Eve

by HayleyK

The story - set in the early 1900's - of a woman's slow journey through insanity, commenced by the stillbirth of her son, which she blames on one of her surviving twin daughters, who she grows to hate.

Prologue

She did not even recognize the day's pronounced beauty as she held her newborn child in her arms. She didn't notice how delicately the crisp leaves fell from the fading trees, how they seemed to take their time to enjoy the day's splendor before settling on the ashen earth. She didn't notice the birds, who hummed their harmonious tunes so passionately, or the children at the nearby park who played and shouted so joyfully. All she recognized was how ethereal her sleeping baby looked as the bright sun's coral rays shone brightly through the large hospital windows, accentuating the rosy flush of her infant's delicate cheeks. The child's warm skin and dreamy smile gave her an instinctive sense of comfort. He was the perfect child, she imagined. As she coddled him, she found sanctuary in his grin, quietly singing lullabies to comfort the child in his peaceful sleep. Tenderly, she crooned her lullaby: "Lullaby and goodnight, thy mother's delight, bright angels beside my darling abide, they will guard the at rest, thou shalt wake on my breast, they shall guard the at rest, thou shalt wake on my breast…"

As she nurtured him, she dreamed of the possibilities for such a flawless soul. What would he accomplish? He had the distinguished face of a prominent elected official, like his grandfathers, she imagined. Then again, his smile was too gentle for the malicious labors of politics. She resolved he would likely become a renowned businessman, and altruist, like his father. However these thoughts rested easily in her mind, because whatever path he chose, she knew it would not matter. Since the day her doctor informed her she was indeed pregnant, she knew her child would be destined for greatness, like all male Westwood and Chamberlain kin preceding him. It was his fate.

As she admired her son, she envisioned their near future. The family portrait that was to come for the steadily approaching Thanksgiving holiday, which would be their first of many, was a leading thought rotating through her mind. She pictured an utterly immaculate image of perfection: the family's luxurious garments pristine and coordinated, mother clutching successful husband's shoulder as proud father gently cradles his newborn son. They were to be the perfect family, a dream for any American woman, she imagined.

As the woman laid in the hospital bed for hours, gazing into her serene child's face, the nurses became concerned. The child's corpse had grown cold. It was time for the mother to part with her baby.

"Wouldn't you like to see the girls?" asked a concerned young nurse, in an attempt to separate the oddly serene woman from the deceased.

The woman did not respond, or even acknowledge the nurse's presence. She simply continued to gaze at her lifeless child's pale face.

"Not all is lost. Look at the lovely blessings God has given to you," the nurse continued. "You have been given two beautiful daughters. And—"

"His name is Matthew," the woman interrupted, as though the nurse had simply commented on her healthy son's arrival. "Matthew Christopher Westwood II. He's named after his Grandfather. But he's a spitting image of his father, you know."

Unprepared for the woman's reaction, the inexperienced attendant could only think to hide her concern, sympathetically replying, "I think…he looks like his mother…"

The woman glanced at the nurse for a moment, revealing her hazy smile. Within the short couple of seconds their eyes met, the attendant acknowledged a bizarre sense of euphoria radiating from the woman's glossy, vacant eyes.

"It must be his eyes. I got my father's eyes, too," the dreary woman replied, focusing her attention back to the infant. "That must be the resemblance you see."

"Nurse, you're needed in the office," a nurse informed the attendant tending to the woman, as she popped her head into her hospital room.

"I'll be right there," the young attendant replied to her colleague. "Farewell, Mrs. Chamberlain," she smiled at her patient. "May God be with you." With this, the uneasy nurse turned to leave the room, but the woman interrupted her exit.

"One thing," she demanded politely, maintaining her vision on the child as the attendant approached her bed. "Fetch my husband. He's likely taking a business call on one of the lobby payphones." As the nurse once again slowly turned to exit, the woman continued quietly, unconcerned with the nurse's parting: "He hasn't even held his newborn son," she moaned. "He holds such devotion to his work." As she leaned back into her hospital bed, she sighed, "I worry for him…a man can only withstand so much pressure before he starts to crack…"

Chapter One: Matthew II

"Abuse!" cried the hysterical woman as two orderlies held her still so the doctor could inject her with the sedative. She tried to fight the tranquilizing effect of the medication, attempting to push away the attendants, focusing her hazy vision on the nurse rushing her concealed child out of the room, but its intoxicating effect began to take control of her. She cried for her husband to stop them, but he didn't move. Instead, he sat quietly in the visitors' chair he had displaced to the corner of the room. As the potent tranquillizer took its full effect, the woman became exhausted, slipping into a slumber, her final vision being that of her husband departing from the room, apparently unable to stand the hysteria.

#

"She has been her for two days and shows no sign of improvement," the doctor explained to the woman's husband, Christopher, as they stood outside her hospital room. "She is experiencing a form of hysteria," he said, lifting his glasses to rub the fog from his eyes.

"So where do we go from here?" asked Christopher, massaging his aching temple. "I have been in and out of this hospital for the last week. I have a business, you know. How do you expect a man to take so much time out of his life for the birth of a child? She has shown signs of progress…she understands the child didn't survive. You said her predicament should resolve itself naturally. There doesn't seem to be any reason for us to prolong her stay here," he prompted the physician to allow his wife a release.

