Wonderland (Wonderland Series: Book 2)

by Irina Shapiro

  Archie glanced at Hugo across the fire. He trusted Hugo Everly with his life, and would give his own life in his service. If Lord Everly said that Jem wasn’t his son, then it had to be the truth. Why would he lie? Hugo wouldn’t be the first or the last man to sire a bastard. Everyone assumed that because Hugo took Jem in, he was acknowledging his responsibility, but Archie knew better. Hugo had been lonely for many years, despite having the occasional mistress. He longed for children of his own, and Jem filled a space in his heart that had been empty for a long time. Hugo might not have fathered Jem, but he loved him as a son and would turn London upside down to find the boy. Archie only hoped it was in time.

  Chapter 32

  I woke up with a start as I nearly slid off the stool by Frances’s cot. It had to be close to midnight, but there was still no sign of the baby. Frances was red in the face like a ripe tomato and panting like a locomotive. A low growl escaped from somewhere deep in her chest as another contraction rolled over her. She was too tired to scream, and she’d lost her voice hours ago.

  “Please, make it stop,” she pleaded as she looked at Sister Angela. “I can’t anymore. I just can’t.” She sounded hoarse and desperate, but there was nothing either of us could do. Sister Angela sighed and rubbed some oil on her hands before slipping her hand between Frances’s legs again. She applied the oil to the perineum to make the birth easier once it was actually upon us and checked for dilation again, her face creasing in a smile.

  “All right, my girl, I think it’s time. I know you are worn out, but this is it. Mistress Ashley, get behind her and support her back. Frances, take a deep breath and push as hard as you can.”

  “I can’t,” Frances mewled as she shook her head.

  “Yes, you can. On the count of three.” Sister Angela took Frances’s hands and locked eyes with her, counting slowly. Frances gave it her best shot and fell back against me, panting.

  “Again.”

  “No,” she whispered, but Sister Angela was relentless.

  “You’re almost there. Just give it all you’ve got.”

  Frances took a deep breath and bore down, letting out a roar worthy of a lion. Her back pressed so hard against me that I could barely breathe, and I felt my own baby push back as it felt the pressure on my belly. Frances’s legs were shaking with exertion, and her whole body was so tense that I thought her spine might crack.

  “Again,” Sister Angela commanded. “It’s crowned. Now.”

  I was amazed to see the baby slither out on the third push. Frances slumped against me like a rag doll, her head drooping onto her chest as she tried to catch her breath. She was exhausted, but her legs were still bouncing on the cot, the tension still coursing through her body. I smoothed back her hair and held her as she threw her head back and rested it against my shoulder.

  “Show me,” she whispered as Sister Angela cut the cord and scooped up the baby.

  It was no bigger than a loaf of bread, its little red face scrunched in displeasure. Sister Angela held the baby close to her chest, so I couldn’t see if it was a boy or a girl, and quickly turned away toward the basin of warm water waiting on a stool by the fire. She cleaned the child with damp rags and wrapped it in a blanket to keep it warm. The baby didn’t cry, but it whimpered and squirmed in its swaddling.

  I carefully eased myself from behind Frances to allow her to lie down. Her eyes were closed and her face flushed, but she was breathing evenly, probably already asleep.

  “How is she?” the nun asked as she handed me the child and set about removing the afterbirth and cleaning Frances up.

  “She’s out,” I replied. I gazed at the little face. I’d never seen a newborn before, especially not a preemie, and I was amazed by how tiny it was. The baby opened its eyes just a fraction, and then closed them again as it yawned and settled into my arms as if it belonged there. I was glad that the ordeal was finally over for poor Frances. She was breathing deeply as she slept, her mouth slack and her damp hair stuck to her cheeks.

  “Poor child,” Sister Angela said as she pulled a blanket over her. “Her troubles are just beginning, aren’t they?”

  “Will it live?” I asked, gazing at the tiny bundle in my arms.

