From This Day Forward Read online

  Something is wrong. The baby isn’t coming out. Sweat beaded on Nathan’s forehead. The child was turned wrong—like Eliza’s was. No, he couldn’t deliver this baby. He had let Eliza down. He—

  The woman’s groans permeated every corner of his mind as she tried to push and nothing happened. He had to do something. He did not bring her here to die.

  His gut knotted into a lump of regrets.

  “I cannot do this…anymore.” Mrs. Gordon sagged back against the young woman, her hair damp from perspiration, her face pasty white.

  “She cannot die,” Maddy said, her gaze latching onto him. “Do something. You are a doctor.”

  For a moment he recalled that same expression and demand from the wounded soldiers he tried to save. Nathan surged to his feet and hurried from the room. He grabbed the bag with his medical instruments. His hand shook as he removed the forceps. He had never wanted to use them again.

  As he reentered the bedchamber, he stared at the woman whose life was in his hands. Her arms hung limp at her sides until another contraction descended. Pain contorted her face, her hands digging into the bedding. The look she gave him, full of need and hope, as he returned to her side, reminded him of Eliza’s—only minutes before she slipped away.

  Rachel’s newborn howled.

  “She has a nice set of lungs.” Nathan took a cloth and wiped her child. “She’s beautiful. Do you want to see your daughter?”

  Words failed Rachel. With her throat clogged, she nodded.

  He wrapped her baby in a blanket and laid her in the crook of Rachel’s arm. Her child quieted and peered at her. Tears slipped from Rachel’s eyes as she stared at her daughter. Tiny. Rosy cheeks. Delicate features. And a black head of hair. Like her deceased husband—a constant reminder.

  Rachel took the small hand in hers and caressed the soft skin. “She is so little.”

  Nathan cleaned up. “I can remember when my younger sister was born. When I got to hold her, I thought I was going to drop her.”

  “Where is your sister now?”

  “She lives near here with her husband.”

  “Does she have any children?” Her gaze transfixed on the tiny bundle in her arms, Rachel smoothed the fine dark hair away from her daughter’s face.

  When he didn’t answer her, she glanced up. His eyebrows slashed downward. His lips pressed together. He turned away.

  “I’m sorry. I should not have asked.” Exhaustion weaved its way through Rachel, weighing down her limbs.

  He peered over his shoulder at her as he tossed dirty cloths into a bowl. “Yes, she has a son. But she almost died giving birth. I was not…” He shifted around, a shadow in his stormy blue eyes. “I was not here to help her.”

  “Where were you?”

  “In New York. Fighting the English.”

  The English. Her heartbeat slowed. Her mouth went dry. “In the recent war?”

  “Yes. I was a physician with our troops.” The rigid set to his shoulders and the nerve that twitched in his cheek attested to suppressed anger.

  Against the English. Rachel bit into her bottom lip. At the Charleston harbor she had heard others who spoke with her accent but had been in this country at least long enough to set up shop at the wharf and surrounding area. How do I tell him I am English, newly arrived? Does he already know? He hasn’t said anything.

  The war had ended a year ago. Her husband had proclaimed that this young country was the place for them to go, that opportunities abounded for him to make enough money to give her the lifestyle she was accustomed to. Tom had not cared that she was happy in England and feared traveling so far from all she had known.

  The broad-shouldered doctor gathered up the rags, bowl, and bucket of heated water used to clean her and her daughter. “I will send in Maddy. Now that the baby has arrived, she should be of some use to you.”

  Rachel pressed her lips together to keep from blurting that she had recently arrived from England. The sound of the thunder in the distance reminded her of her predicament—several miles from Charleston, in the woods, with a storm raging.

  While her daughter nursed, Rachel fought the exhaustion that claimed her. She had to stay alert. What if he discovered she was newly arrived from England, the country he had recently fought against, and threw her and her baby out? Rachel hugged her daughter even closer, peering out the window. Pitch black greeted her. In the rain at night?

