by Jocelyn Kirk
Upon hearing this news, John stepped immediately to Aleta after requesting that everyone else stay in the parlor until he had finished his assessment of her situation. When he returned downstairs, we all faced him with anxious faces.
“Everything is going on well,” he said. “The pains are three minutes apart. Aleta begged me to send Ivan and the vicar to her. She wants the marriage ceremony to take place for the sake of her child.”
“Dear me!” cried my mother. “I have never heard of such a thing.”
Georgina was standing next to me, with her arm linked in mine. “She will be just as wed, Lady Tenley, as if the marriage took place in the church.”
Ivan grew pale at the notion of entering a birthing room, but he stood straight and addressed the vicar. “Come, sir. You have reservations, I am certain, but it is far better for the babe to be born legitimate, is it not?”
“It is,” the vicar replied.
Ivan seized the vicar’s arm and moved to the stairs. With no discussion, we all followed. We crowded into Aleta’s bedchamber, and after my mother had tenderly embraced her, we pressed ourselves against the walls to provide space for the vicar and groom.
Just as the vicar began to intone the service, Aleta’s body arched upward, gripped by another pain. John leaned over her and pressed his ear against her abdomen to hear the baby’s heartbeat. The midwife unceremoniously peered under the bedsheet. Aleta groaned, but in a minute it was over. Ivan had sunk into a chair, and the vicar signaled him to rise.
“Make it quick!” hissed John. “We are running out of time!”
The vicar sighed and closed his Bible. “Do you, Ivan Wellerton, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“Yes, yes, I do,” whispered Ivan and stumbled into the chair again.
“Do you, Aleta Tenley, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
Aleta grunted, but another pain began.
“Aleta, speak!” I called.
“I…I…do,” she wailed.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” rapidly announced the vicar as he ran out of the room.
“Everyone downstairs, please,” said the midwife, “except you, Dr. Carter. I don’t often have the luxury of a medical man for help.”
John ushered us out. “Cassie, have Mattie prepare soup. This birth will soon be over, and Aleta will be hungry.”
“Indeed,” I replied. “I do believe we are all hungry. Ivan, a glass of brandy for you, eh?”
An hour later, our anxious waiting was over. Aleta’s daughter wailed loudly, and no one could stop my mother from rushing upstairs. Aleta and the child were both well, and the rejoicing in the cottage lasted well into the evening. It was a day we would never forget.
The next several weeks were filled with happiness and the excitement of the new baby. My mother was determined to love all the children, and soon six young voices were hailing her as Grandmama. Aleta and Ivan and baby Bridget moved into a tiny cottage in town, and soon James Wellerton arrived to forgive his nephew, fawn over his great-niece, and declare Aleta to be the loveliest angel he had ever beheld. Ivan’s allowance was reinstituted, but the little family remained in Caemre, acquiring a substantial stone house on the outskirts of the village.
One lovely morning in July, a letter was delivered to me. It contained Charles’s apology that he could not visit at this time because of Robert’s mother’s being ill and the necessity of going to Scotland.
But, Cassie, here is the signed and sealed document that will enable you to marry your brave and no doubt handsome doctor. How strange that the dissolution of our marriage has brought us together as friends.
I instantly seized my bonnet and set off at a run to John’s cottage. I prayed he would be at home, and my prayer was answered. I observed him at a window as I trotted breathlessly to the house, and waved. He threw open the door, his eager expression showing he guessed my errand.
I could barely speak from running, so I simply shoved the document into his hand. He glanced at it, clutched me in his arms, and pulled me onto the settee.
After a long kiss that left me breathless, John jumped up and knelt at my feet. I giggled as he took my hand in his and asked me to marry him.
“I don’t know,” I replied, laughing. “It is a very difficult decision.”
He sat next to me and took me in his arms. For a moment, he simply held me. I snuggled against him and caressed his arms and chest.
“I love you, John.”
