Page 11 of Tremaine's True Love
“She wants her baby,” Nita said. Was desperate for him.
“She shall have him,” Mr. St. Michael replied, “just as soon as the chambermaids have tended to the linens.” He took up a pitch fork and piled a quantity of straw into the pen, his movements practiced and easy. “Mr. Haddonfield, if you could tell your shepherd it’s time to move his earliest ewes in here, their presence will add to the warmth and safety of the first lambs.”
George scowled at the ewe, whose racket had escalated. “I’ll let him know.”
“Nowwould suit, Mr. Haddonfield. Lady Nita tells me snow is on the way, and moving sheep doesn’t get easier for being done in a blizzard. A dozen ewes at least. Two dozen would be better. They’ll need hay, of course, and fresh water too.”
None of which Mr. Kinser had yet seen to. “I doubt Difty Kinser is under the weather,” Nita said when George had marched off. “Shall I unbutton you?”
“Please.” Mr. St. Michael stood before her, the top of his head nearly touching the byre’s rafters, while Nita undid his coat, jacket, waistcoat, and shirt. Out of medical necessity, she’d undressed grown men before—old men, ailing men, insensate men—but those experiences did not prepare her for the task she’d taken on.
Tremaine St. Michael was fit, healthy, muscular, and willing to lend his very warmth to a helpless creature. His coat was dirty as a result of the ewe’s muddy underbelly across his shoulders, and yet, amid the scent of dirt and straw, Nita could still catch a whiff of flowers.
She stopped short of reaching into Mr. St. Michael’s very shirt. “Is he alive?”
The ewe fell silent as Mr. St. Michael extracted the lamb from his clothing. “He is, but he wants his mama. She seems a sensible sort, which always helps.”
Mr. St. Michael stepped over the board siding of the pen and held the lamb up to the ewe’s nose. She licked her baby twice, and when Mr. St. Michael put the lamb down in the straw, she continued to sniff at her newborn.
“What now?” If the lamb died, Nita’s list of disenchantments with the Almighty would gain another item.
“Now comes sustenance,” Mr. St. Michael said, positioning the lamb near the ewe’s back legs. “If he can nurse, he has a good chance. If he can’t, then the ewe’s first milk should be saved in case more early arrivals show up in the next day or two.”
A gentleman would not have explained that much. A gentleman would not have supported the lamb as it braced on tottery legs and poked its nose about in the general direction of its first meal. A gentleman would surely not have assisted the lamb to find that first meal, but Tremaine St. Michael did.
The ewe held still—all that was required of her—and as Nita looked on, the lamb’s tail twitched.
The sight of that vigorous twitch of a dark tail eased a constriction about Nita’s heart.
“He’s nursing?”
“Going at it like a drover at his favorite alehouse.”
“Good.”Wonderful.
Mr. St. Michael graced Nita with another one of those early-spring smiles as the lamb switched its tail again and Nita tried not to cry.
George interrupted this special, awkward moment. “Kinser says he’ll have two dozen ewes up here within the hour. He was planning to move them by week’s end, but this one caught him by surprise.”
Mr. St. Michael climbed out of the pen. “And the hay and water?”
“I’ll send some fellows over to see that it’s taken care of,” George said. “How’s the new arrival?”
“He’ll soon be sleeping, snug up against his mama, but now that the first one is on the ground, more will follow. Your shepherd will need assistance, because in this weather, somebody should check the herd for lambs regularly, even through the night. The first-time mothers and some of the older ewes will cheerfully ignore their own offspring unless reminded of their maternal obligations.”
Mr. St. Michael plucked his gloves from Nita’s grasp and met her gaze for an instant. His eyes held understanding, as if he knew that females of the human species could also misplace their maternal instincts, and no kindly shepherd would address their lapse.
“If we’re done here,” George said, “I’m for a toddy and a warm fire.”
“A fine notion,” Mr. St. Michael replied, pulling on his gloves. “Lady Nita, my thanks for your assistance.” She’d done nothing except blink back tears and handle a few buttons, and yet, after Mr. St. Michael had boosted her onto her horse, he lingered a moment arranging the drape of her skirts over her boots.
“Not every titled lady would have tarried in the cold for a mere lamb,” he said. “I should have left the matter to Kinser’s good offices. This is his flock.”
“Kinser is likely the worse for drink.” Nita had complained to Nicholas of this tendency the last time she’d had to make up headache powders for Mr. Kinser.
“An occupational hazard among shepherds, particularly in cold weather. My thanks for your assistance though. That is a fine little tup, and he’ll be worth a pretty penny.”
Mr. St. Michael looked like he wanted to say more. Nita plucked a bit of straw from his hair and barely resisted the urge to brush at the shoulders of his coat.
