by Barbara Dan
"Small skirmishes of a dozen or so men is all." Bruce carefully positioned the artillery. "Since I'm killin' time till our baby's born, the least I can do is safeguard things on the home front."
Lydia shook her head. "You're likely to convince the British that we're armed to the teeth. What if they decide to come ashore?"
"I'll protect you," Bruce said, bending to kiss her neck.
Lydia groaned. "With my luck, you'll be back out to sea, and I'll be left to fight them off alone," she predicted darkly.
Bruce pulled a long face. "Then I pity the British."
He squatted to sight down the barrel, then adjusted the direction by a tad. Satisfied, he stood, draped an arm around her, and placed his right hand inside his shirt, Napoleon style.
"All defenseless Brits, take heed," he proclaimed, striking a pose and looking out to sea, wife on one side, stalwart dog on the other. "Here stands Lydia MacGregor, staunch defender and patriot. A true menace on land or sea," he joked, and winked down at Brun, who barked happily.
"Very amusing, Bruce." Giving him a grumpy look, Lydia marched around the cannon, inspecting it. "Are you going to teach me how to fire this thing?"
"Of course. That way, the militia will come rushing to your defense."
"Hah! I saw what happened when the Roxana was run aground by that British barge and set afire. The British kept firing from offshore, so that nobody could get close enough to save her. Thank goodness, nobody got killed. They were completely disorganized."
Bruce chuckled. "Maybe Colonel Rathbun should put you in charge of the militia."
"Don't think I couldn't do better than whoever led those poor lads," Lydia returned with spunk.
"Just promise me one thing?" he asked, stealing a kiss. "Please try to refrain from engaging in hand-to-hand combat while I'm gone."
"That's silly, Bruce. You know I never would!"
Her persnickety expression made him laugh. "Just resist the temptation—for my sake?"
"I shall leave the job of defense to the locals," she pledged, hand on heart.
"The best defense," Bruce confided, "is to maintain a safe distance between yourself and the local militia. They're more likely to shoot themselves in the foot than to run off the enemy."
"And if I'm attacked, or our house should be fired upon?"
"In that case, run like hell!" he told her. "The British aren't much better shots than we are."
"I see." Her violet-blue eyes gleamed with mischief. "It all narrows down to whether I prefer to be mowed down by the Redcoats or my neighbors."
"Fire the damn cannon, Lydia, and head for the cellar." Companionably, Bruce walked her toward the house. "Don't worry, Lydia. Until I catch that fellow who's setting off the blue signal lights, you're stuck with me."
"If I had my wish—" Hit by a sudden low twinge, Lydia froze in her tracks. She bit her lip, suppressing a moan.
"Are you all right?" Bruce asked.
Lydia nodded. "Just a pinched nerve." She resumed walking. "Some say those blue lights are on a fisherman's boat."
Bruce tossed a stick for Brun to fetch. "You know what puzzles me?" he said, casting a longing look toward the sea. "It's been months since any blue signal lights were set up along the shore. Decatur and his men ran into the same problem. I guess a few skeptics thought—Decatur bein' a sociable chap and all—the men on the Macedonian and the United States invented the blue lights as an excuse to winter here. Now, it appears, I've been singled out for this dubious honor."
Lydia's brow wrinkled. "But why would anyone—?"
"Guess we'll just have to catch him to find out what motivates a man to help the enemy."
Bruce paused to test the ship's bell he had installed on the back porch. It clanged so loud that Lydia stopped her ears. Wisely he silenced the clapper before she gave him flap about that, too.
"Maybe it's not a man," she speculated.
"You're the only woman with a reason to keep me here." He captured her in his arms and kissed her. "Even you wouldn't be that devious."
Reluctantly she pulled away. "Don't, Bruce. I'm feeling out of sorts this morning."
"It's not—?" Bruce looked suspiciously at her belly.
"No, of course not. It's just the weather is so hot today." She peered from beneath her hand at the sky. "If only it would cool off."
"Let's get you out of the hot sun, love," he said gently but firmly. Pulling her into the kitchen, he wet a cloth at the kitchen pump and held it to her forehead. "Here, hold onto this, while I fetch cool water from the spring house."
