"MY MOTHER WANTS me to come for tea on Saturday, Francis." Merrie looked up into her husband's face to see a scowl. "The house is finished, and they are in. What is it, sir?"
He was scowling. "I am sorry, my little brat. Of course, you may go. I cannot tell you that you cannot have tea with your own mother. I was just remembering what happened the last time you spent the day with her and were left alone. I shall take you and pick you up. But you must promise to stay there until I come back for you. Is that clear?"
"It should not be a problem, sir." Merrie was scowling now. But she was immediately picked up bodily and put in his lap.
"Merriweather Lynne. I have said you are not to go anywhere else. You must wait for me to come and get you. Is that clear to you?"
She stared, surprised. "Yes, sir."
"It has not been all that long, my little innocent, since someone tried to kidnap you."
"But—that was before our marriage. Nothing like that has happened since then."
"Merriweather, I have been with you since then. Even the times you went shopping; I was with you, was I not?"
"Yes, but…" She chewed her lip in thought. "I suppose I thought…I was safe now."
"You should be, little innocent, as long as you are with me. I could send Gleason, but he needs to stay close, until Kathleen delivers the baby. A week or so more and both she and the baby should be all right. Mollie, from Pembroke, has been staying with her."
She nodded. "Should I go over and see her, sir?"
"I am sure she would love to see another female face. We could go this afternoon, if you like."
She grinned up into his eyes. "I would like that, sir. Very much!"
But Gleason's household was quiet when they got there. The children were sitting quietly in the living area, watching their father as he paced outside the bedroom. The look on his face was of worry, not of excitement.
"I fear for her, Sir Francis. The baby has not moved all day. Mollie scolded us for not telling her sooner."
Merrie looked up at Francis, her eyes wide, and then turned to Olivia, the oldest.
"Is there anything I can help you with, Olivia?"
"No, milady. I am used to looking after them. But thank you."
A wail from the bedroom caused Gleason to freeze for a moment, before resuming his pacing.
Mollie opened the door to the bedroom and looked out, her eyes lighting on Merrie.
"Merriweather! Come here," she barked out.
With a fearful glance at Francis, Merrie followed her into the bedroom.
Mollie shut the door. "You are small. Show me your hands."
Eyes wide, she held up her hands, not knowing what to expect.
"Go wash them. And roll up your sleeves. And bring towels. Hurry."
Merrie ran from the room. The girl, who looked about sixteen, approached her.
"What do you need, milady? Can I get you something?"
"Soap and water, Olivia. And some clean towels, please."
A moment later, she was running back into the room with the towels.
Mollie leaned into her ear. "Merriweather, I want you to reach in and see if there is a cord wrapped around the baby's neck."
Merrie stared back at her, frozen in disbelief, as a wave of nausea built up within her. She knew if she thought about it, she might pass out. She looked terrified, but Mollie whispered, "Take a deep breath, child. Find the baby's belly, and move up on the cord from there."
Merrie closed her eyes, trying to visualize what Mollie was telling her. She felt the smooth back, and moved her hand gently around the baby's body until she could feel its tummy. But the cord was there, and she nodded toward Mollie, her eyes still closed.
"Follow it forward this way, child," Mollie whispered.
Merrie nodded. It was indeed wrapped around the infant's neck tightly. She opened her eyes and looked toward Mollie. There seemed to be no movement from the infant. Carefully, slowly, she brought the cord away, freeing it from the neck. But there was still no movement. "It is free," she whispered quietly in Mollie's ear. But her face held alarm.
Mollie's face held extreme concern, as well. She masked it, as she looked upward at Kathleen. "Rest a moment, love. Just relax."
"I feel as if I need to push." Kathleen's expression held sorrow.
"Then push now, Kathleen. It is all right," Mollie said, nodding. She had moved the bag of instruments closer and then handed Merrie a towel to wipe her hands, motioning her back. A moment later, she whispered, "I do not think there is any more you can do, child."
