CHAPTER SIX
“All is well, Unice,” Verena was saying, some hours later, stroking the limp hands that lay upon the coverlet. “Rest now, rest.”
It had been a struggle, as if the tiny infant, who had at first seemed so eager to enter the world, breaking through the natural barriers too early, had appeared to think better of the matter and abandoned the onslaught for some little while.
By the time Verena and Betsey had entered the bedroom, where the panting mother lay already exhausted by these first efforts, the natural motions had stilled.
Only Unice’s own maid and the midwife were in attendance, and the latter had whispered worriedly to Betsey, while Verena had run to Unice’s side, grasping her hands as the poor woman fell into tears from weakness — and some fear.
“She says my baby may be dead, Verena,” she gasped.
“Oh no, Unice!”
But the redoubtable Betsey would have none of it. “Fiddle-faddle,” she told the midwife, and marched over to the bed. “Now, ma’am. There ain’t no call for you to fret yourself to flinders. Gather your strength, my dove, for you’ve work to do. And — push!”
It had seemed to Verena that if Betsey gave this order once, she gave it a hundred times.
Poor Unice, crying throughout, and screaming now and then as the painful process proceeded to its natural extreme, did as she was told.
Verena held her hands, wincing as the grip tightened almost unbearably, but making no complaint, and passing a damp cloth over the sweating face whenever Betsey permitted a respite.
The odd thing was that the midwife took no offence at the interference of the invading maid, but seemed rather to draw strength from her, doing all she might to assist, until at last the troublesome little package emerged — and began to howl in protest at the rude misuse of its tiny person.
All four helpers fell to laughing in relief, and Verena dropped to her knees and clasped the author of this miracle in her arms, crying out, “It is just as you wished, Unice. A girl! You have a little girl.”
Unice, her dark hair plastered wetly to her skull and the pillow, laughed and cried together, albeit weakly. “A girl? Oh, Verena! But I promise you she shall rue the day she put me through this.”
Betsey, busy with towels and the hot water that Unice’s maid held ready, while the midwife did her own part, overheard this and looked up towards the wan face on the pillow.
“Likely she’ll give you as much trouble her lifelong.
Girls, ma’am, are ten times worse than boys in the bringing up, be they never so much sugar and spice. ”
“Then shall her father be the sufferer, not me,” Unice uttered into the general laughter.
She was quiet for some time after this, dozing a little although she was not yet able fully to sleep, while Verena soothed and petted her, wringing out the flannel in the fresh bowl of water brought by Unice’s maid, and wiping away the damp stains on the exhausted features, smoothing the lank hair, and stroking the lax fingers.
At length, Unice’s eyelids fluttered open again. She turned her head to her friend. “Verena, take her to Osmond, pray. He does not say it, but he wanted a daughter so much.”
But Betsey insisted that Miss Ruishton must first be presented to her mama. And once the tiny squalling babe was put into her arms, Unice was indeed reluctant to allow her to be removed. This time it was the midwife who called the tune.
“Madam and I have some matters here to finish, miss,” she said to Verena. “It would be a kindness in you to take the babe away for a spell. Your good nurse here and I will make the lady presentable for her husband.”
Verena might be unfamiliar with the business of childbirth, but she knew there were necessary things to be done after the baby was born. Unice, already a veteran, made no objection, although she kissed the infant and sighed as she reluctantly permitted Verena to lift the bundle from the bed.
“Don’t fret, Miss Verena,” Betsey whispered. “She needs her peace now, for all she may not think it.”
Outside the room, Verena abruptly realised that Osmond must still be worrying downstairs. They had none of them thought to send down to the poor man to relieve him in his concern. She hurried a little on the thought, the now sleeping baby tucked securely in her arms.
She found Osmond Ruishton standing in the middle of the saloon, in a listening attitude as if he waited to know if the footsteps betokened any more than Unice’s maid once more going for fresh water.
He no sooner saw the little bundle than his hand went up to his mouth.
Verena saw him bite into his hand and understood that he was unbearably anxious.
“All is well,” she said quickly, coming into the room. “Have no fear, Mr Ruishton, all is well. See! You have the most beautiful little daughter.”
