The one night, she recalled with dismay, she'd given Mary a reprieve from caring for him.

Fiddlesticks.

"I'm coming, Tommy." Slowly she eased from her comfy bed. She paused to stretch the stiffness from her back. Tommy wailed louder. "Coming."

She hurried into the nursery across the hall. Moving to the cradle, she anxiously tried to hush him before he woke the entire household. Lifting him from the cradle momentarily silenced his distress, only to resume offending her ears once he squirmed at her shoulder. Her annoyance rose, even as the expected twinge of guilt at her own frustration p.r.i.c.ked her conscience. Lord, I'm tired. What bothered him that he wailed all night? Emily checked his diaper and found it wet. Again.

This should not be her problem. This should be her sister's problem. Though the thought felt unkind, she couldn't deny its underlying truth. Tears threatened, but she swallowed them, patting the little boy harder on the back. He cried louder. Huffing out her exasperation, she crossed to the pile of clean diapers and stared at the stack, counting slowly to ten. Jasmine had showed her several times how to do this seemingly simple task, yet it remained a magician's trick. At her age she should know how to change diapers, but she did not have the experience of younger siblings to tend. Thus she started as a novice at caring for children. Muttering to herself and the child, she s.n.a.t.c.hed a clean cloth and clumsily changed the wet one for a dry one. All the while, Tommy cried until he was hiccupping, tiny gasps of air between tonsil-revealing wails of discomfort.

He couldn't be hungry, as Mary had fed him prior to retiring to her room out back next to the stable. Perhaps it was the colic, then. Samantha planned to visit late morning and bring the promised basil. Feeling decidedly inept, she paced the room, crooning to Tommy as she contemplated possible ways to quiet her nephew.

Right now she needed help, and she knew where to find it.

Joggling him against her shoulder, she hurried down the stairs to Jasmine's room. A light shone from beneath the door. Probably couldn't sleep for the crying babe. As Emily approached, the door swung open. A sleepy-eyed Jasmine stared owlishly. She wore the new shift and robe Emily had found for her, its belt loosely tied as though accomplished in a hurry. Jasmine eyed the infant warily before blinking at Emily. "I heerd you coming."

Emily grunted. "He's colicky. What can we do? Something must quiet him." And soon. Frustration surged through her, but she held her tongue and her temper. Her father would not take kindly to her being anything less than a lady, especially in front of the servants.

"Don't know that it's colic at his age," Jasmine said. "But I've been told if you jump over someone's grave while holding him, it will cure it. Sure 'nough."

Emily chuckled. "Not in the middle of the night, if ever. Perhaps some warm milk?"

"I'll fetch some right away." Relief flickered through Jasmine's eyes as she bobbed a curtsy. Then she slipped past Emily and scurried down the hall and out the back door.

"Tommy, please." Emily paced the hallway while she waited for Jasmine to return. He burped and cried louder. "What is wrong, little one?"

Children should be born with the ability to talk. G.o.d had it wrong if he thought this wailing was communication. Frustrating, yes. Worrisome, absolutely right. But wailing only told someone that one was unhappy. Bah. Anger and vexation warred inside her until tears at her inept.i.tude threatened. There must be a better way to raise children. One that did not require a person to walk their hallways carrying a heavy bundle of boy all night.

She paced into the library and paused at the front windows. Interrupting the continual patting on Tommy's back, she swung open the heavy shutters. At this hour, few if any people would walk by. Her hand automatically returned to patting the child's back in a vain effort to comfort him. Or at least to beat the crying to a pulp.

Her lips pressed together at the thought. No, she would not physically harm the child, even if angry with him. After all, he probably felt as frustrated as her at the lack of communication.

The sun edged into view on the horizon, sending flaming fingers shimmering across the water. The sky softened from its star-studded blackness to deep gray and red tinges. Tommy's crying obscured the normal sounds of morning. The beating of the waves. The call of the sea birds welcoming the new day. She gazed on the heads of the dayflowers outside reaching for the dawn's early light to coax them to face the morning.

Her mind wandered as she waited for Jasmine's return. She imagined the day she opened her shop, hanging her signs in the windows, mannequins dressed in shawls, hats, gloves, and other garments she'd made and decorated with embroidered designs. Her days filled with customers and collecting monies to pay her own way in life. Tommy squirmed on her shoulder, nearly falling over her arm, and she caught him and sighed. One day she would have her shop and not have to worry about either birthing or caring for any babies. At the moment one seemed as bad as the other.

