Page 53 of The Secret Word
The maids came out, one of them carrying the empty bucket. “We’re to heat the kettle and set out the tea makings,” one of them said. “For after, like.”
After? After the babies were born, did she mean?
He waited, trying to breathe normally. By the count of his breaths, he had been here for five minutes, though it felt much longer, when from within the room he heard the sound he had unconsciously been waiting for. A bleating cry. His baby! His wonderful wife had birthed his baby.
Chapter Twenty-One
The door openeda sliver, just enough for the maid Martha to slip outside. She started when she saw him. “Mr. Satterthwaite, sir.” She beamed. “You have a little girl, sir. She is a darling. Mrs. Satterthwaite is resting, but Mrs. Greene says the other one will be soon. She has sent me to fetch Mrs. Satterthwaite’s tea tray, and to tell you the news.”
“Thank you, Martha. Mr. Wright is sleeping. I won’t wake him until both children are born.”
Martha nodded and gave him a wry grin that was in itself a commentary on Wright. “As you say, sir.” And she hurried off downstairs.
She wasn’t gone long. Chris had heard nothing further from the birthing room and when she came up the stairs with a heavy tray, he was quick to open the door. He could not see the birthing chair even with the door opened wide, but he heard Mrs. Greene’s voice. “Is that Mr. Satterthwaite? Lady Fernvale, give him the baby.”
A moment later, Aunt Fern appeared in the doorway, and though Chris stepped back, she insisted on transferring the shawl-wrapped bundle from her arms into his, showing him how to support his daughter’s head with his elbow.
“I doubt this will take long. Just walk up and down with her, Christopher.” She stepped back into the room and shut the door, and Chris did what he was told, staring down into the face of hisnew little sweetheart. She blinked up at him and yawned. Chris was enraptured.
He lost track of time, space, everything, coming back to himself only when another cry came from the birthing room, this one not a gentle little bleat but a loud and indignant protest. “Your brother or sister has joined us in the world, baby mine,” he told the little mite in his arms. “If your mother is well, then I am the luckiest man alive.”
His daughter had fallen asleep. The surge of protective love was familiar, yet different. Often in recent months he had woken up next to Clem and watched her sleeping, a warmth and a softening in his chest as the woman he loved slumbered peacefully under his loving gaze.
This time, the urge and need to protect was stronger, more focused. His daughter. The child that he and Clem had made. So tiny, so helpless, so perfect.
The door opened again, and Aunt Fern stepped out into the hall carrying a bundle similar to his own cherished burden. “Christopher, meet your son,” she said.
*
Father was Clem’sfirst visitor, for she did not count Chris or Aunt Fern, who had returned to her, bringing her the babies as soon as Mrs. Greene sent Martha to fetch them.
That had been during the night. She had delivered the afterbirth, then Martha had helped her into a clean chemise and the robe she had discarded some time ago. Then Mrs. Greene and Martha had assisted her to the bed so that she could recline against the pillows, and Martha went to bring her loved ones to her.
With Mrs. Greene’s help, she had put each child to suck, and then Chris had carried her to her own bed, and Aunt Fern andMartha had followed with the children. She had fallen asleep with Chris beside her, holding her hand, and the two babies in a single cradle beside the bed. Clem was not yet ready to give them up to the care of their nursemaids.
They had been a part of her for so long, and now they were born she could not bear to let them go away from her. She needed to be able to touch them, see them, listen to them. The three of them—the four of them, with Chris—belonged together.
This morning, Father had apparently been awake early, demanding to see her son. Nothing about his daughter or granddaughter. Clem decided he could wait.
She fed the babies, and gave them to their nursemaids to wash and change. She had a cup of hot chocolate, and with a good appetite ate the breakfast that Martha had brought up to her. She had her own wash and change. Then she sent Chris down to tell Father that he might visit.
“Which one is he?” Those were Father’s first words.
Clem nodded to the nursemaid with the little boy, and the girl stepped forward.
“He is small,” Father complained.
“He is big for a baby born two weeks early, Mrs. Greene says,” Clem corrected.
Father glared at her with his “I insist on being obeyed” look. “I want Mr. Corgumbe to look at him. To make certain.”
“He has all his fingers and toes, Mr. Wright,” Chris said. “And he appears healthy in every respect. As does his sister. Small, but the way they are feeding already, that will soon be resolved.”
“I want Mr. Corgumbe to look at him,” Father insisted.
Clem looked at Chris, who said, “What do you wish to do, my love?”
Father snorted and muttered something about apron strings. Chris grinned at him. “My wife, my children, my estate.”
