The Bastard (32 page)

“I know, but...I had no choice.”

He seemed to realize this wasn’t about them. “What is it?” he asked.

“There is a girl in the hold. I met her when I hid there myself. A man named Jones—Rulon Jones—has been keeping her, but she is very sick. We must help her!”

Understanding dawned. “So that is where my blanket went.”

“Yes.”

Treynor whirled around to find his shirt, coat, and boots, which he threw on, reaching for the buttons as he headed for the door. “Stay here and wait for me. I will be back.”

“No!” Jeannette restrained him with a hand on his arm. “I know where she is. It will be much quicker for me to take you to her.”

“We cannot be seen together.”

“Be that as it may, we cannot let this girl die!”

Confusion and surprise evident in his face, he studied her for a moment. Then he tenderly touched her cheek. “You are willing to take such a risk?”

“Oui.”

“Then let’s go.”

He grabbed hold of her lantern and headed out, and Jeannette had to hurry to catch up.

Treynor used the lamp he held to search every dark corner as they reached the orlop deck and started down into the hold. Even if Cunnington was asleep in his cabin, Treynor knew there were men in the crew who would gladly share news of his and Jeannette’s late-night venture if they thought it would buy them leniency at some critical point in the future. Cunnington and his whip had put the fear of God into the entire crew—and the enmity between the first and second lieutenants was no secret.

Jeannette panted softly behind him, so he slowed his steps for her benefit. Her skirts hampered her movement. Although she raised them high, revealing small feet and a shapely bit of calf, she had to take two steps for every one of his.

“How often do you go down to this girl?” he asked as they walked.

“I have only done it once, on the day I was almost tattooed.”

“No wonder you wouldn’t tell me what you were up to.”

They’d arrived at the hold. “I had to take her some food. Her man promised to care for her, but he has not.”

“Then I shall deal with him later.”

A step behind him, she touched his shoulder and turned to the right. “This way.”

“Amelia?” she called out. “Do not worry. I have brought help.”

“Rulon?” The voice sounded exhausted yet hopeful.

“No. It is Lieutenant Treynor.”

Taking his hand, Jeannette led him around the barrels. Her soft skin and small, delicate fingers made him want to lift her palm to his lips. But then they rounded a corner and the light lapped over a female form lying on the floor and all such thoughts fled his mind. The young woman’s filthy state and tattered dress marked her as another of the many prostitutes Treynor had seen before, carousing with the men while they were in port. But her extended abdomen was obvious, made more so by the way she gripped it and moaned, rolling miserably from side to side.

He shot Jeannette an astonished glance. “She is having a
baby
?”

“I-I cannot say, for sure.” She passed a hand over her worried brow. “I think she is
malade
—ill, and, perhaps it is time for the
bébé
. I mean, how does one know?”

“
This
is a good indication.” He nodded toward the girl writhing in pain. “We have to get her to the surgeon.”

Amelia, for the most part, seemed oblivious to their presence, until Treynor bent to pick her up. Then she let out a piercing wail and tried to shove him away. “No,” she panted. “The baby. There is no time.”

Jeannette stared at him with wide eyes. “Shall I fetch the surgeon then?”

Amelia’s hand shot out and clamped onto Jeannette’s arm. “Don’t leave me again. Please. The baby is—”

A gut-wrenching sob tore out of the girl’s throat and she began to bear down, making Treynor’s decision a simple but harrowing one.

“Here, hold this.” He handed Jeannette the lamp while he pushed barrels back to give them more room. Creating a ledge on which he could set the light, he removed his coat. Then he spread out the blanket and lifted her onto it. “My God, she is little more than a child herself,” he muttered.

Jeannette held Amelia’s hand and coaxed her to cooperate. “It will all be over with soon,” she crooned and looked up at him as if expecting him to confirm her words.

Treynor drew Amelia’s skirts up above her waist, completely baring her bottom. The sight, along with a trickle of blood, drew a small gasp from Jeannette.

“This is unseemly,” she said, flustered. “I mean...you are a man. What are you doing?” Her eyes darted from him to Amelia and back again. “She—”

“She is having a baby and, despite your delicate sensibilities, this is where it comes out. I am afraid I see no midwife, though I would trade my weight in gold for one right now. Unless, of course, you would like to try your hand at birthing...” He backed away, motioning her to replace him between Amelia’s knees, which Amelia had instinctively raised and parted.

The spasm wracking Amelia’s belly subsided, leaving the girl gasping for air but able to utter a response of her own. “I’ve ’ad worse than ’im see it all.”

She attempted to laugh, but the pain returned, and she had to force the rest through her teeth. “An’ I assure ye, I don’t rightly care at this bloody moment. I’d let ’im cut me ’ead off if I thought it’d heeeeeeelp.”

The last word extended into another keening wail, and Jeannette shoved Treynor back in place. “Do whatever you can. Just help her.”

Treynor knelt at the ready. He intended for his nonchalance to calm Jeannette, to calm them both, but inside, he felt as nervous as they appeared to be. He had never witnessed a human birth. He could only draw from what he had witnessed on the Abbott farm. Once, he’d assisted a mare in delivering her foal.