"Miss Emily!"

Emily jumped at Jasmine's voice in her ear. She turned from the window to see her maid holding a bowl half-full of milk and a small spoon.

"I couldn't hear you over him!" Emily cried.

Tommy wailed louder, competing with their raised voices. She eyed the spoon warily. Shifting Tommy into a cradled position in her arms, she pondered her next move. The spoon hadn't worked very well earlier. Glancing around the room with its many imported furnishings and antiques, she shook her head. "We should go to the dining room."

As they hurried down the hallway, Tommy buried his head into Emily's breast, pausing his crying briefly before turning away from her and wailing once more. Mary, as the wet nurse, allowed him to suckle her, but Emily had no capacity for that form of feeding. She hated to wake the woman on her one night off as well. Despite her servant status, it seemed only fair to give her a break now and again. But if the child needed to suckle to eat, the spoon would never work no matter how much they tried.

Inspiration struck as they pa.s.sed into the dining room. She settled onto a straight-backed wooden chair positioned between the table and the banked fire.

"Fetch my sewing box and gloves. Hurry!"

"What you need with sewing things?" Jasmine hesitated in the act of leaving.

"We'll put the milk in the glove and he can suckle from that." She hoped.

Understanding optimism lit Jasmine's eyes, and she hurried from the room without another word.

It took both of them to pour the warm milk into the tightly woven glove. Once Tommy felt the warm milk in the glove's finger, he latched on to it with his toothless gums and suckled hard. The culprit seemed to be hunger, after all. Blessed silence descended over the house for the first time in an hour.

Emily cradled the boy in one arm, the other hand holding the leaky glove while Jasmine stoked embers in the hearth into a morning fire. Emily needed a clean shift, but at last peace surrounded her. Sunlight eased through the windows, reaching for her, casting shadows across the floor. Tommy's eyes closed, his cheeks still flushed from the effort of crying. Content like this, she easily tolerated him. Even stirrings of affection flickered in her heart. His little mouth pulled on the glove finger, nearly as much milk going into his mouth as dripped onto her night shift.

Finally the boy's movements slowed. Drowsy tugs replaced the frantic sucking. Then his mouth relaxed and dropped open as he succ.u.mbed to exhaustion.

Emily laid the glove in the bowl at her elbow. Rising carefully, she carried the sleeping boy up the stairs to his cradle. Back in her room at last, she slipped off the milk-soaked nightgown, cleaned herself, and donned a dry gown. With a heartfelt sigh, she eased back onto her down-filled mattress and longed to sleep the rest of the day. Unfortunately she had much to do before Amy returned in a few days. Samantha's visit that morning came first. Despite her weariness, Emily smiled. She enjoyed conversing with her friends.

The warble of a songbird outside the window lulled her back to sleep. As her eyes began to drift shut, Frank's voice murmuring in his sleep in the room next door made her heavy eyelids fly open. Fiddlesticks.

Chapter 7.

"What do you have there?" Emily asked as Samantha stepped into the parlor carrying a basket covered with a green-and-white striped cloth.

"Fresh basil as promised." Samantha peeled the cloth off the basket, revealing a neatly tied bunch of green leaves. The sweet aroma filled the sunlit room.

"I'll have some tea from that myself. It smells wonderful." Emily cleared her throat, trying to erase the exhaustion-induced rougher tenor of her voice.

"It will help the little boy's stomach when it bothers him again. You sound tired, my friend. Did Tommy have an upset overnight?"

"A touch. Mary is bathing and dressing him now that he's finished his breakfast. I thought of a new way to feed him when Mary is not available." She shared her new method discovered in the wee hours of the morning.

Samantha chuckled. "Good thinking. Perhaps we can improve on your idea so that it doesn't require fresh clothing each meal."

"That would be appreciated by all, I believe." Emily grinned. "I have few enough gowns now without having to clean them every day."

"Perhaps we should sew some new gowns for ourselves." Samantha fingered the fabric of her skirt. "Mine are sorely needing replacing."

"As soon as this war ends and our men come home, and not before. In the meantime, it wouldn't feel right."

"The fighting will end ere long." Samantha pulled a bound book from the basket, laying it beside the herbs before settling next to Emily on the sofa. "The British are confined here, same as the rest of us. They have nowhere to run but back to England."

"And good riddance, when they go." Emily eyed the book. "What do you have?"

