Sattler, Veronica (66 page)

This
was no woman who could have deserted a child! Her very life centered around
children, children she'd taken to her heart and loved because—

"Your...
children," he questioned in a voice hoarse with emotion, "were
they—that is, did you—?" He stopped, finding it difficult to continue.

She
smiled. "They were never really a substitute for you, no... but they did
need love, and having them to love... well, it helped to ease the pain, the emptiness.
I think I—"

"Oh,
God,
stop!"
he cried. "No more, I beg you!" A host of
swirling emotions was seizing him, throwing him off balance. Guilt, terrible
and real, surged through him. He'd been wrong about this woman who was his
mother, and if that were true, then what did it say about others in his life?
What of the grandfather who'd raised him? What did it say about him? And his
perceptions of women? What of them? And Ashleigh! Dear God,
what about
Ashleigh?

Maria
saw his doubt and her heart ached for him. But she also sensed he needed to be
alone, to have time to sort out his feelings and come to terms with what had
suddenly turned his emotional world upside down.

Rising,
she was about to tell him she was leaving, when there came a sudden pounding on
the cabin door.

"Your
Grace!" It was Geordie Scott's voice. "I've critical news!"

"Come
in, then, Mr. Scott," said Brett, his private thoughts pushed aside as he
responded to the alarm in the first mate's voice.

The
door opened and Geordie Scott entered, his face flushed, excited. "Your
Grace, terrible news! We just received word from a messenger. Bonaparte's
escaped from Elba! He landed at Cannes two days ago with fifteen hundred
men!"

Brett
made an entry in his ship's log, but his mind wasn't on what he'd written.
Within hours after receiving the news about Napoleon, he'd convinced Patrick to
join him in setting a course for England. Patrick had been reluctant at first,
but the argument that Italy bore too many powers friendly to the Corsican had
finally persuaded him; that, and the fact that his sister was in enough danger
from what was proving to be a long and difficult labor, and would hardly
benefit from having their ships boarded and possibly detained by enemy
sympathizers.

For
the third time in as many minutes, his thoughts focused on Ashleigh. Had he
made a mistake in giving the order to set sail? It was true, the weather was
mild, with calm seas, but what if that changed? Could she withstand a rough
voyage while she labored to bring a child into the world?

Suddenly
a muffled scream met his ears. Brett thrust his quill into its holder and
slammed shut the logbook. What in hell were they doing to her? What, if
anything, were they doing
for
her?

Maria
had succeeded in convincing Signore Capetti to remain aboard with his
patient—the matter had required little more than a promise of a handsome fee
and that he would be returned home on the first available ship. Father Umberto
had remained as well, and so had the children. The alternative to their sailing
to England was a return—at least for a while—to the orphanage, and Maria would
not have it. Moreover, she implied—through Patrick, for Brett had not seen her
since the news broke—that she had a desire to see England again.

The
scream came again, and Brett's face paled. An hour ago, at the doctor's
request, a tired Megan had been roused from the catnap she'd taken amid hours
of bedside attendance to her friend, and she'd been asked to bring the priest along
as well. Brett tried to force himself not to think of the implications of that.

Suddenly
the door to the cabin burst open, and a haggard-looking Megan stepped inside.

"I'm
sorry I didn't knock, Brett, but—"

"What
is it? What's wrong?"

"'Tis—'tis
the birthin'. Ah, she's so tired, Brett, and the babe... There are...
difficulties."

Brett
froze. "What difficulties?"

Megan
wrung her hands. "I wish Maria were here and not on Patrick's ship. I know
she's still recoverin', but—"

"What
difficulties, Megan ?"