He hoped it would make him of some use. “Relax, everything will be fine.” He regretted that his words sounded far less convincing than he meant them to be.

“What can I do?” Jeannette rolled back her sleeves as far as they would go. Now that propriety ranked somewhere below necessity and practicality, she seemed eager to take any instructions he was willing to give.

Treynor admired her courage—and her kindness. Jeannette had endangered herself more than once to help Amelia.

“I am not exactly sure,” he admitted. “We will just have to hope it becomes apparent.”

No sooner had he said that than Amelia bore down in earnest. A glimpse of what looked like a bald head made his heart thud until he could feel its vibration in his fingertips. He was about to help a new life enter the world.

He looked at Jeannette, who was holding Amelia’s hand and whispering encouragement.
I would like to see her give birth to my son
.
The idea came unbidden, out of nowhere, and he squelched it as quickly as it dawned on his consciousness. What foolishness was that?

Amelia’s next push produced a fresh gush of water and blood. He could see the baby, but it wasn’t the head, as he had thought. It was a set of pink buttocks.

Fear coursed through him. He knew little about birthing babies, but it wasn’t hard to guess that this was unusual—and not in the least desirable. Again, he considered sending Jeannette for the surgeon. It might all be over by the time Sivern arrived, but then it might not. Mother and child could easily lose their lives....

His uncertainty drew Jeannette’s attention. She searched his face, then mirrored his worry. “What is it?”

Amelia’s eyes flew open. “Is somethin’ wrong?”

“No.” Treynor masked his concern with a calm smile. “Nothing. I was just thinking that Jeannette should go for Surgeon Sivern. He can only be a help to us.”

“Not ’im!” Amelia tried to sit up, but Jeannette held her down. “That sawbones is not goin’ ter lay a ’and on me or me baby! I’ve seen ’is work before. Ain’t worth nothin’ to the ’ealthy, an’ the sick and dyin’ dread ’im even more.”

Treynor knew then that, despite her youth, Amelia was a seasoned stowaway and had witnessed the frigate in action. Surgeon Sivern’s work was notorious and consisted mostly of hacking off the limbs of those who required such treatment due to injuries sustained during battle. The man prided himself on his speed and efficiency, and there were times he received plenty of practice. But, in all probability, he’d never delivered a baby. Would he be able to help? Or was Treynor simply trying to divorce himself from the awesome responsibility before him?

“At least he is somewhat educated in these matters,” he argued.

Another pain was coming on. He wanted this to be the last one, the one that delivered the baby. Amelia was tiring fast, was probably not strong enough to last much longer—not after living in the inhospitable hold.

Amelia bore down again, but weakly.

He had to do something. Fortunately, instinct took over as the tiny buttocks appeared. Slipping one hand inside, he found and gripped the babe’s foot and gently turned the child. “Push,” he commanded Amelia.

She obeyed with a guttural moan, and he pulled at the same time. Amazingly, he saw more of the infant as the buttocks slid all the way out, revealing a tiny penis and testicles.

But the baby’s head didn’t appear. Would it suffocate before he could get it out?

“Push!” he cried, but Amelia only squirmed and twisted and moaned.

“I can’t. I ’ave nothin’ left.” Tears ran from her eyes. “No more. Just...let me die.”

“Of course we won’t! You can do it.” Jeannette smoothed her hair away from her face. “You are almost done,
mon amie
. Please. One more push.”

With a surge of effort born of desperation, Amelia’s belly contracted, and Treynor held on.

There was the baby’s back. Then the shoulders. An oblong head finally appeared, plastered with wet, curly dark hair.

Treynor felt a lump rise in his throat. He’d managed to get the child from its mother’s womb, but the babe’s face was purple. He wasn’t breathing.

Acting as swiftly as possible, Treynor cleared the mucus out of the baby’s small mouth with the tail of his shirt.

And then...at last...Amelia’s son burst into a hearty cry.

“It’s a boy," he said as relief washed over him. “He’s awfully tiny—not half a stone, I’d guess—and very angry. But he’s alive.”

Tears sparkled in Jeannette’s eyes as she stared at the straining little body he cradled in his hands. Still connected to his mother via the umbilical cord and covered with her blood, water, and membranes, he wasn’t much to look at. Yet Treynor had never seen anything more beautiful.

“You have a son,” Jeannette whispered to her friend.

Treynor moved to set the child in Amelia’s arms, but the exhausted girl turned her face away, refusing to even look at the crying child.

“Take ’im away,” she sobbed. “I don’t want ’im.”

Treynor could not have been more surprised if Amelia had spit in his face. He cut the cord, tied it off, and pulled the baby against his own chest, heedless of the blood that would stain his shirt. “What do you mean?” he demanded.

“Ye ’eard me,” she said. “I don’t want ’im.”

Unable to escape the suspicion that his mother had said something similar on his own birthday, Treynor swallowed hard. “But he’s your son.”

“’E’s a nuisance, that’s all.” She curled into a ball on the floor, rocking herself back and forth, the afterbirth now a bloody puddle near her feet.