"My commonplace book." Samantha pressed her lips together for a moment. "I decided to make some notes, with your a.s.sistance."

"About what?" From the concern in Samantha's eyes, Emily hoped she erred in guessing the topic. Elizabeth. The idea of reliving her sister's death made her chest tighten against the painful images brought to mind.

"I wish to learn more about making childbirth safer for the mother through doc.u.menting what goes right and wrong during the birthing process. After all, animals manage to have babies without fear of dying. Perhaps my efforts will help women safely have children."

Emily sank back in her chair. The memory of Elizabeth straining to deliver Tommy replaced her view of the elaborately decorated room. She pictured Elizabeth fondly holding him, gazing with love on her child, a love shining like moonlight on the ocean on a clear night. Followed by her distress a few days later, her pallor and sweating before her expression stilled and she no longer looked on anyone. Emily twisted the little ring, recalling the feel of her sister's limp hand in her own. She tasted salt and slowly pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve to dry her cheeks.

"I am sorry." Samantha laid a hand on Emily's arm. "I know you miss her, as you should. But she will always be part of you. You have her child to remind you of her every day, so you will never forget your sister. That should be some comfort as well."

"It should." Emily dabbed her eyes. She tucked the damp cloth back inside her sleeve and stared at the fire burning in the fireplace. Something about the dance of the flames fascinated her. She could stare at it for hours, thinking, wondering, planning. Ignoring the pain in her heart.

"What do you mean, it should?"

"Tommy is not my child, and yet he's my responsibility. I want my sister back, not her child. I want more from my life than to be tied to the house." She shrugged and frowned at her friend. "I want to learn new things, go to new and distant places, meet new people. I want more than this."

"You can still have those things," Samantha said. "He won't be a baby forever. He'll grow up and become his own person, with your help along the way."

"I don't want to raise a child, don't you understand?" She rose and paced the room, twisting the gold ring so hard it almost flew from her finger. How could she explain? She took a deep breath and gazed at her friend and confidante. "I... I sometimes think I hate the boy."

Samantha stood and glided to where Emily paused at the chests nestled between the front windows. "You don't mean that, surely."

She nodded slowly. "Sometimes, I do, yes. When this war ends, more goods will be needed and we'll have greater access to the yields from our plantation. Then I shall start my apparel shop and be my own person, and Tommy will be Frank's responsibility alone."

Samantha crossed her arms and regarded her for a long moment. "I know you're struggling. Give it time, and you'll see you do not have to resort to extreme measures."

"I won't risk my life having children. Not like Mother did." Recalling the conversation the previous evening before dinner, she gazed at her friend. "Did you know I had a fourth brother?"

"No, I didn't." Samantha shrugged. "It's not uncommon, though, for women to not speak of their little ones who die."

"It's tragic that no one but your mother remembers him." She brushed at her gown, smoothing the worn fabric. "I meant to ask Father about it last night, but other events intervened."

Samantha studied her as she pursed her lips in thought before relaxing her mouth into a slight smile. "I'm sure your father recalls the boy. For now, let's start with your mother. Maybe the events surrounding that long-ago day will be less painful to contemplate."

Emily clasped her hands in a silent prayer for strength. All she knew about her mother stemmed from what others shared with her. The secondhand recollections resided in her head like songs heard at the tavern, echoes of someone else's experience and imagination.

Samantha returned to the little table and picked up the book, opening it to a page half filled with her neat script. "What do you know about how she died?"

"Not much." Emily moved to stand by the fireplace, gazing into its secrets. Snippets of stories floated through her mind like dust motes in the morning sunlight. Jasmine sang a haunting gospel tune in the kitchen out back, the scent of freshly baked bread drifting into the room. In the distance a mockingbird shared its medley of songs. Samantha paced behind Emily.

"Anything you recall may help." Samantha strode to the bookcase and lowered the writing desk door to create a flat surface. Within the compartment resided the tools needed to make notes from the plethora of books surrounding the miniature desk. She laid the book alongside the quill pen resting next to its stoneware ink pot, and then retrieved a side chair.

"She didn't have any problems delivering either of us," Emily said. "Not that anyone noticed. She sang to us when we were both in her arms, did you know that?"

Emily sat down on the couch, watching Samantha with wet eyes. She swallowed the tears with difficulty, refusing them release. Wanting to help her friend, she drew a deep breath and released it as she counted to five.

"What a lovely welcome into our world she gave you," Samantha said. "That's a precious gift."

