Warren raced across the back gardens of Alcott. His panting breath was the only sound he heard over the eerie quiet of the winter storm. Thick flakes of snow fell all around him, landing on his brows, his cheeks.
But he didn’t care. Madeline needed him. Life or death, the lad from the kitchen said. He left the lad on his front porch, barely pausing to grab his coat before he was running at full speed towards the great house.
The bottom half glowed, all the lights flickering in warm welcome. And yet tonight it didn’t feel welcoming. It felt ominous, like a siren song luring him in. Something was wrong. The fine hairs on his neck pricked with it.
He raced to the kitchen entrance, shoving his way inside, nearly scaring a trio of kitchen maids half to death. One was a woman he knew.
“Mr. Warren,” she shrieked. “Whatever are you—”
“Lady Madeline sent for me,” he said, breathless as he rushed past them. “Where is she?”
The ladies shared confused glances. “But, sir—”
“Where is Lady Madeline?” he bellowed.
“Upstairs,” squeaked the little one with strawberry braids. “With the duchess.”
He turned on his heel, racing towards the door.
“But Mr. Warren, you can’t go up there!”
He didn’t listen. He didn’t stop. He raced down the back hall towards the front of the house, crossing down the grand gallery. A footman spied it. Goddamn it…it was Geoffrey. He didn’t have time for this pompous arse now.
“Out of my way, Geoffrey,” he muttered.
“Lady Madeline is asking for you,” he said, halting Warren in his tracks.
He turned. “You know?”
The footman gave a curt nod. “I sent Oliver to fetch you.”
“Where is she?”
“Upstairs in the duchess’s bedchamber,” he replied, “There’s been a complication with her lying in.”
Warren blinked. What the hell was he to do about it? He wasn’t a doctor. But Madeline needed him. “Show me the way.”
Surprisingly, Geoffrey didn’t fight him.
He followed the footman through the house, up to the third floor. In almost a decade of living on the grounds and working for the family, he’d never ascended the stairs before. His head was on a swivel, taking in everything from the suits of armor to the tapestries, the paintings, the fine vases full of hothouse flowers. Everything was opulence and excess. He’s never been more aware of his simple, homespun cotton shirt or his worn wool trousers.
This was Madeline’s world. This was the style of living to which she was accustomed, not life snug in a parsonage or—worse still—crammed inside his little cabin. Feelings of inadequacy gnawed at him.
“Wait here,” Geoffrey muttered, pausing him outside a door. He knocked and slipped inside, leaving Warren alone in the hall. There was a pall over the mood, as if even the furniture knew something was wrong. It set Warren’s teeth on edge.
He wasn’t waiting more than a minute before the door opened and Madeline slipped out with the footman. She wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in his chest.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “Thank you for coming.”
His arms went around her automatically, ignoring the startled looks from Geoffrey.
She pulled away slightly, taking him by the hand. “Come, there’s not a moment to lose. She’s—oh god—John, I really think she’s dying.”
Warren let himself be pulled into the duchess’s bedchamber. His nerves were instantly on edge as he took in the scene. Burke was on his knees by the side of the bed, holding the duchess’s limp hand in both of his. The duke stood just behind, holding a wet cloth to her forehead.
The duchess was stretched out on the bed, panting heavily, her free hand on her distended stomach. Her body was slicked with sweat and there was a smell of blood and birth in the room that Warren knew well.
“What the hell is he doing in here?” the duke muttered, his shoulders squaring off at him as if he meant to fight him bodily form the room.
Madeline stepped in front of him. “So long as Doctor Rivers is delayed, we need someone here that can help her—”
“Warren is not a doctor,” Burke challenged.
Warren felt his shoulders squaring right back at them.
But Madeline was faster, fighting his corner like the fierce little thing she was. “He assists with births all the time,” she countered. “Your new chestnut colt is alive because of him, Burke. And he’s birthed sheep too, he told me so. Can either of you compete with that level of experience? Because I know I can’t.”
Both men stayed silent, their stares sharp enough to cut like glass.
“Then let him at least try to help,” she pleaded. “If we don’t do something, James, she will die. Please—”
“Do it,” the duke muttered, dropping his hand away from his wife and stepping back.
Taking a sharp breath, Warren shrugged out of his coat, handing it to Madeline. “I’ve never in my life worked on a woman,” he admitted.
“That’s alright,” Madeline soothed, her hand on his arm leading him gently forward. “The essential things must surely be the same, right?”
“What’s wrong with her?” he asked.