“I love you too,” he murmured, taking my face in his hands and kissing me. I had no strength to stop him. By the time the kiss ended, we were wrapped in each other’s arms and gasping. John ran his lips over my neck, my arms, my breasts—ecstasy rendered me helpless. My hand roved his chest, feeling the rippling flesh of his muscles. I caressed downward, and he moaned as my fingers lightly rubbed his iron-hard member. I shook with desire, and I prayed he would caress me between my quivering thighs, and he did. I cried out lustily with the release of climax.
“Take off your garments,” John commanded. I pulled myself to my feet and did as he bade me, stripping off my gown, chemise, and pantalettes, until I stood naked before him. He stared at me, his eyes traveling from my tumbling locks to my breasts, to the golden patch between my legs. He rose from the chair and took me by the hand. “Come.”
I followed him upstairs to his chamber, and he helped me lie down upon his bed. He yanked his clothing off and lay beside me. He kissed me deeply, and I caressed him until he could bear his desire no longer. He entered me, and I cried out with pleasure as our bodies joined.
Finally sated, we lay in comfort on the bed. I had no desire to move, and I refused to allow myself to experience anxiety or regret, for I knew my heart and mind and body were his forever. Our joining, to the accompaniment of the love we shared, made us husband and wife in every way that mattered.
We made love again, and his gentleness delighted me. I became even more aware of how greatly superior were his sensibilities and notions from those of other men. When lust was appeased, we pressed our bodies together and held each other in wordless bliss.
The joy of this afternoon of love stayed with me and gave me courage as I faced the dark days ahead.
Chapter Eighteen
The daylight in July lasts well into evening, so the sky was still bright at the hour of seven, when John and I slipped downstairs to make tea and gather a small repast. Our constant need to touch and caress each other and steal kisses as we worked handicapped our progress. When finally we repaired to the dining parlor, someone pounded so hard on the door, I nearly dropped the tray I was carrying. John, well used to such interruptions, hastened to the door, while I ducked into the kitchen to remain out of sight.
Although I could not see the visitor, I could hear the conversation.
“Physician,” spoke a male voice. “My brother needs you bad.”
“What is the problem, Edgar Stout?”
“Yestiddy he got the runs real bad. Every bit run out o’ him, and now he’s throwing up yeller stuff and can’t stop.”
“Which brother? Where is he now?”
“The young one, Caelin. He’s at me mother’s cottage, down by the docks, the lane behind the seawall.”
“Did you walk here?”
“No, sir, the vicar lent me ’is ’orse.”
“Ride back as fast as you can. Get some men to help you, and take your brother away from the shore. Do you know the creek that runs past the Borney Inne?
“Aye.”
“This will sound strange to you, but pray do as I say. Take Caelin to the creek and immerse him in the water. Bring a cup and fill it with fresh, free-running water upstream from him. Get him to drink the water, do you hear? His life will depend on the water. I will meet you there.”
The door slammed, and hoofbeats sounded. John ran upstairs and then strode into the kitchen carrying his doctoring bag. His face was grim.
“John, what has happened?’
&n
bsp; “Cholera,” he replied, and then he was gone.
Thus began weeks of disease and death. For reasons unknown to doctors and men of science, cholera struck hardest among the poor who lived in crowded areas. The impoverished men and women living near the docks were the most frequent victims, and their children suffered even more. Within a week, ten children had died, along with six adults.
John sent an express letter to authorities in Aberystwyth to beg for assistance. He spent his days and most nights by the docks, treating the ill and striving to enlighten the ignorant. I worked with him, as did the rest of my family and friends, along with many good-hearted men and women from the prosperous areas of the village. Many fortunate souls recovered from the terrible disease, but by the time it had run its course, a hundred men, women, and children had perished.
