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Lydia. Elizabeth Lane
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Varina’s fingers began to relax as the pain diminished. Donovan could feel Sarah’s presence in the tiny enclosure. He could sense the exquisite tension in her as she waited, drawing into herself like a cat preparing to spring.
“Now!” she exclaimed, shifting her position to the foot of the bed.
Donovan clasped his sister in his arms and held her with all his strength. Varina’s nightdress, draped between her raised knees, blessedly screened Sarah from his view. But he could imagine what she was doing. He could feel every move she made in the agonized spasms that racked Varina’s body. And once more, silently this time, he prayed.
Seconds oozed past like drops of blood. Varina’s raw, anguished breathing rose to a gasp as she bit back the pain.
“It’s all right, Varina.” Sarah spoke with effort from the foot of the bed. “It—it won’t be much longer now. I’m going to count to three, and when I do, you’re to scream for all you’re worth! Do you understand?”
“The…children,” Varina murmured weakly.
“They’ve gone to Mr. Ordway’s. They won’t hear you.” Sarah’s shadow danced on the wall as she raised the lantern and set it on the washstand, then repositioned herself over the bed. “When I count three, now. One…two…three!”
Varina screamed. She screamed with the pent-up agony of hours. She screamed for Charlie, crushed in the mine. She screamed for Virgil, shattered by mortar fire at Antietam. She screamed for her own lost girlhood, and for the grace of a life that had vanished with the war’s first shot.
Donovan squeezed tears from his eyes as her anguish knifed through him. If Varina survived this, he vowed, he would do anything to see her happy. He would work his fingers to the bone, risk anything to provide her with the comforts that footloose Charlie Sutton had never managed. Varina and her children were his only living kin. He would see that they never wanted for anything. He would-”It’s done!” Sarah gasped. “Varina—the baby’s turned!`Now—quickly, when the next pain comes—push! Push with all your might!”
Varina’s next contraction came on the heels of Sarah’s words. Shifting his position, Donovan cradled his sister’s shoulders with one arm. Her frenzied fingers gripped his free hand as she bore down.
“Push…push…”
Donovan could hear the midwife urging as Varina gasped and strained. The two women were working together now, battling for the baby’s life. Donovan could not see Sarah, but he could sense her agitation. He could hear the ragged little sobs of her breathing as she echoed Varina’s effort. “Push…oh, yes, yes!”
Varina went limp in his arms as the new life slid out into the world. Donovan heard the sound of a sharp slap; then, miraculously, a thin, mewling cry.
“Oh!” Sarah’s voice was husky with awe. “Oh, Varina, it’s a boy! You have a beautiful little son!”
Varina stirred, moaning softly.
“Did you hear?” Donovan’s own eyes were damp. His arm tightened around his sister’s shoulders. “You’ve got a boy! Listen to him squall!”
Varina lay still for a moment, then rallied. “Let me see him,” she whispered. “Give him to me, Sarah—”
“As soon as I cut the cord and wrap him up.” Sarah fumbled with the knife and string behind the veil of Varina’s nightdress. A moment later she straightened into full view, a tiny, squirming bundle in her arms.
“Here’s your new son, Varina!” she exclaimed, her face glowing.
As she bent over the bed, Donovan noticed that the pince-nez glasses had dropped off her nose and were dangling from a cord pinned to her shirtwaist. Her eyes were a luminous silver gray, framed by thick, lustrous lashes. Tendrils of light brown hair had escaped their tight bun. They framed her sweat-jeweled face in damp, curling wisps. Her mouth, curved in a tender smile, was as softly inviting as a ripe peach.
Again, that sense of recognition stabbed Donovan’s memory, this time with a force that made him reel. What the devil was going on here? He could have sworn on a stack of Bibles that he’d never seen Sarah Parker outside Miner’s Gulch. And yet-”Give me my boy!” Varina gathered the pucker-faced infant into her trembling arms. “I’ve got a name for him already. Charles Donovan Sutton—for his father and his uncle.”
“That’s fine, Varina.” Distracted once more, Donovan gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. He didn’t relish the thought of his own name being coupled with mutton-headed Charlie’s, but if that was what his sister wanted-”We won’t be needing you anymore, Mr. Cole.” Sarah’s crisp voice broke into his thoughts. She’d replaced her spectacles, Donovan noted, and tucked the loose tendrils of hair behind her ears. “If you’ll be so kind as to leave us, I’ll wash Varina and get her settled.”
“I’ll be on the porch if you need me.” He edged around the blanket, leaving Sarah to her bustling, Yankee efficiency. Four long strides carried him across the too-warm cabin and out onto the snow-dusted porch. Latching the door behind him, Donovan sagged against the frame, limp kneed with relief. One hand raked his dark chestnut hair and eased down to massage the tension-knotted muscles at the back of his neck.
It was over. The baby was here, and Varina was all right. For this, he owed his thanks to the coldly capable Miss Sarah Parker, whoever she was. If she had not arrived in time-He shuddered away the thought as he stared out into the falling snow. There was no use fretting over what might have happened, he reminded himself. Sarah had come. She had readily done what he himself had been afraid to do. She’d read a book—that’s what she’d told him. A book! Good Lord, the woman had steel-wire nerves, and ice in her veins!
Sarah.
Enveloped by whirling snowflakes, he stepped off the porch and wandered into the dooryard. Her face shimmered before his eyes—the tender face he’d glimpsed as she bent over Varina with the child in her arms. Something about that face haunted him. What was it?
He was imagining things, that was all. He had never set eyes on Miss Sarah Parker until three days ago, when she’d come to check on Varina.
Damnation, what was it, then?
Unbidden, his mind had begun to drift. Through the blur of snow, he glimpsed the blazing lights of a grand ballroom and heard the faint, lilting strains of a quadrille. He saw gray uniforms with golden epaulets, the flash and swirl of a mauve skirt, a lace-mitted hand on his brother Virgil’s sleeve…
And that face. That beautiful, laughing, sensual face-a ghost’s face now, Donovan reminded himself. A face he had almost succeeded in forgetting.
Behind him, he heard Sarah Parker come out onto the porch and close the door behind her. “I’m leaving now,” she said softly. “Varina’s resting with the baby. There’s some broth warming on the stove—” She broke off hesitantly as Donovan turned and started back toward her; then she plunged ahead, a note of agitation straining her voice.
“I’ll send the children back when I pass the Ordway cabin. They’ll be all right. It’s not far, and Annie knows the way. Don’t let them trouble their mother too much. Varina needs her…rest.”
He had stopped a scant pace from where she stood. She blinked up at him through the snow-blurred lenses of her spectacles, her parted lips petal soft in the silvery light.
“I have to go,” she said, turning away. “The storm’s getting worse.”
“Wait.” Donovan caught her elbow, spinning her back toward him. He had meant only to thank her and go inside, but now he stood rooted to the spot, unable to tear his eyes from her face.
The resemblance was coincidental, that was all, Donovan told himself. With so many people in the world, some of them were bound to look alike. All the same, seeing those features on a straitlaced Yankee spinster was like being gut-kicked by a ghost. His senses reeled as he struggled with the bittersweet