by J. F. Collen
A big basket of herbs and potions came through the door, followed immediately by Mrs. Rafferty. The very sight of her teacher and mentor calmed Nellie, in spite of the onset of another long, painful contraction.
“Now, breathe!” commanded Mrs. Rafferty, barely inside the doorway. “For the love of Saint Bridget, Cornelia! How many times have you coached patients, instructing them in this very technique? We must breathe and push t’ pain away.”
Mrs. Rafferty put down the basket and pulled Nellie off her Dessoir settee. “Let’s get shinning around,” she said. “Time to move to the next stage.” She bustled Nellie over to the cot Nellie had readied in her sitting room, and helped Nellie lie down. “‘Tis time to rest in between contractions. We must conserve your strength for later.”
“How very strange to view the birthing table from this perspective.” Nellie gave a weak grin, the intensity of the next contraction already taking its toll on her.
The front door banged open, audible in the lull between contractions. Obadiah called, “Cornelia, I had to hurry back with the good news. We have obtained federal jurisdiction! The Henry Clay officers will not be tried for murder in New York state court, but rather be held for manslaughter in the first degree in Federal Court, under the 1838 Steamboat Act. We would never have been able to prove the mens rea, the intent to harm, required for a conviction of murder! This indictment most definitely ensures us a guilty verdict and perhaps pecuniary accountability....”
Obadiah’s figure appeared in the doorway of the labor room, the word ‘accountability’ apparently caught in his throat. “Hornswoggling hellfire!” he cussed and turned on his heel. His receding voice echoed along the hallway. “Perhaps I will fill you in on the particulars at another juncture....” The door slammed again.
Nellie, Midwife Rafferty, and Gertrude Entwhistle looked at each other and burst into laughter.
Nellie’s laughter spurred another contraction, and they all went back to work.
“Glory and praise to the Lord,” whispered Nellie, fourteen hours later, taking the slippery red infant into her arms. She took a long look at the small body taking up so little space in her arms. The strangest thought struck her. “My sweet Emmeline Rose, you look familiar!” she exclaimed out loud. Reluctantly, she gave the baby to Mrs. Rafferty to be bathed and swaddled.
Obadiah rushed into the room.
He sought out Nellie’s eyes first, then looked at their cleaned, wrapped baby, nestled in his wife’s arms. Nellie observed the amazement and joy on his face at his first look at their daughter. I shall cherish his look of wonder and awe all the rest of my days, she vowed.
“My darling,” said Obadiah, tenderly, gently, kissing Nellie on the head. “No, no—my darlings!” he corrected himself, even more gently kissing the infant on her head. Emma gave a little sleep smile but did not open her eyes.
Nellie looked up at him. They both had tears in their eyes. Although in truth, I have journeyed far beyond the ‘wonder’ portion of this miracle. Now I simply shed tears of exhaustion. Nellie giggled. The noise turned into laughter and the laughter came faster and faster as she realized she could not stop. Obadiah plopped down on the bed and embraced both mother and daughter.
“Laughter for joy—far better, my Cornelia Rose, than tears of relief,” he whispered into her hair. New tears sprang to her eyes at those kind words, but she calmed herself and settled into him, their precious bundle still in angelic repose in her arms. She felt his lips brush her hair, and then her ear, and then her neck. A delighted tingle ran down Nellie’s shoulder. Merciful heavens, the agony is gone. In its stead, warm, wonderful sensations reappear.
Nellie felt rather than heard Obadiah whisper,
“‘I humbly do beseech of your pardon, For too much loving you’.”
Obadiah’s quote of Shakespeare caps my euphoria.
For a long time, they sat intertwined, feeling the joy, the elation, and the responsibility, of becoming parents.
Chapter 11 – Stand by Me
Sing Sing, New York, April 1853
Less than two days later, Nellie felt strong enough to venture into her garden. She picked some early spring herbs—the ingredients for a tincture and for good measure, a poultice. The seedtime sun felt warm on her back, but Nellie suffered such anxiety about her new responsibilities the sensation barely registered. With the duties of motherhood far more overwhelming than she imagined, the only rational thought she could muster took the form of a midwife recipe. Mayhap boosting my sanguinity shall result in greater competence at this task.
