by Nancy Klein
“A boy!” Mrs. Thornton glanced up at her son with pride. “You have your son, John!”
“How is Meg?” Mr. Thornton asked sharply.
Dixon’s smile broadened. “She is awake.”
He took the stairs two at a time, and halted at the entrance. Meg lay in the bed, gazing raptly at a bundle she held close to her breast. Glancing up, she saw her husband and extended her hand to him. He moved swiftly to her side and dropped down on his knees next to the bed. Shifting the bundle about, she said in a gentle voice, “John, I am pleased to introduce your son—this is Christian John Thornton.”
He gave a choking laugh and looked down into his son’s small, red face. “He’s so tiny.”
“He is big enough,” Doctor Donaldson exclaimed from the foot of the bed, “and looks to be in perfect health.”
Meg shifted the baby about in her arms and wordlessly held him out to her husband. Cautiously taking the baby in his large hands, Mr. Thornton pulled the blanket back and gazed in awe at his son’s small features and limbs. He was mottled and red, and emitted a fine, lusty cry. John laughed and blinked back the quick tear that had sprung to his eyes. My son, he thought with exultation. I have a son!
“How do you feel?” he asked, thinking that she looked tired but beautiful nonetheless.
“I am fine. Everything is fine, now that Christian is here.”
He stooped over and placed the baby back in her arms, gently kissing her. “I love you. Thank you for giving me a son.”
She smiled saucily up at him. “You must redouble your efforts if you would like a girl the next time.”
They spent the remainder of the afternoon admiring their beautiful child. During this time, Mrs. Thornton came in to exclaim over her grandson. Before evening, Doctor Donaldson chased everyone from the room, stating that Meg needed her rest. When John checked on Meg after dinner, he found that she was still asleep, and decided to retire to his room for the night. However, the following morning found her still deeply asleep, and he felt a stirring of worry. When afternoon came and she did not awake, he sent for Doctor Donaldson. When the doctor examined her, he explained that it was not unusual for women to sleep after their babies were born. “Her labor was intense, and she is exhausted. I will check on her again tonight.”
When evening arrived, however, and he could not rouse her, Mr. Thornton became concerned and sent for the doctor. Doctor Donaldson examined her and realized that she was running a fever. He feared infection had set in from the delivery and carefully administered medication, declaring that he would stay at the mill overnight so he could check on her condition every few hours. When Mr. Thornton asked what he could do to help, the doctor tersely replied, “Pray, Mr. Thornton. Pray that she will recover.”
Mr. Thornton declared in a stricken voice, “This is my fault. I allowed her to overexert herself—to work at the mill and roam all over Milton. I should have curtailed her activities, and made certain that she took better care of herself.”
“Nonsense,” Doctor Donaldson said brusquely. “You did nothing wrong. Everything that you did helped her maintain good spirits and keep her health. The delivery went well. This infection has nothing to do with allowing her to walk or to work. These things happen. Do not take yourself to task—all that you have done has been for her good.”
Toward morning, Meg’s fever worsened. Her breathing was labored, and her skin was dry and inflamed. John was rigid with fear, but reminded himself that he must remain calm—she would pull through, he knew that she would. Mrs. Thornton and Dixon were taking turns caring for the baby, but John would not leave her side and carried out all of the doctor’s instructions, with Mary Higgins’ assistance.
Throughout the next few days, the doctor ordered the patient to be sponged down with cold water several times a day; he administered several more doses of medication, spooning them into her lax mouth. His attempts were for naught—her fever raged on, and she remained asleep. At the end of the third day, after listening to her heart and examining her thoroughly, the doctor shook his head grimly, and said in a soft voice, “I think she is beyond our help, John. Her fate is in God’s hands.”
Mr. Thornton pinned him with a blazing look. “No,” he exclaimed in a low, vehement voice, “she told me that she would not leave me. I know that she will return to me.” He resumed his seat by her bed, and took her small hand in his larger one. “I will have faith,” he exclaimed in a ragged, stubborn tone. Doctor Donaldson dropped a comforting hand on his shoulder, and took his leave of the sick room.