  Two

  Cries penetrated Rachel’s dreamless sleep. They meant something. She was sure of that, but for a moment she could not recall what. The thundering in her head momentarily drove the noise into the background. Then the memories flooded her mind, propelling her toward wakefulness with a jolt.

  Her eyes flew open. The first thing she realized was that it was morning. The second thing was that her baby was gone.

  The cries continued from the other room. Ignoring the pounding in her head, Rachel threw back the covers and slipped her feet to the wooden-planked floor. When she stood she gripped the bedpost to steady herself. She peered down at her attire, her own muslin nightgown. All she could remember from the evening before was the stranger who delivered her baby leaving the room to get Maddy. Did her maid undress her? Vaguely she recalled Maddy stripping off her dirty clothes and making sure the rest of the filth of the trip was washed away as best as she could under such primitive conditions.

  Where are the rest of my clothes? Where is my baby? Rachel scanned the small room and found her chest against a wall made of logs then her robe lying across the covers at the end of the bed. Snatching up her robe, she started for the door, the cries of her daughter demanding her attention. But her sudden movements caused her to stop a few feet from the bed. Lightheaded, she teetered. The bed, the table, and a chair in the corner spun like a twirling prism. She sank to the cool floor, squeezing her eyes shut. The blackness swirled while pain struck against her skull like the clang of the bell on the ship. She grasped her head and pressed her fingers into her scalp. The sound of her baby’s wails grew nearer. When she peered up, the doctor named Nathan Stuart stood in the doorway with Maddy right behind him. He cradled her daughter in the crook of one arm against his chest. The sight of such a large man, rugged looking in buckskin leggings, took her breath away. She blinked rapidly, trying to still the spinning room. She could not be ill right now. She had a child to care for.

  “You have a bump on the side of your head the size of a goose egg.” His deep, gravelly voice cut through the haze clouding her mind.

  “I do?” She felt for the lump, her fingers grazing over it. A jolt of pain threatened to rob her of clarity.

  He moved to hover over her. After passing her crying daughter to Maddy, he bent forward and wrapped his arms about her middle. “You need to stay in bed. You were hurt in the accident.”

  The warmth of his body heat soothed the anxiety building in the pit of her stomach. He helped her to her feet and then guided her to the side of the bed.

  With his assistance she sank down onto the soft bed. His scent of soap, burning wood, and maleness assailed her. Heat infused her cheeks. She averted her gaze.

  “Thank you for procuring my trunk.” She hated being beholden to a stranger, but she didn’t have much of a choice. She knew no one in South Carolina and only had a few distant relatives in the Boston area—ones who had migrated to this country before the rebellion in 1776.

  “Ma’am, Dr. Stuart did much more than that.” Maddy cuddled Rachel’s daughter to her chest, rocking her in her arms, but nothing quieted the baby. “He brought my bag too.”

  “The cart is ruined, but I managed to retrieve some of your crates. Some of your belongings are broken.”

  Rachel sat back against the headboard, lifting her arms to take her baby. “Did you see a horse nearby? Brown, with a white mark down his nose?”

  “No.”

  Her daughter nuzzled against her, her cries calming as she searched for her nourishment. “Is she all right?” Rachel asked, watching her child with wond
erment.

  “Yes. She’s beautiful and hungry. I tried to keep her satisfied so you could rest, but alas, I am not what she wants.”

  Embarrassment heated Rachel’s cheeks. She was learning American men were different from Englishmen. More rugged. Less refined.

  He grinned, his attention focused on her child. “I will have Maddy bring you something to eat and willow bark tea for your headache.”

  When he and Maddy left her alone with her child, Rachel released a long breath. While her daughter nursed, she rested her head against the backboard and assessed the room. The sturdy, well-made furniture surprised her. What little she remembered of the outside of the cabin had not prepared her for the homey, neat interior. Nathan Stuart’s bearing and his attire the day before attested to his upper-class background. But today she had seen another side to him, more in line with some of the men on the dock.

