Tender (The Trelawneys of Williamsburg Time Travel Romance Book 1)

by Anne Meredith

  “How is Jennie?” she asked.

  “This will be a long labor for her,” the doctor said. “It’s her first, and I believe she’s overdue.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Just try to keep her distracted, and help her rest. The baby may not come until tomorrow. Fetch me at my office when her pains are closer.”

  Grey walked the doctor to the door, then returned to the kitchen. “I’m going to take Emily home for a while. She’ll be in the way here.”

  “No, Papa. I want to be here when the baby comes.”

  “We’ll come back. You’ll see the baby before you know it.”

  He gave Rachel a lingering kiss, and she lay her palm against his cheek, stroking his face. “Take care.”

  And he was gone.

  It was long after midnight when Jennie’s contractions grew as close as five minutes, and Rachel sent for the doctor. Though Jennie had tried to spend the day resting, her rest had been fitful, interrupted by the sporadic contractions. At first, Rachel suspected it might be false labor, but the pains grew inevitably more frequent and intense.

  When Thomas went outside for a short walk, Rachel sat on the bed beside Jennie, bathing her forehead with a cool cloth.

  Jennie smiled weakly. “Thomas is as helpless as a child,” she said quietly. “I hope this babe comes soon. The floor can’t take much more of his nerves.”

  She stroked her hair. “He’ll be a splendid father.”

  “I’m glad he and Grey are reconciled. Grey was suffering so much, for so long, and for so little reason.”

  “Male ego is no little thing,” Rachel said.

  “And he had no idea how Thomas was suffering,” Jennie went on. “Perhaps he’ll see someday that in each act of love for this child, Thomas expresses a bit of the love he wasn’t able to give Grey—for all those years.”

  Her features contorted as a contraction seized her, and Rachel held her hand, silently counting. The duration was longer, yet they still remained just under five minutes apart.

  Jennie’s damp hair clung to her temple and neck, and her eyes were shadowed with blue-gray circles. And she was weakening; something within her seemed to be giving up the struggle.

  Rachel grabbed both her shoulders. “Now you need to brace up and be strong, Jennie! Think how sweet it will be to hold the baby.”

  “I want to name the child Ambrose, if it’s a boy.”

  “Ambrose?”

  “Thomas—Thomas will want to name him Bronson. But…” Jennie smiled. “Ambrose means ‘immortal.’”

  “It’s a beautiful name.”

  Dr. McKenzie arrived presently with Zina, the midwife, arriving not long after, and Rachel moved away from the bed. Zina was carrying a large butcher knife; when she caught Rachel watching her slide it underneath the bed, she nodded meaningfully. “To cut the pain.”

  They were big on using knives as pain-relief these days. Rachel would have felt a lot better had she been sterilizing it for cutting the baby’s cord. After placing the knife, the midwife moved into the shadows of the room. Rachel was relieved the doctor was here instead.

  The room was still and muggy, and she opened a window.

  “Close it. The night air will give the child the fever.”

  She obeyed reluctantly, remembering they weren’t exactly at Johns Hopkins.

  Thomas returned to sit by his wife’s bedside, holding her hand when another strong contraction overtook her. The dark rhythm went on, with Thomas staunchly refusing to leave his wife’s side, and Jennie desperately gripping his hand and Rachel’s as the severity of the contractions multiplied and grew closer. The doctor grew increasingly apprehensive as he examined her, all the while time passing without a live birth. After yet another hour, the doctor gave Rachel a grim look. What did it mean?

  “Thomas, could I have a word with you?”

  Thomas was torn between the doctor and leaving Jennie. At last he rose, and she heard their voices in the hallway—first subdued whispers, then more vigorous. “I don’t care what it takes! She is everything to me.”

  Rachel prayed silently, trying to ignore her fear. Jennie’s face was pale and pasty, her lips parched.

  “Thomas, you know I’ll do all that’s within my power. But she’s small, and she’s very weak. And this labor has already gone on too long.”