Rushing back into the kitchen, she heaved a huge sigh of relief at the sight of Emmeline Rose sleeping in her bassinet like a cherub. The line between Emma’s existence and her state as a figment of my longing and imagination seems so tentative. Shall I always fret, when out of her presence, even if still within earshot? I suppose I shall become accustomed to motherhood. Howsoever, my present state is rather precarious. My agitated mind conjures all sorts of dreadful happenstances, making me doubt my reasoning. Truly, Emma’s very life seems almost hypothetical.
Nellie turned to a familiar activity. To ground myself more firmly in the reality of this day, I shall grind some herbs! She pumped water at her sink and put the kettle on her potbellied stove. Whilst I wait for the roiling boil needed for my poultice and Emma still sleeps, I can gather two more herbs and formulate the cure for Papa’s fresh onset of gout.
Gertrude Entwhistle bustled through the door, already wearing an apron, carrying a big basket of freshly laundered clothes. “Was machts du, Cornelia Rose? Why do you rove about the house instead of resting in bed?” she demanded, drawing Cornelia away from the stove, and sitting her down at the kitchen table.
“Making a poultice for you to take to Papa!” Nellie protested, although, truth be told, she felt a bit weak in the knees. “I shan’t rest until his horrible advance of gout retreats. We mustn’t allow it, or Papa’s arthritis, to wreak havoc on his health.”
Nellie did not wait for a response. “Mutter, I cannot find the layette for the baby. I must launder it whilst Emma still sleeps. Mercy, I must prepare the poultice so it is ready when you leave, for how else can I ensure Papa receives it with the proper instructions?” Cornelia’s eyes began to tear in frustration, but she remained seated.
“At my request, Jerome hauled all your laundry baskets to my house.”
Cornelia opened her mouth to protest further. “Ach du Liebe,” Gertrude Entwhistle held up her hand to stop Cornelia. “You must allow Anastasia the pleasure of fussing over her big sister. She insisted we bring all your washing to my big copper kettledrums in the steam-heated laundry room.” Her mother smiled.
“In the middle of her last-minute wedding preparations Stasia is worrying about my laundry?” asked Nellie, now openly crying. Mrs. Entwhistle made no reply, she just helped Nellie to her feet and steered her back to her bedroom.
Just then the baby began to cry. Nellie rushed to the crib.
“Gott im Himmel, God in heaven, you must resume bed rest,” chided her mother, already bending over the crib to pick up the baby. “You must sleep, how else shall you recuperate? Ach du Liebe, Emmeline Rose is only two days old. With the first-born, every time the baby sleeps, you must rest! Honestly, up, and about, making poultices, worrying about laundry... tsk, tsk.”
“There is no scientific proof the aftereffects of childbirth incapacitate a woman. Nowhere in all my training did I learn labor would make me infirm,” Cornelia said. Bursting into fresh tears, she joined her daughter in a loud cry, but obediently shuffled back to her bedroom along with her mother and her daughter.
“Was ist los mit du?” Mrs. Entwhistle kept tsk-tsking, even though she knew very well what ailed her daughter as she guided Nellie to bed. Once she got Nellie settled, she gently placed Emma in her arms. The baby stopped crying and looked up at Nellie as soon as she felt her mother’s touch.
“Thank you, Lord God Almighty, for this blessing,” said Nellie. She swiped her te
ars and some stray hair away with one hand and tugged the corners of her lips into a tiny smile. Gertrude sat down on the edge of the bed and hugged them both. Nellie began to nurse the baby.
After a moment Nellie burst into tears again.
“Nun! Was ist los?” Mrs. Entwhistle jumped to her feet in alarm.
“What’s wrong? The tragic mistiming of Emmeline Rose’s birth!” Nellie sobbed. “Stasia is to wed in less than a fortnight. How ever shall I fit into my gown?”
“Ach du Liebe!” Mrs. Entwhistle said, smiling, and sitting back down on the edge of the bed. “First of all, I observe you have already regained your figure; the dress shall positively swim on you. Secondly, will you need it now? Is it a sound proposition, traveling all the way to West Point on a steamer for a crossed swords wedding when your baby is less than a month old?”
Nellie burst into tears again.