Merrie struggled to keep an encouraging smile on her face for Kathleen and reached over to hold her hand, trying to be comforting.
Kathleen was pushing now—hard. Mollie coached her gently, stopping her to encourage her to pant occasionally.
Suddenly, with a desperate cry, Kathleen gave a great push, and the baby's head emerged. Mollie did not betray anything. She guided out the shoulders and wrapped a towel around the infant, working hard to encourage a cry.
But there was no response. Kathleen was sobbing now, and Merrie wrapped her arms tightly around her in an attempt to comfort. Mollie kept on, working tirelessly.
Suddenly, there was a little cry, and she gasped. Another, a moment later, caused Kathleen to look up, hope in her eyes. It was a long moment before it happened again, but Mollie kept working with the baby. Her cupped slaps on its back now, seemed to be bringing more response.
There was a choking sound, followed by coughing, and suddenly, a great cry erupted from the infant, followed by more, steady cries. Merrie and Kathleen both began sobbing with relief, as Mollie began preparing to cut the cord. She laid the baby on Kathleen's belly while she managed and then moved the infant over into the mother's arms.
"Is it a girl or a boy?" Kathleen joyfully asked, looking down at her towel-wrapped infant. She pulled back the towel. "Oh!" She looked up, giggling, suddenly. "It's a boy!"
Gleason moved quickly into the room when Mollie opened the door, reaching out to touch his tiny son.
"His name?" Mollie asked.
"His name is Abel."
"A beautiful and noble name for a boy. I shall stay the night with you, Kathleen, in case you or the infant need me." She walked out into the living room, with a glance toward Merrie that said to follow.
Francis was waiting in the other room, when Merrie gave Kathleen's arm a squeeze and smiled at Gleason and followed Mollie from the room.
And fainted in her husband's arms.
She awakened at home, in the bedroom, naked and held tightly in Francis' arms, confused, until she remembered standing at the foot of the bed, with her hands searching for the infant's umbilical cord. Then, suddenly, she ran, naked, from the room, toward the bath, and began heaving over the toilet.
Francis was right behind her, pulling on his robe.
"Merrie Lynne? What is it, my little innocent—"
But she was not able to answer, only to heave, repeatedly. Francis had turned a bit green himself, but managed to hold her hair back out of the way and put the cool cloth Liliana handed him on her forehead.
Finally, when there was nothing left to bring up, he reached down and lifted her into his arms and handed her a glass filled with cool water. "Rinse, my little girl," he said gently.
She obeyed and, trembling, handed back the glass.
Carrying her back into the bedroom, he set her down, in his lap. "Are you feeling better?"
She nodded. "When I woke up, I remembered—" She closed her eyes and began to tell him what Mollie had asked her to do. Francis' eyes widened, and he gulped.'
"I see. I believe, little innocent, I would have been sick on the spot."
"Almost, I was." She looked up. "Oh, Francis! How does Mollie do this all the time?"
"I am not sure, innocent. But I take it I do not have to worry about losing you to a life of midwifery?"
She started to giggle and then groaned. "I do not think that is funny, sir. But I am glad Mollie can do it
."
"So, you are better now?"
"I think so, sir."
"Then lie down. But when you awaken, do not think about that again, all right?"
She made a rueful face. "I shall do my best, sir."
Francis put her back down in front of him, but this time, instead of facing away from him, she was facing him, caught up tightly next to his chest. Her arms reached up to clasp around his neck, and he said, softly, "Sleep well, my little angel."
Merrie closed her eyes, leaning comfortably against him. She found herself thinking of the ways he spoke, his touches, his kisses, and the force with which he made love to her so intensely. But in all those things, she could not remember a time when he had said the words, "I love you."
What did it mean, when one person loved another? Was love defined by those words?
A tear slid, unbidden, down her cheek
She wondered if she would ever hear them, as she sadly closed her eyes and slept.
CHAPTER 8
F rancis took Merrie to her parents' new house at nine-thirty Saturday morning. The town was bustling, and the last thing he did was to take Merrie into his lap before lifting her down from the carriage.