  A sucking sound fastened Rachel’s gaze on her daughter. So tiny, so defenseless. She was her child’s sole protector. I shall not let anything happen to you. Tears welled in Rachel’s eyes. How was she going to fulfill that promise? The sense of being totally on her own swamped her as it had so many times since she stepped foot on American soil. A wet track rolled down her cheek and fell onto her baby.

  Rachel studied her daughter’s small features, delicate like the petals of a rose, the mop of curly black hair, so like her husband’s. Her heart slowed to a throbbing ache. Her daughter was totally dependent on her for everything. That realization unnerved Rachel more than when the captain of the ship had told her that Tom had drunk too much and fallen overboard. Her first thought had been relief, that she was finally free of Tom. Only later had reality sunk in, and she had discovered how serious her predicament was. Then terror struck her. Somehow she would find the means to keep her daughter safe.

  After switching the baby to her other side, Rachel closed her eyes, content for the moment to listen to the little noises her child made as she suckled. She needed to name her. Her mother’s name was Margaret. Perhaps that could be her one connection to home. Perhaps…The thought faded as weariness weaved its way through her.

  “Sir, is she well?”

  The sound of Maddy’s high-pitched voice floated to Rachel, drawing her from the blackness that embraced her in comfort. She stirred, opening one eye, to find Dr. Stuart leaning over her to take her child from the curve of her arm.

  She clasped her daughter tighter, quickly glancing down to make sure she was covered as she sat up straighter. “I’m fine.” The moment she said those words she became aware of the persistent throbbing in her head.

  “Here, drink this.” He picked up a cup sitting on the small table next to the bed. “ ’Tis willow bark tea. You should feel better after you do.”

  Rachel passed her sleeping child to Maddy then took the drink and sipped it. “Thank you.”

  “I have chicken soup as well as bread and cheese.” He took the cup she had emptied and set it next to a bowl on the table. “ ’Tis not much. I was not prepared for a…guest.”

  As the tea began to take effect, the pain subsided to a dull throb. “I appreciate what you have done for us. As soon as I can, I shall be on my way. Perhaps later today.”

  “Nonsense.” He picked up the bowl and gave it to her along with a spoon. “You cannot go anywhere till you have regained your strength. Is there anyone I can notify?”

  She stared down at the liquid in the bowl with bits of chicken and vegetables. “No, there is no one. My husband died recently.” When she lifted her gaze to his, she saw the kindness in his tired features, the warmth in his blue eyes like the sun on the lake at Mansfield Manor. He had done so much for her already. The sense she could trust him spread through her to calm her anxiety. “He died on the voyage over here from England.” Breath held, she waited for his response.

  His mouth tightened for a moment before straightening into a neutral expression. “I thought as much. Do you know anyone in South Carolina?”

  The realization of how utterly alone she really was shuddered down her length. A stranger in a strange land with little money and a new baby. “No one.” Her hands holding the bowl trembled, sloshing the broth onto her.

  He cupped his hands over hers to steady the quivering. Again a softness entered his eyes as they roamed over her. “That’s not true. You know me.”

  She attempted a smile that fell. “I don’t want to be a burden to you. As soon as I can travel, we will leave for Dalton Plantation.”

  His hands slipped away from hers. “Plantation?”

  “You don’t know of it? I thought I was near it. Am I lost?”

  “What do you know about this…plantation?”

  Rachel set the bowl of soup in her lap, its aroma stirring the hunger pangs in her stomach. “Only what Tom, my husband, told me. The location. That it would be a new start for us. We would have a large house to raise our children in. Plenty of land to grow crops. There would be servants, field hands to help us.” She dipped the spoon into the liquid and sipped the broth. “This is delicious.”

