by Diane Noble
The pure agony of the sound brought tears to Mary Rose’s eyes. Complications.
A light tapping sounded at the door. Without waiting to be invited in, a tall, slender woman entered and strode over to Bronwyn.
She walked with grace, carrying herself in a way that seemed ageless, and Mary Rose thought of something she’d read many years ago. The Anglo-Saxon word for midwife was med-wyf, which meant “wisewoman.” This woman’s wide intelligent eyes and hair the color of lightning in a black sky made her seem as though she was of some medieval line of wisewomen.
She carried a leather valise, which she opened, removing several instruments. “My name is Grace Carolyn Brumby,” she said. “I’m a midwife, and I’ve come to help in any way I can.” Without waiting for a comment or answer, she turned her attention to Bronwyn, probed the sides of Bronwyn’s face, felt for her pulse in her neck and then her wrist. She lifted Bronwyn’s right foot and pressed her fingers around the ankle. She did the same with the left. “Very swollen,” she said, mostly to herself.
“Let’s have a look now, shall we?” She pulled back the blanket at Bronwyn’s feet.
Mary Rose had already propped Bronwyn’s back and head with extra blankets and pillows and now she helped the midwife lift Bronwyn’s legs into position. “Our little one is not cooperating, that’s the trouble,” Grace Carolyn said after the examination. “We have a wee behind where the head should be.” She looked up at Mary Rose. “And she’s not yet sufficiently dilated for me to turn the baby.”
Bronwyn cried out as another strong contraction hit, this time sobbing hysterically as the midwife laid out her tools on the table. Mary Rose held the lamp steady as she took at least a dozen small pots of dried herbs from the valise and lined them up on the table. Each was labeled: Squaw Vine, Beth Root, Goldenseal, Blue Cohosh, Chamomile, and St. John’s Wort. Next she brought out some oils: lavender, rose, almond, and jasmine. The last item was a sturdy but shallow clay dish. In it she spilled some juniper twigs and berries and the seeds from another pot labeled Ashen-keys.
She asked Mary Rose to lower the lamp and reached for a juniper twig, igniting the short slender wood. Then she dropped the enflamed twig into the clay dish. Immediately, the fragrance of juniper filled the room.
“For cleansing,” the midwife said.
She mixed the oils together, and their fragrance wafted throughout the room, mingling with the scent of juniper.
Mary Rose was surprised when she poured some of the liquid into her palms, and then instructed her to massage it into Bronwyn’s hands, wrists, arms, neck, and shoulders.
While Mary Rose was doing as asked, Grace Carolyn poured small measurements of the dried herbs into a shallow ceramic dish and crushed them with a pestle. As they worked, Bronwyn would cry out, though Mary Rose noticed her cries becoming weaker and, when sobbing, no tears came to her eyes.
The midwife stirred the mixture into a cup of water. The fragrant earthy scent reminded Mary Rose of the ancient woods near Ashley Manor.
“You’ll need to hold her head,” Grace Carolyn said. “Careful now…” She drizzled spoonfuls of the medicine on the inside of Bronwyn’s cheek until the glass was empty. Bronwyn lay back against her pillow, her breathing shallow.
“First we relax the muscles,” she said, “so I can turn the baby. I’d rather not use forceps, but if I must I will.”
The Sea Hawk hit a large swell, and as it crested, she slammed down, the table shifted, and the pots of medicine tipped. The rain was as loud as any thunder Mary Rose had ever heard, and the wind wailed and moaned. With every move of the ship, Mary Rose imagined it breaking to pieces and wondered how the vessel could withstand such punishment. Her knees threatened to buckle beneath her, and then she turned to Grace Carolyn, expecting to see the same fear Mary Rose felt in her eyes. But the midwife seemed unconcerned: The storm could rage, the ship creak and groan, but it seemed she possessed an unshakable tranquillity.
“Now we pray,” Grace Carolyn said. She knelt beside Bronwyn’s bed, and Mary Rose knelt beside her.
The midwife held Bronwyn’s hand with her left and Mary Rose’s with her right.