  “I don’t know. He’s very small and weak, too weak to cry even. If he nurses well, he might have a chance, but the milk won’t fully come in for another day or so. For now, we must hold him at all times and not put him down.”

  “Why?” I’d never heard of such a thing before, but the nun seemed confident in her methods.

  “Babies are born with a survival instinct, but sometimes that’s not enough. He needs our warmth and a sense of physical connection. He will draw the strength needed to fight to survive. I hope,” Sister Angela added as she sank down on the second cot. “I’m done in.”

  “Why don’t you rest and I will take the first shift,” I suggested, although I was bone tired. I hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours, and I would have given anything for my bed, but the older woman looked near collapse. She gave me a grateful smile, settled on her own cot, and promptly fell asleep without even removing her wimple or shoes, leaving me with the baby.

  “So, you are a boy, are you?” I asked him conversationally. “Nice of you to finally show up. We were beginning to worry. I hope you like it here.”

  I studied the baby’s face, curious to see whom it resembled. It was hard to tell, especially since both Frances and Lionel Finch were fair-haired and light-eyed. I imagined that Lionel had been a beautiful baby until his true nature began to emerge, and hoped that this tiny child hadn’t inherited his father’s “finer” traits. Actually, the baby’s face resembled a Buddha with its round cheeks and slits for eyes. Sister Angela said that babies were usually puffy at birth and needed several days to recover. I might not be here to see it, I thought with a pang as I wondered once again when Hugo would come for me.

  The baby yawned hugely, which made me laugh. “You think you’re tired,” I said to him as I sat on a bench in the corner and leaned against the wall for support. “Let’s just take a little nap together, shall we?” I held the baby close as I allowed myself to nod off, desperate for rest.

  Chapter 33

  It was fully light outside by the time I finally awoke. The baby slept in the crook of my arm, its little mouth forming an O and searching for a nipple in its sleep. He was a solid little weight in my arms and I bent down and gave him a gentle kiss on his fuzzy head. In response, he opened his eyes and looked at me with an air of indignant accusation, assuming that I was the one denying him a breast. As I didn’t comply, he let out a pitiful wail that woke the nun.

  “Poor mite must be hungry,” Sister Angela said as she adjusted her wimple and swung her legs off the cot. She looked better, if not well. The past twenty-four hours had taken their toll. She quickly splashed some water on her face and took a drink of cold cider from a jug on the window sill, shaking her head to clear away the cobwebs. Frances was still out, but Sister Angela gently nudged her awake.

  “Time to feed your son, ducky,” she said gently.

  “My son,” Frances murmured as she reached out for the baby. She stared down at it for a few minutes as if trying to fully comprehend that this thing was an actual human being. The baby stared back, still indignant, but curious. He must have recognized his mother’s voice.

  “Put him to your breast. You won’t have much milk yet, but there’s enough there to give him some nourishment. He needs to eat.” Frances obeyed and yelped in surprise as the baby latched on, sucking furiously. We watched in awe, happy to see him so active, but he suddenly stopped nursing and fell asleep, his mouth popping open to release the nipple.

  “Must be enough for him for now,” Sister Angela said as she reached for the child. “Now, let’s get you cleaned up, changed, and fed,” she said to Frances as if she were the baby. “You did well, my girl, well indeed, but you need to be ready to care for your baby.”

  “I’m tired,” Frances whined as the nun helped her
to her feet. Frances was shaky, but she allowed Sister Angela to help her wash, obediently put on a clean shift, and wolfed down some porridge brought from the kitchen by one of the sisters. I was quite hungry myself, and still tired. I also felt emotionally raw. Witnessing the birth had been one of the most shocking yet miraculous events of my life, and I couldn’t help thinking about my own impending delivery. Holding the baby had been indescribable. It’s as if some fierce maternal instinct had been awoken in me, and I suddenly couldn’t wait to hold my own baby.