“You should not even consider that scheme,” said Agnes, appearing at the foot of Nellie’s bed, carrying a basket of daffodils. “You recall, my little Cuthbert, that rascal of a boy, was inconsolable at frequent, unpredictable intervals throughout the day. A baby shall not endure a separation from its mother for several hours’ time, even if the occasion be as grand as a West Point wedding.”
“I shall not miss my sister’s wedding. Forsooth, I am to stand up for her,” wailed Cornelia, as she tried to make sure the baby latched properly on her other side.
“But you can barely stand for yourself,” Agnes observed, raising one, annoying, eyebrow.
Anastasia bounced into the room with a bouquet of colorful, exotic tulips. She rushed to the bed and gave Nellie a warm hug. The ladies exclaimed over the baby as Nellie finished nursing.
Nellie rubbed the baby’s back until Emma gave a satisfying little burp, which caused exclamations of delight from all the womenfolk. Nellie beamed a broad, proud smile. Then she frowned. “Agnes, were you similarly both overwhelmed and overjoyed at the birth of your child?”
“Mostly overwhelmed,” Agnes confessed. “Were it not for your tea supplements to stimulate my lactation efforts, I do believe my nursing would have continued to be ineffective. I felt quite a failure at motherhood when unable to comfort that boy!”
Nellie smiled in appreciation of the compliment. Agnes put her hands on her hips. “Which is why I repeat, ‘you cannot stand for Anastasia when you can barely stand for yourself’.”
“Nonsense,” Nellie replied. She handed the baby carefully to her mother, scooted to the opposite side of the bed, and stood. She wobbled just a bit when her feet first hit the floor, but she turned that wobble into a little flourish of a curtsey.
Nellie appealed to her mother. “Mutter, I recall your truly herculean ability to resume normal activities after each childbirth. Why I remember you prepared supper for the family the day Matthias was born! You of all people shall support me, nicht wahr?”
Perhaps it was that Nellie asked ‘Isn’t that true?’ in German, or merely that she appealed to her mother’s heart and her stalwart principles. In any case, Mrs. Entwhistle said, “Natürlich, naturally I shall be blessed to hold your precious little Emma whilst you witness your sister and her groom’s exchange of the vows of Holy Matrimony. If we make sure you nurse her immediately prior to the ceremony, I am sure we shall have no interruptions during the Mass.”
Cornelia turned to Anastasia, who had remained silent, looking at each of them with a puckered brow. Agnes, with her one eyebrow raised in her trademark expression, still looked disapproving.
Nellie pleaded, “Anastasia, I promise you: I shall be responsible for nary a glitch in your ceremony.”
“But hopefully the wedding will not go off without a hitch!” Obadiah said in a merry tone as he entered the room.
The silly pun helped ease the tension. The ladies laughed.
“Look!” Nellie said. “I do believe Emma smiled!”
Her sisters clustered back around the baby, cooing and fussing, and Nellie slipped back into bed.
Nothing more needs be discussed on this subject. I shall stand witness for my sister—my ability and right to this honor supported by both my husband and my mother.
“Mercy, you mean to say that little angel was in attendance throughout the entire Mass, including exchange of marriage vows?” asked Armistead leaning in his chair and tickling Emma under the chin.
Nellie nodded. “I told you the choir was heavenly. They must have charmed my little one into a deep slumber.”
Agnes threw up her hands in agitation, upsetting her plate of petit fours on the edge of the table. “Only you, Cornelia, could lead such a charmed life. Your baby behaves exceptionally, in fact perfectly, at a marriage ceremony. As an infant, Cuthbert refused to nap. In fact, he still does not nap consistently to this day. Sakes alive! Observe his behavior at this very instant.”
Nellie looked all around the sumptuous, West Point Hotel hall where they sat, enjoying the wedding feast. She shook her head. Agnes pointed, but Nellie still did not see her nephew. As she opened her mouth to ask, she saw the dessert table’s cloth flicker back and forth. Some feet, followed by the back end of a boy, emerged. In two steps, Armistead reached the table, scooped his toddler out from under it and in two steps more, returned to his seat carrying the squirming, protesting boy.
Agnes turned back to Nellie and continued speaking, as if nothing had happened. “But your Emma! Nestled in Mutter’s arms, she drifted off to sleep without a peep of trouble. I prithee my next one,” she pointed to her own protruding midsection, “is Emma’s double—an enchanting and enchanted, baby girl.”