Mr. Thornton kept vigil by his wife’s bed for the next two days, refusing to leave her to eat or sleep. He continued sponging her with cool water, and spooning the medication the doctor had left into her mouth. Dixon brought meals to him that sat untouched, and his mother begged him to retire to his room for just a few hours of rest while she took his place, but he refused.
Early on the third morning of his watch, Meg’s breathing slowed, and appeared to stop.
“No,” John exclaimed in a keening voice, surging from his chair to grasp her by the shoulders. “Meg, you cannot go—I will not let you leave!” He shook her roughly. “Come back, Meg, come back to me!”
********&********
She felt lighter than air, as if she could defy the laws of gravity. Her spirit floated easily through the mists where all was obscured from her sight. After days of unbearable heat and pain, the pain was gone and the air felt cool and fresh. She had left her cares behind; in fact, she could no longer remember her past.
She emerged from the opaque cloud surrounding her into a green, open field. She gazed about her in astonishment. It was Helstone! She remembered it as if it were yesterday, although it was a lifetime ago when she had last been in its clean country air, surrounded by woods on all sides. She could see her childhood home in the distance. She rushed across the field, gleefully trampling the warm ferns and small daisies in the grass. Their scent intoxicated her, and she noted that the air had never smelled sweeter or the sun shone brighter. Bird song burst from the thicket, and flowers dotted the field in sweet profusion. Why was she here? She had forgotten why, as she had forgotten from whence she came. It was as if she had been reborn, with no history or identity. She was free from mortal bonds and filled with light.
Shading her eyes with one hand against the brightness, she thought she spied—yes, it was! Her heart leapt in joy at the sight of her mother and father, sitting at a small table in the enclosed space outside the parlor doors of the parsonage! Her father read a newspaper and her mother did her embroidery, as she had seen them do hundreds of times before. Oh, how she missed them!
She called out and, lifting her skirts, raced across the field toward the parsonage. Both looked up from their occupations and smiled, waving her on toward them. She laughed with delight at the thought of being reunited with them once more, of leaving the heaviness and the wrenching pain behind. “Wait for me!” she called exuberantly as she struggled through the high grass.
Suddenly, something tugged at her so fiercely that she stumbled and fell. She frowned—had she left something behind? What was keeping her from joining her mother and father? She felt an intense irritation, longing to be freed from the pleading voice, to move toward the light and her loved ones. She turned her head and listened, and was able to discern a man’s voice, steady and persistent, hoarse with grief. His voice called to her, filled with an overpowering yearning.
As she continued to listen, she could hear her name over and over, a heartbreaking cadence. Who called with such urgency? She listened, held captive by a powerful wave of love and longing. If someone loved her and needed her so much, she could not go on.
As she turned away from her childhood home, she remembered everything. It was John. She must go back. She remembered her illness, the fever and pain, but these were nothing compared to her husband—and her baby, whom she had only seen an instant. The sound of her husband’s voice pierced her soul—a fierce love for him flooded through her,
and pulled her back from Helstone. How could she have forgotten?
She turned to catch one last regretful glimpse of her parents, to tell them that she would see them sometime, oh, sometime—she missed them so much!—but just not yet. However, they were gone, as was the parsonage, and the field, and the sunshine. The light faded, and she felt herself sink back into her earthly body, and grow heavy. She braced herself, but the pain was gone. Her fever had broken.
Meg felt warmth spread through her chest and down her arms and legs. She blinked her eyes, and the room came into view—she was in her own bedchamber, in her bed. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw a dark, tousled head upon the bed—it was John. He knelt next to her, his hand clutching hers even in sleep. She smiled and turned her hand so that she could thread her fingers through his and squeeze. His head came up and his wet eyes were wide with astonishment.
“You came back!” he exclaimed. “I knew you would come back.” She opened her arms and he buried his face in the crook of her neck.
