Chapter 2
Amy Abel woke in an unfamiliar bed, one with a rich canopy over the top and blankets tucked all around her. An oil lamp burned on the bedside table, and there was a roaring fire in the grate.
At first, she wondered if she was sick with a fever. Then she realized it was simply the sensation of being warm again.
Her hand drifted to her belly instinctively. She was yet rounded, but something was wrong: she was smaller. She made to cry out and toss the blankets when she heard a tiny wail.
“There now,” said a deep voice. “I’ve got you, love.”
From her place on the bed, she could see a man leaning over a box and ever so gently lifting something from inside.
A child. A baby. He must be holding her newborn babe.
Her throat closed in terror. She wished to scream out for help. Anything to prevent the baby from coming to harm. But before she could make a noise, she saw that this man had no ill intentions.
He cradled the baby’s head and bottom in his large hands, bringing the infant to his chest with tender confidence. The instinct to cry out ebbed when she realized the child was in far better hands than hers.
From nearby, she heard a small voice.
“Does he have a name, Papa?”
It was a little girl, her hair arranged in a single rudimentary braid, her face solemn.
“Not yet,” said the man, holding the baby so both he and his daughter could gaze upon his face. “We must ask his mama. She made him.”
“But you’re his papa,” the girl replied as if her father were obtuse.
He chuckled, and Amy could see faint lines extending from his warm brown eyes. “That I am. Still, we must ask his mama.”
“Is this lady to be my mama, too?”
The man cradled the infant in one capable arm and brought the other around his daughter to draw her close to his side.
“I’m not sure,” said the man with a candor not normally granted to children. The girl was maybe six or seven years old; she was precocious but had a small voice and stature. “If you and she are both amenable…she could be your mama.”
And that’s when Amy recalled her name was no longer Amy Abel.
After her flight over the countryside for nigh on ten days, painful laboring, and delivery of the baby, she had a hazy memory of exchanging vows with a man while in something akin to a dream state.
It had been so long since she’d slept soundly or eaten even close to her fill that she’d have agreed to anything after being roused.
She’d apparently consented to becoming this man’s wife. She was now Amy…Man…something. Something complicated. She didn’t even know her own surname, such was the depth of her confusion!
“Are you going to put a braid in the baby’s hairs?” asked the girl, using a fingertip to pet the newborn’s fuzzy hair.
“I don’t think he has enough yet,” replied the man.
“And does he know his Greek?” asked the girl, skepticism crowding into her voice.
“He barely knows how to cry in any language other than kitten.”
“I fear he’s something of a failure, Papa. Like the new wheat you tried to grow last year.”
Amy heard the man chuckle. He was indulgent and gentle, the sort of man she’d not even known to conjure after her limited experience with men.
“He’s perfect, Theodosia, just as you were at this age. Still are.”
She gazed at the baby skeptically. “Phineas,” she said before wiggling from her father’s arm and departing the room.
“Would you like to be called Phineas, young man?”
He held the baby out to see how the name suited him.
The child — apparently now Phineas — answered with one of his heart-rending cries.
When no amount of cradling and coaxing could soothe the child, the man approached Amy’s bed.
“I am so terribly sorry to disturb you,” he said, as if collecting alms for the poor rather than troubling her with the care of her own child. “It’s just that young Phin — the baby — seems to be upset. I fear he might be hungry.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, her body frozen despite the incredible warmth of the room.
“If you don’t mind,” he said, taking a seat on the bed beside her. The motion tugged the blankets over her lap, causing a pressure that made her want to sink into the mattress and sleep for days. Her eyelids drooped.
“You’re exhausted, aren’t you?” he asked in the same gentle tone he’d used with her baby and the little girl.
She nodded, fearing that if she needed to say words aloud, her voice might break, and emotions would carry her away.
“The vicar’s wife helped you into a nightgown,” he said, gazing down at her. “Before our marriage, such as it was. My name is Erasmus Mangevileyn. This is Osney Abbey.”
“I am Amy…” she faltered.
“Abel, was it? Well, now, Amy Mangevileyn. I won’t trouble you with questions about your home or people. I think today’s ceremony answered enough questions for now.”
He flashed her a genuine smile, and she noticed how sad his eyes looked even as he seemed to experience joy at cradling the baby.
“The only thing that remains to be sorted today is the small matter of this young man’s dinner,” he said.
“Phineas,” she blurted. “His name is Phineas.”
“A fine name for a fine boy,” said Erasmus, smoothing the baby’s hair.
The sight of him tenderly holding the babe washed over Amy, making her feel as though she were the one being held and admired.
Was it possible to be jealous of an infant, her own son?
That wasn’t quite it. She simply longed suddenly for something she hadn’t known she wanted before.
“Is he your first?” asked the man, rocking the fussy baby.
“My first…oh! Yes, my first.”
“If you’re tired, you can lie back and I’ll see to everything.”
Amy paused, unsure of what he meant. And then she realized that in order for Phineas to eat, he’d need to nurse at her own breast. How mortifying!
And then she recalled the ceremony that had taken place in this very room, with her still abed; they were married. And rather than a proper wedding night, this man was caring for her miraculously legitimate child.
She fumbled with the pearl buttons on the fine nightgown, her fingers slipping clumsily as she struggled to undo them. Amy was nearing tears when one large hand came over hers.
“Allow me,” he said, taking up the work of painstakingly opening each button and exposing the skin running between her breasts.