  Until now, I’d worried about the baby’s well-being and development, but I hadn’t given much thought to what it would be like to actually see it and hold it in my arms. I suppose I was too superstitious to think that far ahead and to allow myself to picture the child who was now growing inside me. I’d been so terrified of losing it that I blocked all thoughts of the future, refusing to think past the birth. Now, I felt a longing that was so intense, it almost hurt. I moved to pick up the baby, but Sister Angela stopped me.

  “Go get some breakfast, and find your bed,” Sister Angela said. “I’ll look after things here. You need your rest.” I nodded in compliance, gave Frances a quick kiss, and headed for the dining hall; exhausted and confused, but strangely euphoric after the night’s work.

  Chapter 34

  I returned to Sister Angela’s hut in the early afternoon, rested and well fed. Yesterday’s weather had held, and I enjoyed the cool bite of October air as it caressed my face. Puffy clouds that resembled fat sheep floated overhead, allowing brief glimpses of the sun and casting shadows onto the ground. I felt an overwhelming need to go for a walk and stretch my limbs. I’d spent way too much time just sitting or lying, but there was nowhere to go, and I longed to see Frances and the baby. Perhaps, if she were up to it, I’d take Frances for a walk to the herb garden a little later. Frances sat up on her cot, holding the baby as it slept peacefully. She still looked worn out, but her face was filled with joy.

  “Have you picked a name for him?” I asked as I pulled up a stool and sat down next to her.

  “I want to give him a strong name,” she said, gazing at the baby. “Gabriel, I think, like the Archangel. What do you think, Neve?”

  “I think that’s a wonderful name. I’m sure he’ll grow into it,” I said, looking down at the tiny bundle in her arms. “Has he nursed?”

  “Not much. My breasts are sore and hot, and the milk is starting to leak, but he seems too tired to suck for a long time. A minute or two and he’s out.”

  “He’s had a rough night,” I said, hoping this was normal.

  “Sister Angela has been pinching him,” Frances confided in me as soon as the nun stepped into the next room.

  “Why?”

  “She says he needs to cry. It’s good for his lungs.”

  “Does he?” I asked, curious at these methods.

  “Only a little. He mewls like a kitten. Do you think he can see me?” Frances asked, frowning.

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “His eyes are sort of unfocused.”

  “I’m sure he can see you, smell you, and hear you. Give him time. He’s less than a day old,” I reminded her. Frances was like any new mother, counting fingers and toes and checking that everything was as is should be. I supposed this was normal. I would be doing the same thing.

  “He is, isn’t he?” Frances conceded. “I keep forgetting. You know, I thought I’d hate him because he’s Lionel’s child, but I don’t. It almost feels as if Lionel had nothing to do with him, and he’s just mine. He’s so small and helpless; all I want to do is take care of him,” she confided.

  “I believe they call that “maternal instinct.” Shall I hold him while you rest?” Frances handed over the baby and slid down onto the cot, her eyes fluttering closed. I walked out to the bench and sat down, studying the little face. Gabriel had a pinched look to him that made him look like a worried old man. I ran my finger along the soft little cheek. It felt like a ripe peach, firm and a little fuzzy. Archangel, indeed, I thought as I smiled down at the baby.

  Sister Angela came out of the hut and sat down next to me, her face creased with worry. She gazed at the sleeping infant in my arms and mumbled something that I didn’t quite catch. She was clearly agitated.

  “What is it?” I asked, suddenly worried myself. “Has something happened?

  “I’d like to have him baptized as soon as possible,” she said under her breath. “Just in case. I’ve spoken to Mother Superior, and she agrees. We should do it while Frances is asleep. I don’t want to distress her by mentioning it, but I would just feel better if it were done.”