“I love you,” she murmured, and felt him shudder with emotion. She stroked the hair back from his forehead and he turned his face to gently kiss her cheek and brow. “I had the strangest dream,” she said. “I dreamt that I was in Helstone, and I saw Mother and Father again. I was on my way to join them, when I heard you calling me.”
He gazed at her, unable to take his eyes from her face. “I thought I had lost you, but remembered your promise, that you would not leave me. I called you back to me.”
“Oh, John,” she said, and her voice broke off in a choked sob. “I heard you!”
He buried his face in her hair. “You are such a part of me now that I cannot recall what my life was like before you. I will never go back to life without you again.”
They clung to each other wordlessly before Meg remembered her child. “Where is our baby?” she whispered.
“He is in the nursery, with Mother and Dixon. He is fine—there is nothing wrong with his lungs, at least,” he added. “Shall I fetch him for you?”
“Yes—no, wait,” she said, panic sweeping through her. The vision of heaven still gripped her, and she feared that if he left her side, she would become untethered once more. “Don’t leave me—.” She clung to him as her chin quivered with emotion, and the thought passed through her mind that perhaps Clotho had intervened once more to send her back where she belonged.
He gathered her into his arms and carried her, settling in a chair before the fire with her in his embrace. For a change, he comforted and reassured her. He had never doubted that she would return, but her dream was still to vivid, and she longed to be held in his arms until the fear passed. He settled back in the chair with her clasped to his chest. After several moments, they fell asleep.
Doctor Donaldson and Dixon found them thus when they came to check on their patient. Dixon exclaimed with horror, seeing the empty bed, but Doctor Donaldson assessed the situation in a glance. “She has returned to us,” he murmured quietly, gesturing toward the sleeping couple. “See how her color has improved, and how she clutches his sleeve? And she is breathing easily.” He smiled down at Dixon. “I will have to awaken them to examine her—and settle her back in bed. Why don’t you fetch the baby? I know she will want to see him.”
Within minutes, Mr. Thornton and his wife were awake, and Meg was examined and proclaimed to be recovering. As the doctor completed his exam, Mrs. Thornton entered the room with the baby. Meg extended her arms and Mrs. Thornton hurried forward to give the child to its mother. Meg lowered the swaddling from the baby’s face and smiled in wonder. “Oh, he is beautiful,” she breathed as her eyes flashed up to her husband’s face. “He looks like his father.”
“Funny,” Mr. Thornton replied in a shaken voice, “I was going to say he looks like his mother.”
“Oh, no,” she countered. “He has your hands and nose and mouth, and your dark hair, and your beautiful blue eyes. And he crinkles his forehead like you do.” Gazing down at his wife and son, Mr. Thornton felt as perfect a sense of happiness as he had ever felt in his life.
The day of their son’s christening, Meg arose early to bathe the baby and dress him in the christening gown sent to them by Captain and Mrs. Lennox. Looking about for a blanket in which to wrap him, her eyes alighted on a small box on a chair near the fireplace. Placing the baby in Dixon’s arms, she examined the box. It was plain, tied with yarn rather than twine, with no markings or card. “Dixon, who brought this?”
Dixon was absorbed in wrapping the baby in his christening blanket. “I don’t know, I did not bring it upstairs. Perhaps Jane did.”
Meg untied the string and lifted the lid. Nestled inside was a beautiful woven blanket in muted blues and greens. It was of the softest wool, exquisite in design and just the perfect size for a baby. As she lifted it to marvel at its intricate pattern, a note fell to the floor. Retrieving it, she opened it and read:
You did not require my help to return to your husband this time—you did that on your own. Your love for each other is unique and special—few mortals know the like. Cherish it and each other always. I have woven this for your child. I wish you much love and happiness, a long life, and great joy. I know that this blanket will serve your future offspring as well as it will your first.
Be happy, my daughter!