Lydia managed a wan smile. "A lukewarm bath, and I'll be my old self."
"I'll fill the tub," he volunteered, eager to see her refreshed.
"What? And have you track dirt all over the floor?" Oddly, his fussing over her only heightened her edginess. "I'd rather Isaac took care of it, Bruce. You just go back to tinkering with your cannons."
Bruce heaved a sigh of relief. "You don't mind?"
Lydia waved her hand dismissively. "Go, darling. Enjoy yourself."
Reassured that Lydia was just in one of those mysterious moods women occasionally got, Bruce galloped down the porch steps into the backyard. He hailed Isaac York, coming in from the fields, and sent him to fetch water for Lydia's bath. Then he happily took off. A tangle of harness in the carriage house still needed mending.
* * *
Midafternoon Bruce's stomach reminded him that it was past lunchtime. Stomping into the kitchen, he found Patience putting away leftovers. His face fell. "Am I too late?"
"I could fix you a plate of cold tongue."
"No, thanks. I'll just take a few of these and a tank of ale." He helped himself to eight fudge brownies and a large draught of ale. "Do ye know where my wife is?"
"That's odd." Patience frowned. "She never came down to lunch."
Bruce set down his tankard. "I'm headed upstairs to change clothes. I'll check on her."
As he walked through the large, airy rooms, he marveled once again at all the changes that had been wrought. Sunshine flooded the house through gleaming windows. Oiled wood sparkled everywhere, hospital odors long since vanquished by a lemony scent. The hearths were swept, and fresh logs already laid for the first cool night. The rooms were full of Lydia's homey touches. The newspaper lay beside his favorite chair in the parlor, waiting for him to run out of chores and peruse the front section. She had even placed a glass dish of his favorite peppermints next to the newspaper, and a love poem by Robert Sheridan, copied in her own hand, was tucked beside the sweets. In a dozen ways, Lydia told Bruce she was thinking of him.
He smiled, noting the baby bootees and half-finished sweater, casually tossed with needles and yarn on the butterfly table beside her chair. What an amazing woman she was!
Taking the stairs two at a time, he strode toward the master bedroom.
"Lydia?" he called.
"Here, Bruce," came a faint voice from behind the door.
Bruce peeked inside. His wife, one leg dangling over the side of the tub, waved her foot. With her silver-blond tresses pinned fetchingly on top of her head, she looked adorable! Bruce especially liked the way her sweetly mounded breasts bobbed enticingly on the water's fragrant surface.
"Hi, sweetheart," he greeted her, hurrying past to wash at the basin and change clothes. "Shouldn't you be getting out soon? Before you turn into a prune?"
"I can't," she told him through clenched jaws.
Something in his wife's strained voice made him turn for a second look. She seemed to be holding on to the rim of the tub for dear life. "Muscle cramp?" he asked.
"Something like that," she ground out through stiff lips. Her fierce scowl told him she was in no mood for levity.
"Here, let me help you," he offered, gallantly extending a hand.
"You . . . are . . . about to . . . see history . . . in the making," she warned, gasping. Her cheeks sucking and blowing like the bellows on a circus calliope, she glared and huffed at him.
Gett
ing a stranglehold on the bathtub rim, she mustered enough energy to raise herself part way out. But every time she got halfway out of the water, another siege of agitated panting overtook her.
Bruce stood, transfixed by the sloshing, churning water and the odd expression on his wife's face. Either she was horribly embarrassed to have him walk in on her nude in the bath—a thought he dismissed as highly improbable, or . . . Bruce froze to the spot.
She was in labor!
"Oh, my God, Lydia!" he yelled, breaking into a sweat totally unrelated to the ninety-five degree temperature outdoors.
"My water broke," she whimpered, submerging up to her neck, as she saw him stumble toward her. The last thing she wanted was for him to trip and squash her and the baby!
"Don't panic, Lydia," Bruce commanded, taking charge. He stampeded for the door, calling over his shoulder, "I'll be right back, as soon as I summon the doctor."
"Oh, help!" cried Lydia, struggling back to the surface. "Somebody, help me!"
