by Janet Woods
‘I love a doctor too, but he’s gone away. You will keep that a secret, won’t you?’
‘Of course. May I give you a word of advice, Mrs Miller? You must learn to be happy with what you have. Everything will feel better after the baby is born, I promise. Come on now, into bed with you.’
Julia was more than happy to go to bed. Entertaining Irene had exhausted her, and her emotions were drained by her argument with Latham. Sleep brought forgetfulness.
When she woke the lamp in the corner gave out a soft glow. Latham sat by her bedside reading a book, and she couldn’t decide whether he looked cross or not. She felt a moment of pity for him because she couldn’t bring herself to love him.
He must have sensed that she was awake because his glance went to her face and he smiled. ‘Nurse Robertson rang and told me you’d had a fall. Are you all right?’
‘Yes . . . I’m sorry if I caused you to worry . . . I couldn’t wait until tomorrow. I didn’t mean to break the desk. The handle came off in my hand, and I flew backwards and landed on the floor.’
Unexpectedly, the telling-off she expected didn’t eventuate. Instead, one eyebrow rose and he grinned wryly at her. ‘And you knocked all the files out of the cupboard as you flew past, I expect.’
She giggled. ‘I was looking for the key.’
Because Latham was always unpredictable, when he reached out to touch her face she expected a slap and flinched away from him.
‘What have I done to you?’ he whispered.
If only he’d been gentler in the first place. She could never love him now – not now. Her heart belonged to another, and that would never change. But she was moved by this sudden glimpse of vulnerability in him and felt unhappy that he wanted so much of her that it obviously wasn’t in her nature to give.
‘The letter was in my safe . . . I did say I’d let you read it.’
‘What does it say?’
‘Are you sure you want to know, even though your father didn’t want you to see it?’
She nodded.
He took it from his pocket and handed it to her. The colour drained from her face as she read it through. Yes, it was in Ellen’s handwriting, and the girl couldn’t spell. How spiteful Irene had been to do this. Even now, eighteen months after the event, she’d made it obvious to Ellen that she intended to carry on with the deceit if need be.
When he took the paper from her and shoved it in his pocket she said, ‘This is a vile thing to do to my father, when he wouldn’t have hurt a fly.’
‘Obviously it’s written by somebody at that party who was uneducated . . . and when I find out who sent it I’m going to tear them apart with my bare hands.’
Latham was capable of doing such a thing. But if Irene was to be believed he had already brought their association to an end. Irene was married and expecting a baby. What if Latham hurt her? ‘Will you do something for me, Latham?’
‘Of course.’
‘Burn the letter and forget about it.’
‘Burn it. It’s the only evidence we’ve got?’
‘Evidence of what, that I made an abject fool of myself? At the time I was carried away by a foolish idea, and although nothing came of it I bitterly regret the whole affair. My father is dead and I don’t want you to take revenge on his behalf, since I was partly to blame . . . so will you please allow the matter to drop, and right now.’
His expression told her that the thought of dropping the issue was alien to his nature. She placed her hand over his and injected a little humour into the situation. ‘Do this for me, please. No harm was done, and you rescued me from a fate worse than death.’ Though she briefly wondered which fate would have been worse in fact.
When he took the letter from his pocket, screwed it up, placed it in the grate and put a match to it her respect for him went up a notch. Finally he’d listened to her point of view and had conceded to it.
‘Thank you,’ she said, watching the paper twist and curl in the flames to become dark flakes of ash that floated up into the chimney. ‘Were there really three naked men there? I can’t remember.’
‘Only two . . . You made a derogatory remark about their manly appendages then turned on your side and went to sleep.’
‘Did I?’ Her eyes flew open and she laughed. ‘I did no such thing . . . you’re teasing me.’ She paid him a small compliment. ‘You were very kind the next day, you know.’
Smiling a little, Latham leaned forward and kissed her. It was a rare moment of shared intimacy that she enjoyed, for it was in his nature to exact a price for every favour. Odd that it was his mistress she was saving from his ire at this moment. Perhaps she would become as devious as him in time, but in the meantime, for her own sake she must try to become a better wife.
