Chapter 27
The bed was warm. The blankets, soft. And Phoebe lay curled against him, her cheek tucked into the hollow of his shoulder as though it belonged there, and a wayward lock brushed his jaw when she shifted.
Something tugged at him, drawing him from his slumber, but Samuel did not open his eyes.
There was no need. The world was still dark.
A deep contentment settled through him, heavy and untroubled.
The sharp edges of the world dulled into something distant and meaningless.
Samuel’s hand rested at Phoebe’s back, fitting there perfectly, and though it still felt strangely odd to hold her, her nearness settled his heart as sleep blurred his mind once more—
Thunderous knocking shook the house, echoing through every corridor as someone bellowed for those within to wake. Though Samuel was coherent enough to recognize that trouble was stirring, his thoughts were too fogged to rouse himself.
“Someone is knocking,” said Phoebe, sitting up as she rubbed at her face. “What is the hour?”
Samuel didn’t know or care. His mind was already drifting back into a dreamworld—when she shook his shoulder, rattling his teeth.
“There is someone at the door,” she hissed.
As he doubted burglars or footpads were lurking around the great and mighty Langley Court, Samuel couldn’t muster the strength to care about the racket.
But his wife shook him again, poking and prodding and then sealing his fate when she rose from the bed to fetch her dressing gown, ready to confront the intruder herself.
Groaning, Samuel forced his limbs to move and made it to the door just before his wife. Molly and Mrs. Johns appeared at the bottom of the stairs with candles lit, and Samuel blinked against the light, but quickly stepped around them to answer the door.
“Jacob?” he asked, peering down at the lad.
“Come quick, Mr. Godwin,” he said, motioning down the lane.
“It’s my ma, sir. She’s had the babe—came just after midnight—but she…
” He swallowed, his hand twisting in the edge of his coat as he glanced back down the lane.
“The babe isn’t doing well. She’s hardly breathin’.
Ma’s beggin’ for you to come. Please, sir! ”
The words were like ice in his veins. “Tell them I am coming straightaway.”
With that, the lad shot down the lane, and Samuel shut the door. Turning, he took the stairs two at a time and rushed to his bedroom, snatching up his clothes and tugging them on as quickly as he could manage. Then Phoebe appeared at his heels, pulling on her own gown.
“You needn’t come,” he said, shrugging on his tailcoat.
But Phoebe ignored him, and by the time he grabbed his bag from his study, his wife was rushing down the stairs ahead of him, her braid swinging behind her. Molly had their cloaks and gloves at the ready, but Phoebe slipped into the parlor.
“I must be on my way,” he called.
“Wait for me!” And Phoebe appeared the next moment, a christening gown in her hand.
“We do not need that,” he said, urging her toward the door.
“Yes, we do,” she said in a tone that brooked no refusal as they stepped into the night, their pace quick and unyielding.
Samuel’s strides ate up the lane before him, every instinct pressing him to run and close the distance between himself and his destination.
Beside him, Phoebe worked to match his steps, her shoes scuffing against the packed earth as she hurried to keep pace.
Samuel heard a hitch in her breath and forced himself to slow, but the restraint was like a physical pain, tightening across his shoulders as he measured each step.
They passed cottage after cottage, the villagers all tucked into their beds with their windows dark, their shutters drawn tight, and the chimneys cold. Only the Miles’ cottage showed signs of life with rushlights burning, drawing them in.
The door opened before Samuel knocked, the dim light spilling across the front step as Mr. Miles ushered them in, his shoulders bowed as though folding in upon himself.
Silently, Samuel and Phoebe followed the fellow as he guided them past the children lying on the pallet beside the hearth and up the narrow stairs that were tucked into the corner.
The air warmed as they climbed, thick with the scent of burning rushes, clean linen, and the metallic tang of childbirth.
At the top of the stairs, the space narrowed into a low-ceilinged chamber with a bed in the center where Mrs. Miles lay, propped up with pillows.
Though her complexion was ashen, her eyes were bright as she fixed them upon Samuel.
And in her arms sat a bundle that was far too still and quiet.
Mrs. Levy glanced up as they entered, giving a small nod before stepping aside to make room at her patient’s side.
“Mary is struggling,” whispered Mrs. Miles, her voice thin but urgent. “She’s here—but she won’t…” The words failed her, and she swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the blanket. “She needs to be baptized, Mr. Godwin. Please, sir.”
“Of course,” he whispered, setting down his bag as he settled into the seat Mrs. Levy vacated.
“I brought Mary a present,” said Phoebe, holding up the gown. “It is not quite finished, but it seems she was just too impatient to wait and wanted to wear it straightaway.”