But Osmond’s first glance passed over the tiny face that she uncovered almost unseeingly. With painful intensity, his eyes locked onto Verena’s, and he uttered the one word. “Unice?”
“She had a severe struggle, but it is over. She will do very well in a few hours, I promise you.”
His shoulders sagged as a hoarse whisper left his throat. “Oh, thank the Lord!” Then he dropped into the nearest chair and threw his hands over his face. Moved, Verena gazed at him. How deeply he cared for his wife. So much so that the baby was as nothing compared to his need to hear news of her.
But in a moment Osmond had mastered his emotion. His hands dropped and he looked up, a smile beginning in his eyes. “Forgive me, Miss Chaceley. I have been so anxious.”
“Oh, pray don’t ask my pardon. It is very understandable.” She paused, and then added hesitantly, “You must — you must love her very much, Mr Ruishton.”
“She is my life,” he said simply.
Verena stared, tears gathering in her own eyes. Could a man feel so strongly? And if he did, could he be — she hardly dared to think the word — gentle?
Osmond was rising, coming towards her, his eyes on the infant whose passage into the world had been so very stormy.
“And so this is my daughter?”
Verena made haste to offer the child, holding it out towards him.
But Osmond reached out a finger and ran it down the smooth baby cheek, red still and tightly muscled from its recent exertions.
Watching his face, Verena saw him smile.
Then he turned his finger and the tip just brushed the minute lips.
“How do you do, Miss Ruishton?” he said softly.
“What shall you call her?” Verena asked.
“That will be Unice’s privilege,” he said, his eyes still on the infant’s mouth. Then he drew back, and a great sigh escaped him as he looked up again to Verena’s face. “Will they have finished? Do you think I may go to her now?”
“Yes, of course. At least —” She gave an odd laugh. “I beg your pardon, Mr Ruishton, but I do not know. I think it may be all right.”
“She will need me,” he said. “And, by Jupiter, I have great need of her!” Then he turned, and walked quickly out of the room.
Verena watched him go, feeling utterly confused.
For the first time in her life, standing there in a soiled muslin gown — the first that came to hand in her haste — and left for the moment in sole charge of a new-born infant, she wondered if perhaps it might be possible that a man and a woman could enjoy true happiness in marriage.
A vision sprang full-blown into her mind. A vision of an expressive countenance, a teasing light in its eyes of misty blue, and a smile on its lips that turned her knees to water.
Verena sank down onto the sofa, nursing the baby against her breast. Why him?
Why his face at such a time? She had not thought of him in weeks.
Or at least, she amended, she had tried not to think of him.
She had banished him from her mind for ever that day — the day that Unice and she had become a little more than acquaintances.
He had left abruptly, Unice had told her, obviously distressed. Verena had been unable, for the quite unforeseen emotions that she herself was experiencing on hearing of the man’s departure, to respond in any suitable way. For her heart had stilled, and a hollow opened up inside her chest.
Unice had seen it, or had seen some reaction in her face — unguarded for a moment — and remarked upon it.
Verena had ended by telling her just what had occurred that night, expressing her regret if any words of hers — stupid words, provoked by some strange emotion she did not herself understand — had been the cause of Mr Hawkeridge’s decision to leave.
Unice had been quick to pooh-pooh any such suggestion, saying that Denzell must have had reasons of his own of which neither of them knew anything.
It had been a small opening up on Verena’s part. But it had been enough. Warming to Unice, she had found herself succumbing more and more to the temptation to drop the mask. Only once had Unice spoken of it.
“Dear Verena, I know there is some urge that makes you poker up in public. But pray don’t feel you have to hide your feelings with me. I will ask no questions. Only do not shut me out, Verena. I so much want to be friends.”
Touched, Verena had pressed her hand, and thereafter had resumed her mask only when others were present, including Osmond. They had not discussed Mr Hawkeridge again, although Unice would from time to time let fall an item of news concerning his activities in London.
Verena persuaded herself that she was not interested. Had so persuaded herself. Then why now, in these truly unusual circumstances, should he thrust himself into her thoughts uninvited?