Gradually, we all returned to our normal lives. Vicar Bratt and his curate, having buried the dead, locked themselves away for a week to rest. I arrived home after tending a family with two children finally recovering. Miss Little had kept the twins inside for three weeks. They were bursting with boredom, and Deirdre was exhausted. I sent her upstairs to rest, taking the children outside. I dozed under the apple trees while they played. That blessed angel, Mattie, appeared to find me lying on a quilt in the orchard. She sent me to bed, where I slept for ten hours.
Two days later, Lila, Jesse, Mother, and all the McCrae children came to call. As we settled in the parlor, John came in, looking gaunt but rested. After a bit of chat, Jesse rose and clapped his hands for our attention.
“Cassie and Carter, what I have to say relates to you. Yesterday, Lila and I left the brood with Mother and rode all about the countryside and into town. Our mission was to tell the farmers, shopkeepers, and all the other folks that the hero of the day, our own Doctor Carter, intended to marry Mrs. Stanfield.”
Lila interrupted. “They asked questions aplenty about you, Cassie, and Jesse and I did not lie. We were frank about your divorce…”
“Cassie, no,” I cried, “why?”
“Why?” thundered Jesse. “Because honesty is best. And the people, to a man and woman, cried you up as the finest example of womanhood, who had risked her health to attend them in their hour of need.”
“Did they?”
“Aye. Old Seamus Pennleavey himself said, ‘Don’t care if she be divorced. Take her mesel’ if she’d be willin’.”
“But what about the vicar? He will not marry us, I am certain.”
“We pounded on his door,” replied Lila, “and forced him to admit us. We put the question to him and he muttered, ‘After your other sister’s wedding, naught would surprise me. Aye, I’ll marry them.’ ”
And so, at long last John and I were married on September 1. We spent our wedding night in John’s cottage, and my new husband carried me through the front door, deposited me on a sofa in the parlor, and ravished me on the spot!
“My darling, I thought you would make me beg,” I teased after I had stopped panting from my climactic tremors.
He laughed. “You could beg now,” he replied, “but I fear it will be of little use.”
I pressed against him. He wrapped his arms about me and whispered, “Give me ten minutes, my darling.”
****
As I sit here now at my writing desk, finishing my story, I smile at the memory of my wedding. No society wedding could have been more elegant and wonderful, for the main ingredient of the day was the sincere love we felt for each other.
Three years have passed since that event, and my son, Geoffrey, is now fourteen months old. Aleta and Ivan’s daughter, Bridget (named for my mother), is three and a fearless, vigorous, beautiful child, more interested in ponies than pianos. Her favorite adult besides Mummy and Papa is Georgina, for the two resemble each other in personality. Georgina and Eliot have chubby twin boys, only a year old, and Bridget calls them her pretend brothers.
My mother did not return to North Commons; however, she corresponds with my father and hopes he will visit. She lives with Lila and Jesse and has become an active and happy assistant in the household.
Our wonderful nanny, Deirdre Little, left us in the summer after Aleta’s wedding. Her brother in London summoned her to care for his household after the death of his poor wife. She writes regularly, and in her last letter she informed us she intended to marry.
Mattie remained with us, moving from her parents’ farm to live with us. She is a blessing in my life for her kindness and helpfulness.
John and I gave up our cottages and moved into a fairly large house in town, and it is often the scene of impromptu gatherings. Percy and Paulie continue to do well, although they can become cross when we all gather together. Wailing babies constantly need attention, and sassy toddlers pull the older children about, demanding games. Percy, William, and George usually escape to the outdoors, and Paulie, when her patience is at an end, disappears into her chamber with a book. My mother often joins her, and the two read together, cuddled on Paulie’s bed.
With my husband by my side and my dear friends and family around me, I thank Providence for these joyful times. The old saying is true: Love will find a way. Love can take strange pathways, but in time it will flow over all of us, blessing us with the greatest joy life can provide.
A word about the author…
Jocelyn Kirk is a novelist and playwright. She lives in Connecticut on beautiful Long Island Sound.
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