“Not those curtains. Please, Fanny, I don’t want to work on those. I’ve ripped mine until the fabric is frayed.”
“I think you do that on purpose so that I’ll be forced to complete them. I’ve packed these away long enough. If we don’t finish them, you’ll be arriving at your new home with no curtains to hang in the kitchen.” She dropped a piece of the material onto the bed. “That one is yours. I’ve pinned it so that you won’t stitch the right sides together again,” Fanny said with a grin.
Sophie removed a needle from the pincushion, threaded the eye, and tied a knot. “I do believe Amanda took great pleasure in sending this fabric. Do you notice how she’s asked about my sewing progress in each of her letters?”
Fanny stabbed her needle into the fabric and readily agreed. There was little doubt Amanda thought it high time Sophie became skilled with a needle and thread. Fanny remained unconvinced Sophie would ever be considered accomplished in the art of handiwork, but at least she was making an attempt.
With one hand resting on her stomach, Sophie beckoned Fanny closer. “Come and feel. The baby is moving.”
Fanny lightly touched her palm to Sophie’s bulging middle and felt a tiny thump beneath her hand. “He seems quite strong, don’t you think?”
“Yes, but I don’t think the baby is a boy. I believe I’m carrying a spirited little girl.”
Fanny laughed. “Just like her mother!” She knotted her row of stitches and broke the piece of thread. “Have you and Paul talked about names for the baby?”
“If it’s a boy, we’ve decided to name him Hamilton Paul Medford after grandfather and Paul; if it’s a girl, her name will be Elizabeth Jane, after you, Amanda, and Paul’s grandmother. As it turns out, Paul’s grandmother’s name, Elizabeth, is the same as Amanda’s middle name, so I have coupled it with your middle name, Jane. What do you think?”
“If you have a little girl, I will be honored to have her share my middle name. Thank you, Sophie.”
Later that night, Fanny pulled the bedcovers beneath her chin and whispered a prayer that sleep would come without any chilling thoughts or nightmares. She reminded herself that Sophie was doing fine and everything was going along as planned.
“I’m being silly,” she said with a sigh.
Four days later, on Thanksgiving, winter arrived with a fury. The temperature took a downward turn and refused to budge. Mr. and Mrs. Atwell joined Fanny in Sophie’s room, where they enjoyed a fine meal of roasted chicken and all the trimmings. It was far from the usual Broadmoor affair, with all the noise and more food than could fit the table, but it was good nevertheless. Fanny wished that Michael could have joined them but knew that wishing wouldn’t make it so.
By the next morning Fanny could barely see beyond the rooftop. Snow tumbled from the heavens in an unrelenting cascade of pellets and flakes that blanketed the lawn in a pure white carpet. It made her think all the more of her beloved. Were the houses buried in snow up in Dawson? Did Michael awaken each day to sights such as this?
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Watching from her bed, Sophie held the curtain away from the window and peered at the unfolding scene.
“Yes, but you need to drop the drapery back in place. It helps keep the cold out of the room. I can feel the draft crossing your bed. I don’t want you taking a chill and catching cold.”
Sophie grasped her cousin’s hand. “Who could ever ask for a better friend than you, Fanny? Michael is fortunate he’s going to marry such a fine woman. And the moment he returns, I’m going to tell him so.”
While Fanny brushed Sophie’s hair and helped her into a fresh gown, Mrs. Atwell arrived with a pile of clean linens. Her Bible rested atop the pile. “We’ll change your bed after lunch,” she said. “I’ve a nice pot of stew cooking, and it looks like this is a perfect day for a hearty meal to keep us warm.” She pointed to her Bible. “I thought we might have our devotions this morning. I’ll begin my ironing this afternoon.”
Neither of the girls objected as the older woman sat down in the chair and settled the open Bible on her lap. She had placed tiny pieces of paper between certain pages to mark the Bible passages she planned to read. There were several from Proverbs, but her final reading was from the book of Isaiah. She cleared her throat and placed her index finger beneath the words. “Isaiah 12:2,” she began. “ ‘Behold, God is my salvation; I will trust, and not be afraid: for the Lord Jehovah is my strength and my song; he also is become my salvation.’ ” She closed the Bible and joined hands with Fanny and Sophie. “Let’s thank God for our many blessings and that His Word tells us He is our protector.”
