by Susan Wiggs
She blinked, dragging herself out of the strange visions of light. Despite her pain, she was eager to see this new Jesse, this man who held her so tenderly and said “please” as if he meant it. Slowly, so slowly, his face came into focus. Ah, that face, so noble and filled with suffering. So incredibly dear to her.
She held him in her gaze, but she couldn’t speak. A fresh pain swept through her like a forest fire, and in the wake of the fire came an utterly overwhelming urge to birth the child. To bear down, not even allowing herself to breathe until she brought forth this baby.
She heard a low sound and realized it was her own voice, forced between her clenched teeth. She felt a sick pounding in her ears. Felt her face flush a heated crimson, felt every sinew in her body tighten.
“Mary, oh Christ, Mary...” Jesse moved to the foot of the bed.
She wanted to call him back, to let him know she needed to feel his hands on her shoulders, her brow, but she found it impossible to speak. Low, wordless sounds kept escaping her. She drew her knees up and strained with all her might, always looking at Jesse, her eyes pleading with him, as if he held the power to grant her release.
In the lampglow, the harsh lines of his face stood out stark and pale with fear. “I think...I see the head,” he said in amazement. “Wait—oh shit—I can’t see it anymore...”
She could make no sense of his words. She knew only the awful pressure and the all-consuming need to bear down, harder and harder, no need to breathe or think or feel or—”Mary! It’s—God, it’s here, it’s—”
The pressure lifted like a puff of smoke going up, dispersing, disappearing into a blue sky. She felt nothing for a moment; she was detached from her body, from sensation. And then, in the blink of an eye, she fell back into herself, sobbing with all her might, reaching out with her hands, reaching for the small, pasty, red-streaked creature, gathering up the bundle along with yards of blankets, holding and hugging the precious gift to her breast and sobbing, still sobbing, shuddering with the power and the ecstasy of what she had just done.
* * *
Jesse leaned against the blue cabinet and shut his eyes. He trembled, feeling drained and exhilarated all at once. He was reminded of the moments after a bold sea rescue, only this was more intense, more overwhelming. He’d just witnessed a miracle. He was part of that miracle.
Mary’s tattered sobs filled the room along with the musky, bloody scent of birth and—incredibly—the faint calls of crows and the Jonssons’ rooster, signaling the dawn.
Mary had labored all night. Her baby had been born.
And he had delivered the baby. Christ Almighty. He’d delivered her baby. Behind his squeezed-shut eyes, he saw it again, saw the tiny, streaked crown of the head. In a strange and unexpected way, it was as devastating as seeing the face of God. The face of an angel.
“Jesse! Help!”
He fell to his knees beside the bed. “What? What is it?”
“The...ah...” She gritted her teeth and her face reddened as it had in those last few moments before the baby. “The afterbirth,” she said between her teeth. “And you have to cut the cord.”
“Cut the—” Terrible images flowed out from a dark place in his mind. Knives, scissors, sharp things—”The cord, Jesse. You tie it off and cut it. Surely you’ve seen it done with animals.”
“Yes, but—”
“Well?”
He found twine and a sharp knife. Some thinking part of him must have anticipated this moment, for the objects lay close at hand on the wall shelf. He didn’t even remember getting them ready last night. Feeling hopelessly awkward and utterly terrified, he stood over her, looking down at the bundle she held. “I guess I’m ready.”
She nodded wearily. He had no idea how it was possible, but she looked beautiful. Her hair lay in disarray; dark circles bruised the flesh under her eyes. But a glow, a triumph, seemed to emanate from her. He saw joy so intense that it shone like the risen sun from her eyes.
He wanted to touch her, to gather her into his arms and tell her how lovely she looked, how proud he was of her. But he couldn’t do that. Something was wrong, something neither of them wanted to see or acknowledge....
His hand shook as he pulled back the folds of the blanket. Streaked with blood and fluids, the blanket would need cleaning right away. Absurdly, he made note of that. Then he saw the tiny stained head and the elfin chest and the cord, whitish blue and twisted.
