Chapter Thirteen #3
Roland thought it better to hold back the retort that rose to his lips. “Come, sweetheart, sit down here and you can have some of the milk Mrs. Ewbanks put in my bag.”
Gwendolyn looked suddenly sheepish at her bad behavior. “I’m sorry.”
They settled back onto the hay, Gwendolyn gasping as the baby fought to be born.
Roland dug in his saddle bag and pulled out the bread and cheese and he made a rough sandwich for each of them before he looked for the stone bottle of milk.
He poured some into the enamel mug and set it down near the fire to warm a little.
He added a measure of brandy from his hip flask.
When the rough posset was ready, he handed it to Gwendolyn.
She was pulling off pieces of bread and cheese and nibbling them and she wrinkled her nose at the milky drink. “I’m not really fond of warm milk and I don’t like brandy.”
“You need the strength and calmness it will give you. It will warm your muscles and help you relax.” Roland didn’t speak loudly but there was a steeliness behind his words that reminded Gwendolyn of the early days of their acquaintance in London.
She took the cup without further argument and drank every drop of the mixture.
“Good girl,” Roland said as he took the empty mug from her. He set it down on the ground as Gwendolyn clutched his hand with both of hers, squeezing so hard he was sure she would leave a bruise.
When her body relaxed, he eased her fingers off his hand. “Sweet one, all of this will be easier if your dress is removed and your stays are loosened.”
Gwendolyn bit the corner of her lip but nodded. “I’ve not worn stays for the last few days but my petticoat is a little tight. And I wouldn’t want to ruin my dress entirely.” She looked ruefully at the rumpled, stained blue woolen dress and brushed away a strand of hay.
Roland nodded. “Let’s begin with your boots.
” He loosened the laces and held her feet on his lap as he pulled off the sturdy leather boots and then removed her woolen stockings.
He had no time or inclination at present to admire the silkiness of her smooth well-formed calves and the pretty dimples at her knees.
He waited for another contraction to pass and then maneuvered her around so he could undo the buttons at the back of her dress.
He lifted her off the hay so that the material of her dress could be pulled over her head.
He folded the dress and set it aside. Her petticoat was loosely fastened and he made quick work of the linen undergarment, leaving only her loose shift covering her modesty.
Gwendolyn no longer cared about her modesty and lay back on the hay, panting and groaning as she bore down in an attempt to push the baby out of her womb.
Roland laid the petticoat over the top of her body but she pushed it away. Her face was red and her eyes glazed. Roland built up the hay behind her so that she was not lying completely flat and her legs could be supported on smaller piles of hay.
He held her thighs apart. Her vagina was swollen and wide. The baby’s head was clearly visible. She screamed again and pushed. The baby moved a little but remained in the channel.
“Bear down, Gwen. You’re doing so well. The baby is coming. Just a bit longer now.”
Gwendolyn was only vaguely aware of Roland’s encouragements.
Her body was on fire with the intense pain.
She was splitting in two. She kicked her heels against the hard, earthen floor, not caring when her foot landed sharply on Roland’s thigh.
“Oh, God! Oh, God! I’m dying.” Her voice was hoarse with sobs and pain.
“Push, push, push,” Roland chanted rhythmically. Gwendolyn responded to the pattern of his voice. With each push a little more of the baby appeared. Roland cupped Gwendolyn’s body and cradled the baby’s head as it appeared between her thighs.
Gwendolyn pushed up onto her haunches so she could bear down more easily.
She clutched Roland’s shoulders so hard she caused indents.
She pushed again. The baby’s first shoulder appeared and then the other.
The baby’s body followed in a rush of blood and birth fluid.
Gwendolyn fell back against the hay, panting hard.
Her face was red and sweaty and her hair completely disheveled but there was a deep sense of satisfaction and achievement.
She twisted her head to look at her child.
Roland turned the baby face upwards and smiled at the red, splotchy, wrinkled little bundle. From his experience with baby lambs, he knew it was important to clear the mucus from the mouth. He slipped the tip of his little finger between the baby’s lips and wiped gently.
The baby took a deep breath and gave a loud yell.
“What’s wrong?” Gwendolyn asked, sitting up halfway and reaching for the child.
“Everything’s absolutely right,” Roland countered.
“You have a sweet little baby girl who is lusty for life. I will give her to you to hold in a minute or so.” He dug in his bag and pulled out a small penknife which he heated in the flames of the fire for a moment before cooling it and then cutting the umbilical cord.
His handkerchief served as a towel to wipe the baby clean and then he whipped off his cravat and swaddled the child in it, a little clumsily because the baby was wriggling her arms and legs.
With that all done, he handed the little girl to Gwendolyn.
Gwendolyn held her child nervously, in awe of the life that she had given birth to. Tears welled in her eyes and in spite of the exhaustion she felt, every instinct in her wanted to nurture and protect this child.
Roland busied himself with clearing away the soiled hay and building up the fire. When all was done, he sat next to Gwendolyn. She leaned against him with a happy sigh as she held the baby to her breast and guided her to take the nipple in her mouth.
Roland tucked Gwendolyn’s cloak around the mother and baby, and soon they were both asleep. Not long afterwards, he was too.