Page 12 of I Loved You Then (Far From Home #12)

Quiet Miracles

––––––––

The very day after the MacKinlay and Kerr armies returned to the castle, Ivy Mitchell went into labor.

In hindsight, Claire decided it was probably a good thing.

Until then, she had managed to keep a measure of distance from it all, to resist blindly accepting what Ivy claimed to be true, that they had both traveled through time.

Before yesterday, weeks into this unreal dream, she’d still been able to tell herself there might still be some rational explanation.

But the sight of those armies approaching Caeravorn had been something no modern mind could reason away.

Hundreds of men rode or walked in a loose column, faces hollowed with exhaustion, skin streaked with mud and sweat, blood dried in dark patches on dozens of bandages.

Not any part of that scene belonged to her world, and no amount of denial could make it so.

And then there was Ciaran Kerr. Meeting him—a man she was almost certain she had seen once before, not here, not now, but seven hundred years in the future—was something else entirely.

So yes, the coming of Ivy’s baby was a welcome relief, and she stayed all day with her new friend, anxious with joy.

From the first tightening across Ivy’s belly to the full force of the contractions, Claire remained glued to Ivy’s side, since she had previously expressed so much apprehension about giving birth in this century.

To Claire, it was purely habit, instinct, to soothe and calm, to be as helpful as she could be to the midwife, Ruth, without stepping on toes.

After more than three hours had passed, Ruth, seated in the corner of Ivy’s bedchamber for there being so little for her to do at the moment, instructed curtly, “Walk, if ye can. It’ll bring the bairn quicker.”

Claire slipped an arm around Ivy’s waist, helping her pace the chamber, and kept her voice and thoughts bright. “You’re really doing it, Ivy. You’re going to meet your baby before the sun goes down, I bet.”

Ivy leaned on Claire’s shoulder, weaker by the hour. “I can’t—”

“You can,” Claire whispered back fiercely. “Every woman since Eve has. And so will you.”

Time became hazy, lost to a rhythm of pain and reprieve. Claire propped and steadied Ivy through walking and squatting and braced her when her legs gave way.

Yesterday, Claire had introduced Ivy to what her family called Pitty-Pat-isms .

Ivy had decided to indulge in an afternoon bath and, to Claire’s surprise, invited her to join.

Claire hadn’t hesitated—how could she when she missed her handheld shower head and deep soaking tub so desperately?

She didn’t need to ask what had prompted such an unexpected offer.

Alaric had been gone nearly a month, and Ivy admitted she wanted to be perfectly clean, hoping, as Claire privately interpreted it, for a welcome-home tumble.

“Actually, this is a perfect idea,” Claire had allowed in this very chamber, almost exactly twenty-four hours ago. “A leisurely afternoon bath.” She’d sent a teasing glance at Ivy. “So you can clean your virginia. ”

Ivy had sputtered a laugh. “My what?”

Claire grinned, eager to relate a bit of family fun.

“I have this elderly aunt—Aunt Pat, though we call her Pitty Pat. Remember that ditsy character from Gone with the Wind ? Anyway, Pitty Pat has this wonderfully entertaining habit of misusing words. So, your lady bits, if you will,” Claire said, smirking cheekily at Ivy as they’d undressed, Claire not any more hesitant than Ivy to disrobe in front of the other, “is your virginia . She’s got a million of them.

My cousin once had to get a testicle shot—tetanus shot, we figured out.

And she once said to me—I swear to God—that this guy, some friend of her son, was arranged in court. ”

Ivy had gotten a big kick out of that. She’d asked that Claire treat those Pitty-Pat-isms kind of like a word-of-the-day calendar. “I want you to deliver me a daily Pitty Pat-ism. Just one a day, every day.”

What a strange thing to bring to the fourteenth century, Claire had thought later—and yet she employed one now, hoping to buoy Ivy’s spirit.

“Breathe now, Ivy—deep, steady,” she instructed. “Don’t tense up, you’ll strain your abdominables.”

Ivy nearly choked on her bark of laughter. “Abdominables? Really? A Pitty Pat-ism now?”

Claire brushed damp hair from Ivy’s brow, advising with a straight face, “Don’t argue with Pitty Pat—she’s practically a medical authority.”

As the day and hours wore on, the chamber grew stifling, steam from kettles and the sharp bite of herbs filling the air. And when finally the midwife urged Ivy to push, Claire clasped her hand and urged her on.

