Together, Phoebe and Mrs. Miles unwrapped the little child and slipped her into the gown, though it was far too large. Mary squawked once, but her little lungs struggled, and though Samuel yearned to urge the women to hurry, he remained silent as they went about their work. There was time for this.
Only once Mary was properly attired did Phoebe nod for Samuel, and Mr. Miles settled in beside his wife, taking her hand as their daughter was blessed and baptized in the tiny upstairs room of a rickety cottage.
***
The low ceiling pressed down as the minutes slipped by with a cruel, deliberate slowness. Phoebe stood with her hands clasped tight at her waist, every part of her drawn taut by the effort of remaining still. There was nothing to be done. Nothing to give her hands purpose. All that remained was waiting, and it was unbearable.
Mary lay impossibly small against her mother, the rise and fall of her chest uneven, uncertain, each breath seeming to require more effort than the last. Phoebe found herself counting them without meaning to, her attention fixed upon that fragilemotion, willing it to continue, to steady, to strengthen. While knowing it would not.
Time dragged on, each second marked by the sound of Mary’s labored breathing and the silence that followed it. Phoebe’s throat ached with the effort of holding herself together, of not turning away, of not giving voice to the helplessness pressing in on her chest; she could do nothing but remain, bearing the weight of the moment alongside the family whilst the child fought on with a courage disproportionate to her size.
And when the battle was finally lost, Samuel offered up a quiet prayer to follow her into the next life.
For a long moment, no one moved. Mrs. Miles remained bent over her child, her body curved protectively around the small, still form as though posture alone might yet shield the babe from what had already happened, and Mr. Miles’ hand tightened around his wife’s, his head bowing so low that his chin touched his chest.
Quietly rising from his place, Samuel withdrew to stand beside Phoebe, granting the family space and quiet, and she took his hand in hers, holding fast as their grief took its first, raw shape. It came quietly at first, shuddering in Mr. Miles’ chest, and a cry broke free from Mrs. Miles’ lips as her husband pulled her into him, his lips finding her forehead as the pair clung to one another and their child.
The sound pressed hard against her heart, and Phoebe yearned to turn away, to slip from the room, to leave the family to their private sorrow. Her feet shifted, the smallest motion, but Samuel’s hand tightened around hers. He did not look at her. He did not need to. The quiet certainty of his hold told her enough, and she stilled. No doubt he knew when his presence was still wanted.
How many times had Samuel done this? How many tears had he witnessed? How many of his own had he shed? In a villagethis size, births came in steady succession, and so many children never saw their first birthday. Their first sunrise. Too many little bodies were blessed, wrapped, and laid to rest before their names were written on the heart of Kingsmere.
For all that she understood a clergyman’s business, Phoebe had never considered the price that a good man like Samuel must pay. The work he did was far more than spiritual. With strength, he bore up the darkest moments in life without shrinking, and Phoebe’s heart ached for him as surely as it did for Mr. and Mrs. Miles; her fingers curled tightly around his, as though the gesture might offer some small counterweight to all he had been made to hold.
Minutes passed uncounted. The sharpness of the moment dulled into something heavier, as the first tide of grief spent itself and left emptiness in its wake. At last, Mr. Miles straightened. His face was blotchy, and his eyes were hollow, but awareness dawned as his gaze found Samuel, who nodded toward the stairs.
The movement was quiet, deliberate, an invitation rather than a summons, and Mr. Miles followed, pausing only to kiss his wife’s hand. The stairs creaked beneath their shoes as they drifted away, their voices barely carrying as Mr. Miles asked after the details of Mary’s final rest.
Coming forward, Phoebe took the abandoned seat at Mrs. Miles’ bed. Words rose to mind only to fall away again, each one feeling rehearsed and trite in the face of this loss. Mrs. Miles stared at her child, rocking her as though little Mary were bound to wake at any moment, and the silence between them stretched, heavy with all that could not be said.
Phoebe didn’t know if it was presumptuous, but she took hold of Mrs. Miles’ free hand. It was a simple action. Unadorned and unexplained. Yet Mrs. Miles’ fingers tightened around hers at once, clinging with a quiet desperation; her shoulders shook,and she bent forward, her grief rising once more in waves too large to be contained.
Vision blurring, Phoebe leaned close and rested her hand instinctively on the woman’s back, and allowed their tears to fall together and share in that sorrow. There was nothing else to be done. No wisdom to offer. No solace to be conjured whilst the pain of their loss was still so fresh. All she could offer was another shoulder upon which to lay the burden of this dark day.
Chapter 28
It was several moments before Mrs. Miles calmed again, her breath shuddering as she pulled her hand free to wipe at her cheeks.
“Thank you for the gown,” she whispered, her words jagged and broken.
Phoebe couldn’t say what instinct had driven her to bring it in the first place. Such a frivolous thing for such an important moment, but she offered the only explanation she had to give.
“No matter the circumstances, a christening is a special event, and it deserves to be marked.”
Mrs. Miles turned reddened eyes to her, gratitude shimmering in them. “It does, doesn’t it?” Wiping at her cheeks again, the woman drew in a deep and shuddering breath. “I will make sure to return it—”
“I made it with Mary in mind, and it belongs to no one else,” said Phoebe, the rightness of those words settling into her bones. Yes, she had intended it to be for the village as a whole, but it did not alter the fact that Mary Miles had been on her mind so often during its creation.
Turning a tremulous smile on the child, Phoebe added, “And Mary still has need of it. This beautiful little girl deserves a beautiful gown.”
Mrs. Miles’ lips quivered again, her gaze falling to her daughter, and she whispered, “Thank you, Mrs. Godwin.”
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, slow and measured, and Phoebe lifted her head as Samuel and Mr. Miles reappeared, and though the latter paused at the threshold, his expression softened as his gaze settled on his wife and child.
Samuel caught Phoebe’s eye and beckoned, and she squeezed Mrs. Miles’ hand one final time before relinquishing her place; there was no more for her to do but leave the husband and wife to their grief. The stairs creaked beneath their steps as she and Samuel descended, leaving without another word.
They stood on the front step as a thin band of pale light traced the far edge of the horizon, softening the black with the first rays of morning. Phoebe drew in a quiet breath, holding the stillness of that fragile hour as the world slowly began again. Samuel remained beside her, unmoving as they breathed in the air that was laced with a hint of the fast-approaching winter.
Slipping her arms around his waist, she anchored herself to him, and he drew his arms around her shoulders until she was well and truly buried in his embrace. Phoebe felt the hitch of Samuel’s breath, and her own tears came freely then as the pale light grew on the horizon.