  A frown creased his brow. “I don’t know where your husband obtained his information about Dalton Farm, but ‘tis not anything like that. There are a hundred fifty, maybe two hundred usable acres, uncultivated, and a house on the land, a small one that needs repairs from the great storm of 1811. There’s a barn. It needs repairs too. There hasn’t been anyone to look after the place since the war. The Daltons left for England a few years back. The farm is run down, but what is not swampland is good for planting crops.”

  “If a person knew how,” she whispered, more to herself than him. What has Tom done?

  She stared down at her cooling soup, fighting the tears that demanded release. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she blinked to rid her eyes of them. But one dropped into her broth.

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you about the farm.”

  Concern threaded through his voice and immediately reminded Rachel she had an audience. She peered up at him. He stepped back, rubbing his nape and looking about him as if he were searching for a place to disappear.

  “Coming to America was not my dream. Now I don’t know what to do.”

  His gaze settled on her. “I can take you back to Charleston. There is bound to be a ship leaving for England soon.”

  “No!” The one word flew out of her mouth so fast it even surprised her. “I cannot do that.” She raised her chin a notch. “I shall make do with what the Lord has given me.”

  His expression darkened. He clamped his jaw shut and glanced at Maddy, who held Rachel’s daughter. “What about your child?”

  “We shall be fine,” she said with as much determination as she could muster, but her voice cracked.

  He frowned. “How?”

  “God will provide.”

  He snorted. “He will? That naïveté will get you killed.”

  She sucked in a deep breath. “I don’t have a choice. I cannot return to England. My parents disowned me. Dalton Farm, in whatever condition, is all I have. It will be my home now.” She dropped her gaze to the bowl of chicken soup and picked up the spoon to take another taste of the broth.

  “Where did you grow up?” Tension poured off him, from his taut posture to the intense glint in his eyes.

  “Devonshire. My family owns an estate there. Mansfield Manor.”

  “Why did your parents disown you?”

  “Because I married Tom Gordon, a man they did not think worthy of me.” It wasn’t until after her marriage to Tom that she had discovered how right her parents had been. She wrote a letter and told them how sorry she was for defying them. She never heard back from her parents.

  “Surely now that your husband has died and you have a child—”

  “My father made it quite clear he never wanted to see me again. He had arranged a marriage for me. No one goes against him.”

  His look turned to ice, his jawline sculpted in stone. “I know how that is.”

  “You do?”

&nbs
p; “Yes.”

  Someone who understands what I am going through. The feeling of kinship with this man heightened the intimacy she felt between them. The room shrank in size, her heartbeat increasing. “What happened?”

  “My grandfather insisted I do what he wanted…to run Pinecrest, to learn how from my father. I didn’t want to be a planter. I wanted to help others as a physician. I had already started to train when…” His gruff voice faded into silence. He peered away, swallowing hard. A war of emotions played across his features, as though he were reliving a bad memory.

  The connection she felt to him strengthened. The urge to help him as he had her prompted her to say, “So you went against your grandfather’s wishes as I did my father’s. Was there no way you could do both?”

  “I tried, with my father’s support, but five years ago we lost many people on the plantation to yellow fever. My father tried to help and succumbed to the fever. I could not do anything to save him. After my father’s funeral, I stood up to Grandfather. He didn’t take kindly to that. He really does not understand….” He snapped his mouth closed, a nerve jumping in his jaw.

  “What does he not understand? That being a physician is important to you?”

  “If I had completed my training as I had planned, I might have been able to do more to save my father.”

  “You were upset that your father died. How could your grandfather disown you for speaking what you felt?”

  Dr. Stuart rubbed the back of his neck. “There was more to it than that. Looking back now, I believe my grandfather would have accepted my learning to be a physician as well as a planter.” He sucked in a deep breath and looked right at her. “Soon after my father’s funeral, my grandfather sent my mother back to England, telling her she was not welcome at Pinecrest ever again.”

  His expression was solemn and hurt dulled his eyes. Her throat swelled, tears close to the surface. “Pinecrest was your mother’s home.” Like Mansfield Manor had once been hers.