Marguerite smiles at Sadie, squeezes her hand. “I remember it all now, you know. All of the memories I’ve lost through the years. All of it. And I’m so proud of you, Sadie. So very proud.”
“I know,” Sadie says, tears streaming down her face. “I know.”
The scene shifts, suddenly, and they’re in the delivery room once more, the same bald doctor stationed at the end of the bed, Florence at Marguerite’s side, clutching her hand. “We have to get this baby out,” he says to the nurse. “She’s nearing eclamptic distress. Mrs. Knight, you’ll need to leave the room.”
“But I ...” Florence protests. “I can’t.”
“I want my sister,” Marguerite says, panting. “Please don’t make her leave.”
“I’m right here,” Florence says, stroking Marguerite’s forehead. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”
Marguerite grips her elder sister’s hand. “I’m sorry, Flor.”
“It’s all right. I’m sorry, too. For everything. Things will be better from now on. I promise.”
“Your sister can stay,” the doctor says, patting Marguerite’s knee. “But please, Mrs. Knight, keep near the head of the bed, out of the way. This may be upsetting for you. Nurses, watch to make sure she doesn’t swoon.”
The same dutiful nurse from before climbs atop Marguerite, placing both of her hands on Marguerite’s stomach. “When the pains come again, push with all you’ve got, love.”
When the contraction comes, Marguerite pushes, and the nurse atop her pushes, too.
“There, that’s it!” the doctor exclaims. “One more push should do it.”
Marguerite collapses back against the pillows, weak, frightened. She turns her head and looks at Sadie, a weak smile playing on her lips and love in her eyes. “It was all worth it. For you.”
“What, dear?” The nurse looks over her shoulder at Marguerite, giving a quizzical look.
“I’m talking to Sadie. There, in the corner.”
“There’s no one there. She’s hallucinating,” the doctor says, his voice rising. “We need to get this baby out, nurse. Give it all you’ve got this time.”
Marguerite squeezes her eyes shut as the next contraction sets in, a throttled scream escaping her throat as she bears down. Florence’s knuckles blanch white as Marguerite grips her hand. The nurse presses hard on Marguerite’s belly, elbows locked.
“Aha!” the doctor exclaims. A thin, reedy cry floats over the excited din. The doctor holds the baby up for Marguerite to see. “A girl. You’ve done well, Miss Thorne. You’ve done well.”
Marguerite raises herself onto her elbows, her eyes a livid green inside her pale face. “Let me see her. Please.”
The nurse clambers off the bed, takes the baby from the doctor, and swaddles her as he clamps and cuts the cord. The baby is red-faced and angry, her bright copper hair contrasting with the linen sheath they’ve wrapped her in.
“Would you like to hold her?” the nurse asks.
A tear trails from Marguerite’s eye. “No. Give her to my sister. She’s Florence’s now.”
Florence eagerly accepts the baby from the nurse, swaying and cooing softly, taking Laura’s tiny fingers in her own and kissing them. Marguerite looks across the room at Sadie, one last time, and closes her eyes.
Chapter 40
December 12, 1925
Marguerite is gone by the time I return to her room, as I knew she would be. She rests peacefully in death, still warm, the morning light dancing across her face. I rest my head on her folded hands, my tears running freely. Beckett comes in, his eyes red from crying. “I tried to find you, at the end. Where were you?”
“Right where I needed to be.”
Beckett gives me a questioning look, then sits next to Marguerite’s body, stroking her hair.
“I’m sorry I’ve been out of sorts lately,” I say, reaching for his hand and lacing my fingers with his. “I love you, Beck. I do.”
He raises my hand to his lips, closes his eyes. “And I love you.”