"Unfortunately, I cannot grant your wife discharge to your care. She is still in a very fragile mental state," the doctor replied. "And for the safety of both your wife and children, I cannot permit her leave from a physician's care. However, we cannot have her remain in the maternity ward. Her private room needs to be occupied by two or three women," he said, his detached demeanor suggesting his jaded indifference to the couple's predicament

"So, Doctor…what now? Is there some sort of general ward she needs to be admitted to?" asked Christopher. "I'm sure this is something she can recover from naturally, there is no need to cause—"

"The psychiatric ward," the doctor interrupted, not having paid attention to Christopher's request, having heard his name summoned over the hospital intercom. "Excuse me."

Turning to walk down the hallway to attend to his summoning, Christopher shadowed the apathetic specialist, following him away from his wife's hospital room. "Doctor Andrews, there must be some other arrangement we can make. I don't think this little bout of depression warrants her admittance into the psychiatric ward. She's troubled, not crazy."

"Mr. Westwood, I really don't have time for this right now," said the doctor, a sense of urgency now apparent in his tone as his name was once again repeated over the intercom. "There's really nothing I can do. Go back to your wife, sir. I must attend to something immediately."

As he began to speed his pace, Christopher paralleled his haste, in both his stride and tone: "There are always exceptions. I'm a very wealthy gentleman, Doctor. I'm sure we can figure something out if we just—"

Halting mid-step, the doctor turned to Christopher, having had his attention seized. "My shift ends at four, sir. Meet me at my office then. Now if you would excuse me," he insisted, recommencing his walk.

#

"Good news, Mrs. Westwood," the nurse coldly interrupted the woman's slumber. "You're being discharged. Just let me draw some bloods and check your blood pressure and you're free to go," said the lethargic, older attendant. "Standard discharge procedure".

"What…what time is it?" questioned the somnolent woman.

"Eleven-something," replied the nurse, as she sluggishly pulled the bed sheets covering the woman from her bed and stuffed them into a white sack. "Let's get some blood," she said, pulling a thick, long elastic band from the cart she had towed into the room. Securing the elastic tightly around the woman's frail arm, she instructed the woman to "make a tight fist".

"Oh, I hate the poke," the woman moaned, as she watched the nurse sterilize the site on her arm from which she would draw the blood. "I hope you find the vein on your first—Ouch!" she yelped, watching the needle pierce her skin.

"Didn't get it this time," the nurse said indifferently, pulling the needle from the woman's arm.

"Just my luck," whined the woman. "It never seems to be on the first try when you really need it to—OUCH!" she exclaimed, inspecting the needle enter her arm once again. Clenching her teeth and shutting her eyes, she wondered how much blood the nurse would have to take: "At least it's in now, right? How much are you taking today?"

"It isn't…your veins are too damaged," the nurse countered, pulling the needle from her arm. Detaching the elastic band from her limb, the woman heaved a sigh of relief: "So it wasn't that important. Good. I can come back for tests another time, I'm sure it won't be a problem," she smiled, relieved she wouldn't have to be tormented with more painful prodding.

"I'm afraid I can't allow that," the nurse interjected. "Just going to have to draw it from your hand," she said, fastening the elastic around the woman's wrist.

"Really? Must you really? Please…from my hand?" she whined, rubbing her soft, hands together, noting their sensitivity. Can't I just come back another day?" begged the nervous woman.

"It's standard procedure, ma'am," replied the attendant. "I can't let you leave until I take some blood. You really shouldn't even suffer too greatly from the needle in your state".

"Alright," the woman said, clenching her eyes tightly and gripping the bed with her free hand. "Be quick".

Without a word, the attendant quickly found a vein in the woman's hand and drew a small amount of blood. "Done," she said after a few seconds of drawing the fluid.

Opening her eyes in disbelief, the woman was overcome with superfluous gratitude: "I really didn't even feel that! Oh, thank you! You're a wonderful nurse!"

"Your mother brought you fresh clothes," the attendant said indifferently, pointing towards the room's dresser, where a single black dress was hung.

"My mother?" questioned the woman. "Mother is here? My husband said she wouldn't be able to make it for weeks. Is something wrong?"

"I wouldn't know ma'am," the nurse responded, walking over to the dresser and removing the dress. "Get dressed and I'll take you to them…the sooner you get dressed, the sooner you can get to see them," she said, handing the woman her outfit.

"Well, it's about time," said the woman, as she dazedly forced herself to sit upright. "I wonder why my husband didn't tell me she was coming. She lives in … That's a five hour drive from here, you know."

"Lovely," the nurse smiled, having disregarded the woman's statement. "Now, let me help you off with your hospital gown," she said, untying the strings fastening her robe.

Ignoring the attendant's insensible remark, the woman continued: "Don't get me wrong, I'm happy she's here. But I have to admit, I'm a little concerned…My husband assured me there was no way she would be able to make it down…Is something wrong? Are you sure something didn't happen?" the woman asked, grasping for a notion of reassurance from the nurse.

"I know as much as you, ma'am," was all her attendant replied, focused on dressing the woman in her fresh garment.

"Maybe someone has taken ill…an uncle, an aunt, or a cousin of mine?" she asked as she slipped her arms through the sleeves of the dress the nurse was indolently slipping over her.

"I'm sure your uncle is fine," the nurse said, having not really listened, forcing a lax smile.

"Thank you for your kindness," the woman smiled, reassured. "And look! Seems I've lost some weight," she said, pulling at the fabric of her loose fitting dress.

"Well, it happens when you refuse to eat and they have to feed you intravenously for a week," the nurse said as she rolled her eyes and packed the woman's nightstand belongings into her bag. "Oh, look at that, you're all dressed," the nurse said sarcastically as she finished packing her belongings and looked to see the woman doing up the last button on her dress. Smiling, the woman nodded. "That's a good girl," she grinned, patting the woman on the head as she placed the bag with her belongings she had collected at the foot of her bed.

