by Joann Simon
The pains were coming more frequently now, and she knew she had to stay busy to keep her mind from dwelling on them. Nervously she rechecked the linens that had been carefully wrapped and set aside in the master bedroom wardrobe, in preparation for the birth; she refolded the blankets in the cradle she'd set beside the bed a week before; she stopped in to see Kit, busy at his dinner. Concern was evident in Mrs. Bloom's eyes, but Jessica said nothing to her of her own worry. She returned to the kitchen, where the cook was in the midst of preparing dinner.
"Some blow out there," the woman commented.
"Yes."
"Maybe best Mr. Dunlap stayed in town."
Jessica couldn't find her voice to answer that. She only nodded and left the kitchen, walking to the front windows of the house to watch the drive again. The whiteness on the ground still reflected the tinest bit of light left of the day, but the lines of the landscape were deceptive. Was that a shadow she saw—there at the curve of the drive where it turned off into the trees to meet the road? No, just another gust of blowing snow.
She blinked her eyes. This time it was clearer. A man on horseback . . . or was it? . . . Yes, she was sure now. He was having a difficult time, his horse plodding through the drifts, hesitating, moving forward again. She ran to the front door and threw it open, oblivious of the flakes of snow that swirled in and stung her cheeks.
She could see him now, faintly, as he made his way up the drive.
"Christopher!"
"Jessica!" His voice sounded muffled. "Yes, it is I. Get inside! I must take the horse around to the stables."
She quickly shut the door against the storm and hurried through the candle-lit hallway toward the kitchen. She rushed through to the back door, startling both maids and the cook.
"Mr. Dunlap is coming," she said in breathless explanation. Even as she spoke, another pain gripped her abdomen, deeper this time, more severe. She took deep breaths and hid her discomfort from the others.
"Wonder he's gotten through," the cook commented. "We'll have a good meal for him when he gets in."
Jessica watched through the glass, saw her husband dismount, pull wide the stable door and enter, leading his horse. It seemed an eternity later when he emerged to trudge through the drifts toward the back door. Again the cold blew in on her as she pulled open the door and he came stomping into the room.
"What a night! Thought I would not make it. My love, you have been worried." He took her hand with his snow-covered glove.
"Yes. Terribly."
"Had I known it would turn into this, I would have left the office sooner." He was removing his hat now and muffler, shaking the snow from them, then began to unbutton his greatcoat. "Come, let us go into my study. I feel in the need of a warm dose of brandy."
They moved briskly out of the kitchen and down the hall, Christopher shrugging out of his coat as he walked. "Remind me to bring this to Clara. It will need a bit of drying." Behind his study door, the draperies closed, the room was warm from the fire that had been lit earlier. He threw his coat over a chair, kissed his wife, and went to the decanter on the sideboard to pour himself a small dose. He tossed it down. "Ah, that is better. I thought for a while I would never know warmth again." He came toward her, drew her against him.
"And you are a welcome warmth, too."
She rubbed her cheek against his jacket. "I'm so glad you are home! Christopher, my labor started this afternoon."
He tensed.
"I was afraid you wouldn't be here in time."
"You are sure?"
"Yes."
"You have sent for the doctor? He is here?"
"No. Jim left just before noon to run errands. He hasn't returned. I couldn't send a message."
"Then I must ride out now."
"No! How could you make it to town, let alone bring the doctor back?"
"But, Jessica, I must! There is no one here who knows what to do."
"You and I."
"I only watched Kit's birth. I took no part in it!"
"Christopher, if you go out in this storm, I'll be left with only the cook or maids to help me."
Anxiety and indecision were written on his face. "But if anything was to go wrong .. ."
"It won't. We can't think of that."
She gasped as a sharp pain caught her unexpectedly, nearly doubling her over.
"Oh, my love! How far apart are the pains?"
"About five minutes," she whispered when she could breathe normally again.
"You should be upstairs."
"In a minute. Promise me, Christopher, you won't go out."
"I cannot leave you like this—but I feel so helpless! You are sure there is not time for me to go into town?"
"If you could even get into town. You barely made it home. If you left, I'd have not only our baby and myself to worry about, but my husband, too." Her voice was pleading, and he nodded in agreement to her logic.
"We'll be all right, Christopher."
"We have no choice, do we?" He took her arm, began leading her from the room. "Let me get you upstairs.
And then what else can I do?"
"One of the maids should stand by in case we need anything. Clara, I think is the most level-headed one.
I haven't said anything to them of my labor."
"I shall speak to her." When they reached the bedroom, Christopher pulled down the bed covers. "You will want to get into a nightgown."
"That white one in the corner," she said, motioning as he went to the wardrobe. When he returned, he carefully helped Jessica from her dress and undergarments, and slipped the gown over her. "Let me help you to bed."
"I'm better off up and about for a while. The time will go faster if I'm not lying on my back waiting for each pain."
"I know there is more that must be done . . . other things we will need." He spoke distractedly, rubbing his hand across his brow. "My mind does not seem to be functioning."
She placed her hand on his arm. Now that he was home, she suddenly found a calm strength flowing through her. "Relax. There is time. I have linens ready here in the wardrobe. I'll need some warm water to wash, but other than that I feel much better now that you are here. Go get yourself some dinner. It may be a long night."
