sympathies. She spared more to the conviction that she would not allow Stephen near her /ever again/. /Please, please, please, please, please/, she thought as she drew breath against another onslaught of pain that tightened her abdomen unbearably and ripped through her womb.
Please /what/?
Stop the pain?
Let this baby be born?
Let it be born alive?
And healthy? /Please, please/.
The seven months of her marriage had been almost unbelievably happy ones.
They had also been filled with terror.
Her terror.
And Stephen's, always masked with a brisk cheerfulness.
'She is doing well.' The calm voice of the physician, who was a man and knew /nothing/.
'She is at the point of exhaustion.' Margaret's voice.
'She is almost there.' The physician.
And then a deep breath and a – /Please, please/.
An unbearable urge to push. And a pushing and a pushing until a voice urged her to stop, to conserve her energy until there was another contraction. And then – /Oh, please, please/.
A frantic, unending pushing until all the breath was gone from her body and the world was pain and pushing – And a gushing that suddenly released all the unbearable pressure and gave her a moment to breathe and – A baby's cry.
Oh.
'Oh,' she said. 'Oh.'
'You have a son, my lady,' the physician said. 'And he appears to have ten toes and ten fingers and a nose and two eyes and a mouth that is going to give you notice for some time to come whenever he is hungry.'
And Margaret was dashing from the room to tell Stephen, who nevertheless was not allowed inside the room until she had returned to wash the baby and bundle him inside a warm blanket and set him in his mother's arms while she cleaned both Cassandra and the bed and then stood back to smile at mother and child with flushed satisfaction.
Margaret and the physician left the room while Cassandra gazed in wonder at the red, ugly, beautiful face of her son.
Her /son/. /Where was Stephen/?
And then he was there, white-faced, with dark circles beneath his eyes as if /he/ had been in hard labor for many hours. As in a way he probably had, poor thing. He was approaching the bed as though he was afraid to come closer, his eyes on hers. As though he was also afraid to look at the blanket-bound bundle.
'Cass,' he said. 'Are you all right?'
'I am tired enough to sleep for a month.' She smiled at him. 'Meet our son.'
And he leaned closer, his eyes wide with wonder, and gazed downward.
'Could anyone be more beautiful?' he asked after a few awed moments.
He was looking with a father's eyes – as she was with a mother's. Both Margaret and the physician had assured her before they left that the slight distortion of the baby's head would right itself within a few hours, a day or two at most.
'No,' she said. 'No one could.'
'He is crying,' he said. 'Ought you to do something, Cass?'
'I think,' she said, 'he wants his papa to hold him.'
Or his mother to offer a breast.
'Dare I?' He looked terrified.
But she lifted the bundle, which seemed to weigh nothing at all, and Stephen took their son from her, and he stopped crying immediately.
'Well,' she said, 'so much for what he owes his mama.'
But Stephen was laughing softly, and Cassandra, relaxed and exhausted against her pillows, gazed up at him. At them.
Her two men.
Her two loves.
And perhaps, after a good long rest – a good /long/ rest – she would allow Stephen to touch her again after all.
Perhaps she would.
Well, /of course/ she would.
He was looking down at her, his eyes so full of love that they almost glowed.
'Thank you,' he said. 'Thank you, my love.'
She had a /child/, she thought as she gazed back at him, too exhausted to do anything more than allow her lips to curve upward at the corners.
She had a living child.
And a life filled with love.
And hope.
She had Stephen.
What more could she possibly ask for?
She had her own private angel, after all.
