Page 34 of The Secret Word (Twist Upon a Regency Tale #10)

T he door opened a sliver, just enough for the maid Martha to slip outside.

She started when she saw him. “Mr. Satterthwaite, sir.” She beamed.

“You have a little girl, sir. She is a darling. Mrs. Satterthwaite is resting, but Mrs. Greene says the other one will be soon. She has sent me to fetch Mrs. Satterthwaite’s tea tray, and to tell you the news. ”

“Thank you, Martha. Mr. Wright is sleeping. I won’t wake him until both children are born.”

Martha nodded and gave him a wry grin that was in itself a commentary on Wright. “As you say, sir.” And she hurried off downstairs.

She wasn’t gone long. Chris had heard nothing further from the birthing room and when she came up the stairs with a heavy tray, he was quick to open the door.

He could not see the birthing chair even with the door opened wide, but he heard Mrs. Greene’s voice.

“Is that Mr. Satterthwaite? Lady Fernvale, give him the baby.”

A moment later, Aunt Fern appeared in the doorway, and though Chris stepped back, she insisted on transferring the shawl-wrapped bundle from her arms into his, showing him how to support his daughter’s head with his elbow.

“I doubt this will take long. Just walk up and down with her, Christopher.” She stepped back into the room and shut the door, and Chris did what he was told, staring down into the face of his new little sweetheart. She blinked up at him and yawned. Chris was enraptured.

He lost track of time, space, everything, coming back to himself only when another cry came from the birthing room, this one not a gentle little bleat but a loud and indignant protest. “Your brother or sister has joined us in the world, baby mine,” he told the little mite in his arms. “If your mother is well, then I am the luckiest man alive.”

His daughter had fallen asleep. The surge of protective love was familiar, yet different. Often in recent months he had woken up next to Clem and watched her sleeping, a warmth and a softening in his chest as the woman he loved slumbered peacefully under his loving gaze.

This time, the urge and need to protect was stronger, more focused. His daughter. The child that he and Clem had made. So tiny, so helpless, so perfect.

The door opened again, and Aunt Fern stepped out into the hall carrying a bundle similar to his own cherished burden. “Christopher, meet your son,” she said.

*

Father was Clem’s first visitor, for she did not count Chris or Aunt Fern, who had returned to her, bringing her the babies as soon as Mrs. Greene sent Martha to fetch them.

That had been during the night. She had delivered the afterbirth, then Martha had helped her into a clean chemise and the robe she had discarded some time ago.

Then Mrs. Greene and Martha had assisted her to the bed so that she could recline against the pillows, and Martha went to bring her loved ones to her.

With Mrs. Greene’s help, she had put each child to suck, and then Chris had carried her to her own bed, and Aunt Fern and Martha had followed with the children.

She had fallen asleep with Chris beside her, holding her hand, and the two babies in a single cradle beside the bed.

Clem was not yet ready to give them up to the care of their nursemaids.

They had been a part of her for so long, and now they were born she could not bear to let them go away from her. She needed to be able to touch them, see them, listen to them. The three of them—the four of them, with Chris—belonged together.

This morning, Father had apparently been awake early, demanding to see her son. Nothing about his daughter or granddaughter. Clem decided he could wait.

She fed the babies, and gave them to their nursemaids to wash and change. She had a cup of hot chocolate, and with a good appetite ate the breakfast that Martha had brought up to her. She had her own wash and change. Then she sent Chris down to tell Father that he might visit.

“Which one is he?” Those were Father’s first words.

Clem nodded to the nursemaid with the little boy, and the girl stepped forward.

“He is small,” Father complained.

“He is big for a baby born two weeks early, Mrs. Greene says,” Clem corrected.

Father glared at her with his “I insist on being obeyed” look. “I want Mr. Corgumbe to look at him. To make certain.”

“He has all his fingers and toes, Mr. Wright,” Chris said. “And he appears healthy in every respect. As does his sister. Small, but the way they are feeding already, that will soon be resolved.”

“I want Mr. Corgumbe to look at him,” Father insisted.

Clem looked at Chris, who said, “What do you wish to do, my love?”

Father snorted and muttered something about apron strings. Chris grinned at him. “My wife, my children, my estate.”

“If not for me,” said Father, “you’d still be a glorified clerk keeping books for a criminal.”

