Even as she prayed, she felt a subtle assurance that someone, somewhere, was praying for her at that very moment. And she had a good idea of who it was.
The following day, Sophie sat propped up in bed in nightdress and shawl, knowing the midwife would return soon as promised to check on her and her child. While she waited, Sophie reclined peacefully, exhausted but content. She could hardly keep her eyes from the bundled babe asleep in her arms. A little girl. Her little girl. With skin so pale, blue veins showed through, and a head nearly bald save for the softest downy fuzz. Sophie savored the sight of her, touching every one of her ten wee toes and ten delicate fingers with nails as thin as waxed paper. Her eyebrows and the shape of her eyes were like her own, while her nose and mouth reminded her of Kate. She was perfect, except for one thing. A minor thing, she told herself. Merely superficial.
The child had a strawberry birthmark on her neck.
In olden times, the suspicious thought such marks were the sign of a witch. The benevolent, simply that the mother had eaten too many strawberries. But presently, common wisdom said the mark was evidence of some unmet craving in the mother during her pregnancy.
After the birth the previous night, the old midwife had wiped the child clean and Sophie had noticed her focusing on one spot with special care, bending to peer closer as though at a stubborn stain clinging to the babe’s skin. The infant chafed and squeaked in disapproval.
“What is it?” Sophie asked anxiously.
“Well, my dear. Your daughter is a beauty, and has a beauty mark. At least that is what I choose to call it.”
“What do you mean?”
Widow Paisley angled the child toward Mrs. Thrupton for a second opinion. “See that? I thought it was blood, but it’s not going anywhere.”
Mavis ran a gentle finger over the spot. Sophie did not miss the shadow of concern cross her face before she smiled brightly. “Looks like a rose to me.”
“A rose?” Widow Paisley repeated. “I’d say it looks more like a heart—wouldn’t you, Sophie?”
Sophie peered closer. It did indeed.
“You know what that means, I suppose?” the midwife asked, a glimmer of humor in her old eyes.
Sophie shook her head.
“It means you craved love while you carried this wee girl— that’s what.”
Sophie felt warmth stinging her eyes and unexpected tears blur her vision. She could not deny the charge.
“And no wonder with her husband gone to war and recovering from his wounds in Brussels. But he’ll no doubt return soon and make up for lost time.” Mavis said it as though to explain things to the midwife, but Sophie knew she said it to reassure her as well.
“It’s only a wee mark,” the midwife said. “A cupid’s kiss. A trifle. Why, I once delivered a young widow of a child with half his face a deep mulberry stain. Poor lad. Folks said it was because she mourned her slain husband.” The midwife shrugged and traced the dainty red mark again. “This is nothing.”
Sophie forced a smile. It didn’t bother her personally. She thought every inch of her daughter perfect and perfectly beautiful. But with a mother’s protectiveness, she hoped and prayed others would not taunt her little girl about it.
She wished she could talk to Stephen again—ask his opinion about names for a daughter. But with things as they were, she doubted he would express a preference one way or the other.
She decided to name her Mary Katherine. After her dear departed mother, Maria, and after Kate Overtree. She hoped Stephen would approve. And Wesley? She hoped he wouldn’t object. Or insist he had the right to do so.
She dashed off a few lines to her father, but otherwise Sophie and Mary Katherine spent the majority of that first week sleeping, nursing, crying, and staring into each other’s faces. Sophie had never felt so drained and weary, filled and fulfilled at the same time.
The following week, Mavis knocked on the door of the spare bedchamber Sophie occupied. “You have a visitor, if you feel up to it.”
“Who is it?” Sophie breathed, hopeful and fearful all at once.
“Your father.”
“Oh!” Pleasure washed over her. “Ask him in.” She glanced around the room that had become hers, glad to see it tidy—easel near the sunny window and chaise longue and dressing chest against the wall.
Claude Dupont stepped inside and stood there, hat in hand, looking like an awkward schoolboy. “Hello, Sophie. I set out as soon as I received your letter. Are you well?”
Sophie nodded. “Come and see your grandchild, Papa.” She angled the bundled babe toward him.
He stepped toward the bed, bent near, and studied the little pink face. “She’s beautiful.” He set aside his hat and held out his hands. “May I?”
“Of course,” Sophie agreed, pleased he would want to hold her.