“Almighty God and Father of all mercies, we give you thanks for your child Bronwyn,” she prayed. “We bless you for her creation, and for the creation of the child she carries, we bless you most of all for your immeasurable love for them and for her friend Mary Rose, and for me. I lay this mother and child at the feet of the risen Christ: though we hold them dear and beg that you might turn this child so he may be born and so the mother will live, we know your love for them is far greater than ours and that your will for them goes far beyond what we can imagine is best. So we ask that your will be done, trusting in your immeasurable love that you showed in the redemption of this world through your Son, our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.”
The midwife placed her hand above where the baby lay unable to move. “Father Almighty, keep this child in your loving care—give my hands the strength and skill to turn him, and give Bronwyn the strength to bear it.”
She reached into a pocket in her apron and retrieved a tiny vial of oil. As she opened it, Mary Rose breathed in the soft fragrance of almond oil. The midwife poured a few drops in her hand, touched them with her fingers, and then made the sign of the cross on Bronwyn’s forehead, also on her own.
Out of habit, Mary Rose crossed herself as they both stood. The midwife went to the foot of the bed and prepared Bronwyn for turning the baby; Mary Rose bent over the bed and kissed her friend’s forehead. Bronwyn’s eye didn’t flutter as before, and her color seemed almost gray.
Mary Rose held the lamp over the midwife’s right shoulder as she began to force her hands into the birth canal. Her hands were delicate and nimble, her fingers strong for their small size. She gave few orders as she worked to turn the baby. There was a slight movement…and then another…
Bronwyn groaned and her breathing became shallow. Then it stopped completely. The sounds of the storm rushed into the room, the pounding of the rain and rumble of distant thunder. Mary Rose held her own breath, waiting…Finally Bronwyn gasped for another breath.
Instinctively, Mary Rose reached for Bronwyn’s wrist and felt for a pulse. “It’s weaker than before,” she said, tears filling her eyes. She waited for the next breath to come.
A light knock at the door sounded, and when Mary Rose cracked it open, she saw it was Griffin. “How is she?”
“The baby is in breech position. The midwife is working with her right now.”
“Is it bad?”
Mary Rose couldn’t lie. “Aye,” she whispered. “Bronwyn and your baby both need our prayers.”
TWELVE
Minutes later the cabin door burst open. Brigham strode in with Griffin following.
Mary Rose stood. “This is woman’s work. You’ll need to leave.”
Brigham ignored her and returned to the doorway. “Gabriel, Coal, you need to come in here. We’re going to pray.”
“But we already—”
Griffin rushed to the bed, and reached for Bronwyn’s hand. “It’s icy cold,” he said. “Oh, my darling Bronwyn—wake up, dearest heart. Wake up.” He fell to his knees, holding her hands to his face. Gabe came over to stand next to Mary Rose. He looked uncomfortable and ready to bolt. The midwife had quickly covered Bronwyn with a light blanket, and now retired to the table with the water tubs and clean towels to wash her hands. She remained standing there with head bowed reverently as everyone else knelt around Bronwyn’s bed.
Brigham moved to the center, laid his hand on Bronwyn’s stomach, and said, “Heavenly Father, we ask that you would heal this child and its mother.” He waited, then cried out again, “Heavenly Father, heal this child, heal this mother, move this infant into its rightful position for coming into this world.”
A third time he repeated the words, and breathless, all waited to see what would happen. Bronwyn took a deep breath, the first in several long moments; stunned, Mary Rose held the lamp closer,
unable to believe what she was witnessing.
There was a movement beneath the light blanket, then another, and another. The baby was turned.
Hot tears came to her eyes and Mary Rose watched the faces of the others in the room, as tears filled theirs as well, even Brigham’s She looked back to the still moving infant. The baby was alive. It was well. Murmurs of awe and wonder filled the dark room. The midwife stepped closer, her expression puzzled as she watched Brigham.
The contractions began again, and Bronwyn cried out.
“We praise you, O God, for this miracle,” Brigham intoned. “What you have accomplished this day, we will never forget. We will be forever grateful, for your works are marvelous beyond compare. We delight in them and thank you for the lives of our Sister Bronwyn, our Brother Griffin, and this miracle child who is about to come into this world, fresh-sent from heaven.”