Removing a hairbrush and a few hairpins from the bag, the woman brushed her matted hair from her face, gathering it into a bunch and secured it in a loose bun with the pins; the most immaculate coiffure her unsteady hands could manage. "Now, how do I look?" she asked the nurse, smoothing the frizz of her uneasy hair with the palm of her hand.

Looking into the woman's face, the elderly nurse became overcome with ripened jealousy. Though being trapped in a bed for a week, she recognized the woman to be of immoderate exquisiteness; her fresh, young face still glowed with the distinctive radiance of green youth. As she stared into the woman's sculpted face, she acknowledged how her dark hair accented her eyes so strikingly; how the warm brown color dominating her mane seemed to exaggerate the pale affection in her fair brown eyes, and how her natural soft, honey highlights accented the golden flecks in her iris so beautifully. She noticed how her imperfect coif allowed for loose strands of wavy hair to fall delicately onto her chiseled cheekbones, accentuating the acute angles and curves of her sculpted profile. Most of all, she envied how her warm, peachy skin glowed with an unmistakable warmth; a quality she once had possession of herself, when she was young.

"That bad…" the woman posed hesitantly, misinterpreting the woman's sour expression of jealousy as a look of disgust. "Maybe a little rouge…" she continued, pulling a small black compact from her belongings.

"You girls and your makeup," the old nurse sneered. "It's ill-mannered".

"You sound like my mother," the woman giggled. "But it's 1919, the age of a new woman," she smiled, sweeping a cosmetic sponge across the rosy cream and applying it to her cheeks. "Better?" she asked, admiring her makeup in her compact's mirror.

"Who are you girls trying to impress with your makeup? I trust my husband would have a fit if I came home with that rubbish on my face. Tell me I looked like a harlot, that's what he'd say," said the old woman, without so much as glancing at her patient's face.

"My husband likes a little rouge," the woman retorted, slightly insulted by her senior's condemnatory remark. "I don't think there is anything wrong with a little rouge, or a little lipstick. It's just to accentuate a woman's natural loveliness…what's wrong with that? Besides, if Adele Astaire can wear it, why can't I?" she grinned.

"First of all you are not Adele Astaire. It isn't necessary," the attendant replied, as she pulled the loose pins from the woman's insecure bun. "It can't lead to anything healthy," she said, forcefully brushing the woman's knotted hair to the top of her scalp, where she twisted it into a tight bun. As she secured the coif, she continued: "Today it's pink cheeks and red lips; tomorrow, who knows…you'll be spending half of an hour putting your makeup together in the morning. And then where will we be?"

"What could you spend so much time doing? No one would want—"

We'll be a society of silly women with no greater concern than what we look like," she said. "It's all politics," she scoffed. "They give you the right to vote and then they invent face paints for grown women. They give us an inch of maturity and then thrust us back to behaving like children," she sighed. "You girls ought to be more concerned with your womanly duties: raising your children and taking care of your husband…rather than looking pretty," said the scorned old woman. Securing the final pin into the woman's hair, she sighed, "Better. Now you look like a presentable woman; no thanks to that ruddy cream on your face".

"Thanks you," whispered the woman as she wiped some of the blush from her cheeks with the back of her hand. Discouraged and embarrassed by the older woman's mocking and insensitive remark, her eyes began to well with tears.

"Well don't go and cry about it," the nurse scolded. "You new mothers are always so sensitive," she said. "Hold on, I'll be back in a minute," she commanded as she walked out of the room.

Frustrated with her oblivious attendant's indiscretion, the woman decided she would escort herself to her awaiting husband and mother. The lobby was only a few rooms down, she didn't understand why she needed to be chaperoned in the first place. Pulling her legs over the side of the hospital bed she pushed herself to a stance, but after nearly a second of standing, her weak legs gave way to her light weight, compelling her body to collapse onto the cold hospital floor.

"Oh, now look what you've gone and done," the nurse said as she reentered the room with a wheelchair, in no apparent rush to help the destitute woman. "Did I not say you were in a state? Your pumped full of sedatives, I'm surprised you were even able to get yourself off the bed," she said, helping the dazed woman up from the floor and seating her in her wheelchair. "Let's get you out of here, now," she said, grabbing the woman's bags and placing them on her lap. "Now say goodbye to room 116."

"Goodbye room 116," sighed the woman.

"I didn't actually mean…never mind," said the nurse.

With this, the nurse hastily escorted the woman to the lobby, where she found her husband, and mother waiting. "Hello, Christopher, darling! Hello, Mother!" exclaimed the woman as they turned the corner to the lobby. As she exhaustedly tried to push herself to a stance in order to properly greet her family members, Christopher made his was behind her, pushing her back down and maintaining her as he held her shoulders to secure her in place. "I'm sure they immediately told you not to try and walk," her mother scolded, shaking her head in aggravation. "You need your rest".

"You listen to her," the nurse smiled, her attitude reversing into a state of positivity. "Mothers do know best," she chirped. Looking to Christopher, she said, "I'll bring you your copy of the paperwork for her discharge, I just need to retrieve it from the office," she said, parting from the family to make her way to retrieve the documents.

"But I have been resting," the woman pouted. "They've had me in that hospital bed for a week. Haven't you heard?" she said, gazing into her mother's eyes for a fragment of sympathy.

Rather than a sympathetic response, however, her questioning was resisted with callous criticism: "What have you gone and done to your face?" she scoffed. "It looks like you coloured you cheeks with war paint. How terrible you look."