He was efficient. Experienced. Soon, she was breathing faster and watching as he opened one side to reveal the inner curve of her swollen breast. With a businesslike flick, he exposed her hardened nipple.
Wordlessly, Erasmus arranged the baby on her chest and belly, leaving Phineas to find her teat.
For a few moments, she watched the child make rudimentary, experimental bobs. Why, he might become a prodigy of crawling! And then he let out a wail.
“Let’s help him along,” said Erasmus, adjusting both her breast and the baby so they connected.
The first sucks were alarming. They felt out of control and animalistic, and she hated that a man she didn’t know witnessed her vulnerability. But he kept his hand on the baby’s back and moved him from one breast to the other when she struggled to keep her eyes open because of exhaustion.
Propriety dictated she shouldn’t be doing this before a man she didn’t know. But did those rules apply when the man in question was her husband?
***
Amy woke when the sky was still dark. Someone had turned the oil lamp down to a flicker.
She rotated gingerly in the bed, her body still aching from the delivery of baby Phineas.
What a name, Phineas. Her father, plain old George, and her mother, even plainer Mary, would have scoffed at such a name for their grandchild.
Sadly, they’d died several years ago and would never know the tumble their daughter would take before finding herself in an Oxfordshire barn, pregnant, alone, and unwed.
Beside her on the bed was a basket. Her hand caught on the unexpected woven reeds. Inside, tucked in a blanket, was her child.
“I thought it might be easiest to keep him near.”
The voice came from the other side, where Erasmus sat against a stack of pillows, from which he gazed at the baby. He had a hand on the child’s blankets while the boy dozed, reassuring himself that he yet breathed.
She could think of one thousand things to ask him, her new husband, but the question she picked first surprised even her.
“Why did your parents name you Erasmus?” she asked. “I don’t think I’ve heard that name before.”
He chuckled, shifting his gaze from the infant to her. “They came from a long line of dissenters. Quakers.”
“They were nonconformists?” she asked. But then, those with food on the table could afford to hold unorthodox ideas.
“By my parents’ time, the family had drifted into a learned sort of disinterest in religion. My mother and father worshiped the great philosophers, Erasmus of Rotterdam above all.”
“Is Rotterdam in Berkshire?” she asked.
“The Netherlands. Across the Channel,” he said. “I visited while serving abroad.”
“You were a soldier?” she asked. He didn’t seem like one.
“A diplomat. Specialist in languages.”
Her heart felt as though she’d jumped from a hayloft. Her husband was an expert in other languages, and yet she couldn’t do more than the very simplest reading in her own.
“What’s that frown?” he asked. His hand twitched like he wished to touch her, but he stayed where he was.
“I fear you’ll find me a poor wife, Mr. Mange…”
“Mangevileyn.”
“It’s just that, until two weeks ago, I was simply a laundress at a workhouse.”
“Mrs. Mangevileyn.”
“Yes?” she asked, holding her breath.
“Did you know it was Lady Day when you found your way into my barn to deliver our son?”
“The Annunciation of our Lord to the Blessed Virgin Mary,” she responded by rote. “March 25th each year.”
“At least one of us knows Church doctrine,” he said, smoothing the baby’s hair.
“I didn’t have the slightest sense of time or even season when I reached your land. I simply thought I would die if I didn’t rest a bit before moving on.”
“It would seem fate brought us together. Who am I to question it?” he said.
“I didn’t mean to cause such problems for you. When I’ve recovered, I can carry on with my journey.”
“Where are you headed?” he asked, staring into the fire that had been banked for the night.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I needed to get away.”
She didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t press her. Had he, Amy would have fled into the night the moment he fell asleep. But she had a sense that Erasmus Mangevileyn was a patient man.
“Would you object to my sleeping here so I might assist with Phineas?” he asked, gesturing to the baby resting safely in a basket between them.
Amy laughed. Was this how fine gentlemen behaved with their wives? No wonder they had so few children! Asking permission to stay in an enormous bed he owned!
“If I said no?” she asked, her brow arched. Suddenly, she felt a little like her old self. Like the girl who teased and quipped despite her hands being chapped by lye and cold water. She twisted her fingers together, conscious of how far she was from a refined lady.
“I suppose we’d have to hire a nurse for Phineas — so that you might get some sleep,” he said, all seriousness, as if she had a choice and he’d pay the wages based on her whim.
“You propose to be his nurse? Should I permit you access to your own bed?” she asked.
At that, he caught her teasing tone and cast her a gentle smile. “We’ve plenty of other beds.”
“But none so fine as this,” she said, taking in the warm blankets, woven canopy, and fine sheets.
“I’d not inconvenience you, even if the other beds were hopping with lice,” he said.
“Don’t say that,” she said, crossing herself quickly, remembering the endless days of cleaning after infestations.
“Well, I suppose I might insist on taking up a sliver of my bed, should bedbugs visit the abbey.”
Amy crossed herself again, shuddering at the recollection of what had happened the last time bedbugs got out of hand at the workhouse.
Erasmus traced the baby’s exposed little arm and then tucked a blanket around it. “I don’t mean to keep you from admiring your son. Don’t you wish to touch him?”
Amy looked at the little boy. She had expected to hate him, to see something in him she despised. Part of her feared what she might do in the wake of the baby’s birth, but now that he was here, she was relieved to discover that she simply felt detached.
She nodded no, her eyes filling with tears.
“I’ll see to everything. In time, things might be different,” he said.