Gabe’s eyes met Mary Rose’s, and in their depths was something new. She was stunned.
Faith.
Pure and simple and wondrous faith. She smiled at him and he grinned back, seeming as surprised as she was.
Bronwyn cried out as another intense pain took control of her body, drawing Mary Rose’s attention back to the task at hand.
“This time I insist you leave for reasons of Bronwyn’s privacy,” Mary Rose said with joy. “Go now, and hurry.”
Grace Carolyn moved to the foot of the bed and peered beneath the blanket, her face almost glowing with joy. “Mary Rose,” she said, “I want you to have the honor of catching this baby.”
Mary Rose thought she might never breathe again as she took her place at the end of the bed. “It’s called the crowning,” Grace Carolyn said with awe. “I never get over the miracle of birth.”
Another swell caught the ship, tipping it to the starboard side. The table slid across the room. Thunder rumbled, but Mary Rose was so caught up in the moment, she almost didn’t notice.
“A tiny miracle,” Mary Rose whispered. She looked up to see that Bronwyn, her eyes filled with tears, was watching her face. She squeezed her eyes closed as another contraction hit. She cried out and pushed hard, pushed again.
A soft tearing sound made Mary Rose cringe, and then moving closer, she held out her hands.
Seconds later, she held the infant.
She met Bronwyn’s eyes and they shared a smiled. “’Tis a girl,” she said. “A perfectly formed tiny girl.”
The child let out a healthy cry.
Grace Carolyn took care of the umbilical cord, and gently wrapped the infant in a soft, clean cloth. Mary Rose laid the child in Bronwyn’s arms.
THIRTEEN
Mary Rose slept in a chair beside Bronwyn’s bed. The midwife stopped by frequently to check on mother and child, who both slept peacefully. She mixed herbal drinks to give Bronwyn strength and applied a poultice to stanch the bleeding. She showed Mary Rose how to measure the proper amount of chamomile for the hot water that the cabin boy had been told to bring on the hour. This would help her milk come in, she explained.
By sunrise, the Sea Hawk had passed through the storm. At eight bells, Grace Carolyn appeared at the cabin door. Her eyes were full of sympathy for Mary Rose.
“I’ve had a cat nap or two during the night, but you’ve had not a wink of sleep,” she said, giving Mary Rose a quick hug. “We’ve taken care of your friend, and now you need some taking care of yourself. Get some fresh air while I order something to eat for you both.”
“I can think of nothing that sounds better,” she said. “Unless it would be that you join us.”
Grace Carolyn looked pleased as she went about the business of checking the tie in the baby’s umbilical cord, changing the soft blanket, then rewrapping her.
Mary Rose gave her face a quick splash of water, ran her fingers through her hair and headed to the main deck for fresh air. The Sea Hawk was moving into calmer waters, and now that Bronwyn and the baby were safe and well, she felt like singing.
Words from Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s “A Child Asleep” came to her…
’Tis the child-heart draws them, singing
In the silent-seeming clay…
She went to the bow, closed her eyes, and stretched her arms out to catch the wind, letting it lift her hair. At a time like this, she didn’t care that her thicket of curls had kinked from her venture into the rain the night before, or that her clothes were wrinkled and limp.
All she cared about was the miracle of the baby and Bronwyn and how it had changed her life.
She drew the fresh sea air deep into her lungs and relived the moment the child had moved during Brigham’s prayer. And the first moment she held the warm, moist body of Bronwyn’s tiny miracle baby and recognized God’s creative power. How could she not believe?
Someone stepped up beside her. She turned. It was Gabriel MacKay. He held the Book of Mormon as if it were more precious than gold. He caught her hand and held it with his against the soft leather binding. Then he threw back his head and laughed. It was a sound of utter joy. “I believe,” he said. “I needed a miracle, and God provided it last night.”
For a moment neither of them spoke. Mary Rose felt her wrinkled skirts billowing in the wind and her curls flying everywhere. It seemed like a long time ago since she cared about such things. Right now all she cared about was the man standing in front of her, his declaration of faith, and what it might mean to them both.
