“Well said, William!” Emma Rose’s cheeks were flushed with temper. Still unmarried at twenty, she had taken what their father deemed to be an excessive interest in politics. “Hester and Amity—”
Father cut across her. “The Harris sisters are filling your head with dangerous notions and nonsense! I would do well to forbid any further association with them.”
Emma Rose gaped at him in surprise, her astonishment quickly turning to fury. “Hester and Amity are loyal Virginians, father.”
“Loyal Virginians? If they and their ilk should get their way, the blood of Virginians will soon stain the ground.”
“’Tis better to die on our feet fighting than to live on our knees!”
Nicholas took a slow step forward, struggling to keep his voice calm. “What do you know about fighting, Emma Rose? Have you been in battle? Have you witnessed true slaughter or cared for wounded men or watched them die? I’ve seen war enough to sicken my soul. You’d best pray this conflict does not turn to bloodshed, or you may find yourself burying your brothers and nephews.”
For a moment there was silence.
Emma Rose’s gaze dropped to the floor, her bluster gone. “Aye, Nicholas. You are right. It must not come to bloodshed. Forgive me.”
Father stood. “Whatever occurs, know this: I willnotallow this conflict to divide our family and turn us against one another.”
The door to the study opened and Nicholas’s mother appeared.
“This talk of war sickens me.” She glared at them, one at a time, then met Nicholas’s gaze. “If you’re quite finished arguing, Bethie’s labor has begun.”
Nicholas set his glass aside, left the study, and took the stairs two at a time.
***
Bethie gazed down at her newborn son and stroked his dark, downy hair, too lost in the wonder of him to notice her exhaustion and lingering pain. “He looks so like his brothers—peas in a pod, the four of them.”
“Aye, he does.” Nicholas took one of the baby’s clenched hands, opened the little fist, touched each tiny finger, the joy on his face making Bethie’s heart swell.
He’d been beside her throughout her travail, as he had been each time she’d given birth. It had lasted nine hours, much longer than her last birth. They’d been nine arduous hours, too, her pangs coming fast and hard. Somehow, though she’d given birth six times before, she seemed to have forgotten how very much it hurt. Nicholas’s strength, the sound of his voice, his soothing touch had held her together.
Outside the bedroom curtains, it was not yet daylight.
The baby looked up at her through eyes that would soon turn blue, as all of their children’s eyes had done. Given his first bath by his grandmother and wrapped in a soft blanket, he seemed to study them, a slight frown on his little face. He opened his mouth, gave a little cry.
Nicholas pressed a kiss to Bethie’s temple. “He’s hungry.”
With Nicholas’s help, Bethie bared her left breast, wincing as the baby latched on and began to nurse, his suckling causing her womb to clench painfully. She closed her eyes, fought not to moan, the after-pains as fierce as true birthing pangs. Nicholas rubbed the hard curve of her womb as Takotah had taught him when Alexander was born, the pressure seeming to ease some of her discomfort.
She tried to take her mind off her pain, her words halting. “What do you think... of namin’ him Benjamin after dear Mr. Franklin? He has ever been... so kind to us.”
Nicholas smiled. “The old man will strut about Philadelphia as proud as a tom turkey when he hears the news. Benjamin it is, then. Benjamin James?”
“Aye, I like that.” She stroked the baby’s cheek. “Benjamin James.”
Out of nowhere, her mother’s words came back to her.
Pray she didnae curse your womb as you did mine.
How long ago that day now seemed, how distant the grief and loss. Far from having a womb that was cursed, Bethie had been blessed beyond measure.
“Why are you laughing?”
“I was just recollectin’ what my mother said the last time I saw her—about Isabelle cursin’ my womb as I had cursed hers.”
“That makes you laugh?” Nicholas frowned.
He never liked discussing her mother or stepfather.