  The midwife sat in Jennie’s rocker, rocking to and fro while staring at Jennie grimly. She stopped the rocker and rose, then approached Jennie, whose eyes were closed as she rested between contractions.

  Abruptly the midwife trembled, her head falling back as she shrank away from Jennie. She fell against the wall near a window. “I see death,” she whispered, grasping at the curtains, hiding her face in the heavy velvet. “I see a curse. She will die—like her brother—like their uncle…”

  “You!” Jennie said, her face sallow, her eyes ringed with shadows that made her eyes seem even larger. “You!”

  It took Rachel only a moment to put it together—Zina was the seer Jennie had found at Rosalie.

  Rachel rose and leaned across Jennie to block her view of the woman. “Go away!” Rachel told her. “Get out of here.”

  From the doorway, Aileen said, “Ma’am, she’s also a nurse. Perhaps we should keep her—just for a while, in case the new mum needs help.”

  “Fine. But get her downstairs and out of the way.”

  “Thomas!”

  Jennie’s sudden scream shocked her, and her small hand gripped Rachel’s with startling strength. The creepy midwife had jangled Rachel’s nerves.

  “Jennie,” she said, smoothing her hair away from her face, “it’s all right. I’m here. Thomas is here, too.”

  “Thomas?”

  He sat at his wife’s side, his large hands swallowing hers. “I’m here, my own heart,” he whispered.

  Rachel drew away, fear lumping in her throat at the frantic fright on Jennie’s face as she looked about. “I can’t see you!”

  He passed a gentle hand over her forehead, his face taut with worry. He pressed his cheek against hers. “Then feel me, Jennie,” he choked. “I won’t leave you. Please, dear God, don’t leave me.”

  “Thomas, swear … swear you’ll always love him,” she whispered.

  “You know I shall.”

  “Not—not like Grey,” she gasped. “You can start all over with this babe. Swear it, Thomas. No matter what.”

  “Jennie,” he cried, “I swear it. Darling, please. I cannot bear the thought of this life without you.”

  Dr. McKenzie touched Rachel’s shoulder. “You’ll need to wait outside.”

  Stunned and frightened, she withdrew down to the breakfast room as time dragged on. She looked around the small, cozy room where they had shared so many secrets, where they had laughed and cried, where they had remembered and planned, and where Jennie had proven to be a true friend. Never had she mentioned the rumors Rachel knew she must’ve heard about her, except in an effort to protect her.

  The clock in the outer room chimed four, and she heard the front door open and close. Grey entered, his face alight with curiosity. The sight of him gave her illogical hope; with Grey here, everything would be all right.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “What’s the matter?”

  She went into his arms, pressing her face against the clean warmth of him. “She’s having a terrible time. I’m so afraid—”

  They both heard it, then. A faint but distinctive cry; first tentative, then a lusty bawling. The sounds of life.

  “Oh, Grey!” she whispered joyfully. “The baby!”

  The child’s cry was interrupted by a piercing, agonizing scream, and the sound chilled Rachel’s elation. It was Thomas, and he screamed one word.

  Jennie.

  Grey froze in her arms, and then they both hurried up the stairs with apprehensive dread. He silently pushed open Jennie’s door. Dr. McKenzie stood wrapping the wailing child in a small blanket. He saw them, and he shook his head and moved to the cradle J
ennie had arranged with things she’d fashioned, things that would welcome her son or daughter into this world.

  When he stepped aside, they saw Thomas bent over the bed, holding Jennie in his arms, rocking her back and forth as he wept. “Jennie,” he cried, “my darling Jennie.”

  Tears spilled down Rachel’s face as she turned to Grey. Oblivious of her, he stared at his father in miserable pathos.

  Jennie was gone.

  Chapter Forty

  Grey entered the room, but the doctor stopped Rachel.

  “Was there … nothing that could be done?”

  “Not by anyone save the Lord. I differ from my colleagues, miss. I believe life is in the blood—and Jennie lost too much of it.” He sighed. “The babe needs nourishment. Get the nurse.”