Unfortunately the master bedroom was located at the far end of the hall, where noise didn't travel well. Lydia braced herself for another contraction, telling herself not to worry. With luck, Bruce would reach town in a half-hour. It should only take an hour—two at the outside—before Doctor Trowbridge and his twenty-two year old horse and buggy clip-clopped into the front yard. Meanwhile . . .
I'm going to have this baby right here in the bathtub! she thought, fighting a wave of panic.
She's sure to drown . . .
Unless she learns to swim . . . fast!
Wait a minute. What's this 'she' business? It's a boy, remember? she told herself.
Right. A boy. And he's going to drown!
Oh, no, he's not! Lydia amended fiercely. I'll save you, baby!
Ow-ow-ow-ouch! Damn, that . . . hurrrtss!
Doctor Trowbridge will never make it in time.
Please, God! Why does everything I do turn into a disaster?
"Oh, help! Bruce, come back here!" Lydia wailed. "Oww-w!"
Giving birth was like nothing she’d ever dreamed. What little she'd heard about labor had led her to believe it was a long drawn out process, one to two days the first time.
Being orderly by nature, she had kept an eye on the dresser clock since her water broke one hour and fifty-seven minutes ago. Her pains had been coming fast ever since, perhaps a minute apart. And getting longer and stronger, while she grew limper and weaker.
Levitating herself from the bathtub was no longer an option, she suddenly realized. As gravity moved the baby lower, she focused on bearing down, not fighting forces beyond her control. Pushing and straining involuntarily, Lydia hooked both heels on the rim of the tub and tensed.
"Bruce MacGregor, I will get you for this," she swore, groaning long and loud through her oath of vengeance.
Suddenly, while she rested between contractions, the earth thundered and shook, causing her to lose her grip and sink below the water. She came up, gasping, and flung back her hair.
What was that?
Oh, my God! she despaired. I knew it! The British would choose this moment to attack! Bruce has gone and left me defenseless. I'm having this baby. I'm trapped, can't move, and . . . What am I going to do? They'll storm the house, probably murder my baby, and burn the house down!
Another explosion shook the bedroom windows, making the curtains flutter.
Lydia had no more time to curse her predicament. She bore down, uttering a deep guttural moan, mournful enough to convince an entire regiment that the house was haunted. Her contraction was just letting up, when an even larger cannon recoiled and a belch of black smoke drifted past the window from the front yard.
We're surrounded! Lydia closed her eyes, squeezing bitter tears down her pale cheeks.
"Get me out of here!" she yelled in combined fury and desperation. Here she was, stuck in a bathtub, trying to bring her son into the world, and the Redcoats invading below. Cowards! Ambushing helpless women and children—how dare they?
Damn it, damn it! she seethed. They won't take me and my baby without a fight!
Oh, what she wouldn't give for a loaded musket!
Before she could react to the pounding boot heels that raced down the hall, Lydia was scooped up out of the water. Blinking through her dripping hair, she gazed into Bruce's grinning face, as he carried her swiftly to the bed.
"You came back," she said, amazed by his bravery. A wave of profound relief swept over her, as he deposited her between the crisp linens she'd put on the bed that morning.
Bruce rummaged around in her armoire and found a pale blue nightgown. "I told you I'd be right back." He wasted no time toweling her off; then he sat her up and stuck the gown over her head.
"How . . . How did you get through enemy lines?" she asked.
Bruce gave his hallucinating wife an indulgent smile. "I gave 'em a regular dressing down. Told 'em my wife would give 'em a tongue lashing if they muddied her parlor," he joked, wondering what addled her brain.
He winced, watching her screw up her face and bear down. "Easy, sweetheart." Hastily he doubled a dry towel beneath her hips. He propped pillows behind her and hunkered down beside the bed. "Take a deep breath, now, and try to relax."
"I caaaaann't! . . . Got to . . . puuuuusssh!" She strained, her groan turning into a scream as the pressure became unbearable.
A dark head crowned between her legs, and as the next wave of pain brought forth his child, Bruce forgot to breathe. In awe, he reached out his great hands and guided the tiny head and shoulders onto the linen towel. A deep reddish flush swept over the newborn's skin, as she took her first breath.
"Oh, Lydia," Bruce whispered. "She's perfect."