Megan
shook her head. "As I said, she's tired... up all night with the fire....
Brett, the babe may not make it through unless... 'Tis likely 'twill come t' a
matter o' choosin' betwixt the babe and the mother, and—"

"That's
no choice!" he shouted, then started for the door. "Dammit, they
shouldn't be letting her suffer this way! I'll tell them! There can be other
babes. For now—"

"Wait!"
Megan clutched at his sleeve. "I think ye ought f know somethin'. This is
a Catholic doctor, and a priest with him t' boot. I cannot be sure 'twas true,
but I heard o' such a case in Ireland when I was a lass. The midwife summoned
the priest and he—he..."

"Go
on!"

"He
said if it came t' choosin' betwixt an innocent life and that o'... anither,
the Church would have the innocent be the one 'twas saved." Megan closed
her eyes and looked away, then back at Brett. "Brett, 'twas said
they
sacrificed the mother!"

Brett
went white, then froze as another scream rent the air. He grabbed Megan's arm,
shouting, "Let's go!" and stormed out the door.

Seconds
later, Megan in tow, he ripped through the door to his cabin. Ashleigh lay in
his bed, moaning, the doctor at the foot of it, the priest beside him.

"Out!"
Brett
thundered.

"Mi
scusi?"
Signore
Capetti questioned.

"I
said
out,
and take this chanting beadsman with you!"

"But
Signore Duca, we—"

"You
heard me! No one's touching my wife, but me and those I trust. The two of you
will leave...
now!"

Shrugging,
Father Umberto exchanged a few words in Italian with the physician, and the two
of them hurried from the cabin.

When
they were gone, Brett motioned Megan forward, and the two of them approached
the bed. As they reached it, Ashleigh moaned again, then cried out.

"Oh,
the pain! Megan, the pain! I—"

Suddenly,
she bit her lip and reached for a twisted strip of sheeting that had been tied
across the head of the bed, from post to post, wrenching it downward with both
hands as another contraction seized her.

Brett
saw her teeth draw blood and more sweat break out on her already dripping
forehead. He reached for a cloth lying in a nearby basin of water, wrung it out
and gently wiped her brow while out of the corner of his eye, he saw Megan move
to the foot of the bed.

Ashleigh
felt the contraction subside and opened her eyes. "Megan, I—
Brett...?
Is
that you?"

"Shh,
love," he told her. "Save your strength. Megan and I are here. We're
not going to let anything happen to you."

"Ashleigh,"
said Megan, as she bent to examine her. "Listen to us. We're goin't' help
ye."

"So
tired..." Ashleigh whispered. "So— Oh, God! I can't—I—"

"Ashleigh!"
Brett clasped her hands in each of his. "Here, hold on to me. I'll help
you, love. We'll do this together— That's right, squeeze. Squeeze my hands, and
don't let go... I won't let you let go, love."

"I
see the head!" Megan cried. "Glory be, I see—" Suddenly she
turned and sprang toward a bowl of water with soap nearby. Feverishly, she
scrubbed her hands, calling over her shoulder to Ashleigh, who was squeezing
Brett's hands and panting.

"Good
lass! Keep pantin' the way I showed ye." She glanced at Brett, who was
eyeing her ablutions. "'Tis a good idea. I once saw a midwife with dirty
hands deliver a babe and..." She shuddered, then finished drying her hands
and hurriedly resumed her position at the foot of the bed.

"That's
it,
macushla,"
she encouraged. "Just a wee bit more now—there!
Now, when I say push..."

The
minutes passed, with Ashleigh alternately pushing and panting as Brett urged
her on, willing her his own strength, coaxing her forward, while Megan muttered
Hail Marys between imprecations to half-forgotten Gaelic spirits, and did her
best to recall all she'd once seen watching her mother give birth to child
after child, long ago.

Then,
as Ashleigh dug her nails into Brett's hands and screamed, giving a final
agonizing push, a wet and darkly matted tiny head slipped into Megan's waiting
hands, and then a shoulder, and then a small, slippery and squirming body, and
in a few seconds it was over.

"Saints
be praised!" Megan cried. "'Tis a lovely wee lass! She's tiny but
healthy. Listen t' her howl!"

Ashleigh
heard her and let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. A daughter. She'd
borne a daughter!

