Page 56 of The Trouble with a Dare

“Thank you,” she said, her voice thick. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Sterling. For everything. It’s perfect, wonderful, and I love it. I… I love you too.”

She heard his breath catch and looked up to find him staring at her.

“Grace?”

She blinked up at him, surprised by the look in his eyes.

“You didn’t know,” she said in wonder.

He shook his head, gazing down at her before giving a choked laugh.

“Say it again,” he demanded.

“I love you, Sterling,” she said, finding her heart beating very fast.

He swallowed hard and then smiled at her, a boyish, pleased smile that made her chest ache with happiness.

“I love you, Grace. I love both of you, so much.”

He kissed her, and they were late for dinner again.

The New Year. 28th of January 1840, Thistley House Farm, Sussex.

The new year had arrived with a blast of freezing weather. There was little snow for most of the month, but the ground was frozen so hard that the grass crunched beneath your boots whilst the sky was an expanse of glorious blue without a cloud in sight. As February drew closer, the household became an odd mix of excitement and terror, or at least that was how it seemed to Sterling. Thank the lord the babe would come before the lambing season began, or he might suffer a nervous collapse under the strain.

He was full of anticipation, for so many reasons. For one, he very much liked the idea of being a father. His own father had been a colossal figure in his life, so much that Sterling still felt his loss keenly. He wanted to be that kind of support to children of his own, whether they were his blood or not. There was more to being a parent than biology. He knew that much. His mother never seemed to approve of him, no matter what he did, and had no fond feelings for him, yet he’d no doubt she was the one who’d birthed him. Strangely, his wife had attained an unlikely affinity with the prickly woman that Sterling could not fathom, though he was grateful for it. If Grace was happy and his mother left them in peace, that was a blessing.

The looming birth was also, selfishly, something to anticipate. For it meant that in the not-too-distant future, he might make Grace properly his own, in a way it had not felt right to do so before. He was honest enough with himself to admit that time could not come soon enough for him. As the months had passed, having Grace in his bed, so near and yet so far, had been enough to make him wild with frustration. He’d been reduced to frigging himself before he went to bed like some oversexed schoolboy in the vain hope he might get some sleep. He simply could not carry on this way. Not and keep his dignity intact.

The worst of it, though, the thing that made his heart clench with fear, was the danger she faced. Too many women died in childbed, or shortly after the birth. Too many babies, too. He did not wish to consider the statistics. The doctor had seen Grace regularly and pronounced her in good health and, whilst Sterling could find no fault with this pronouncement, he did not much like the fellow. The expensive London doctor Baron Rothborn had insisted on had a lot of fancy new notions that seemed to Sterling to be of far more benefit to the doctor than to the female in labour, but for now he’d held his tongue, not wanting to trouble his wife.

Still, Mrs Gladwish was an able woman who had attended many births in the area when there was no doctor available, and he had far more faith in her than some snooty physician who made everyone feel as if they were ignorant yokels. Sterling himself was experienced with birthing sheep and cows, and horses too, though he was smart enough not to voice that thought aloud, knowing that if he made the comparison he risked getting something thrown at his head. He was well aware Grace was not a sheep, nor anything in the least bit as robust. She was fragile and slender of limb, despite her protestations that she was as big as a house, as if she ever could be.

The knowledge that she could be taken from him so easily made him sick with terror, though he did his best to hide it. If she believed him when he told her all would be well and that he would be with her, then that could only help her. He could not bear for her to be afraid too. He knew well enough that a panicked animal in labour would more likely come to harm than one that was calm. When involved in such a primal event as giving birth, he could not help but believe the similarities would be more pronounced, all ladylike concerns flung to the four winds.

Sterling shook himself, telling himself not to be so damned maudlin. Nothing would happen to Grace or the baby. He would not allow it. Blowing out a breath that clouded about him like smoke, he hefted the two large buckets of chopped manglewurzels to take to the sheep on the near field. It was usually something his labourers would do, but he needed to be busy now or he’d run mad, and so he’d taken it upon himself to chop the roots up and lug the feed about, much to the astonishment of his men, who clearly thought he’d gone quite mad enough already. He had always preferred to keep busy and involve himself in much of the hands-on aspects of working a farm, which he was aware a true gentleman would never do.

Now, however, he was doing the work of three men, though only the kinds of jobs that kept him close to the farm and in hailing distance. There were always jobs enough to do, even in the winter, and once he’d fed the sheep, he would look over the tools and see what needed mending or replacing. Anything to keep himself from thinking.

