The landlady began to respond, but Betsey was already wagging a finger at Osmond, whose countenance, Verena saw, had lightened a little in relief.
“As for you, young sir, do you go back to your wife at once. We’ll follow as soon as may be.”
“Oh, Betsey,” cried Verena, between tears and laughter. “You may bully me, but don’t bully poor Mr Ruishton.” She put out a hand to Osmond. “Go back quickly. Assure Unice that we are close behind you.”
He grasped her hand and shook it. “Thank you. Thank you a thousand times.”
CHAPTER SIX
“All is well, Unice,” Verena was saying, some hours later, stroking the limp hands that lay upon the coverlet. “Rest now, rest.”
It had been a struggle, as if the tiny infant, who had at first seemed so eager to enter the world, breaking through the natural barriers too early, had appeared to think better of the matter and abandoned the onslaught for some little while.
By the time Verena and Betsey had entered the bedroom, where the panting mother lay already exhausted by these first efforts, the natural motions had stilled. Only Unice’s own maid and the midwife were in attendance, and the latter had whispered worriedly to Betsey, while Verena had run to Unice’s side, grasping her hands as the poor woman fell into tears from weakness — and some fear.
“She says my baby may be dead, Verena,” she gasped.
“Oh no, Unice!”
But the redoubtable Betsey would have none of it. “Fiddle-faddle,” she told the midwife, and marched over to the bed. “Now, ma’am. There ain’t no call for you to fret yourself to flinders. Gather your strength, my dove, for you’ve work to do. And — push!”
It had seemed to Verena that if Betsey gave this order once, she gave it a hundred times. Poor Unice, crying throughout, and screaming now and then as the painful process proceeded to its natural extreme, did as she was told. Verena held her hands, wincing as the grip tightened almost unbearably, but making no complaint, and passing a damp cloth over the sweating face whenever Betsey permitted a respite.
The odd thing was that the midwife took no offence at the interference of the invading maid, but seemed rather to drawstrength from her, doing all she might to assist, until at last the troublesome little package emerged — and began to howl in protest at the rude misuse of its tiny person.
All four helpers fell to laughing in relief, and Verena dropped to her knees and clasped the author of this miracle in her arms, crying out, “It is just as you wished, Unice. A girl! You have a little girl.”
Unice, her dark hair plastered wetly to her skull and the pillow, laughed and cried together, albeit weakly. “A girl? Oh, Verena! But I promise you she shall rue the day she put me through this.”
Betsey, busy with towels and the hot water that Unice’s maid held ready, while the midwife did her own part, overheard this and looked up towards the wan face on the pillow. “Likely she’ll give you as much trouble her lifelong. Girls, ma’am, are ten times worse than boys in the bringing up, be they never so much sugar and spice.”
“Then shall her father be the sufferer, not me,” Unice uttered into the general laughter.
She was quiet for some time after this, dozing a little although she was not yet able fully to sleep, while Verena soothed and petted her, wringing out the flannel in the fresh bowl of water brought by Unice’s maid, and wiping away the damp stains on the exhausted features, smoothing the lank hair, and stroking the lax fingers.
At length, Unice’s eyelids fluttered open again. She turned her head to her friend. “Verena, take her to Osmond, pray. He does not say it, but he wanted a daughter so much.”
But Betsey insisted that Miss Ruishton must first be presented to her mama. And once the tiny squalling babe was put into her arms, Unice was indeed reluctant to allow her to be removed. This time it was the midwife who called the tune.
“Madam and I have some matters here to finish, miss,” she said to Verena. “It would be a kindness in you to take the babeaway for a spell. Your good nurse here and I will make the lady presentable for her husband.”
Verena might be unfamiliar with the business of childbirth, but she knew there were necessary things to be done after the baby was born. Unice, already a veteran, made no objection, although she kissed the infant and sighed as she reluctantly permitted Verena to lift the bundle from the bed.
“Don’t fret, Miss Verena,” Betsey whispered. “She needs her peace now, for all she may not think it.”
Outside the room, Verena abruptly realised that Osmond must still be worrying downstairs. They had none of them thought to send down to the poor man to relieve him in his concern. She hurried a little on the thought, the now sleeping baby tucked securely in her arms.
She found Osmond Ruishton standing in the middle of the saloon, in a listening attitude as if he waited to know if the footsteps betokened any more than Unice’s maid once more going for fresh water. He no sooner saw the little bundle than his hand went up to his mouth. Verena saw him bite into his hand and understood that he was unbearably anxious.
“All is well,” she said quickly, coming into the room. “Have no fear, Mr Ruishton, all is well. See! You have the most beautiful little daughter.”
But Osmond’s first glance passed over the tiny face that she uncovered almost unseeingly. With painful intensity, his eyes locked onto Verena’s, and he uttered the one word. “Unice?”
“She had a severe struggle, but it is over. She will do very well in a few hours, I promise you.”
His shoulders sagged as a hoarse whisper left his throat. “Oh, thank the Lord!” Then he dropped into the nearest chair and threw his hands over his face. Moved, Verena gazed at him. How deeply he cared for his wife. So much so that the baby was as nothing compared to his need to hear news of her.
But in a moment Osmond had mastered his emotion. His hands dropped and he looked up, a smile beginning in his eyes. “Forgive me, Miss Chaceley. I have been so anxious.”