Brett
gazed at the glistening, wriggling creature in Megan's hands for a moment, in
total awe. Then he looked down at his wife. "You got your little
girl," he whispered, and blinked rapidly several times before bending to
kiss Ashleigh on the brow.

Ashleigh
raised weary eyes to meet his. "You're not angry, are you? I mean a girl
is—"

Brett
gently touched his forefinger to her lips. "Angry? Ashleigh, darling, I'm
so proud of you, I can't begin to tell you! Thank you for our daughter, love.
She's beautiful."

Ashleigh
searched his face for a moment, then slowly smiled as her eyelids lowered.

"And
thank you for you," he told her.

But
his wife was already asleep.

* * * * *

Brett
gazed quietly for a long time at the tiny, swaddled creature lying beside
Ashleigh in his bed. Slowly, almost reverently, his eyes fell on each minuscule
feature of the small pink face framed by a feathering of dark, downy hair...
the dark-lashed wide-set eyes, closed now in slumber... the perfectly shaped
little nose... the sweet rosebud mouth, barely parted with quiet breathing.

His
gaze shifted to the face of his wife. She appeared to him more beautiful than
he'd ever seen her, despite the faint mauve shadows under her eyes, the
increased hollows beneath her finely sculpted cheekbones. He was brought to
mind of another time he had studied her while she lay sleeping, and an amazed
smile crossed his face. How could he have ever thought this sweet, gentle
creature capable of the things he'd been ready to imbue her with then? Had he,
indeed, been that blind?

He
studied the sleeping pair a moment longer, as if committing the scene to
memory. Then he turned and stole softly from the cabin and made his way on
deck.

The
helmsman on duty gave him a salute and Brett returned it, then walked past the
mizzenmast to a place on the railing where he could be alone.

It
was a beautiful night—the dark, cloudless sky brilliant with stars. Bracing his
hands on the railing, Brett gazed up into the star-spattered universe and felt
the most profound feeling of peace he'd ever known. He was overwhelmed by a
sense of something timeless and eternal and felt he was somehow a part of it,
and the feeling was good.

He
glanced down to see the shaggy form of Finn emerge out of the darkness and come
to stand quietly beside him. He reached down to scratch the big dog
affectionately behind the ears, then drew his gaze back to the sky.

What
was different now? He'd gazed at these same heavens a hundred times before in
his life, during dozens of half-remembered sailings. Why had he never seen them
this way before?

But
he knew the answer before his mind formed the question. Always, before, he'd
gazed at them as a being apart, separated, somehow, from their vast mystery and
beauty, from the miracle of creation their presence implied. But now he was no
longer a man apart from the miracle; he was part of it.

He'd
just seen a brand-new life brought into the world, and that, too, was a miracle.
And they seemed connected, these miracles—the vast, infinite mystery of the
stars; the sweet, tiny mystery of new life; and coursing through them was yet a
third miracle that connected it all, and him as well: love.

His
brain tripped on the word as soon as he thought it, and Brett caught his breath
at the impact. Images of Ashleigh swept through his mind as they had dozens of
times before, but this time there was no pain in them, no anger, only..
.
love!
He loved her, loved her with an intensity he'd not thought himself
capable of—this sweet, winsome creature he'd never meant to care about, except
in ways associated with duty... obligation... maybe honor—but never
love!

How
had it happened? How had he gone beyond seeing her as a potentially threatening
female, to regarding her as a separate human being with a host of traits he'd
come to admire and respect and cherish?

She'd
borne him a child and he was grateful for it, but that wasn't it; he'd expected
any wife he took to bear him heirs. He'd been frightened beyond belief when he
thought he might lose her; but no, that had been a step in the process of
coming to realize what she meant to him, but it wasn't the whole of it. He'd
come to Italy expecting the near child he'd married and found a stronger person,
someone who'd begun to find her own identity in the world and act within its
framework. That was part of it, too, yes, but—