"It's just a little color," said the woman, bowing her head in disgrace.

"Well, wipe it off. You look ridiculous," her mother said, looking away from her daughter as though she were repulsed by her sight. "It is simply impolite. Your seventeen years old, yet apparently you still insist on playing with face paints like a child. Disgraceful."

"Yes, Mother. I'm sorry," replied the woman dismally, wiping off the barely evident remains of cosmetic left on her cheeks. "Can we go home…" she asked, lifting her eyes to meet her husband's.

"We've made arrangements for you to stay with me for a while," her mother answered coldly. "You will come under my care until you've gotten yourself over this little spell of depression. The hospital has had enough of you lounging around here, but apparently you still aren't well enough to care for yourself, or your household. I thought I raised a stronger girl, but apparently I went wrong," she said, an air of personal sympathy apparent in her tone.

"Apparently the girls will come home with me," Christopher interjected. "One is going to stay in the hospital for observation for a few more days, but they are having me bring the other, healthier, girl home today," he explained. With this, Vivienne remained silent, continuing to gaze into her husband's eyes; no emotion apparent in her face.

"Well, say something!" the woman's mother demanded. "Don't you realize your poor husband is to be burdened with your baby—your responsibility—for the night? You know he told the help to take time off until you recovered…he won't be able to find any assistance at this time of night! Show some remorse…at least some consideration. It's your frailty at fault!" With this, the woman simply turned her head to gaze at the wall, any discernable sense of emotion or expression vacant from her eyes. "Really? You're still doing this? Shutting yourself out of the world isn't going to help, my dear," she continued indifferently. "It's juvenile and inane. I wouldn't stand for it when you were a child and I won't stand for it now, snap out of it!" she demanded, pinching her unresponsive daughter's cheek.
"Ouch!" the confused woman yelped, "What was that for?" she cried, apparently unaware of why her mother pinched her.

"Your childish games…" her mother seethed.

"Here we are," the old nurse beamed, reentering the lobby with the documents. Handing them to Christopher, she signified for him to sign a few of the sheets, which she also initialed. "That's all, folks," she said contently. "You're finally free, ma'am," she smiled at the wheelchair ridden woman, clasping her hands as though they were two friends taking their leave.

"Thank you," the woman replied, forcing a smile for the nurse. With this, the woman and her mother left the hospital.

"Head over to the maternity office, sir," the old nurse instructed Christopher. "They will arrange for you to take your baby from there," she smiled, patting him on the arm in a congratulatory fashion.

#

As the nurse made her way to gather her things and commence her commute home after a long day of work, she was interrupted by her younger colleague. "Nurse Andrews!" a young nurse exclaimed as she came scurrying into the office the older nurse was collecting her belongings from. "Nurse Andrews, I'm so sorry I'm late. I was held up in a prenatal crisis, but I can discharge that patient now," she said, nervous her insensible superior would not accept her tardiness.

"Too late," the older nurse sneered. "I ended up waiting over an hour for you, but since you didn't bother to grace us with your presence, I discharged her myself."

"Oh," the young attendant said, confused. "And you discharged her?" she asked.

"What did I just say? Yes, I discharged her," she said, rolling her eyes in frustration with the new nurse's senselessness. "What does it take to be a nurse now? Apparently logicality isn't in the criteria," she said, shaking her head. Now if you'll excuse me, it's been nearly two hours since my shift should have ended," she said, putting on her jacket.

"So there were no complications?" the young nurse persisted. "Everything was normal?"

"What are you babbling about, girl?"

"Just trying to be thorough, ma'am…You took her bloods and tested her blood pressure?" she continued hesitantly.

"Yes, yes, everything was—" recalling the woman's discharge, the nurse realized she had, in fact, overlooked taking the girl's blood pressure in her rush to end her extended shift. "Everything was normal," she sustained. As she turned to collect her purse from a locker, realizing the girl must have caught her highly evident lie, the senior attendant revolved back to face the nurse, her tone turning icy and overbearing: "But how dare you question me about my duties as a nurse. Are you really trying to insinuate that I don't know what I'm doing? I've been working in this hospital for years. I didn't gain my title of head nurse of the medicine ward by being incompetent. And I suggest if you want to keep your job, you should 'just try to be thorough' with your own duties, not mine. You should start by showing up for your obligations when prearranged," she said, staring the young nurse down in an attempt at intimidation and deviation from the conversation.

"Yes, ma'am," the nervous young nurse replied. "I had just been given direct orders from Doctor Williams to discharge the patient myself. I didn't want to get in trouble if there were any complications. But you say everything tested normally?"

"Keep going, girl," the old nurse sneered. "You're already taking over all of the medicine ward's nurses' bedpan duties for the next week. If you would like to keep going, I will just have to meet with Doctor Williams personally to discuss you irresponsibility and insolence. I'm sure he won't take it as lightly as I am," she hectored the new attendant.

"Oh, I'm so sorry ma'am. It won't happen again. I really made it here as quickly as I could. I was afraid the doctor would be outraged if I asked to take a leave during an emergency just to discharge a patient. Please don't have me fired for this," she said, holding back her welling tears. "I ran across the hospital to get here as soon as I could."

"Stop aching. See that it doesn't happen again and I'll let you slide," the old nurse said. "And don't try to give me that rubbish about how 'the doctor would not understand'. We all function under the same understanding, being a doctor or a nurse. Certain patients must take higher priority over…others. We must appeal to their comforts above anything else," she said. "I mean, what if I were not here and Mr. Westwood's wife had to stay in the hospital another, unnecessary, night? It likely would have happened if I hadn't happened to wander through the maternity ward and been approached by Mr. Westwood. Do you realize what would have happened if you kept that man waiting?"