"Now. What did I tell you about today, my little Merrie?"
"To stay at the house until you pick me up?"
'That is correct. Do I need to go in and reiterate that to your parents?"
"No. I shall obey you, Francis, I promise."
"All right. I shall pick you up at eleven-thirty, little brat." He lifted her chin and planted a chaste kiss on her mouth. Another not-so-chaste one followed that one and then another, until she began to giggle.
"What? You are giggling at my kisses? Brat." He took her from the carriage and set her down with a swat to her bottom. "We shall see about that when I get you home, my little miscreant." He greeted her mother inside before leaving, with a promise to be back for her at eleven thirty.
"Oh, Merrie!" Marilyn Thatcher greeted her daughter warmly. "I am so glad for you to see the house. It is everything I wanted."
Merrie hugged her. "May I have the grand tour?"
"Definitely. But, Merrie, after that, there has been a change in plans. Instead of having tea here, we are to meet Natalie Greene at the Tea Room, in town."
"Ooh. I see," Merrie bit her lip and then looked up to try to explain what she had promised Francis. "But, Mother, I—"
Marilyn Thatcher was not listening. She was in full tour mode now, showing her daughter the matching curtains and bedspread and how the fabric had been used on the top of the trunk as a cushion for seating.
"And here is the guest room, for you and Francis when you come to stay for holidays and such...and oh! You have not yet seen the bath!"
Merrie tried again. "But Francis made me promise—"
"And do you remember the corner cabinet that your Aunt Jennie left me? This is the replacement for it, Merrie. Isn't it lovely?"
Merrie only nodded, "Yes, it is very lovely. But Mother, Francis—"
And so it went. After the fourth time she tried, Merrie gave up.
"Your cloak, Merrie. We are supposed to be there at ten-fifteen. I promised. And now that you and Francis are married, you should be prepared for all sorts of tea invitations. Are you ready? And Merrie—"
"Yes, ma'am?"
"I want to know if you are happy."
A wide grin spread across Merrie's face and she threw her arms around her mother's neck.
"Very, very happy," she said softly.
Marilyn leaned back, looking into her daughter's face. "I am so glad, Merrie. Every mother wants to hear that." She reached for the door handle. "Now. We must hurry. Natalie is waiting."
Merrie glanced furtively around as she accompanied her mother to the Tea Room. She knew she would have to tell Francis what she had done, how she had broken her promise. But she preferred to wait until they were home. She did not, however, see him and was relieved when they walked inside the door to the beautiful little shop.
A sigh of relief escaped, and Marilyn turned to her, quizzically. "This is lovely, is it not?"
"It is beautiful!"
But there was a hollowness to her voice. She felt miserable. Hoping desperately that her mother would leave on time, her tension began to grow; there were visions of Francis waiting in front of her house, tapping his foot impatiently and watching her approach with narrowed eyes.
Natalie and Marilyn chattered like magpies, while Merrie was keeping an eye on the mantle clock as time went on. Finally, she turned to her mother.
"Mother, Francis will be coming for me at home in—"
"Oh! Yes, we must be there before he comes to get you, Merrie. It would be rude of us not to be home when he comes. I'm afraid he would not be pleased."
Merrie bit back the retort that was on the tip of her tongue. Her mother had no idea exactly how displeased he would be.
They said a polite goodbye to Mrs. Greene, and left, hurrying home.
"SIR FRANCIS?"
"Yes, Jackson?"
"Is that not Miss Merriweather and her mother coming from the direction of town, sir?"
Francis followed the direction Jackson nodded. "No, she promised that she…" His voice trailed into silence as his eyes lit upon his bride, chatting away with her mother as they were about to step off the walkway.
Merrie did not see it until she stepped out and was halfway across the street. A wagon came barreling down the street from the left, gaining speed.
"Merrie! Run!"