And soon enough, the room split open with the sound of a thin, indignant wail. Ivy’s daughter arrived, red-faced and furious at the trauma of birth. The midwife laid the tiny creature on Ivy’s chest, and Ivy sagged back, eyes brimming with tears, her spirit revived.

Claire’s heart soared. Oh, what joy! She would never not be astounded and in awe of the miracle of birth.

Though she’d seen plenty of births before, never had one felt so personal, so close to her.

Her smile constant now, she counted toes and fingers at Ivy’s request, assuring her the baby was whole and strong.

Not long after the midwife had seen to Ivy and cleaned and packed up her bag, Alaric appeared, looking a bit harried, as if he’d witnessed firsthand Ivy’s long labor and had been tortured by it.

Having perched herself on the bed with Ivy and her new bundle of joy, Claire stood at once and moved aside, making room.

She caught the way Ivy’s smile transformed when she saw him, and how Alaric dropped to his knees as though he’d been struck down with wonder.

His huge hand dwarfed the baby’s tiny head, but his touch was gentle.

Ivy introduced her daughter to the man Claire supposed would be her father, though she knew he wasn’t biologically. “This is Lily.”

Claire smiled even as she turned away, hiding the twist in her chest. Curiously, she thought of Jason at that moment, and how impossible it was to imagine him kneeling so raptly, his face undone with joy at the sight of new life.

The sweetness of the scene between Ivy and Alaric made Claire strikingly aware of the emptiness inside her, which had nothing to do with time-traveling across centuries.

Claire tidied a bit more before she left them, slipping from the chamber with a basin and used cloths, leaving the new parents alone. Mother and father , Claire thought with a little ache of wonder, so happy for Ivy.

The warmth of it clung to her as she descended the stairs, the full basin balanced carefully. She was a bit surprised to find Ciaran in the great hall, and wondered if he’d kept vigil with Alaric. He sat at the head table, with no company, staring at the cup in front of him.

She smiled automatically when he glanced up at her. “It’s a girl,” she said brightly, unable to hold in the gladness. “Healthy, strong—she’s perfect.”

Ciaran’s eyes pierced her, but they did not brighten. His face hardly shifted at all. “Aye,” was all he said. His expression was unfathomable, but clearly he did not share Claire’s joy.

Claire’s smile faltered, and the stubborn part of her that always questioned why some people couldn’t be happy for others, said purposefully. “A daughter named Lily. Alaric and Ivy are... well, they’re over the moon. You should see them.”

Something flickered in his eyes then, but it was not joy. His mouth tightened, and the faintest scoff escaped him. “Aye. Beaming, I dinna doubt.”

Claire blinked at him, startled. The warmth she’d carried down from the chamber dimmed almost completely and she wanted him to know how odious he was not to share their joy.

Starchily, she said, “Most people—friends and family—are glad for a safe birth and a healthy child. Or, at the very least, they manage to celebrate the simple joy of new life.”

He glanced at her. “Aye. May she thrive,” he said at last.

Claire frowned, for how empty the blessing rang.

She stared at him, unsettled by his coldness.

Alaric’s joy upstairs had been so unguarded, so beautifully human.

Yet here was his friend—a longtime friend and close ally, she’d been told—who should have shared in that happiness.

Instead, he brushed it aside with something that felt.

..less like disinterest and more like disdain.

Her first response was to wonder if maybe it was only a medieval thing. Maybe men of this time didn’t gush over another man’s child, not the way she might expect.

But that didn’t sound plausible. Everyone loved babies.

She didn’t know Ciaran well enough to judge him, not yet, not fairly—but she’d thought him merely reserved, a man who chose his words carefully.

Now, for the first time, she wondered if he might not be a kind man at all.

The thought cut more sharply than it should have.

In some corner of her heart, she knew that his character had already been established, born years ago by the stranger whose face she remembered, the one who had come to her in the wreckage of her car accident, the one she had held for years as something almost sacred.

And here he was, so much less than she’d imagined.

It was nearly shattering. Even as she could never quite reconcile herself to one hundred percent believe that man had been real, she had let herself believe in him, not as a person she could find again, but as proof that such men existed.

She had built something quiet around that memory, an imagined gentleness she returned to whenever she felt unseen and unloved.

Without another word to him, Claire moved on toward the kitchen, shaking off the damage done to the memory of her hero.

***