“Right you are, Mrs. Godwin. Too impatient for her own good,” she said with a watery smile as she gazed down at the tiny wisp of a babe nestled in her arms.
Together, Phoebe and Mrs. Miles unwrapped the little child and slipped her into the gown, though it was far too large. Mary squawked once, but her little lungs struggled, and though Samuel yearned to urge the women to hurry, he remained silent as they went about their work. There was time for this.
Only once Mary was properly attired did Phoebe nod for Samuel, and Mr. Miles settled in beside his wife, taking her hand as their daughter was blessed and baptized in the tiny upstairs room of a rickety cottage.
***
The low ceiling pressed down as the minutes slipped by with a cruel, deliberate slowness.
Phoebe stood with her hands clasped tight at her waist, every part of her drawn taut by the effort of remaining still.
There was nothing to be done. Nothing to give her hands purpose.
All that remained was waiting, and it was unbearable.
Mary lay impossibly small against her mother, the rise and fall of her chest uneven, uncertain, each breath seeming to require more effort than the last. Phoebe found herself counting them without meaning to, her attention fixed upon that fragile motion, willing it to continue, to steady, to strengthen. While knowing it would not.
Time dragged on, each second marked by the sound of Mary’s labored breathing and the silence that followed it.
Phoebe’s throat ached with the effort of holding herself together, of not turning away, of not giving voice to the helplessness pressing in on her chest; she could do nothing but remain, bearing the weight of the moment alongside the family whilst the child fought on with a courage disproportionate to her size.
And when the battle was finally lost, Samuel offered up a quiet prayer to follow her into the next life.
For a long moment, no one moved. Mrs. Miles remained bent over her child, her body curved protectively around the small, still form as though posture alone might yet shield the babe from what had already happened, and Mr. Miles’ hand tightened around his wife’s, his head bowing so low that his chin touched his chest.
Quietly rising from his place, Samuel withdrew to stand beside Phoebe, granting the family space and quiet, and she took his hand in hers, holding fast as their grief took its first, raw shape.
It came quietly at first, shuddering in Mr. Miles’ chest, and a cry broke free from Mrs. Miles’ lips as her husband pulled her into him, his lips finding her forehead as the pair clung to one another and their child.
The sound pressed hard against her heart, and Phoebe yearned to turn away, to slip from the room, to leave the family to their private sorrow.
Her feet shifted, the smallest motion, but Samuel’s hand tightened around hers.
He did not look at her. He did not need to.
The quiet certainty of his hold told her enough, and she stilled.
No doubt he knew when his presence was still wanted.
How many times had Samuel done this? How many tears had he witnessed?
How many of his own had he shed? In a village this size, births came in steady succession, and so many children never saw their first birthday.
Their first sunrise. Too many little bodies were blessed, wrapped, and laid to rest before their names were written on the heart of Kingsmere.
For all that she understood a clergyman’s business, Phoebe had never considered the price that a good man like Samuel must pay.
The work he did was far more than spiritual.
With strength, he bore up the darkest moments in life without shrinking, and Phoebe’s heart ached for him as surely as it did for Mr. and Mrs. Miles; her fingers curled tightly around his, as though the gesture might offer some small counterweight to all he had been made to hold.
Minutes passed uncounted. The sharpness of the moment dulled into something heavier, as the first tide of grief spent itself and left emptiness in its wake.
At last, Mr. Miles straightened. His face was blotchy, and his eyes were hollow, but awareness dawned as his gaze found Samuel, who nodded toward the stairs.
The movement was quiet, deliberate, an invitation rather than a summons, and Mr. Miles followed, pausing only to kiss his wife’s hand. The stairs creaked beneath their shoes as they drifted away, their voices barely carrying as Mr. Miles asked after the details of Mary’s final rest.
Coming forward, Phoebe took the abandoned seat at Mrs. Miles’ bed.
Words rose to mind only to fall away again, each one feeling rehearsed and trite in the face of this loss.
Mrs. Miles stared at her child, rocking her as though little Mary were bound to wake at any moment, and the silence between them stretched, heavy with all that could not be said.
Phoebe didn’t know if it was presumptuous, but she took hold of Mrs. Miles’ free hand.
It was a simple action. Unadorned and unexplained.
Yet Mrs. Miles’ fingers tightened around hers at once, clinging with a quiet desperation; her shoulders shook, and she bent forward, her grief rising once more in waves too large to be contained.
Vision blurring, Phoebe leaned close and rested her hand instinctively on the woman’s back, and allowed their tears to fall together and share in that sorrow.
There was nothing else to be done. No wisdom to offer.
No solace to be conjured whilst the pain of their loss was still so fresh.
All she could offer was another shoulder upon which to lay the burden of this dark day.