She looked up, frantic. Francis' voice! But instead of running, she froze, paralyzed with fear. Time seemed to slow down, and she opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came. Her mother's voice was the only sound she heard.
Francis, seeing the wagon bearing down on her from the other side of the street, had run with every ounce of speed he possessed, having no idea how he got there. But a moment later, he had reached her and swung her out of the way of the oncoming wagon, just as it got there.
He held her tight to his chest as it flew past them and toward the other end of town.
Merrie clung to him, terrified. Francis was breathing hard and continued to hold her tight. It took a full two minutes before she even began to shake.
"Bring her inside, Francis." Her mother's voice was trembling as she went to the front door and opened it.
Francis carried Merrie inside quickly and took her into the great room, lowering her onto his lap, but his hold on her had not decreased. She was trembling greatly now, and he pulled her closer. "I have you, sweetheart. I have you. You are safe. Do you understand?" he said softly into her ear.
She nodded, but still did not speak. Her eyes remained closed, but her arms, clasped tightly around his neck, pulled him to her more closely.
Marilyn Thatcher sat down next to them. "Merrie? Are you all right, darling?"
Merrie did not move.
Francis' voice sounded strangled when he finally spoke. "Ma'am?"
"Yes."
His gaze moved to Marilyn Thatcher. "Did Merrie express to you that she was not to leave the house, when I brought her?"
Marilyn stiffened and sat up straight. She stared at him, her eyes wide, for a long time before she spoke. "She…may have tried to, Francis. I was so wrapped up in showing her the house…" She looked away. "And then it was time to go and meet Natalie…and we…" She broke off. But her face held dismay.
Merrie, in his arms, had stiffened as well; Francis felt it. She had tried; several times, she had tried, but she had failed to get her mother to listen.
"Mrs. Thatcher, the next time I bring her, I shall insist that she not leave the house until I come back for her. I should have told you that today; I regret now that I did not, since Merrie apparently did not tell you. Hopefully, this incident shall not happen again."
"Francis, I do remember her trying to say something to me. But…"
"I am taking her home, ma'am. Thank you for spending time with her today. I am sure she quite enjoyed it.
" Francis rose, with Merrie in his arms, and took her out to his waiting carriage.
Neither of them spoke on the way home. Merrie remained in his arms, her face nuzzled into his neck. Francis, so grateful that she was unharmed, found that he could not speak.
When they reached the front door, Wendell was holding it open for them.
"Wendell, please be so kind as to ask Miss Constance to send lunch to the room in an hour or so?" His voice to the butler was very quiet. Then, he kept on going.
As he closed the door to the bedroom, he took Merrie over to the bed and stood her between his legs, facing her away from him.
The silence was deafening. Merrie could feel him unbuttoning her tiny buttons on the back of her gown, one at a time, and sliding it down over her shoulders.
"Francis…" she whispered softly.
"Shh, Merriweather. I do not wish you to speak just now. I must think about what to do with you.
She choked out a small sob and then tried to breathe, small, shallow breaths that she tried not to allow to become sobs; it was difficult. He removed her chemise and then her petticoats, followed by her silk pantaloons. Finally, she stood, naked, before him.
Francis turned her to face him. "Merriweather…I have only one question to ask you. Did you attempt to tell your mother you were not allowed to leave the house?"
She met his eyes honestly. "Yes, sir. Five—no, that is not right. Four times. But she was not listening."
He was searching her face. "I should have told her before I left. Perhaps, this is partly my fault."
But she shook her head. "No, sir. It was mine; I could have—" She lowered her gaze; her voice almost a cry now. "I do not know what else I could have done, sir, but there must have been some way to get her to listen to me…" A tear trailed down her cheek, and Francis traced it with his thumb.
He tilted her chin upward. "I want you to lie down, my little love. I do not wish to punish you unjustly. This requires pondering."
But the whisper that escaped her lips a moment later was so quiet he almost did not hear it.
"Thank you, sir…"
Naked, she climbed to the center of the bed and lay down, facing away from him. A moment later, she spoke again.
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