Hall of Secrets (A Benedict Hall Novel) (31 page)

She came into the bedroom to find Margot with her head bent and both hands on Ramona’s belly. She glanced up when Allison came in. Her expression was intent, but calm. “Oh, Allison. Good. Come sit at Ramona’s head, will you? Her pains are coming quite close together now, and she’s fully effaced. Just give her something to hold on to, your hands, your arms, whatever works best.”

Another pain came, and Ramona groaned, much louder now. Allison, as she reached for her, was glad Dick had gone out. She could see that it was part of labor, but if he was pacing the hall below, listening, he might find the sound upsetting. Ramona gripped her forearms as the pain shook her, then lay back with a little gasp.

Margot said, her voice slightly lower this time, “The baby crowned with that contraction and with the last one, too. If we don’t make progress with the next, I may ask for your help, Allison. Can you do that?”

Allison swallowed. “Of course,” she said, and though her heart skipped a beat, she thought her voice sounded assured. Calm, like Margot’s.

“Good,” Margot said. She put up one forefinger and watched as another of the deep, hard pains shook Ramona’s body. Ramona grunted now, pushing, her eyes squeezing tight and her lips pulling back over her teeth in a sort of animal grimace, one Allison could see was completely involuntary.

When the pain passed, Margot nodded. “Yes,” she said. “We’ll need a bit of help, Allison. Here, let me show you.”

Ramona said in a breathless whisper, “Is everything all right? Is my baby all right?”

“Everything’s going to be fine, Ramona. Allison and I are just going to help the baby on its way. Take a deep breath now. Get ready for the next one.”

Ramona breathed, while Margot took Allison’s two hands and arranged them, one over the other, low on Ramona’s swollen belly. “When I tell you, Allison, you push with the heels of your hands, right here.” Allison’s hands trembled, but she kept them where they were. Ramona’s body was hot to the touch, and the whole room seemed overheated, charged with energy and effort. Margot said, very quietly, “Baby’s shoulder is catching on the pubic bone, here. We’re going to help it bend, so it can slide past. When the next contraction comes—yes, here it is. Now, Allison, gently, but firmly.”

Allison thought if her eyes stretched any wider they’d come right out of her head, but she did precisely what Margot said. She braced her hands, one on top of the other, and at the peak of the contraction, in the midst of Ramona’s long, agonized groan, she pressed down.

Nothing happened, at least nothing that she could see. Margot, who now had long silvery-looking forceps in her hand, said, “There’s the crown. Allison. Can you press a little harder? Don’t be too shy. Straight down, both hands. Ramona, keep pushing.”

To Allison, the moment seemed to go on forever. Ramona stopped grunting, but Allison was pretty sure it was because she was out of breath. Her muscles still flexed and strained beneath her hands. It was odd, to be pushing on Ramona’s body when she was already working so hard, but Margot encouraged her.

“Keep it up, Allison. Straight down, with both of your hands. You’re going to free up that little shoulder, just flex it enough so it can get past the bone.”

“Like this? I’m not hurting Ramona?”

“No, you’re not hurting her. You’re helping—oh, good. Excellent. We just need a moment more. . . . Oh, good work!”

It was the most awe-inspiring sensation Allison had ever experienced in her life. Beneath her palms, even through skin and bone, she could feel the shape of the tiny body. She felt the soft shoulder bend, and then there was a sudden, smooth slippage as the baby moved. There was a quiet rushing sound, as of a distant waterfall. Ramona cried out, not in pain, but in relief. Margot made no sound, but Allison, looking up at her, saw the curve of her lips, the satisfied expression in her eyes. A moment later, while Ramona sobbed and Allison caught her hands in hers, Margot held up the baby, red and wet and glistening. Safe and sound.

The infant took a breath and began to wail.

 

Margot stripped off her gloves and bundled them into the basket Hattie had brought up, along with the stained sheets and towels. Hattie was remaking the bed around Ramona, who sat up in a nest of fresh pillows, her brand-new infant, wrapped in a new, puffy receiving blanket, snuggled in her arms. Allison was brushing back Ramona’s hair, freshening her face with a cool cloth, and arranging a satin bed jacket around her shoulders.

Allison straightened just as Hattie made her way out of the bedroom with the basket of laundry, and assessed her efforts. “There, Cousin Ramona. You look very nice.”

“Let’s just open the window for some fresh air, Allison,” Margot said. “Then you can call Dick.”

Allison pushed up the sash and pulled back the curtains to let in the midmorning sun. She glanced around the room, as if it were her responsibility to make sure everything was in order for this first meeting of father and child, and then, with a proprietary nod, went out into the hall and down the stairs.