C
Meg clutched the card to her breast. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for so much happiness.” She felt her husband’s arms slip around her waist, and she held the note up so that he could read it. She looked over her shoulder and was taken aback by the expression of grief and fear on his face. “What is it?”
“Future offspring?” he murmured. “I cannot bear the thought of your going through this again, Meg.”
She caressed his face. “Rest assured, my love, I will always find my way back to you.” She touched her hand to her chest and then to his. “Our bond cannot be broken. It connects my heart to your heart, and my soul to your soul.” She looked steadily up at him, her eyes alight with love. “Our love has overcome time and death—what do we need to fear?” He kissed her, oblivious to their son’s cries and Dixon’s indulgent gaze. They finally broke apart when their son began to wail in earnest.
“He is hungry,” Meg laughed. “I have never seen a baby eat so often. Let me feed him and I will be ready for church.” She plucked the baby from Dixon and, settling herself in the rocker by the fireplace, unbuttoned her dress and fed her son. Dixon left the room but John leaned against the mantelpiece, watching his wife and son with tender gaze. His mother had been shocked when Meg announced her intention of breast feeding her child. Upper-class women did not do such a thing, Mrs. Thornton had told him in a scandalized voice. He listened to her without responding; he knew that his forward leaning wife knew of a time when women would begin to do so again, in an effort to improve the health of their children. He also knew that Meg nurtured a strong bond with her child by doing so, and he would not discourage her from something that made her and his son happy.
He watched as she smiled down at his son, and remembered that night so long ago at Higgins’ home when he had observed her tending to the Boucher baby. He had wondered then what it would feel like to see her with his baby at her breast, but it was so much more than he had ever dreamed. Was so much happiness a wise thing? Little did it matter; it was theirs for as long as they could hold fast to it. Logic told him that he and Meg would grow old and their mortal lives would end. But they would live on in their children, in the legacy of good they planned, and in the love they shared with each other. The Fate was right, he thought—such love was precious, and he had every intention of cherishing the object of that love till the end of his days.
Meg smiled up at him as the baby finished nursing, and he stooped to take his son from her so she might rearrange her garments. She tied on her bonnet and wrapped the baby in Clotho’s blanket. He donned his coat and hat, and arm and arm they descended the stairs and out the door to the mill yard on their way to chur
ch, ready to name their son before God and friends.
Epilogue: A Crinkle in Time
“Christian, the children will be here any minute,” Margaret Thornton called up the steps to her husband. “Are you ready?”
She heard footsteps from their bedroom above, punctuated by the slam of a door. Moments later, she watched her husband trod lightly down the stairs. She smiled up at him in admiration—despite his silver-streaked hair and the lines that creased the corners of his eyes, he was still lean and agile, well able to match his sons in tennis or any other sport—and devilishly handsome.
He wore his best worsted suit today, she noted, and a gold waistcoat and cravat. Styles may have changed, but John Christian Thornton remained loyal to the fashions of his youth.
Stopping at the foot of the steps, he smiled and struck an exaggerated pose. “Am I presentable? Is my cravat straight?”
She returned his smile. “Stop fishing for compliments—you are as handsome as the day I married you, although your cravat is a tad crooked.” With a deft tweak, she straightened it. She stepped back from him, but he clasped her waist and pulled her into a close embrace.
“And you are as young and beautiful as the day we wed,” he whispered as he nuzzled her ear.
She laughed and he kissed her with relish before he continued, “Momma told me that you were the perfect woman for me—and she was right.”
Margaret snorted. “It took you eight years to realize it. Grandfather told me to beware of Thornton men, and he was right.”
“Nicholas thought the world of me,” Christian protested hotly. “After all, he was my godfather. Don’t forget, your mother loved my mother so much that she named her eldest daughter after her. With all of this history between us, it was fated that I would fall in love and marry a Margaret, just as my father did.”
Margaret smiled wryly. “Your mother saved my life and that of my mother. If she had not known how to turn a breech baby, I might not have survived.”