Chapter 12 – What a Wonderful World
New York City, Summer 1853
“Dut-da-da dut-da, Tah Tah!” Obadiah trumpeted. “Ladies and... little lady.” His beautiful baby, cooing in her cradle, caught his eye. He smiled, momentarily distracted, and reaching out a finger, caressed Emma’s soft cheek.
“Ah-hem.” He pulled back his hand, remembering his announcement. “The Crystal Palace is open!” Nellie turned from their potbellied stove, rosy red from stirring stew to see her husband’s smiling eyes, evening newspaper flicked down on one side revealing half a grinning face. Obadiah winked at her and read aloud from the Tribune, “‘The grand event on which so many hopes and expectations and anxieties were clustered is at last completed. The great Temple of National Industry has unclosed its portals and displays its treasures to the multitudes.’”
“How I long to attend the opening ceremonies and hobnob with the distinguished guests,” hinted Nellie.
“Indubitably. By the looks of the expected attendee list, you join 15,000 other guests and dignitaries who simply must attend. President Franklin Pierce shall provide the inaugural address at the opening ceremonies. The formal dinner features Secretary of War Jefferson Davis as the main orator. Guess Old Horace Greeley surely backed a winning horse right out of the starting gate this time.”
“Jefferson Davis, Mr. Secretary of War,” Nellie giggled. Obadiah looked at her askance. “Every time I hear that man’s name I remember my escort at West Point, William T. Magruder’s, tales of the exploits of cadet Jeff Davis. His infamous antics as a student!” Nellie raised her hand and ticked her points off on her fingers. “Davis put brandy in the punch at an official’s Christmas party and was tried for inciting disorderly conduct.” The next finger went down. “He frequented Benny Havens’ Tavern and was arrested there more than once. Davis got so drunk one evening he almost fell off the highest cliff in Buttermilk Falls when trying to escape a raid at the Tavern....”
Obadiah caught Cornelia’s eye in a malevolent glare. She closed her mouth in consternation. Turning back to the stove, her vision swam with tears. Does he still begrudge me my memories of youth, simply because he played no part in those comedies? she wondered.
“How preposterous appears the thought of Colonel Davis as Commander of our Armed Forces,” she said aloud.
“One would hope that a certain maturity develops as one ages, sufficient to repen
t the sins of youth, followed by sincere regret,” Obadiah said through tightened lips.
Nellie took the hint and changed the subject. “I read a piece in Godey’s Ladies Magazine entitled ‘On Articles at the Crystal Palace Most Attractive to Ladies’. The author claims there shall be luxuries galore on display, in addition to time-saving devices and clever inventions,” she said, excited at the imminent opening of the exhibition. She marshaled her arguments and prepared to petition for frequent visits to the Fair.
Obadiah laughed. “There is no need for coercive or cajoling words to induce my attendance. I am equally enthralled with the prospect of viewing all the innovations, gadgets and indulgences from around the world now on display.”
Obadiah lifted his head from his newspaper. “The reviews of the Fair promise excellent and astounding exhibits. This one, in Prairie Farmer, argues that the exposition is ‘...no humbug, but a school of wealth and luxury—of taste and refinement—rather than hard-handed utility’.”
“Certainly, if the Prairie Farmer confirms the Fair’s authenticity, then we must attend at once,” laughed Cornelia. “What prompted your subscription to the Prairie Farmer?”
“That is a discussion best left for another day,” said Obadiah. Nellie, poised for argument, instead gave an excited squeal when he took two tickets out of his pocket. He looked at her and smiled. “We attend the great Exposition tomorrow. Anchors aweigh on the steamer at seven bells, docking in The City at the 42nd Street Pier. From there, ‘tis a short perambulation to the Sixth Avenue railroad car.”
Nellie looked perplexed.
“Are you apprehensive of steamships? ‘Tis quite normal to suffer lasting effects from the traumatic Henry Clay disaster.”
“Not in the slightest. As an immediate result of your efforts with the Coroner’s Inquest and the negative press your findings engendered, our legislature outlawed steamboat racing on the Hudson. Furthermore, any ship certified seaworthy and fit by Entwhistle Enterprises engenders my continued confidence in its prowess as a comfortable conveyance.”