Margot smoothed the bedspread a little, though it didn’t need it. “You can rest soon, Ramona.”

Ramona murmured, over the head of her sleeping baby, “Thank you so much, Margot.”

“My pleasure,” Margot said.

“Allison was wonderful, wasn’t she?”

“Amazing,” Margot agreed. “Who would have thought, when that sad girl showed up here six months ago, that we might have a budding nurse in the family?”

A crisp knock sounded on the bedroom door, and Allison peeked in. She said, “There’s a new papa out here eager to meet his baby daughter.”

Ramona touched her hair with her fingers, and gave Allison a brilliant smile. “Please show him in. We’re ready.”

Dick came in, beaming and relieved, with an enormous bunch of flowers in his hands. Behind him, Margot saw Dr. Creedy. She picked up her medical bag and carried it with her out into the hall.

Creedy put out his hand. “Dr. Benedict,” he said. “You’ve left me nothing to do here, I gather.”

Margot shook his hand. “I think everything’s fine now.”

“Any complications?”

“Yes, actually. There was a shoulder dystocia, but it resolved well, and the shoulder didn’t dislocate. I had forceps ready, but I didn’t need them. I would be happy if you would examine my sister-in-law before you go, and the baby, of course. The infant looks perfect to me, but I’m not sure I can be objective in this case.” She rubbed her eyes, feeling the weight of the sleepless night, but buoyed with excitement at the appearance of her brand-new niece.

Creedy said, “You know, I delivered one of my own children, Doctor. When it’s your own flesh and blood, it’s not the same.”

Margot nodded. “Thank you for saying that. I was wondering.”

“When father and daughter have said hello, I’ll check on everyone,” Dr. Creedy said. “But I have no doubt Mrs. Benedict was in the best possible hands.”

“Kind of you to say so. I’ll send a maid up to see if you need anything. I’m going down to telephone to my father and my husband, and give my mother the news.”

She found the entire staff collected at the foot of the staircase. Hattie had already told them, of course, and they all stood smiling up at Margot as she descended. “Everyone is fine,” she said. “Mother and baby—and worried papa—all doing well.”

There were murmurs of delight and congratulations. Hattie said, with a twinkle, “And Auntie Margot? How is she doing?”

“Hattie, I’m so happy, you would think that baby is my own!” Margot said.

 

Margot went to do her hospital rounds and then her clinic hours. The day seemed endless, not just because she hadn’t slept, but because she could hardly wait to get back to Benedict Hall. When she said good night to Angela and went out the front door of the clinic, she found Blake waiting faithfully in his usual place. They drove to the Red Barn to pick up Frank, then straight home, as Dickson was already there.

“Everything went well?” Frank asked.

“Yes, it did in the end. There was a shoulder dystocia, which surprised me, because the baby’s not very big, but then Ramona’s not big, either. In any case, with Allison’s help, we managed just fine.”

“And the baby?”

“Oh, Frank! She’s just precious!” He smiled, and held her hand until they reached Benedict Hall.

Ramona had slept most of the day. The nurse, a middle-aged woman with a beaky nose and long chin, had arrived in the afternoon and was installed in the nursery next to Dick and Ramona’s bedroom. By dinnertime, she had prepared for everyone to meet the baby girl. One by one, the staff was allowed to climb the front staircase and stand in the open doorway of the bedroom. Nurse peeled back the receiving blanket to show the red-faced, wrinkly infant with her stiff thatch of dark hair. Every one of the staff made the appropriate compliments.

Margot met Blake just as he was coming back from his visitation. He leaned on his cane, making a cautious way down the stairs, and he inclined his head to her when he reached the hall. “A great day for the family,” he said.

“Yes, it is, Blake. You must be feeling—I don’t know—grandfatherly?”

He put his finger to his lips. “Don’t let Mrs. Edith hear you say that! But yes, in a way, I suppose I do.”

“Where is the grandfather, by the way?”

“Mr. Dickson is fortifying himself with a whisky,” Blake said. “Mrs. Edith is in the small parlor, too. I’ll fetch them now.”

“Blake—Mother hasn’t seen the baby yet?”

“No. She didn’t ask, and I wasn’t sure what I should do. Hattie said to leave her be.”

“Hattie would know best,” Margot said. “But that makes me sad.”

“Yes. It does seem a pity.” Blake moved down the hall toward the small parlor.