Grace sat at the dining room table, surrounded by the household’s silver. She had put the past couple of hours to good use, polishing everything to a shine. She had already turned out all the linen the house owned and checked it for moth holes, putting to one side anything that needed mending, cutting up anything too old or worn for cleaning rags, and neatly putting the rest away. There was little need to do this, as Martha had run a tight ship, but she felt the urge to do it all the same. She’d replenished the little herbs bags earlier in the year with lavender and rosemary, and replaced these carefully between the piles to keep away the moths and to keep everything smelling sweet. Much to Mrs Gladwish’s consternation, she had also been through the pantry, taking inventory of all they had and rearranging the shelves. She simply did not seem able to sit still, though sitting at all was uncomfortable, for she was so big and ungainly it was impossible to be at ease. Usually, she had to take a nap by this time in the afternoon, but today she just could not settle.

She gave a sigh of satisfaction as she looked about at all the sparkling silver. Much of it was prizes that Sterling had won, either for his sheep or some farming innovation. There was a large silver plate worth twenty sovereigns for his written account on the varieties of wheat best suited to different soils, from the Royal Agricultural Association. There were also cups that he’d won over the years at various county shows, and the money involved in these prizes had surprised Grace. He’d won thirty sovereigns for the best shearling ram and ten for the best five shearling ewes at the last show he’d attended, though the awards went back years. He’d adorned the interiors of the barns with hundreds of colourful rosettes, displaying his achievements. A swell of pride filled her as she looked upon the valuable collection and thought of all he’d done already, and everything he might still do. That he would not allow her to play a role in his working life continued to be a source of disappointment to her, but she remained hopeful that she might change his mind one of these days.

With a groan, she levered herself upright and waddled out of the room. A walk might be the best idea, she decided. At least then she might wear herself out enough to sleep. So, she donned her bonnet and thickest cloak and mittens, and headed out into the crisp cold of the afternoon. She did not go far, aware that it would be foolish to do so, especially alone, but she walked past Martha’s cottage, raising a hand in greeting as she saw the woman at the window, and then huffed and puffed along the lane a little way to lean on a gate and watch the sheep. She was looking forward to lambing season and watching all the new babies gambolling about in the fields and could not wait for spring. The new year seemed full of possibilities, and she was eager to meet the child that would begin their family. She hoped there would be many more and that, if this was the girl he hoped for, she could one day give Sterling the son she knew he must want too. It pleased her to think of the future and of him with a small boy running about the farm beside him, looking up at him with all the admiration he had clearly felt for his own father.

She watched the flock for a while, and her eye moved to a young sheep—a shearling—that was apart from the others. The thing was rubbing its flank vigorously against the fence and turning to bite at its shoulder. Grace watched as the creature walked off to join its companions, only to hurry back to the fence and scratch itself again. Curious, Grace opened the gate and went into the field to have a better look. As she got closer, the sheep gave her a bleak look and rubbed its ear against the fence.

“Oh, dear, you’re not quite the thing, are you, girl?” Grace said, frowning. She watched it for a little longer and, whilst it stopped scratching, it just stood there looking thoroughly depressed. She noticed that the blue circular smit mark Sterling used to mark sheep as his property was not there. Instead, there was a red dot on the sheep’s left shoulder. “You’re not one of ours, I think. You poor thing. I wonder where you came from and whatever is the—”

Grace stopped, remembering an article she had read in the many journals she’d ploughed determinedly through.

Sheep scab. It was a nasty kind of mite that infected the sheep’s fleece and could be fatal if left untreated. It was also very, very infectious.

“Lud, I need to get you away from the others,” she said, eyeing the unhappy sheep and its proximity to the gate.

If this sheep, wherever it had come from, infected Sterling’s flock, it could have devastating results. Could she get it out without letting any of the others escape? Well, she’d best try.

Putting her arms out and making encouraging noises, she tried to herd the unhappy sheep towards the gate. Naturally, it promptly ran it the opposite direction. Muttering curses, Grace hurried after it as best she could, clutching at her burgeoning stomach as she went. This went on for a good twenty minutes, but eventually Grace got it close enough to risk getting the gate open. She stepped away, back into the field, to give the creature the courage to move forward. Surprisingly, it took one look at the open gate and bolted through it, which was a vast relief.