sons!”

A
whoop
of delight followed from Charles, who clapped his hands together, then offered a vigorous handshake to Andrew, who then slumped into the nearest chair with exhaustion.

Within minutes the wind died down, and soon the rain began to fall upon Devonshire. It was the happiest, most welcome rain any of the rejoicing gathered in the Osborne home remembered in years.