He was back a moment later with Dickson and Edith. Margot followed them up the stairs, noting the protective arm her father kept around Edith’s waist. They walked to the open door of Ramona’s bedroom, where Dick met them. Edith stopped in the doorway, but Dick urged her to come in. “Don’t you want to hold her, Mother?”

Edith, limply acquiescent, followed him to the bedside, where Nurse set a chair for her, then lifted the infant from her cradle. She laid the baby in Edith’s arms, but Margot saw with approval that she stayed close, ready to step in. She could see by the expression on the nurse’s plain features that she had assessed Edith and judged her not to be trusted with her infant charge.

Dickson stood at the end of the bed, smiling down at his daughter-in-law. “Well done, Ramona, my dear,” he said. “Your little girl is a real beauty.”

She wasn’t, of course. In part of her mind, Margot knew that, and she suspected this was what Dr. Creedy had been hinting at. The baby looked beautiful to all of them who would love her, who already loved her because of who she was. She was red and wizened and scruffy-looking by any objective measure, but by the subjective judgment of every self-respecting Benedict—and, Margot suspected, all the servants as well—she was infant perfection.

Nurse said brightly, “Mrs. Benedict, this is your first grandchild, isn’t it? How do you like becoming a grandmother?”

Edith, gazing down at the baby girl in her arms, said, “Oh, no. Not my first.”

Frank had come up behind Margot, and she felt him stiffen. Her father turned to face them with a stricken look.

Margot shook her head. Preston had laid one more burden on his mother’s shoulders. Poor Edith, who could barely remember what day it was, remembered everything Preston had said to her, even in the grim cell of an insane asylum.

Ramona, fortunately, was spared any knowledge of the Benedict bastard, if such a child even existed. She said, “No, you’re right, Nurse. This is the first Benedict grandchild. My mother-in-law might be a bit confused. It’s been a long day.”

Edith didn’t seem to hear any of this. She bent her head and pressed her pale lips to the baby’s forehead. She murmured, “You’re my first granddaughter, though, little one. I’m quite glad to see you.”

“Louisa,” Ramona said mistily. “Her name is Louisa, Mother Benedict. Do you like it?”

Dickson cleared his throat. “It’s perfect, my dear. Louisa Benedict. Just lovely.”

Edith sighed and said, “Louisa. Louisa. It’s like music, isn’t it?”

Dickson patted her shoulder. “It is, dear. It really is.”

Then it was Frank’s turn. He held out his arms, cradled the warm little bundle, and gave Margot a smile of such delight that it drove every other concern from her mind. After everyone else had gone downstairs to dinner, after Ramona turned on her side and drifted off to sleep, Frank and Margot stayed beside the cradle in the nursery. They sat side by side, watching little Louisa Benedict sleep, admiring her dark eyelashes, the exquisite scrolling of her tiny ears, the pink, wrinkled delicacy of her fingers and toes.

When she squirmed awake and began to cry, Frank picked her up and held her against his shoulder as if he had held dozens of weeping babies. She snuffled once or twice, then subsided again into sleep.

Frank gazed above the child’s head at Margot. His vivid blue eyes were brilliant in the low light. He said, huskily, “Let’s not wait too long for our own, Mrs. Parrish.”

Despite her resolve, she had found that she liked being called Mrs. Parrish very much indeed. She liked the way he looked with the baby in his arms, and at this moment, in this cozy dim room, nothing seemed to matter but the many forms of love that filled Benedict Hall.

She said, “Very well, Major Parrish,” and reached above the baby to kiss him. “We won’t wait too long.”

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

The writing of a historical novel is not a straight road, but one that winds and curves and doubles back on itself as new facts and details of the period are uncovered. I’m deeply grateful to the people who guided me down this particular road, and for a few who popped up on unexpected corners.

Nancy and Dean Crosgrove are invaluable as medical sources. My sister, Sarah Phillips, is intimately acquainted with social services in the Pacific Northwest, and advises me on psychological issues. My mother, June Campbell, was a child in the 1920s, but helps me understand the flavor of the times. Catherine Whitehead was my first reader on this book, and I’m lucky to have her eye and her instincts. All the Tahuya Writers—Catherine, Brian Bek, Jeralee Chapman, Dave Newton, and Niven Marquis—have been my steadfast companions on this long writing journey.

At
www.catecampbell.net
, readers can find a bibliography that includes reference books, historical websites, and other sources, such as the Museum of History and Industry in Seattle.

One special person who appeared unexpectedly along this road will remain unnamed, by personal choice, but was generous and courageous in sharing with me a personal story of bulimia and anorexia. I could not have created Allison’s story line without that input, which I suspect was painful to revisit. Thank you, my friend.