Each of them prayed, although Fanny sometimes wondered if God truly wanted to hear from her. While Mrs. Atwell’s prayers were words of joy and thanksgiving, Fanny’s were filled with fear and misgiving. However, Mrs. Atwell encouraged her, saying God wanted to hear His children’s burdens. Once Sophie’s baby was born and Michael returned home, then Fanny would be able to utter prayers of thanksgiving—at least that’s what she told herself. Surely there could be nothing else in her future that would cause her such fear and distress.
Mrs. Atwell gathered her Bible and, with a promise to prepare their tray, headed toward the door.
“I’ll come downstairs and fetch the tray in a few minutes,” Fanny said.
“If you’re certain you don’t mind,” the older woman said. “I’ll thicken the stew, and the biscuits should be ready in twenty minutes or so.”
Once Mrs. Atwell disappeared down the hallway, Fanny dusted the furniture and tidied the room. With the winter days growing shorter, it seemed Mrs. Atwell had less and less time to complete all her duties before nightfall. And the time passed more quickly for Fanny when she busied herself with work.
“Do you think I could sit in the chair for my lunch today?”
Fanny glanced up from her dusting. On almost any other day, she would have immediately refused Sophie’s request. But the weather seemed to have created a restlessness in all of them. This was Sophie’s first request since she’d been permitted to sit in the chair five days ago, and she’d suffered no ill effects from that episode.
“I think it should be permissible, so long as you don’t expect to sit in the chair every day.”
Sophie clapped her hands. “Thank you, Fanny. I promise I won’t ask again for at least five days.”
“I’ll assist you to the chair, and then I’ll go downstairs and fetch our lunch.” She helped Sophie turn sideways on the bed and, holding her around the waist, supported her until she sat down in the chair. She tucked a blanket around Sophie’s legs before pointing toward the door. “I’ll be back with our lunch before you have time to miss me. And don’t you get out of that chair while I’m gone.”
“I promise,” Sophie said, her palm facing outward as though taking a pledge.
Fanny hurried down the rear stairs. She hoped Mrs. Atwell wouldn’t think her decision regarding Sophie presumptuous. She probably should have obtained the older woman’s permission before moving Sophie, but she doubted Mrs. Atwell would have offered an objection.
“It smells wonderful down here.” Fanny lifted her nose into the air and inhaled the hearty aromas. Mrs. Atwell had filled two generous bowls with stew and placed them on a tray beside a bread basket covered with a linen napkin.
Fanny lifted the tray but hesitated long enough to tell the older woman of her decision.
“That’s fine. We’ll get Sophie back to bed when you’ve finished lunch. Don’t linger down here in the kitchen. I don’t want either of you eating a cold lunch.” Mrs. Atwell shooed her toward the stairs. “Ring the bell when you’ve finished eating, and I’ll come up to help you. We can change the bed while Sophie is still in the chair.”
A sigh of relief escaped Fanny’s lips as she carefully wielded the tray up the stairs and down the hallway. “I hope you’re hungry, because—” The tray fell from her hands. “Sophie!” A shrill scream escaped Fanny’s lips. Grabbing the bell from Sophie’s bedside ta
ble, she dropped to her knees beside Sophie’s supine body and clanged the instrument over and over. Her gaze traveled the length of Sophie’s body, and an unrelenting sob caught in her throat when she spied the blood soaking her cousin’s gown. She rocked back and sat on her heels, unaware of anything but the blood-stained nightgown and Sophie’s pale complexion.
“Give me that, child.” Mrs. Atwell pried the bell from Fanny’s hand. “You’re going to wake the dead if you don’t quit ringing that thing.”
Fanny stared up at the woman, and her husband, who was right behind her. “Is she going to die? This is my fault. I shouldn’t have given her permission to get out of bed.”
The older woman ignored Fanny’s utterances and motioned her husband forward to lift Sophie into the bed. Moments later Sophie screamed in pain and clutched the air, holding Fanny’s hand in a death grip. “Something is wrong! The pain is unbearable.” Wild-eyed, she searched the room until her eyes locked on Mrs. Atwell. “I can’t stand this pain. Please! Do something.”