"I'm afraid I'm not really sure," replied the green nurse. "He would be angry?"

"Angry? He would be outraged! And then you know what would happen…"

"No…what would happen?"

"I…I don't have time for this, anymore," stuttered the frustrated older attendant, attempting to distract her colleague from further inquisitions. "Maybe you should go ask Doctor Andrews," she smiled sarcastically. "The two of you can have a nice chat about why it was so important for you to have his wife discharged in time. Good night, Nurse Zimmerschmiel."

With this, the intimidated young nurse whispered, "Goodnight, Nurse Andrews," and shyly hurried away to attend to her duties. Slipping on her jacket, the irritable old woman smiled, pleased with her security in her overlooked responsibility. As she was about to walk out of the office, a realization concerning the usually introverted nurse's incessant prodding came to her consciousness: Why would that girl be so concerned with the woman's tests? She was sure it wasn't a problem of the girl questioning her own ability to perform a couple basic tests. Overwhelmed with curiosity, she decided she would have to investigate the peculiar situation before she could leave. Glancing at the woman's documents she was about to drop in the office's outpatient box, she found the woman's surname. Unlocking the recent patients' file cabinet with her key, she searched for "Westwood".

Finding the woman's file, she opened the containing folder hoping to find her papers, but to her disappointment, the folder was empty. "Strange. Why would the doctor still have all her old files?" she questioned. "He always insists on having reviewed and returned all pertinent patient information prior to their discharge," she whispered. Her inquisitiveness now having evolved to interest, she decided she would further her investigation by probing a nurse she knew attended to the maternity ward patients.

#

"Nurse Chabot, I need to speak to you in the office, please," Nurse Andrews demanded the middle-aged nurse, who was pouring water into Styrofoam cups. "Yes, Nurse Andrews," replied the nurse. "I'll finish my water rounds and be right there."

"Come now," replied the older nurse.

Making their way to and entering the office, Nurse Andrews shut the door behind them. "It's about the woman in 302. You were attending to her. Correct?"

"Room 302…" the young nurse pondered.

"The Chamberlain woman," the older attendant impatiently pressed.

"Oh, Mrs. Westwood…what about her?" asked the young nurse, an air of hesitancy in her voice.

"What was going on with her? What was her situation?"

"I don't believe I am at liberty to say ma'am. This isn't your ward. I'm sorry," she said, turning to leave to continue her water dispensing duty.

"I may not be a nurse in this ward, but I am a head nurse. Therefore I am your superior and I demand an answer. I am still a medical assistant; I need to know this information. If you choose not to inform me then I will have to go straight to Doctor Andrews and bother him with the trivial matter. I'm sure he would not be pleased with you if you force me to burden him," she said, oppressing the young nurse with her fallacious supremacy.

"Well," the young nurse began shyly, successfully intimidated, "the woman gave birth to three children," she said. "The doctor had originally inspected her to be carrying only two. I spoke to her when she was first admitted. She was a very pleasant woman. She said they were having a boy and a girl. When I asked her how she knew it would be a boy and a girl, she said she just knew. God had told her…or something. I'm not really certain. I was just doing my water rounds and she struck up a conversation. I wasn't really paying attention. I do remember her saying they were to be named Matthew and Eve. I remembered the girl's name because I one day hope to have a daughter and call her Eve; it's such a lovely name. And the boy's…the boy's I only remember because of the way…the way she spoke it," she explained. "Matthew…" she whispered, imitating her patient's tone. "It was almost sorrowful, the way she said it. Like she already knew he was dead…or something…" she explained, her mind drifting into the memory.

"So, was there a boy? Was he stillborn?" Nurse Andrews interrupted the younger attendant's silence.

"Yes. But she refused to acknowledge the fact. When the doctor informed her, she just smiled and asked to see her baby, as though he had just informed her that the child was in perfect health. So, the doctor instructed us to bring her the deceased. She sat there holding her baby for hours, rocking him gently in her arms and humming lullabies to him. The doctor informed the other nurses and I to try and explain to her what had happened; that the boy was stillborn, but there were two surviving girls. But as we explained it to her, she just continued to stare into the lifeless child's face, humming her delicate lullabies…almost as though she lost herself in her own mind. After hours of this, the doctor called Mr. Westwood, who was held in a meeting at his office, to inform him of his wife's unprogressive state. When Mr. Westwood arrived a couple hours later, he went to try and clarify the tragedy to his wife," she said, fiddling her thumbs nervously, her eyes beginning to dampen with tears. "Alas, still no luck," she sighed.

"Eventually, the doctor decided the dire situation called for desperate measures," she explained. He instructed Mr. Westwood, two of the male orderlies and myself to attend the room with him. He instructed me to—on his command—to take the child from her…forcefully, if necessary." Her tone turning grave, she continued: "The six of us entered the room and the doctor informed me to close the door behind us. Very sternly, he informed the woman that we needed to take the child. The woman just smiled and asked if we could wait just a little while longer, that she was 'just getting used to his smile' and couldn't let him go just yet. Then, the doctor once again explained to her that she was functioning under a delusion—that newborn babies aren't even capable of smiling. With this, she just bowed her head towards her baby and began to sing to him softly, 'lullaby and goodnight, thy mother's delight…'" the nurse hummed quietly, once again becoming lost in the memory.