Lydia lay limply in a tangle of thin cotton nightgown and sheets, glad for relief from her frantic labor and delivery. Her body felt as if she'd run to Boston and back in two hours. She was so tired she didn't think she could move a muscle, even if the British set fire to the house.
She stirred languidly, moving her head to watch Bruce tend their baby. The silly ape was beaming! He had wrapped a linen shirt she'd made for him around a squirmy, pink creature with a tuft of thick black hair.
Dear man . . . He hasn’t a clue where I put the baby clothes. She chuckled, amused with his fumbling efforts and squinted to see what Bruce was oohing and aahing about.
Her daughter had a snub nose, a roll of fat around her neck, and chubby cheeks. Not an auspicious beginning. It would take a lot to get her married off, unless she improved greatly. Lydia yawned, her curiosity satisfied for the moment. She assumed the child had the proper number of fingers and toes, arms, legs, the usual equipment.
Thank goodness that's over, she thought and closed her eyes, content to let Bruce take charge of their firstborn. It's a good thing one of us knows what to do, she mused. Being a youngest child, she'd never had much to do with newborns. In fact, she hadn't spent much time thinking about the care and feeding of babies. Since their marriage, she'd been too busy chasing after Bruce. She was glad Bruce had prior experience. He would help get her off to a good start.
She was just drifting off when her contractions started again. Not as powerful, but definitely uncomfortable. She gasped, then bit her lip. "Are we having twins?"
Smiling and still holding the baby, Bruce shook his head.
"'It's the afterbirth," Patience said, approaching the bed, and Lydia relaxed, now that reinforcements had arrived.
"Let me cut the cord," Prudence begged, vying with her sister for the honor.
Lydia blushed as scarlet as her daughter. She wasn't used to anyone except Bruce seeing her improperly attired.
Respecting her modesty, the Harms sisters quickly delivered the afterbirth, changed bed linens, and left the room on tiptoe.
When they were alone again, Bruce lowered his head and planted a soft warm kiss on her lips. "I love you, Mrs. MacGregor."
An unexpected dam of pent-up emotions burst, and Lydia buried her face in his neck. "I love you, too, Br
uce," she sobbed.
Smiling, he kissed her cheek, then with his forefinger gently outlined his daughter's tiny heart-shaped face, causing her to root around for her mother.
"'Tis a beautiful child you've brought into our lives. Thank you," he said softly.
Lydia smiled, his words working like a tonic on her exhaustion and self-doubts as a new mother. "I'm glad she pleases you."
"Have you thought of a name?"
As Lydia studied their daughter, the life they'd created together, she felt a surge of warm pride. She looked at Bruce. "I'd like to name her Isobella, if you have no objections?"
Dumbfounded, Bruce stared at his wife, noting her mischievous smile and tousled blond hair, still damp from her ordeal. Then his eyes transferred to the tight-fisted mite nuzzling Lydia's breast. How had she known? Deeply moved that Lydia wanted to name their firstborn after his mother, the first love of his life, he nodded, trying to clear the lump in his throat. "I can think of no name that would please me more."
"Nor can I, my darling," said Lydia cheerfully. "The Isobella may be a smelly old fishing vessel, but she brought us back together."
"The Isobella!" Recovering from his shock, Bruce marveled at the way their minds had reached common ground, while off on different tangents. "Aye, my love. Isobella she is—after my mother," he told her with a merry twinkle in his eyes.
"Your mother?" At his nod, Lydia looked properly chagrined. "Oh, Bruce, I didn't know! Of course, we'll name the baby after her."
Throwing back his head, he guffawed loudly, and his infant daughter, startled in her sleep, waved her little fists defensively. "Whether she's named after my mother or a codfish schooner, 'tis honored I am to be her father."
"But—"
He stopped her blathering with a deep, open-mouthed kiss. Finally they broke apart breathlessly. "Isobella," he confirmed. "A little girl who will grow up to be a passionate, warm-hearted woman like her mother and her grandmother."
"Oh, Bruce, no wonder I love you so!"
"Easy to get along with, am I?" he teased.
"At times." Lydia noticed Isobella's face was scrunched up with displeasure. "Bruce—?"