“And I as well,” she said. “I’ve been as much a Doubting Thomas as you have been. It took the movement of that infant for me to believe, to truly believe. I’ve played around the edges, not knowing for certain about the Prophet, about his missionaries, his apostle Brigham. But after last night”—she blinked back her tears—“after seeing Bronwyn almost die…Her pulse was so weak I couldn’t find it. There were moments when I thought she had left us, she struggled so to draw in a single breath toward the end.” She looked out to sea again, still unable to believe what she’d witnessed. “And now she is alive and well, her wee babe at her breast.”
Gabe stepped closer and put his arm around her, and she laid her head against his shoulder. The Book lay against his side in the crook of his other arm. The rigging clanked against the masts, the starboard-watch seamen spoke in hushed voices from their stations, and from the quarterdeck, the chief mate called out tacking orders. Mary Rose wanted to linger there forever.
He turned her gently and looked deep into her eyes. “It is my belief that God planned for us to be on this voyage, to find our new faith, to go with Brigham and the others to a new promised land”—he hesitated for a heartbeat, and then smiled—“together. Lady Mary Rose…”
She laughed lightly, still looking up into his eyes. “I believe, Mr. MacKay, that it’s time to call me Mary Rose.”
Chuckling, he drew her close, holding her tight against his chest, resting his cheek on top of her head. When he spoke, she heard the resonance of his voice through his chest. “Mary Rose, what I’m trying to say is that I’ve fallen in love with you.” He took a step back and gave her a smile that quickened her pulse. She started to speak, but he touched her lips with his fingers. “If I don’t get this all out now,” he said, “I may never work up the courage to attempt it again.”
Her heart pounded madly as she waited.
He cleared his throat, then reached for her hand, drew it to his lips, and kissed her fingertips. “What I’m trying to say…to ask…is, will you marry me? I know it’s sudden, and if you need time to think about it, I certainly understand. We’ve only known each other days, been together maybe just a few hours…”
She reached up and shushed him with a fingertip. “I will, Mr. MacKay,” she said.
His laughter was tender and joyous and filled with wonder as he drew her close once more. “How I love you,” he whispered into her hair. “I will cherish you till the day I die.” He pulled back slightly and, with that half-crooked smile at the corner of his mouth, his dark eyebrows arched mischievously, he added, “But please, I think it�
�s time to call me Gabe.”
She was never one to follow another’s direct bidding. Even now. She raised her own brows just as mischievously as he had. “I love you, Gabriel,” she said, looking deep into his eyes. “You are Gabe, yes, and I will likely call you that most of the time, but when I say Gabriel I can almost hear the brush of an angel’s wings. Right now I hear a legion of them.” She reached up to touch his cheek, running her fingers lightly along his strong jawline.
He drew her closer and, bending his head, captured her surprised little gasp with his lips. Enjoying the sensation even more than she thought she would, she put her arms around his neck and clung to him.
The whistles and hoots of laughter from the seamen on starboard watch, obviously enjoying the spectacle, did nothing to deter her. They stood kissing as the sails billowed and snapped, the wind ruffled their hair and clothes, and the seamen continued their hoots.
Mary Rose leaned back, breathless, and felt herself blush. Grinning, Gabe gave an impatient order to the men, and they hastened back to their stations. Then he turned Mary Rose so that they were both looking out at the sea once more, and spoke of plans for the future. Gabe said he had decided during the night that he would post Cunard a letter of resignation the minute they reached Boston; and if she agreed, he would speak to the captain about marrying them on board ship even before then.
“I want to be married before we begin our journey,” he said. “Though I admit it will be quite an adjustment going from one to a family of six.”
Her countenance fell. “The children won’t be with us,” she said. “We are simply acting as their guardians until we reach Boston and hand them over to an elderly cousin of my grandfather’s.”
“An elderly cousin? As in old? As in doddering? Dour?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never met her, or even corresponded with her. She might be spry, apple-faced, and lovable. But she’s my grandfather’s cousin, so we know that she’s…well, old.”