He reached down with the twine and froze.
The child wasn’t moving.
“Mary, I think—” His throat felt dry, as if he had swallowed sand. “The baby. Is it all right?”
“What could possibly be wrong?”
“Mary.” Everything inside him crumbled to ashes. He thought he had known darkness before, thought he had known grief, but nothing in his experience had prepared him for this depthless agony.
How ironic that he had found it at last, found the one thing that hurt more than his own grief. It was Mary’s. Her sadness would hurt more.
“Mary,” he said again. He gently touched her brow, smoothing back a stray lock of hair. “There’s no movement. No sound. No breathing.”
“Damn you!” she burst out. “How dare you say it?” She flung her head from side to side on the pillow. “Damn you, Jesse Morgan. Damn you, damn you, damn you!”
He could see the madness grip her. He had no idea what to do. Instinct alone drove him to take the bundle from her arms, to snatch it away so she wouldn’t have to face her loss.
She nearly came out of the bed. “Give me my baby!”
“No. Mary, it’s best if—” Jesse went stiff in every muscle. He felt it. A flutter. A shifting. His body responded before his mind. This subtle twist was a movement he recognized. At night these past few weeks, he had felt it when Mary curled herself close to him in sleep. It was the movement of the baby.
A thin little cry, like the mewing of a kitten, emerged from the blankets.
As hot and sharp as needles, tears formed in Jesse’s eyes, then disappeared before they were even born. “The baby’s all right, Mary.” Relief almost staggered him, but he managed to lower himself gently and settle the infant in her arms. “Now, let’s take care of that cord.”
Tears streamed unchecked down her face. “Ah, Jesse,” she said, “I’m so happy. So very, very hap—” She gasped. “Jesus Christ on a flaming crutch!”
He dropped the ball of twine. Coldness seized his chest. “What? What is it now?”
“Is it a boy or a girl?” she demanded.
He swore between his teeth. “How should I know?”
“You delivered it, my dear Captain Morgan.”
“I wasn’t paying attention to that, for chrissakes.”
She began to laugh weakly, at the same time pulling aside the blankets. “A boy,” she said, the joy and triumph he had seen earlier suffusing her face anew. “We have a son.”
Jesse plowed a hand through his hair. He knew he should be exhausted, but he couldn’t rest. Like a biddy hen, he rushed around the room, exchanging the soiled bedclothes for clean ones, bringing Mary water to wash and a fresh nightshirt and a stack of diapers she had spent the last several weeks hemming. She and the baby stayed in a cocoon of blankets, alternately napping or just resting as she gazed with mute adoration into the small one’s face. A time or two, she held the baby to her breast, but Jesse wouldn’t let himself watch or think or feel.
Not yet. Not now. It was too soon.
As the day wore on, he tried to sort through his feelings. He was pleased for Mary. Relieved that she and the baby were well and comfortable. But as for the child, he could summon nothing beyond that initial relief. He was not its father. He hadn’t the first idea what to do with a baby.
He stole a glance at Mary and saw that the two of them were napping again. She lay curled around the bab
y, and only his tiny head was visible. Jesse felt a jolt of recognition. Uncannily, hauntingly, the child looked very much as Mary had when he’d pulled her from the sea. The same otherworldly, beautiful face. The same dark red squiggles of hair plastered against fair skin. The same bluish eyelids, delicately webbed with tiny veins.
“I didn’t rescue you,” he muttered under his breath, and walked out of the room. He stayed away for a long time, until he heard Mary call his name. Then he brought her a cup of milk and some toasted bread.
She smiled her thanks and ate with good appetite while the baby slept on, as deeply and unknowingly as Mary herself had slept those first days after being rescued.
“I’ve thought of a name,” she said.
He didn’t reply. He stared at the puncheon floor, noting the grain of the old wood as if it were a matter of great importance.
“David,” she went on. “David Dare Morgan. Do you like it?”
“What’s not to like?” He balanced her cup on the empty plate and stood up.