Husband and wife began their vigil. The next hours passed slowly. Christopher left Jessica's side only to place another log on the fire, or wring out a damp towel to wipe her perspiring brow, or send Clara, who was seated nervously in a chair beside the door, for more water. He'd removed his jacket and tie and sat beside her with his white shirt rolled up to the elbows, his face pale as he watched Jessica bear each increasingly severe contraction; but he was there, with a comforting hand, a soothing word, quiet conversation, until Jessica suddenly gripped his hand hard.
"Christopher, the pain is changing. I feel the need to push. Help me move up, and put more pillows behind my back."
He acted with alacrity, and when she was settled, again took her hand in his as several more contractions came and went.
"Are you all right?" His blue eyes were clouded with worry. "Is this the way it was before?"
"The pain is more in my back, but everything seems normal."
With each of the next few contractions, Jessica pushed with all her strength, Christopher ready to help as she'd instructed him. She felt the pressure of her child's head, a tearing, ripping pain that brought an involuntary cry to her throat.
In a moment she heard Christopher's awed, yet excited tone. "Jessica! The head is free . . ."
"One more contraction," she groaned, and pushed again as the pain of the contraction overwhelmed her. She forced her eyes to remain open, watching her husband and the joy and fear on his face. She saw his hands reaching to gently grip the baby, pull if from her straining body. The absolute rapture on his face, beautiful to behold, relieved the last of her anxiety. Then he was holding their child up in the air; a wet, bedraggled, red-faced, but beautiful little infant.
"A girl, Jessica! A girl!"
Tears of happiness sprang to her eyes. "Put her on my stomach. Let me touch her."
Gently he placed the already squalling baby on his wife's belly. As Jessica laid her hands on her child, the baby immediately began to quiet, the tender touch of maternal love already making itself felt through Jessica's hands. Though faint from weariness, Jessica's face was radiant, her eyes drinking in and memorizing her newborn daughter's every feature. Christopher, too, was beaming, although he was concentrating on the cutting and tieing of the cord and the delivery of the afterbirth.
Jessica continued to soothe her child, as milder contractions sent the afterbirth out of her body. Clara went to fetch the small gown and blanket folded in the cradle. The cord cut and tied, with Clara's help Jessica laid the child on the bed beside her and, taking a warm cloth from Clara, began to wash her, then dressed her in a tiny diaper and the infant's gown. When the baby was snug in Jessica's arms, Christopher leaned down and tenderly laid his cheek against his wife's. "I love you," he whispered, "and I am so very proud of you."
"I'm proud of you. You were wonderful. I knew we could do it."
"I am going to lift you and the baby from the bed for the moment, so Clara can change the linens. Then I will bathe you and get you into a fresh gown."
She smiled. "I could get up on my own. I may be a bit wobbly . . ."
"I would not hear of it." He kissed her brow as he slipped his arms beneath her. "Tonight you will have nothing but complete pampering and rest."
"What time is it?" she said, suddenly dismayed. "I forgot to look at the clock when she was born."
"But I did not. She was born at precisely twelve-oh-one. A beautiful beginning to a new day."
She hugged him as he lifted her and carried her to the chair near the fire, where she placed her child in the cradle beside her. When Clara was gone with the soiled linens and the bed was freshly made, Christopher bathed his wife, helped her into a lacy, soft blue gown, carried her to the bed and rested her back against the fluffed pillows. In a moment he brought their blanket-wrapped daughter to her. Jessica eagerly took their child in her arms, cuddling and cooing to her as Christopher undressed and slid into bed beside them.
He smiled, studying the features of his sleeping daughter's face. "Such a tiny little thing. Ours."
"Shall we call her Mary, Christopher, after your mother?"
"If that is what you really wish. You liked the name Jennifer, too."
"Yes, but I think it would be nice to follow tradition this time."
"Then Mary she is. Mary Jessica Dunlap, welcome into our lives."
Little Mary Dunlap thrived during her first weeks of life, and through February and March contentment reigned in the Dunlap household as the radiant parents treasured each hour in their new home with their growing family. Jessica was so pleasantly busy, she did not even mind the inclement weather that prevented her from driving into Eastport in the carriage for shopping or to visit with Mary Weldon in town or the Beards in Silvercreek. She pushed from her mind even the smallest twinges of discontent at her comparative isolation. Instead, while Mrs. Bloom watched the baby, Jessica took brisk walks with Kit across the grounds, or sat and played with both her children for hours before the blazing nursery fire. While Kit romped on all fours over the carpet with his set of toy soldiers, Jessica held Mary in her lap, delighting in her daughter's gurgles and the alertness the infant exhibited.
Christopher's adoration of his little girl was equal to Jessica's. Unlike many fathers, intimidated by the small-ness of an infant, Christopher felt no qualms about holding her, carrying her about to show her off to friends who dropped by the house with their congratulations.