  “But—there isn’t one. Jennie was going to—”

  “Unless you would have this child follow his mother to the grave, you’ll find a wet nurse. Now. Ask the midwife, she’ll know.”

  “Not in a million years. She’s a superstitious loon. I’ll not have her near Jennie’s baby.”

  “Ma’am?”

  Rachel turned to find Aileen, her face wet and mottled with grief.

  “The kitchen wench, Izzie, is weaning her babe.”

  “Oh, Aileen. Can you find her, please?” She would have taken the old woman in her arms to comfort her, but Aileen ran down the stairs, her shoulders shaking as she wept. Rachel followed her, heartsick as she noticed the table where she and Jennie had first gotten to know each other.

  I want to name the child Ambrose. It means immortal.

  A discarded cup of tea lay on the sideboard, where Jennie might have set it aside the day before. Aileen’s oversight showed her devastation; the old woman had practically raised Jennie.

  Presently, Grey entered the kitchen with the small bundle cradled in his arms, gazing at the child. His eyes met hers. “He’s dazed by grief. He won’t look at the child.”

  She sat in the rocking chair by the hearth, and he placed the baby in her arms. She was stirred by the lively movement of the child. Light, reddish brown fluff covered his red head. “’Tis a fine, handsome lad,” Grey said softly.

  She couldn’t speak as she cradled him against her breast. She remembered, as if it were yesterday, holding her sister so. His wailing grew distracted as he began rooting for a nipple.

  “And an impatient little wretch,” Grey added with a smile.

  “Can you try to find Aileen?” she asked, awkwardly brushing her finger against the baby’s cheek in a vain attempt to distract him from his hunger. “She went for a wet nurse.”

  He sat motionless, and she cast him an impatient glance, surprised at what she saw. His face was wreathed in adoration. “I can’t see you so without imagining you nursing our child.” He sighed then, shaking his head dolefully. “And I can’t help but imagine my father’s agony when he sees you.”

  “Little Ambrose,” she murmured.

  “Ambrose?”

  “It’s the name Jennie chose for him. She …”

  “What?”

  “It means immortal. It was as if—as if she knew her own time here was brief.”

  Izzie arrived and took the child, and Grey climbed the stairs to Jennie’s room, where Thomas gazed blankly out the window. He’d tucked the covers about his wife, as if she slept.

  “Will you come out, sir? Perhaps see the babe.”

  “No.” The word was a low shudder of rejection.

  Grey hesitated, pained at the listlessness of the man. Something else lingered within him, and he sought to say that which he’d never said.

  “Leave me, Grey.”

  His voice was a dull monotone, and Grey closed the door.

  Later, he and Rachel napped with the child between them, and when his movements awakened her she called for Izzie. While they waited, she saw his somber gaze on Ambrose.

  “He has her eyes. The color of the sky.”

  “They’ll change.”

  He shook his head. “Not a color that vibrant. Each time my father looks at this child, he shall think of her.”

  She heard the regret in his voice, saw the hardness of his jaw. “He refuses to touch him. To look at him.”

  “He’s in shock, Grey. Give him time.”

  “How much time? Thirty years?” He sighed, rolling out of the bed. “I have to go to Rosalie. Emily will be worried—dear God in heaven, how shall I ever tell her?”

  “Perhaps we can take Ambrose home with us,” she suggested, “until Thomas is better equipped to deal with him.”

  He brushed his lips against hers, his hand curving around her throat. “Let’s ask him.”

  Izzie entered the room and took Ambrose, and Rachel glanced at the babe as Izzie prepared to nurse him. The commonplace sight stung her.

  It should be Jennie. Jennie should be here, nursing her child, watching him draw sustenance from her own body. Why couldn’t life occasionally be fair?

  Two women arrived from Bruton Parish Church to prepare Jennie’s body for burial. Thomas surprised Grey and Rachel by admitting them into her room and returning silently to his own adjoining room.

  After the women left, Grey and Rachel approached Thomas. He sat at his window and stared, unseeing, at an open volume. It was the Bible, turned to Psalm 22. What had he found there, on his way to comfort?