“I chose David because of its Biblical meaning. The parish priest once read the story to me, a long time ago. David was very important.”
“You mean King David.”
“David, the son of Jesse.”
He nearly dropped the dishes, but managed to turn toward the door. “He’s not mine.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. He bears your name. You brought him into the world. In your arms he took his first breath. What else can he be but your son?”
“Granger’s.”
“Granger doesn’t know of him. He doesn’t ever have to know.” Jesse didn’t want to hurt her, but he couldn’t lie, either. “You know I’ll take care of you and the boy. Keep both of you safe and sheltered and fed. But don’t expect too much from me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t have anything to give you.”
He expected her to burst into tears. Instead, she smiled knowingly. “Jesse Morgan, you’ve given me life. Hope. A home and your name and the respect of a community. And now you’ve given life to my son. Our son. You call that nothing?”
“I call it duty. I took an oath—”
“Damn the oath. You didn’t do any of this because of some oath you took. You did it because you need to love again—”
“You’re looking for something that isn’t there, that’ll never be there. Now, get some rest. I’ve got work to do.”
* * *
“What’s that you have there?” Granger asked, striding into the west parlor.
Annabelle nearly jumped out of her skin. Her small fist closed around a pale yellow sheet of paper. “Granger, dear, you startled me,” she said, flushing.
He leaned over her fireside wing chair. She could feel his stare focusing on her clenched fist. “Fairchild said a telegraph came.”
Drat the butler. Couldn’t he keep a single thing to himself? “Oh!” she said, pretending she’d just remembered it. “I’ve had a most unexpected message from my brother.”
“From Jesse?” Lean and catlike, Granger walked around to the front of the chair and held out his hand. “Let’s see it.”
Lord, but she wanted to defy him. To fling the crumpled page into the crackling fire and refuse to tell him what it said. As usual, she obeyed, holding out her hand to him, giving him the wad of paper. In truth, she didn’t need the telegraph, for she’d already committed it to memory:
Apologies for being such a poor correspondent STOP If you have the slightest need of me then wire back on the instant STOP Jesse Kane Morgan STOP
Granger finished reading. “The slightest need of him? What the hell does he mean by that?”
It meant Jesse had guessed. Somehow he knew what Annabelle’s life had become, and he wanted to help.
She looked into her husband’s face and said, “I haven’t the slightest idea, dear.”
Granger tossed the page into the fire. “Do you intend to reply?”
“It would seem the courteous thing to do.”
He walked back behind her chair, gripped her shoulders, the bite of his strong fingers searing the warning into her muscles. “Don’t trouble yourself with it, darling. The man’s insane, and has been for years. I’ll take care of the reply.”
Annabelle sat perfectly still, knowing his grip would not slacken until she conceded. “I’m sure you will,” she said softly. “Thank you, dear.”
* * *
In the middle of the second night after the birth, Jesse awoke to the sound of wailing. He jumped out of bed and stuffed his legs into his jeans, not stopping to fasten them as he hurled himself down the stairs.
The sound was eerie, like a cat caught in a trap. He felt its vibrations in his marrow. Fumbling, he lit a lamp and went into the birth-and-death room. He had told Mary it was best for her to stay down here rather than trying to climb the stairs so soon after giving birth.
She’d seen right through him, but she hadn’t argued.
He lifted the lamp to see what was the matter. She lay helplessly on her side, the baby next to her squirming and straining, his mouth wide-open and emitting a terrible feline wail.
“What’s the matter?” He drew a hand down his face, trying to adjust to the rude awakening. His cheeks felt bristly, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d shaved.
“He’s hungry.” Mary raised her voice above the howl. How could such a tiny creature raise such a racket?
Hoping his patience would last, Jesse set the lamp on a shelf. “Then I guess you should feed him.”
“I...can’t.” Her voice sounded thick with unshed tears.
He didn’t understand. He hadn’t allowed himself to look too closely, but he’d seen her hold the child to her breast several times. “You’ve been doing it—”
“Something happened,” she said. “I just suddenly filled up, and now I’m too...full.”
