Page 19 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
Her companion nodded without hesitation. “Been some time since I did any lambing, but I’d know what to do. Wish I could.”
Beatrice knocked on the roof of the carriage. “Wiggins, pull over!”
Almost immediately, the vehicle rolled to a stop, and Jeanie shot Beatrice a grateful look. She removed her spencer, bonnet, and gloves and then stepped down. Once outside, Jeanie clambered the timbered fence that bordered the meadow.
The major exited the carriage before turning to help Beatrice out, and they approached the fence. She was grateful that he didn’t say anything about adhering to a schedule. Instead, they both watched with mute fascination as Jeanie approached the agitated ewe, murmuring soothingly.
It happened far faster than Beatrice would have expected. Fortunately, the sleeves of Jeanie’s dress were quite short, and with incredible calm, she knelt and eased her hand into the ewe’s birth canal. Jeanie did some careful manipulations, and then two miniature hooves appeared, followed by a tiny muzzle. Finally, the whole diminutive creature emerged, dark and wet.
“Might want to look away for the next bit,” the major said.
Beatrice squeezed her eyes shut but it was too late—she saw the slippery mass of the afterbirth slide out. “Oh, God.”
“Thought you were a mother,” Major McCameron said with wry humor.
“Haven’t spent much time observing that part from this angle.” She swallowed, and her head spun.
The major disappeared into the carriage for a moment, then returned with his hat, which he used to fan her face. “Better?”
“Think so.” She laughed at herself. “My goodness, that was far more gruesome than I’d anticipated.”
“You didn’t cast up your accounts, which is fortunate, given how much you enjoyed that Bedfordshire clanger.”
“Please, let’s not mention food right now.” Still she couldn’t help but smile as she watched Jeanie carrying the damp, fragile lamb to its mother’s head. The ewe nuzzled her baby like the proud parent she was.
A barrel-chested man in a broad straw hat trotted toward them, carrying a pitcher of water. “Don’t know who you are, madam,” he panted at Jeanie, “but I thank ’ee for coming to our aid.”
“Lambing season ends in May,” Jeanie noted with a puzzled tilt of her head, “and late season isn’t until November.” She nodded gratefully as the farmer rinsed off her hands and arms.
“Know your sheep, missus?” the man asked.
“Born and bred on a working farm in Gloucestershire,” Jeanie said with a touch of pride. “We kept sheep for wool and meat. I’ve helped many a ewe ean—that meansgive birth,” she added for Beatrice’s benefit.
“We don’t know what happened, but half our flock is set to ean in the next week. We’ve over a dozen springers. A mystery, and an unwelcome one.”
“Why’s that?” Beatrice asked. “More lambs seems a good thing.”
“Except my wife went and hurt her arm helping birth a slink last night.” The farmer shook his head. “The leech said she couldn’t use her arm for a month at least. Can’t find no one from the village to help on account of most of ’em gone to the harvest festival. Which leaves just me to try to get two dozen ewes through their eaning.” He studied Jeanie. “It’s a shame you can’t help.”
“Oh, I would love that, just like old times,” Jeanie said eagerly, then shot an uncertain glance at Beatrice.
At once, Beatrice knew what she wanted to do. She waved her companion over to her. Lowly, she asked, “Do you want to stay to help ean the lambs?”
Delight filled Jeanie’s face—making Beatrice’s own pleasure flare—followed by uncertainty. “Is that... is that all right? I don’t want to leave you on your own.”
“If it would please you to stay,” Beatrice said, “and perhaps bring you back to simpler times, I’d very much like you to remain. Besides, I’ve been working to give myself all the things I have longed for—I can do the same for you.”
Jeanie ducked her head, but her smile spoke directly to Beatrice’s heart. Why not ensure that Jeanie experienced happiness, too? After all, there was a noticeable shortage of joy in the world. She didn’t fool herself into thinking that she herself was the sole benefactorof pleasure, yet if she could do this one little thing for someone she cared about, she ought to.
“If this makes you happy,” Beatrice said to Jeanie firmly, “then it’s settled. You can stay here at—I’m sorry, your name, sir?” she added in a louder voice for the farmer’s benefit.
“Dixon,” he supplied. “Arthur Dixon.”
“If it’s all right with Mr. Dixon,” Beatrice said, “you can help him with the lambing. I’ll pay you the same amount as if you were with me, as well as your room and board here with Mr. Dixon. Will that arrangement suit you, sir?” she asked, glancing at the farmer.
“’Twill,” he said at once. “We’ve a spare room, nice and snug, with a good bed. And my wife can’t help lamb, but she can cook a fine stew. We’ll keep you well fed.”
Deciding it was best not to consider the meat of which that stew was made, Beatrice smiled at Jeanie. “This should be a nice bucolic interlude before your visit with your sister. You can leave for her home once the lambing is done. Then we can meet again at the conclusion of Lord Gibb’s, er, gathering.”