It took every effort in her to hide her reluctance, because for this deception she practised she’d pay a heavy price. Latham would expect her to be a perfect wife in every way from now on.
Fiona Robertson had been right, the baby arrived two weeks early.
Julia was seated on a seat in the garden admiring the roses when the first pain cramped. Placing her hands against the small of her back she smiled as it worked its way to the front. Her hands came round to cradle her stomach. ‘All right, baby, it seems as though today is going to be your birthday. I believe you and I have some work to do before the day is out. Just stay put there until I get us back to the nurse.’
She walked slowly, her hands cradling her heavy stomach. She was in shouting distance of the house when the second pain came, much stronger. She doubled up. A gush of warm water flowed down her legs and filled her shoes.
Footsteps came running. Ellen said, ‘I saw you from the window. Oh, my God . . . your skirt’s all wet.’
The pain subsided and Julia drew in a deep breath. ‘My water has broken. Help me into the house, please, Ellen, then you can go and find Fiona.’
There was a note of panic in Ellen’s voice. ‘She’s gone off into the village to get some things she needed.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Twenty minutes.’
‘Good . . . then she won’t be very long.’ The time between the two contractions had only been a few minutes, and from what Julia had read on the subject, they should be further apart at the beginning of labour.
Shuffling indoors she left a trail of droplets behind her. The next pain was strong in comparison to the two before, and there was pressure on her pelvis. She gasped and sank down on the nursing chair while the pain passed.
‘Are you all right, Mrs Miller?’
‘I think the baby’s in a bit of a hurry. Help me change, please Ellen. There’s a cotton nightgown that does up down the front in that drawer. I’ll wear that for the time being.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
There came the sound of the nurse’s voice talking to Agnes Finnigan.
‘There she is,’ Ellen said with some relief, then shouted, ‘Nurse Robertson . . . Mrs Miller is having the baby.’
Two sets of footsteps pattered across the floor. Fiona became all efficiency, and soon Julia was going through the preliminaries necessary to ensure the child’s comfortable passage into the world. Agnes Finnigan hovered, wringing her hands.
She was sent packing by Fiona, who gave her a task to do.
Julia’s labour pains stopped.
‘The baby is having a rest and gathering strength. First babies usually take their time. Mrs Finnigan has telephoned your husband and he’s on the way home. And the doctor will come as soon as he’s needed.’
Fiona was a wonderfully calming woman, and Julia smiled. ‘Thank you, Fiona.’
A warm cotton blanket was tucked around her. ‘Now, my dear, I want you to get some rest. You were up early. It’s only eleven o’clock so get a couple of hours sleep if you can. Don’t worry if the sheets get a bit damp because there’s a rubber sheet protecting the mattress. I’ll be pottering around, and you’ll just need to call me if you need me. Would you like some music to listen to? I believ
e there’s a nice piano concerto on.’
Julia went to sleep to the deliciously light strains of Schumann’s Piano Concerto.
She woke to the excitement of the Saint-Saëns Organ Concerto. She gazed at the clock. She’d slept for exactly four hours and was lying in a damp patch. A pain gathered force in her back, then it tore into her. She groaned.
Fiona joined her. She folded back the blanket and placed a cold hand on Julia’s rippling stomach. She glanced at the clock. ‘Tell me when the next pain comes, my dear.’
It wasn’t long, about five minutes. The blanket was replaced.
‘Time to call the doctor, I think, then I’ll change the bedding. After that I’ll tell your husband you’re awake so he can spend a minute or two with you.’
Latham wore a worried look on his face. He took her hands in his. ‘Julia, are you all right? I heard you groan.’
‘You’ll probably hear me groan a lot more. It’s . . . painful.’ Here it came again, a long drawn-out cramping pain. She tried to relax, to let the pain roll over her. Groaning helped, and because he’d made her groan with pain on occasions in the past when he’d been rough with her, she used the opportunity to get her own back by groaning louder than she needed too.