“Jesus Christ.” He didn’t want to think about this, didn’t want to have to involve himself in something as intimate and elemental as a mother nursing her newborn. But her misery penetrated his heart. He found himself bending over the bed, reaching for the squirming, squealing bundle.
As he picked up the baby, the back of his hand brushed her breast. The sensation shocked him. Her flesh felt feverish and hard as a rock. Her size had ballooned beyond all imagining.
“Jesus Christ,” he said again, covering his amazement with anger. He straightened up and held the baby, but it was awkward because the infant was squirming so. With surprising strength, the little mite arched his back and hollered. That sound. It was surely the sound that accompanied the devil’s chariot to hell.
“He can’t...latch on,” Mary said, sobbing openly now. “And it hurts. It hurts....”
Jesse jiggled the baby a little. This made him stop crying for a moment. “Can I get you anything?”
She lay on her side and sobbed.
Swearing under his breath, Jesse stalked over to the washbasin. He had thought he could keep his distance from this little intruder. He had thought Mary—a natural mother if there ever was one—would handle everything, provide everything the baby needed. Yes, that had been the plan. Jesse would provide for her, and she’d provide for the child.
It wasn’t working like that. Already, chaos reigned. The baby wasn’t letting him keep his distance.
Because her skin had felt so hot, he dipped a clean towel in the basin. Mindful of the baby, he wrung it out and brought the towel to Mary. “Here. Hold this against you.”
Sniffling, she pressed the damp fabric to her chest and closed her eyes. How weary she looked, her face wan, the normally cheerful set of her mouth drawn down. A lock of hair strayed across her cheek and nose. With one finger, Jesse reached down and smoothed it back.
The baby made an angry sound, and Jesse could t
ell he was gathering strength for another howl. He stood quickly. “Just rest a while,” he said, and strode out of the room.
He paced up and down in the darkened house, growing more resentful by the minute. He hadn’t asked for this, any of this. Not for Mary, and certainly not for the child. He had no idea how long he paced, feeling as if he held a live coal in his hands, expecting it to burn him any moment. But at length he heard a sleepy voice calling his name.
He went back to the room where Mary lay. He saw a subtle difference in her. She looked less tense. Her shoulders were relaxed, and she was smiling once again.
Her gown and the bedding beneath her were soaked. “I think I can feed him now.”
He didn’t question her, but helped her out of bed and into a dry gown. A sweet, damp odor pervaded the air as she sat on a cushioned chair. Milk.
With relief, Jesse handed her the baby and busied himself putting dry bedclothes on the bed. He didn’t look at Mary; the wet, smacking sounds of the baby’s greedy mouth told him that the crisis was over.
For now.
* * *
The gifts started to arrive almost immediately. Several times a day, Mary caught herself weeping with happiness and exhaustion. Everyone was so good to her, so complimentary of the baby and so thoughtful in those compliments.
“He’s the very image of you, Mary,” Hestia declared. “I believe that hair will come in as red as your own. Jesse must be so proud.”
Mary smiled, thankful for Hestia’s choice of words. No one mentioned that Jesse hadn’t fathered little Davy. No one likened the sweet lad to anyone but his mother.
An ambassador from Swann House, Hestia brought an array of gifts—handmade quilts and rattles and teethers and toys, little jackets and sweaters and booties and caps. Fiona joined the women, hallooing with a special joy as she bounded across the yard. “I hear you mistook the lightkeeper for a midwife,” she said with a braying laugh.
“Faith, and didn’t I just?” Mary said, as she gazed down at the baby. This morning she had bathed him; he smelled sweeter than anything she could imagine.
“Look...at...you.” Fiona reverently picked up the baby, now clad in a white flannel gown and tiny socks knitted by Hestia’s ailing boarder, Rheingold. “Just look at you,” Fiona repeated. “Oh, dear God in heaven, is there anything finer in the world than a newborn babe?”