Each evening when he arrived home from his newly established Eastport offices, he joined the family gathering; first kneeling down beside his son to take part in some game, then rising to lift his daughter from his wife's arms and hold her as he and Jessica sat and discussed the day's happenings. All was as it should be, he thought happily; he was blessed with a beautiful wife contentedly immersed in overseeing a well-kept home and two lovely children; his business was prospering; and at last he and Jessica had the joy they deserved.
It was a business visitor of Christopher's from New York, invited to spend the night with them, who brought the influenza into the house early in April. Jessica had noticed the man's repeated sneezing at the dinner table, and frowned worriedly at his feverish look as he left the house the next morning. Because Christopher and Jessica were in excellent health and not likely to be susceptible to infection, and the children had not been in contact with the man, both husband and wife put their worries aside until Clara came to Jessica two days later with chills and fever. Immediately Jessica sent the young housemaid to bed, but now she was worried. She took all precautions available to her to protect the children, keeping them in their own wing of the house, being sure she stayed out of contact with Clara, sterilizing Kit's eating utensils. But knowing she had already been exposed to Clara's illness, her greatest fear was that she herself carried the germs. If she became ill, she could not feed Mary; arrangements would have to be made to bring in a wet-nurse.
For a week all went well. Clara, although very ill for a stretch, seemed to be on the road to recovery, and no one else in the house was showing any symptoms. Then one morning Mary woke fretful. Jessica was not concerned at first; all young babies had their moments of disagreeable-ness, and although Mary was a good and happy baby, she occasionally suffered bouts of gas that made her cranky. Jessica said nothing to Christopher as he left for his East-port office that morning, but as the day progressed and Mary grew worse instead of better, Jessica became afraid. She sent the caretaker into town for the doctor. While she waited, she laid cool cloths on the infant's brow to alleviate the fever that had begun to make itself felt, and when the baby refused to nurse, spooned a sugar and water solution down her throat. Fresh fruit juice was unavailable, as was even an aspirin to help break the fever. When the doctor arrived, he could advise no further remedy. He told Jessica to protect the child from drafts, and wait out the influenza. Yes, he knew such an illness was a serious thing in a child that age, but there was nothing else he could do. He would stop by each day to see how the baby was progressing.
When Christopher arrived home that evening and heard the news, he ran up to their room, not even pausing to remove his coat. Jessica was seated by the baby's cradle, gently rocking the infant.
"How is she?"
"Sleeping. The fever has knocked her out."
He paced across the room to gaze down at his daughter's flushed face. "Poor child. They tell me downstairs that the doctor was here."
"Yes, but he could do nothing. We must wait it out, he said."
"How long?"
"Several days . . . perhaps more." Jessica's worry was showing in the paleness of her face.
"You look exhausted. You have not left her all day, have
you?" -
'
'
"The maid brought me a tray at noon."
"Well, go and get something to eat now. I will stay with her.
Through the night they took turns watching the child, who woke frequently amid alternating fever and chills. Jessica forced more sugar water into the child to ward off dehydration and changed the baby's garments whenever they felt damp.
There was no change by morning, and Christopher remained home so that Jessica could get some much needed rest. The doctor came and examined the child.
"Give it another day. We may see some change by then."
But on the third day, although the chills were gone, the fever was still present, and now the baby was wheezing.
The doctor's expression was grave when he visited, but his words told Jessica nothing that she had not already respected: Mary was developing pneumonia. The doctor's diagnosis filled the still air of the room like the voice of doom. Christopher and Jessica could only stare at each other, each knowing Mary's chances for recovery were now slim. But neither of them would admi
t to the possibility that their child would not recover. Round the clock they worked, applying hot plasters to the baby's increasingly congested chest, forcing liquids down her throat. Mary could nurse very little, and Jessica's breasts were sore and aching. She was forced to drain them daily to keep her milk flowing. A kettle steamed constantly over the fire, spewing out soothing vapors, but the additional moisture in the air was still not enough to ease the child's breathing.
As three days passed and Jessica watched her child literally dwindling away before her eyes, saw the bluish cast to her lips and fingers that indicated lack of oxygen, her frustration and anger knew no bounds. Her daughter's suffering was the fault of this archaic medical knowledge of the nineteenth century. If only she could obtain for her offspring the antibiotics or penicillin that would soon have Mary on the road to recovery! Yet all the drugs that would cure her daughter were beyond Jessica's reach in time.
"Why, Christopher, why?" She sobbed that night in his arms. "I feel so angry! Especially when we know there is a cure. We know how to help her—if only we had the tools. This can not be happening!"
There were no words of comfort he could give her; her frustrations were his own. As much as this was his world and he was accustomed to witnessing the cruel toll of infectious disease, he knew of the progress that would be made in the next one hundred and fifty years, of the miracle drugs that would save so many. His pain was as great as Jessica's.
Despite all, Jessica still could not allow herself to think that her daughter might die. She would save Mary, if by sheer force of will alone. She labored constantly at her daughter's side, sleeping little during the ensuing forty-eight hours, until there was a gray pallor to her face and Christopher began to fear for his wife's health, as well. He tried to comfort her, to get her to rest.
"It's my fault, Christopher," she cried, so overtired she was no longer thinking coherently. "I was the one in contact with Clara. I brought the germs ..."