When she finished groaning Latham looked as though he’d rather be anywhere else but by her bedside, which gave her a great deal of satisfaction.
Fiona bustled back in. ‘Time for some gas and air, I think. You should leave now, Mr Miller. The maternity ward is no place for husbands.’
‘I’ll be in my study if I’m needed.’
‘Aye . . . but your wee contribution to this event has already been made, so I doubt if you will be needed just yet.’
Julia, who’d just inhaled the gas and air and felt as though she was floating on a cloud, chuckled, and even Latham managed a shamefaced grin at the nurse’s saucy remark.
Julia’s laughter quickly turned into another long drawn-out groan and she clutched at Latham’s hand. Her fingernails dug into him, leaving several red indentations in his skin.
‘I’ll be all right, Latham. I promise. It won’t be much longer.’
Latham lifted her hand in his and kissed it, whispering, ‘I’ll leave you to it then. I love you.’ He left.
The nurse’s glance followed him. ‘Anyone can see that he adores you. He’s a good man and you’ll come to love him in time, I’m sure.’
And that was a problem to her. Life would be easier if he didn’t love her, Julia thought, because she’d never be able to love him.
The baby put in an appearance an hour later, slithering into the doctor’s hands with a loud and lusty fanfare.
‘You have a handsome son,’ he said.
Fiona Robertson smiled. ‘He certainly has a good pair of lungs.’
Craning her neck to catch a glimpse of him, Julia was disappointed that she could only see a leg with a foot on the end, beyond the doctor’s stooped shoulder. But it was such a sweet little leg and foot.
‘Patience, Mrs Miller; I have yet to cut the cord.’
She remembered Martin’s remark about her belly button and smiled. ‘Make it a pretty one.’
‘I take it you’d rather have a rose than a cauliflower, so I’ll do my best.’
The nurse wrapped the child in a flannel rug and placed him into Julia’s waiting arms. He was red from crying and his face was all crumpled. His hair was dark and spiky.
Julia fell instantly in love. ‘There, there, my roaring little bull; I’m sorry it was so painful,’ she said, and she kissed his wrinkled forehead.
The boy stopped bawling and his head moved at the sound of her voice.
‘Here I am, my love.’
His eyes opened, and they were a deep blue like Martin’s. ‘You are so much like your father,’ she whispered, and opened the top of her nightgown as he turned his head to nuzzle against her breast. His mouth closed around her nipple and he sucked it in, claiming it as his own. His eyes closed and he fell asleep.
‘There’s a clever wee lad, and bonny with it,’ Fiona said.
There was a sense of wonder in Julia that she could have produced a son of such perfection. She couldn’t stop looking at him, at his miniature nose, his feet and the translucent shell-like hands with their tiny nails.
‘Everything seems to be all right down here, Nurse. Placenta is intact and has come away clean, and there are no stitches needed. A very easy birth indeed, Mrs Miller, and a handsome healthy boy as a result. Well done. Do you have a name picked out for him?’
‘We’ve decided to call him Benjamin after my father, though we’ll probably call him Ben . . . and Latham as a second name, after my husband.’
‘A fine name indeed. I’ll go and see Mr Miller, give him the news and share a glass of brandy and a cigar with him while Nurse Robertson cleans you up. We can do the paperwork. Mr Miller will be pleased to know that baby Ben has inherited his looks.’
Julia doubted that he had. Ben was made in the image of Martin Lee-Trafford. But she wasn’t worried. Like the doctor, Latham would see only what he wanted to see.
Latham came through later, after the nurse had cleaned her up and made her comfortable. Ben had been cleaned, and oil applied to his skin. Although Fiona had wanted to put him in his crib, Julia wouldn’t allow her to.
She twisted a spike of his hair around her finger, turning it into a curl. ‘I’m not parting with him yet. He needs to get to know me.’
There was a touch of disapproval in Fiona’s next words. ‘You’ll spoil him, cuddling him like that, Mrs Miller. Children need to be trained right from the beginning.’