  I felt hot tears sting my eyes. There was only one reason why the nun would feel such urgency. I didn’t ask any questions, just followed her meekly to the chapel where Mother Superior was waiting. Normally, a priest or a vicar would perform the baptism, but under the circumstances, Mother Superior would have to do. The chapel didn’t have a baptismal font, but I supposed any receptacle holding holy water would do. Three other nuns were in attendance, gathered by the altar. Everyone was subdued; their eyes downcast as I handed over Gabriel to Mother Superior. She took the baby, but her eyes remained on me since my agitation was palpable.

  “This is just a precaution,” she said softly. “The child might thrive, but should anything happen, it would distress Frances greatly if he couldn’t be given a proper burial.”

  “I still think she should have been told,” I replied, unsure of why I was arguing with Mother Superior. Her reasons were sound, but I felt as if something underhanded were being done without Frances’s consent. Sister Superior acknowledged my statement with a nod and turned her attention to the baby. I felt as if I were being dismissed. I suppose I had no right to interfere; I was an outsider in this community, and with my modern-day sensibilities couldn’t grasp the importance of what they were doing.

  In my reality, everyone received a proper burial, whether they had been baptized or not. My modern-day brain simply couldn’t grasp the injustice of denying burial in consecrated ground to an innocent child who had the misfortune to die before it had been baptized. It seemed cruel, not only to the hapless baby, but to its parents, who not only had to deal with the grief of losing a child, but also with the torment of knowing that their baby was denied Heaven and would spend its days in Limbo.

  I suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to leave and backed toward the door. No one paid me any mind except Sister Angela, who gave me a scornful glance before turning back to the altar. I fled the chapel and made for the serene privacy of the herb garden where I sank down on the bench and closed my eyes. I desperately wished that Hugo would come. The euphoria I felt only a few hours before had been replaced by a feeling of dread which seemed to leach all positive thoughts from my mind. I suddenly felt very tired, emotionally and physically, and wanted nothing more than to climb into bed with Hugo and have him hold me until I fell asleep.

  The events of the past few months seemed to press down on me, making me realize just how dangerous a time I was really living in, and a wave of homesickness for the life I’d known washed over me. My hands instinctively reached for my belly, and I wrapped my arms around my middle in a futile gesture of protection. I couldn’t protect my baby any more than I could protect myself.

  A quarter of an hour later, I saw Sister Angela emerge from the chapel with baby Gabriel in her arms. A look of satisfaction had replaced the frown of worry on her face, and I felt admiration for her determination. She knew what she was doing, and I had to trust her. She had only good intentions toward Frances and her son. I forced myself to get up off the bench and followed her. Frances was still napping, but Sister Angela gently shook her awake and handed her the baby.

  “Try feeding him again, ducky.”

  Frances’s face lit up as she looked down at the baby. He seemed unaffected by having cool water poured on his head only a few minutes before, and latched on to the nipple as soon as Frances pulled down her shift. We all watched as Gabriel’s
cheeks puffed out with sucking. He seemed to be working hard to get his nourishment. Frances sat perfectly still; holding her breath as the baby nursed. I knew she was praying that he would continue to suck despite the discomfort she was obviously feeling. Gabriel sucked for about a minute before his cheeks deflated and his mouth stopped moving. He seemed exhausted by the effort, and his breathing grew shallow as he fell asleep.

  “Did he eat anything?” Frances asked Sister Angela, her expression one of concern.

  “Enough to sustain him,” the nun said as she turned away. I suspected she wasn’t being wholly honest. Frances just held the baby close as she pulled up her shift and leaned back against the pillow. She didn’t seem up for taking a walk or even getting out of bed, so I left her to rest.

  I was tired, and felt a need to be alone for a while. For once, the austere cell didn’t seem confining. I lay down on the cot and allowed my mind to drift, thinking back to the months when Hugo and I were in the twenty-first century. It was a difficult and uncertain time, but there were moments that stood out in my mind and made me smile. I concentrated on those, remembering Hugo’s face when I took him to see a film, or his delight at seeing the twilit city of London spread out before him as we rode the London Eye.