"How strange," said the old nurse, her impatience soothed by her colleague's tale. "Please, continue."

"Recognizing his attempts were futile, he had no choice but to present the poor woman with her severe reality. 'We are taking the child, Mrs. Westwood,' he ordered, his tone turning forceful. 'The body needs to be disposed of'. As the words escaped the doctor's lips, the woman…cracked…" she said, slowing her speech as though she couldn't find the proper word to use until it had escaped her throat.

"Cracked? I would imagine so. She must have completely broken down in a nervous fit."

"A fit…" the younger nurse repeated. "Nurse Andrews, I'm afraid 'a fit' doesn't quite describe the…intensity…of her reaction…"

"Go on…" Nurse Andrews prodded.

"When the orderlies approached her to hold her still, understanding what they were going to do with her child, she lost control. Ripping the I.V. from her arm, she tried to conceal the baby and in her arms and escape from the room. She was so pumped full of sedatives, however, that she made it barely three steps before collapsing to the floor. When one of the orderlies went to help the fallen woman, she…" the nurse paused, cringing as she recalled the gruesome morning.

"Go on! Go on!" the head nurse beseeched her inferior.

"She pulled the steel crucifix she held around her neck and…displaced it… into his left eye…"

"She stabbed him in the eye with her crucifix!" the nurse repeated in disbelief.

"Yes," she nodded, becoming uneasy recalling the notion. "I've seen many things working in this hospital for the years I have: wounds, mutilations, dismemberments…but only the repercussions. I have never had the displeasure of having to witness the tragedy itself. It was the most horrible thing I have ever observed," she said. "Blinding a man with such sacred item without so much as a hint of hesitation…and the look on her face…as though she were possessed by…by the Devil himself," she whispered, a look of dread glazing over her face.

"I'm sure anyone would seem evil having just stabbed someone in the eye with a rosary," said the other nurse. "Pretty girl…but no one looks attractive in a psychotic rage. I imagine she was screaming like a banshee, too. Must have been quite the scene," she said, patting the uneasy woman on the shoulder and turning to leave the room, appeased by the dramatic tale.

"I don't believe your understanding is accurate, ma'am," the nurse said, halting Nurse Andrew's exit. "It wasn't a psychotic rage. She remained calm. She was completely unresponsive. She just continued to stare at the door, completely focused on her exit, as though she was entirely lost in her mind. She didn't scream…didn't cry…even when the orderly she blinded fell to the floor beside her, gushing blood from his eye…she completely ignored the scene. She started to crawl on her knees towards the door, clutching her baby tightly to her chest…as though nothing was happening. As though she were possessed".

"Really…" the older nurse said, pulling out a chair from one of the office's desks and taking a seat. "Poor man…" she sighed.

"Indeed. He lost his eye; has to be fitted for a glass one. He was admitted into the E.R. last week but he's out of the hospital now. He still hasn't begun to work again, I doubt very much he will return to work here after such a tragedy. But I can give you his address and telephone number. I'm sure he would appreciate the—"

"Oh, yes. Too bad about him, too," the older attendant interrupted. "But I was talking about Mr. Westwood. He's a very prestigious lawyer, you know. He's one of William C. Westwood's sons."

"William C. Westwood?"

"Oh, come one, girl…William C. Westwood! The judge who had that doctor, Edward Johnward, acquitted after her murdered that man and four women. It was only thirty-something years ago. It was the most notorious trial of the century! He hung himself at thirty-four due to all the social pressure; the public blamed him for the acquittal of Johnward when he ended up killing two more people after they set him free. How on God's earth do you not know who William Westwood is?"

"I'm only twenty-nine, ma'am. It happened before I was born."

Rolling her eyes, Nurse Andrews stood from the chair again to leave, but was once again interrupted. "We were given strict instructions to never speak of the incident again. That is why I was so hesitant to tell you, and why I must ask for your absolute discretion in the matter," the younger nurse implored her superior.

"You don't have to tell me that," the old woman said. "I know my place."

Walking out of the room, she paused as she passed through the doorway, turning back to the other nurse. "When I saw Mrs. Chamberlain today she seemed fine; completely sane. How did Doctor Andrews manage to treat her so successfully in such a short time?" she asked.

"I'm afraid I don't have an answer to that, as I haven't been required to attend to her since the…incident…But what I was informed of yesterday during my last shift by one of the younger nurses was that while she now recognizes the child is deceased, she believes that the surviving girls are responsible for the boy's inability to survive. When they introduced her to the one girl, she was unresponsive and indifferent—a clear expression of her resentment towards the child. And considering that was her reaction to the sickly girl, Doctor Andrews fears she may react even less favorably, even become hostile, when introduced to the healthy one. Doctor Andrews says it is most likely a matter of imbalanced hormones, but I hear he is having her transferred to the psychiatric ward for further observation," she said. "Poor woman. She is very ill. I have my doubts she will ever be able to function as a woman and wife again. Let alone be a suited Mother to those poor girls," she sighed. "But, it isn't my place to pry anymore," she said, forcing a sympathetic smile. "My concern is with new mothers and their children, not the mentally disturbed. But speaking as a Christian, I'm not sure there is anything the doctors can do for that woman…a priest may be a better suited consultant," she said, staring at the large wooden cross hung on the wall. "But I'm sure she's being well taken care of in the psychiatric ward. Doctor Andrews will see that she has a good doctor to attend to her, I'm sure. I do hope she is copping in there, though. I believe she was transferred a couple of hours ago. I can't tell you who transferred her though. I deal only with doctors and nurses, not orderlies."