‘They need to know that they’re loved right from the beginning, so they feel secure.’
There was a knock at the open door and Latham came in. He nodded to the nurse, who left the room, then sat on the edge of the bed and gazed at the baby. A smile softened his mouth and he pushed the shawl away from Ben’s face with his finger. Julia held her breath. ‘The doctor said he looks like me . . . yes, I can see a strong resemblance.’
She pointed out, ‘Ben’s eyes are blue.’
‘I recall that my mother’s eyes were blue,’ he said, which saved Julia from having to lie about the colour of her own mother’s eyes.
‘May I hold him?’ he said.
She giggled at that. ‘Of course you may.’
She placed him in Latham’s arms and he sat there stiffly, as though the boy was made of porcelain and any movement might shatter him.
‘Relax a little, Latham. He won’t break.’
Ben yawned, and giving a small yelp, he burrowed his nose into Latham’s pullover.
Alarm appeared on Latham’s face. ‘Here . . . it’s no good doing that, young man. Your mother sees to all that sort of thing.’
Ben’s eyes opened and he gave a loud wail.
Latham grinned. ‘I don’t think he likes the look of me.’
‘His reasoning isn’t that far advanced, as yet. Besides, I doubt if he can see you clearly. The nurse said it might take several weeks before his eyes are able to focus. They go more on sound, touch and smell. If you handle him and talk gently to him he’ll soon begin to recognize you.’
‘Hello, Ben, my boy; I’m your father,’ he whispered, and kissed his dark head. When Ben pursed his mouth his cheeks bulged and a frown creased his brow.
Latham exchanged a smile with her. ‘I hope I’m better looking than that.’
‘Not when you’re cross. He’s just a bit squashed from the birth. He will be quite handsome when he’s recovered.’
The glance Latham bestowed on her was surprisingly prideful. ‘He really does look a lot like me.’
She didn’t allow her relief that Latham had accepted this little cuckoo in the nest to show.’It won’t hurt to hope, I suppose. It’s early days yet . . . He’s more interested in learning how to feed, I think.’
Latham handed him back, then undid her nightgown and placed the boy’s mouth against her nipple. Ben curled his tongue under her n
ipple and began to suck.
Pushing the flimsy cotton fabric over her other breast aside Latham gazed at her. He pulled her arm aside when she went to cover herself. ‘Your breasts look lovely like that, so full and so swollen.’ He gently kissed the unengaged nipple then covered it. He stood and gazed down at her. ‘You look tired.’
‘Giving birth is hard work, and I have reason to look tired . . . but Latham . . . I’m so happy I could burst from it. Ben’s such an adorable baby and I just love him.’
‘Do everything the nurse tells you then. She was right about not spoiling him; boys need discipline.’
She protested, ‘Ben’s a newborn baby; he needs love.’
‘He will be loved, but I’m given to understand that babies thrive on a regular regime. To start with he can have his feeds at regular intervals, not when he feels like it.’
Perhaps she was being sensitive, but there seemed to be a faint threat contained in his words. Latham had told her he loved her on several occasions, yet he found it necessary to question and ill-treat her. To Latham, love meant possession. Holding her helpless infant close to her heart she was filled with dismay. She was too weak to defend Ben at the moment, should she need to. Yet she tried.
‘What does Fiona Robertson know? She’s not a nanny.’
‘You could have had a trained nanny, Julia . . . It’s not too late.’
She didn’t want to argue with him, not now, but said anyway, ‘I want to look after him myself . . . do everything for him.’
‘And you will eventually. That’s why the nurse is staying on, to make sure you know what you’re doing. She’s worked out a schedule for the next three months and I’d like you to follow it. By that time you will probably be ready to resume your place by my side. We’ll spend more time in London, and take in a play every now and again.’
Fiona was a nice, well-meaning woman and Julia liked her, but how could someone who’d never been a mother teach her how to be one? Babies were individuals, and mothering them an instinct that was both emotional and protective, not something one learned to do from a book.