Emily wrinkled her nose. "She apparently loved every one of her children with all her heart. Though she only lived a little while after Elizabeth and I were born. Something to do with the afterbirth not being shed completely, I think, led to the infection that stole her from us. She cried out in pain, my father told me, grabbing her stomach. He held her hand, never leaving her side. He watched her gasp and close her eyes, never to open them again."

"Did a midwife attend her? Was there no one there to a.s.sist her?"

"Yes. I don't know who, a newcomer to town, I believe. Perhaps a childhood friend of Father's, as I recall. But what could she do?" Emily shook her head. "From what Father said, it all happened too quickly."

"Did anyone send for a doctor?"

Emily laid her head on the tall back of the couch and studied her friend. "Doctors in this area weren't of much use back then. They hadn't the same training."

Emily watched Samantha press her lips together as she dipped the quill and scratched in the journal. She apparently struggled to remain silent, to not say whatever bothered her. Ever since returning from caring for her ailing grandmother, her reticence to share her thoughts had become more and more apparent.

"Let's talk about Elizabeth if you're ready." Samantha looked at her, unsmiling. Her quill pen hovered above the page, ready to capture Emily's next words. "It seems your sister had a similar experience, didn't she?"

"Yes, she lived two days after Tommy's birth before succ.u.mbing to infection."

Emily wrapped her arms around her waist, holding her pain inside. Two days filled with Elizabeth's laughter and singing, her beatific expression every time she gazed on her newborn son. A maternal connection to the boy Emily would never have, even if she wanted to. A tiny voice chided that she did like the boy and one day she might even grow to love him, but she silenced it. Her dreams of husband and family had transformed into her nightmare, one she must avoid despite any residual feelings she may have otherwise.

"When did you notice the signs of illness?" Samantha held her quill poised.

"The evening of the first day, Elizabeth seemed restless, and when I asked if she was all right, she said her stomach ached, likely from the contractions. She looked so happy I didn't press the issue. But I should have. Tarnation! I did mention it to your mother at the time, but she agreed it probably meant nothing."

"My mother?" Surprise registered on Samantha's face. "Mother attended Elizabeth as the midwife?"

"I a.s.sumed you knew," Emily said, taken aback. "My apologies, I forgot you were in Savannah when Father asked her to tend Elizabeth, when she first discovered she was with child."

"And when she pa.s.sed, I had gone to the Neck to tend to several slave families who needed aid." She sighed, a long-drawn-out exhalation. "I'm sorry I failed to help."

"You had other obligations. Amy stayed here, along with my father and your mother," Emily rea.s.sured her. "We did all we could."

The front door banged shut, and the sound of heavy boots on the wood floors echoed into the room. "Emily! Where are you?"

"In the parlor," Emily called back.

She considered following up on her earlier conversation with her father about her dreams of a shop, but with Samantha present, it simply wasn't appropriate to have such a delicate conversation with her father in front of a visitor. Hopefully after Samantha left, her father would listen to her plans. If he was in a good mood, of course. Emily's father hurried into the parlor, charging the atmosphere with his presence as he had done all her life.

"Yes, sir?" Emily detected the fresh tang of sea air carried on her father's long cloak.

"Miss Samantha." He nodded at her before turning to Emily, his bushy brows arched. "What have you been doing today, my dear?"

"Samantha and I have spent the morning talking about how Mother and Elizabeth died." Emily's wavered on the last word. She swallowed to clear her thoughts and voice.

"Such a sad conversation for a beautiful fall day." The hefty man folded his arms and shook his head like a rusty pendulum. "Why are you dwelling on such a subject?"

Samantha waggled the feather of her pen. "I thought I'd make notes on the circ.u.mstances surrounding healthy childbirths and compare those to stillborn births and infant mortality." Replacing the quill, she gazed at him. "Can you recall which midwife a.s.sisted your wife?"

"Naturally. Your mother."

Samantha blanched. Emily feared her friend would faint from the sudden loss of blood to her head.

"My mother?" Samantha blinked in puzzlement. "I had no idea she lived in Charles Town so long ago."

"She's an old family friend," Emily's father said. "I became acquainted with her shortly before she moved into town. So when she did, and my wife announced she expected another child, I naturally requested that she tend her. Unfortunately the little boy did not live. But she also helped in delivering Emily and Elizabeth, and look how well they turned out."

Emily sensed he withheld more to the story, given the guarded expression he wore. "So you asked her to attend Elizabeth."