#

As Nurse Andrews took her seat on the bus to begin her commute home, she heaved a sigh of relief, able to finally rest her aching old bones. Her mind, however, remained exhaustingly fixed on the troubled young woman. She imagined how she would burden her husband; how he must have her put away in some sort of high profile institution outside of the prying eyes of the hospital. She understood how it would be a great stress on him, socially and financially. She also wondered what the poor man would say to explain to the prying minds of the public why his post-partum wife is not enjoying her children at home. She understood how society functioned: their meddling never rests until they uncover the truth, or at least a resolution appealing to their self-regarding, sadistic nature. "Poor man," she whispered to herself.

Suddenly, her thoughts were interrupted by a disturbance a few seats behind her. She turned around to notice a woman trying to soothe her crying baby, who had apparently been awoken by the wobbly road they had turned onto. Her mind then rotated to the woman's newborn girls, who she had completely neglected to take into consideration. She watched the woman as she tried to pacify her ailing child, becoming overwhelmed with a sense of sympathy for the woman's remaining children: born into grace, they would undoubtedly be the topic of social scrutiny and natter as well; their family history being as dissolute as their present and whole. "They don't have a chance without a mother," she whispered to herself, turning back around to face the front of the bus.

Noticing a wooden rosary hanging from the bus driver's rear-view mirror, she watched as the crucifix pendant bounced and jumped as it dangled from the shaky mirror, causing her mind to wander back to the nurse's horrific tale, reminded of her daunting words: "Blinding a man with such sacred item without a care…and the look on her face…as though she were possessed by the Devil himself." As she tightly clutched the silver cross she adorned around her neck, the religious woman's mind revolved once again the babies. "The children…" she thought. "They don't have a chance. Born the kin of a progeny of the Devil Himself," she whispered. "God help them. May the angels protect their souls..."

Chapter Two: Christopher

Making his way to the prenatal ward, Christopher cursed his situation: "What am I going to do with a baby for the night?" he questioned himself. "I can find help in the morning, I'm sure. But how am I to last until then? I'm a man, not a mother…"

"Hello, sir," the supervising nurse greeted him as he approached the ward's office window. "I assume you are Mr. Westwood?" Christopher nodded. "Well then, let's get you your baby," she smiled.

"Is there no way I can leave it here for the night?" Christopher asked, exaggerating his exhaustion.

"I'm sorry, sir. The ward is completely full. We don't have enough cribs or attendants for the children as there is. I'm afraid you simply must take the child tonight."

"And there is no way I can ease this situation. No financial restitution could mend it?"

"No. I'm sorry, sir," replied the nurse.

"And any nurses?" he asked. "Is there anyone here I could hire to take care of the child for the night? I would pay them very well, much better pay than they could find working here for a night, I'm sure. And it will be easier, watching only one child, as opposed to the many I assume you must look after here."

"We aren't nannies," the nurse replied, slightly insulted by Christopher's insinuation that she and the women who worked with the newborns were little more than glorified babysitters. "Sir, we have sickly babies here and it is only I and one other nurse on duty. We can't sacrifice the care of many for the comfort of one. So, I'm sorry. We only care for babies who still need to be here." Retrieving the baby, who was left in a basket at the back of the office, the woman handed it to Christopher. "Here is your beautiful daughter," she smiled. "Now, if you would excuse me, I have work to do."Without so much as glancing in the basket, Christopher picked up the holder and headed to the exit to check for an available taxi…

Making his way back into the ward, he placed the basket holding the child on the nurses' window. Looking up, the nurse sighed in aggravation. "Sir, I told you—"

"There is no available taxi, he said. The child is still in your care until I am able to leave," he said, lighting up a cigarette. "Leave me my last minutes so I can have a cigarette in peace and wait for a taxi," he said, walking to the lobby to take a seat by the window, where he watched two taxis assemble themselves next to one another, waiting for prospective customers. "Must be a slow night," he thought.

Twenty minutes, and three cigarettes later, Christopher was summoned by the nurse. "Sir," she called. "It is eleven-thirty. I am taking my break. Please take your child now," she said, standing and placing the white cardigan she had placed fitting the top of her chair over her shoulders. Walking back to the office, the woman waited by the window as Christopher collected his child without saying so much as a goodbye to the attending nurse, who really didn't mind his apparent rudeness; over her years of working as a nurse, she had come to expect—and to some degree, accept—the elitist attitudes of the affluent.

With this, Christopher made his way through the outer exit doors and climbed into the back of the taxi with the basket, the driver turned around smiling. "Oh! A new Father?" he beamed. "Where to, Poppa?"

"Perform Street," replied Christopher indolently, not impressed by the taxi driver's enthusiasm.

Not catching the man's lack of zeal, the driver continued: "So how does it feel? Being a Father, I mean. Is this your first? I take it she's a girl—don't see too many boys wrapped up in pink like that," he smiled, turning around to take a look in the basket Christopher placed had beside himself.

"Yes," replied Christopher, not really having paid attention to the man's inquisition. "Can you drive any faster? It's late and I'd like to get home".

"Oh, sir," the driver chuckled. "So excited to get the little one home. Perform Street is nearly just a five minute drive. We'll be there in no time. And we don't want to be in too much of a rush; need to keep the little one in safe hands," he smiled.

Gazing out the window, Christopher watched as they slowly passed the large houses, which acquired the majority of the land. "It is beautiful around this time of the year. It's not too hot. Seems extra cool tonight, too," continued the driver. "Imperial Beach can get bloody hot in the summer. Don't know if I could handle it if I didn't grow up here, myself."