“Give me a minute, Sophie. I’m going to check you and see what’s happening.” She motioned Mr. Atwell out of the room. “Wait in the hall until I see if it’s her time, Frank.”
“But the baby isn’t due until next month,” Fanny said.
“Babies don’t always come when they’re expected,” Mrs. Atwell said as she pushed aside Sophie’s gown. Moments later she gave an affirmative nod. “The baby’s coming. Tell my husband to go and fetch the doctor, Fanny.”
Fanny wrenched her hand from Sophie’s viselike grip. “I’ll be right back,” she promised, backing toward the hall. She opened the door and located Mr. Atwell sitting at the top of the stairway. “Mrs. Atwell says we need the doctor.”
He offered a mock salute. “I’ll see what I can do, but tell her that with this weather, I’m not certain a doctor is in the offing.”
“But she has to have—”
He shook his head and pointed a thumb toward the outer wall. “If there’s any way to get to Clayton, I’ll go, Miss Fanny, but I can’t change the weather conditions. There’s no need to fret. Maggie’s delivered many a babe—just put your trust in the Lord.”
There was that trust word again. She wondered if her own mother had trusted in the Lord before she died. What good was trusting in God if people still suffered and died? She hurried back to the bedroom. At least Sophie had stopped screaming. Perhaps the baby wouldn’t be born, after all.
“Mr. Atwell says the weather may be a factor.” Fanny didn’t want to alarm Sophie. “Is everything going as expected?”
The older woman nodded. “I think we’ll have a baby before nightfall. I’m going downstairs to gather the things we’ll need. You stay here with Sophie. You don’t need to do anything except remain calm. Prayer would help, too,” she whispered.
The moment Mrs. Atwell walked out of the room, Sophie clutched Fanny’s hand. “I’m afraid the baby and I are both going to die, Fanny. But if anything happens to me and the baby lives, I want you to promise that you and Amanda will help Paul raise the child.”
Sophie continued her sobbing diatribe until Fanny realized she must push aside her own fears and calm her cousin. “Don’t talk like that, Sophie. You are going to be absolutely fine, and so is this baby. I don’t want to hear another word about dying. You are a strong young woman. You and this baby will live. We’re going to pray and trust God to take care of you.” She clenched Sophie’s hand. “Is that clear?”
“Now, that’s what I like to hear,” Mrs. Atwell said, coming into the room. She dropped the clean linens at the foot of the bed. “The foul weather is going to prevent my husband from going to Clayton to fetch the doctor, but with God’s help, you’re going to be holding your fine little baby before long, Sophie.”
31
Friday, November 25, 1898
Tears trickled down Sophie’s cheeks as the lusty cries of the tiny baby girl filled the bedroom. Mrs. Atwell gently wrapped the newborn infant in a soft blanket and handed her to Fanny. “Take care of the little one while I tend to Sophie.”
Sophie beckoned her cousin to come closer. “Let me have a good look at her.” She pushed upward against the pillows to gain a better view until Mrs. Atwell objected. The older woman had raised the baby into the air immediately after she’d delivered her, but Sophie hadn’t yet had an opportunity to examine her daughter closely.
Mrs. Atwell motioned her to lie back. “I know you’re anxious to see your little one, Sophie, but right now I’ve got to tend to this bleeding.”
Sophie dropped back against the pillows. The older woman’s words were enough to send fear spiraling from her throat to the pit of her stomach and back again. Bile clung in her throat, and she swallowed hard, hoping to rid herself of the acrid taste. Perhaps she’d expressed her joy too quickly. Mrs. Atwell’s brow had furrowed into a frown. That couldn’t be a good sign.
“Am I going to die?” she whispered.
Mrs. Atwell’s eyebrows shot upward like two arched cats. “Of course not. You’re doing just fine. Every woman bleeds after giving birth, so stop your worrying. As soon as we’re finished, you can hold the baby. And before you begin to fret about her, I’ll tell you she has all her fingers and toes and looks to be fit as a fiddle. She’s tiny, of course, but that’s to be expected. We’ll need to keep her nice and warm.”
Sophie permitted herself to relax while Mrs. Atwell completed her ministrations. “I do wish Paul could have been here to greet his daughter. He’s going to be as surprised as we were.”