“If I’d not met my wife, you mean,” Chris said.

“Yes, probably. I am not going to fight with you, Wright. Not in my wife’s chamber, anyway.

Not in front of her and my children. Clem put her life at risk yesterday and needs to rest. If your only intent here is to insult me, then let us leave her and the children in peace.

You can do so more comfortably downstairs, over breakfast.”

Father let out a snarl of frustration, and turned to Clem. “Daughter, please would you allow my doctor to examine my grandson.”

Well, and after all, what could it matter?

“Mr. Corgumbe can view the child—both children if he wishes—in this room, with Chris and me present,” she said.

“Go and have breakfast, Father, and I shall send for you and Mr. Corgumbe when William needs to have his clout changed. By the way, our daughter is to be named Christobel.”

“William?” Father growled. “Why William?”

“This way to breakfast,” Chris said, firmly, and escorted Father out of the room.

Mr. Corgumbe was not as difficult as Clem had expected, probably because Chris had pressed him to accept the excessive sum of fifty pounds as a token of their appreciation for him coming all this way, and standing by ready to intervene if needed.

Since Father must have already paid him, the vast sum would be a very nice bonus.

He had also been joined at breakfast by Lady Fernvale and Mrs. Greene and, according to Chris, he and Mrs. Greene had exchanged various gruesome stories that had scared Chris, retrospectively, quite out of his mind and put the pair of them vastly in charity with one another.

He was in a good mood when he examined little William, saying repeatedly, “Very nice, yes, very good,” as he moved William’s legs to test the baby’s hip joints, listened to his chest, and performed other actions that had William protesting loudly.

When William’s nursemaid took him into the connected room to dress him again, Mr. Corgumbe said, “You have a wonderfully healthy little boy, Mr. Satterthwaite. While I am here, would you like me to examine the little girl?”

Father growled, “I am not paying for any little girl,” but in a low mutter that everyone else in the room decided to ignore. Chris raised his eyebrows in question and Clem nodded. Why not?

“Yes, thank you,” said Chris, and he asked the nursemaid to undress Christabel, who had inherited her father’s easy nature, for she merely hiccupped a little and tolerated the examination.

Soon, she, too, was being whisked away to the adjoining room.

Chris had had beds set up for the nursemaids so that they were within easy call, cupboards, and shelves to hold the children’s clothes and anything else they might require, and a surface at an easy height for washing and changing the babies.

Not the cradles, which would remain in this room, at least for the present. Clem wanted the children under her eye.

“Another fine child,” said Mr. Corgumbe, approvingly.

“My congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Satterthwaite. Mr. Wright, I shall take my leave, sir, and return to London. I called for my carriage before coming above stairs, and it should be waiting for me. Mrs. Greene, a pleasure to meet you. Lady Fernvale, your servant, ma’am. ”

And he went on his way.

If only Father would do likewise. “I have work to do,” he said. Then stopped in the doorway and added, “Well done, Clementine.”

That was a surprise. She could not think of an occasion on which she had pleased him, and she had long ago given up trying.

“For once,” said her husband, “I agree with the old goat. Well done, Clem my love, and thank you for our two beautiful babies.”

*

The following day saw two deputations from the school. Mrs. Westbridge came first, bringing two beautifully knitted shawls and a variety of other baby garments made by the female staff, plus a rattle that Mr. Partridge and the assistant teacher had selected at the village shops.

After class hours, Tom Fuller led a little delegation bringing congratulations and presents from the boys. They had, Tom explained, been stuck on what to get, for everyone wanted to contribute, and only a few of them had any money.

When they applied to the vicar’s wife—“For we did not want any of the adults at the school to know what we were doing”—she had suggested they each knit a square. She had taught them to knit, had loaned them the needles, and had begged spare wool from everyone in the village.

The resulting blanket was a glorious mix of colors and textures. Five rows of three squares each, “And the vicar’s wife sewed it together for us, Mrs. S. Is it… Do you like it?”

With tears in her eyes, Clem assured the boys that she loved it.

Later that week, Wright returned to London, promising to see them again in two weeks. By his next visit, Mrs. Greene had gone, since the two babies were gaining weight and Clem was in good health.

Lady Fernvale waited until Father’s two-day visit was at an end, and also returned to London. “I shall be back for the christenings,” she promised.