“The babe is turned,” Burke muttered, still gazing hopelessly up at the duchess. “She’s laboring for nothing so long as we can’t get it turned the right way.”
“She’s weakening,” the duke added. “She’s…she doesn’t have much fight left.”
“Well, then turn it,” Warren suggested.
Both Burke and the duke stared daggers at him. “We don’t know how,” the duke admitted.
“And we’re terrified of doing more harm than good,” Madeline added. “She has such pains and spasms.”
Warren came to the edge of the bed, gazing down at the laboring duchess. She looked utterly defeated. Her eyes were half closed as she breathed through her labor pains. He leaned over her. “Your Grace, can you hear me? It’s Warren.”
“Warren?” she murmured, her attention pulled to his voice. “The gamekeeper?”
He nodded. “Aye, I’m here to help you.”
She gave a soft smile. “So kind…such a kind man…Madeline loves you so very much.”
“Christ,” Burke muttered, leaning back. “Don’t you dare start your bedside confessions. No spilling all your secrets. You’re not dying tonight, do you hear me?”
She nodded weakly, her body spasming with another contraction.
“Your Grace, I’m going to touch you now,” Warren said gently, placing his hands on her stomach. He felt out the size and shape of her babe. “It’s definitely turned the wrong way,” he assessed. “The head is just here.” He placed his large hand over the firm lump above the duchess’s right hip. “And the feet are up here,” he added, his other hand feeling the odd lumps. He pressed down ever so lightly, and the little feet kicked back. “Proper birthing position should be head down.”
“Can you turn the babe?” asked the duke. “Have you ever done that before?”
Warren shook his head. “No, with an animal like a horse, it’s quite different. You’ve got more room to work with, you understand? I’ve reached in and done a bit of tugging to get the legs started. But I very much doubt you want me reaching up inside the duchess,” he added.
“I’ll kill you,” growled the duke. “You’ll not hurt her, do you understand? We want her life saved over the babe’s. There can always be more children.”
“Never,” said Burke. “We are never putting her through this again.”
Warren glanced between them, surprised that they were being so obvious.
Madeline wasn’t paying attention. She had eyes only for the duchess. “Please, John,” she murmured. “Try turning the babe without putting your hands inside. We could just…move it…could we not? Shift it into the proper position so she can push…”
“We could try,” he admitted. “Will you give me leave to try, Your Grace?” he asked, glancing over at the despondent duke.
The duke shared a glance with Burke before both men nodded. “Do it,” he said. “I’ll do anything to save her life.”
“Step back then,” Warren directed. “Give me space, Burke. If you want to help, move ‘round to the other side and take hold of her arms. You too, Your Grace. We need to hold her still.”
The men got into position, taking her arms.
“Wha—what are you doing?” she whimpered, all but slipping out of consciousness.
“We’re going to try to move the babe, angel,” said the duke. “Lie very still. Tell us if it hurts too much and we’ll stop.”
Her whimpering got louder, and she turned her face towards him, her breath coming in sharp pants.
“Go gently,” Madeline cautioned. She’d moved to the other side of the bed next to Burke.
Warren reached out with both hands, placing them to either side of the babe. Ever so slowly, he started applying pressure, pushing with his hands as he did so, his left on the babe’s head and his right on its feet, willing it to move off her hip and down towards the birth canal.
He felt a bit of moment. Good lord, could this actually work?
“Breathe, Your Grace,” he murmured.
She groaned, squirming away from his touch. “It hurts—”
“I know,” he soothed. “Just a bit more.” He palpated again, pushing a little harder this time on the babe. He had to get the head past the hip and angled down without hurting the babe or the duchess.
He gave another push with his hands and the duchess cried out, spasming forward.
“Stop, stop,” ordered the duke.
“You’re hurting her,” Burke added, all but ready to climb over the bed and strangle him.
Warren dropped his hands away from her. It could work. He’d gotten some small movement from the babe. They had to give him leave to try again.
“Enough now,” said the duke, as Burke dropped down to his elbows, trying to soothe the weeping duchess. “We’ll wait a little longer for the doctor. Tom will not fail us. He’ll bring him here. Rivers is coming.” He dropped down too, murmuring in the duchess’s ear, kissing her brow as he repeated, “Hold on, angel. Rivers is coming. He’ll know what to do. Rivers will be here soon.”
Warren lifted his gaze, meeting Madeline’s across the bed. Her expression told him that she already knew what he was also thinking. By the time Rivers arrived, the duchess and her baby would be dead.