  “We’re going back to Rosalie, sir, for a few hours. But I’ll be back later tonight, to stay with you.”

  “I need no one here.”

  A moment’s silence followed, and Rachel rested her hand on Grey’s back. “We’d like to take the baby with us. If that’s all right with you. Just until—”

  “Take it. What should I do with it here?”

  The cold inflection in Thomas’s voice disturbed her. She knew he was suffering, but she could almost taste his bitterness.

  “Thomas, he’s your—”

  “Leave me in peace,” he choked out. “I want no part of it.”

  Grey tensed, and she squeezed his arm. “Let’s go.”

  In another quarter-hour, they’d assembled Ambrose’s belongings in Grey’s coach and were on their way with Izzie to Rosalie. When Ambrose was settled with his nurse into a room, Rachel went straight to Hastings’ office. For the past day, she’d thought only of Jennie. Now, she remembered his revelation on the witness stand—and Malcolm’s warning. Through the open door, she saw him in a corner, reading. The rays of the afternoon sun slanted across his book, and he raised his head as she entered.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He closed the book and set it aside. “Ah, well,” he said softly. He rose, putting the book in its place on the shelf. Staring thoughtfully at a globe standing nearby, he said, “An unseemly practice, becoming entangled in the life of a young lady whose fate I have no hand in. Of course, your eccentric Mr. Henderson gave me no choice in the matter.”

  She hesitated. “All my life, I would’ve given anything for even the smallest story about my family. I cherish the memories I do have. But I’ll never see any of them again. You … you’re the only relative I have.”

  His head jerked up. “And is that to give a man cheer? Responsibility for a headstrong harpy such as yourself?”

  She smiled. “Hastings, you old softie.”

  He touched the globe, one delicate hand coaxing it into a lethargic turn. “Had I told you, you would have asked innumerable questions I cannot answer. Undoubtedly I would ask as well.”

  “I’ll tell you anything you’d like to know.”

  “An awkward thing, having a glimpse of the future. It’s often asked: were one given the chance to know one’s fate, what should one choose?” He silently examined the globe. “Rachel, each of us holds dreams, no matter our station in life. Even I. Do not wish for such ill-conceived knowledge. Were we to know our every dream in this world would come true, should we then strive as necessary to achieve those dreams?

  “And were we to learn our dreams would come to naught, then what be
comes of life? That bitter truth, erasing all hope—the essence from which life springs—would be more than a mere mortal could endure. In either case, the end result that we should desire to know is the better person we become for having striven.”

  She saw canny wisdom in his eyes. How many fateful decisions would be made in their family over the time between his life and hers? Had he seen the headline in her newspaper and found facing the future of his descendants a forbidding prospect?

  “You said that I was your granddaughter. That’s obviously impossible. What did you mean?”

  “Do not presume to know what is and isn’t possible. And I am no more privy to knowledge than you. I know only that …” He stopped and turned away. “I received a letter from my son today that his wife gave birth to a healthy daughter. They named her Cassandra.” Cassandra? It was her mother’s name. And as she opened her mouth to tell him, she stopped.

  But you are not the only relative he has left.

  In a moment, she understood Malcolm’s warning, and her foolishness—how close she’d come to telling him—immobilized her.

  She could never explain it to him, of course. Like his great-granddaughter, her mother Cassandra, too, would travel in time—to the twentieth century, where she would marry Rachel’s father.

  And where she would be murdered.

  But did he already know? Had he read part of the newspaper story? Did he know the fate his granddaughter would suffer … and was he torn now between protecting her safety, and the knowledge that if he kept Cassandra secure in the eighteenth century, neither Rachel nor her sisters would ever be born?

  He turned to her. “It is necessary to learn from the past, Rachel. But although the future is held slave to the past, the present—wisely or not so—is the master of both, life itself. My heart has been … so very cheered to have known you, but the delight I have found in you lies in your unique character. Not by any miniscule drop of blood that may flow in your veins.”

  His words held a poignant reassurance. They were the words she’d long dreamed of hearing from Max. And it gently distanced them both from the tragedy that bound them together.