“Mr. Atwell will go to Clayton and send a telegram to Paul once the weather clears. I doubt he’ll be able to go before morning.” The older woman gave a nod. “That’s good. Now let’s get this bed changed, and you’ll be more comfortable.”
As usual, Mrs. Atwell was correct. The clean linens and nightgown did feel much better. Of course, the cessation of her labor pains had provided the greatest relief. And once Sophie felt the warmth of Elizabeth Jane in her arms, all thoughts of the pain were pushed aside.
Mrs. Atwell came to the side of the bed. “I believe we should offer a prayer of thanks for this fine little girl, don’t you?”
While the housekeeper led them in prayer, Elizabeth yawned and stretched her body as if to affirm that she was indeed God’s special creation. When the prayer ended, her tiny lips pursed into a knot, and her narrow brow creased with a frown.
“She’s a bit red, don’t you think?” Sophie glanced up at the older woman.
“That’s natural,” Mrs. Atwell assured. “If you two think you can manage that wee baby for a little while, I’ll go downstairs and brew a pot of tea and make some sandwiches.” She glanced at Sophie. “I’m sure you’re hungry after all that hard work.”
Some hours later, Fanny got up and stretched. “If you are feeling all right, I think I’ll go get cleaned up and ready for bed.”
Sophie looked down at the sleeping babe in her arms. There was the tiniest bit of apprehension in having Fanny go, but she knew it was selfish to keep her cousin any longer. “Go and rest. I’ll be fine. Mrs. Atwell plans to come check on me before nine.”
Fanny yawned. “All right. I’ll hurry back after I wash up.”
Sophie waited until Fanny had gone before pulling back the covers to view her daughter. She was so very tiny. Mrs. Atwell had assured her that was normal, but Sophie worried she might hurt the child.
Elizabeth began to fuss. Her mewing cry at first alarmed Sophie, but then something began to change. Something deep in Sophie’s heart seemed to awaken. This was her child—her daughter. She drew the baby close to her breast as Mrs. Atwell had shown her earlier. Instinct caused Elizabeth to settle a bit and begin rooting. Sophie guided the baby’s mouth to feed and gasped in surprise as Elizabeth latched on with surprising strength.
How natural it all seemed—the way Elizabeth fit in her arms, the way she nursed without coaxing. Sophie relaxed against her pillows in amazement as she continued to watch her daughter. In that moment a
love more fierce and complete than anything Sophie had ever known took hold of her. She loved this baby. Despite the mistakes she had made in giving her heart to Wesley and the sorrow that had followed in his betrayal of her trust, Elizabeth was neither a mistake nor a sorrow.
“I want to be a good mother to you,” Sophie whispered. “I promise to try my very best. I won’t betray your trust. I will never abandon you.”
Elizabeth opened her eyes as if to acknowledge her mother’s promise. Sophie stared into the deep blue eyes of her daughter and smiled. “I love you, little babe. I don’t know what kind of mother I will be, but I want to be a good one.”
She thought of Paul and felt the love she held for Elizabeth multiply and overflow until it encompassed him, as well. “I want to be a good wife and mother,” she whispered, but then shook her head. “I will be a good wife and mother.”
Paul clasped Amanda’s hand and assisted her down from the train. “Watch that patch of ice,” he cautioned as they proceeded into the Clayton train station. “Mr. Atwell should be here any time now.” Though patches of ice had formed on the river, boats were still able to traverse the waters of the St. Lawrence. Once the river was completely frozen, sleighs would carry the year-round residents and any visitors to the islands—a thought that struck fear in Paul’s heart. He envisioned a weak spot in the ice and a sinking sleigh. Sophie had told him such incidents occurred from time to time, but most folks knew the waters and didn’t take chances. He hoped that when the time arrived to take Sophie and the baby back to Rochester, they could leave by boat.
“There’s Mr. Atwell,” Amanda said as the older man entered the station. He doffed his cap and hurried to their side.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. I had to pick up some items at the store for the ladies.” He grinned at Paul. “Congratulations to you, Mr. Medford. You’ve a fine little daughter waiting for you back at the island.”
An Unexpected Love Page 34