Having caught Christopher attention, the weary man couldn't help but ask: "You grew up here?"

The taxi driver laughed. "Well, not here." But just on the outskirts of your town, further north, in Orange County. My parents were farmers. Couldn't afford to live in a rich town like this. I take it most of you is lawyers and doctors and something like that. You look like you could be a lawyer…you a lawyer?"

"Something like that."

"I knew it. You have that look to ya. My mother used to say I should become a lawyer. Said I had the 'gift of gab'. But I was never much one for school. Too much fun to be had when you're young to be sittin' in a classroom all day."

"I'm sure that's it," Christopher scoffed under his breath.

"Pardon? Didn't quite catch that, sir," the man said, turning around and smiling at Christopher.

"I said I'm sure you would have been a fine lawyer."

"Thanks," the man replied sincerely. "Means somethin' coming from a guy like you. But I enjoy working as a taxi driver. Meet all sorts of people. Get to see all different parts of California, too. I even drove a couple people across the border to Mexico. I reckon some people never get the leave the town they were born in. Not me, though. I've been all around," he smiled. Pulling up to Perform Street, the cab driver asked Christopher which house he should pull into.

"The last house on the left," replied Christopher. "It has a hidden driveway."

Driving passed the few other large houses on the street, the driver couldn't help but ask: "You're house is the only one with a hidden driveway? Very fancy." He said, genuinely quite impressed.

"My family enjoys their privacy," replied Christopher as they began to pull past the black, spike-tipped, wrought iron fencing, through the open gate into the long, winding driveway. Slowly driving up the steep hill the house resided upon, the driver admired the Romanesque three story mansion, externally structured with stone and granite, accented by black iron lancet windows. Pulling around the circular driveway, passing the two story carriage house, the driver couldn't help but enquire about the manor.

"Boy," he sighed, staring up at the gigantic residence. "How big is this place?"

"Almost seven-thousand square feet," replied Christopher. "Twenty rooms. Not including the servants quarters, of course," a detectable air of snobbish supremacy apparent in his tone.

"You really should lock up that gate. Wouldn't want any trespassers if this was my place," the driver commented. "But this kind of big mansion is too much for me. Bet I'd lose myself in there. But, to each their own, I guess," he smiled, his stare still fixed on the mansion. "That'll be fifty cents, sir."

"Fifty cents?" repeated Christopher, ignoring the drivers former comment. "A cent doesn't go very far anymore, does it," he grumbled, pulling change from his pocket and counting it out. Handing the cab driver the fifty cents exactly, he exited the taxi and began to walk towards his house.

"Sir! I think you're forgetting something!" the taxi driver shouted as he opened his door to get out of the car.

Christopher turned around to realize he had forgotten the basket in the back seat of the taxi in his haste to make his way inside. "Pardon me," he excused himself, as he walked back as the taxi driver pulled the basket from the seat and handed it to him.

"Guess all that lawyer business takes up all your mind," the driver laughed.

"Yes," Christopher forced a grin. "Goodnight". With this, he once again turned around and made his way up the screened veranda's steps and set the basket down to fetch the weighty metal keys from his briefcase. Unlocking the heavy iron double front door, Christopher stepped in and breathed a deep sigh of relief. The manor's familiar musk pleased his sense; he had not been home in nearly two weeks. During the term of his wife's hospital stay, he opted to live at his office, which housed all necessary amenities for comfort. He had had the architect design it years ago in mind he may enjoy extended breaks of privacy from his wife—before he was even formally courting any lady.

Inside the manor, the walls were wainscoted gray marble; the floors covered in dark tile; the fourteen-foot ceiling of the first floor presented in pressed tin. The dark colors and lancet windows gave the mansion a sinister, daunting, feel, Christopher thought; a concept he had adopted as a young boy when he and his mother first moved in twenty-two years prior.

The principal story of the residence was comprehended first by the grand entrance lobby and staircase, which led to the chamber story. Through the entrance lobby led a hallway, which led to a subsequent lobby comprised of three sets of double doors facing south, east, and west, which lead to the dining room, basement, and picture gallery, which was casually used as a billiard room for company, respectively. The dining room also communicated to another set of double doors which led outside towards the separate kitchen and servant's quarters, which was comprised of a small, two-storey stone dwelling.

In the basement, a large library formed an inner apartment connected to the drawing room of the same dimensions. It also housed two bed chambers, a gentleman's room and home office—which also functioned as a bed chamber, dressing room and bath house. The basement came to function as an area for Christopher to seclude himself from the rest of the household. It had become his private oasis, ventured into only by himself and his private company.

The most notable feature of the library, possibly of the mansion itself, was the gigantic Tudor fireplace, above which the previously residing inhabitant's family crest hung. The large crimson crest held the inscribed Latin motto 'Humus Penuriosus', which translated to 'Sod the Poor' in English. Often asked by company why he chose to keep the family crest which was not even his own hanging in his residence, Christopher would chuckle and say that he "couldn't argue with the sense," in a joking manner.

The chamber story consisted of ten rooms: four bed chambers—each possessing private bathrooms—four dressing rooms, and two drawing rooms. The master room was located at the end of the long hallway, an extended distance from the guest bedrooms—one of which had been remodeled by his wife to accommodate the expected children. Beside the master bedroom's double doors held a semi-hidden set of wooden doors, whose black paint was beginning to give way to their original crimson color. Upon inspection, one would likely assume them to lead to a linen closet or some sort of insignificant space. However, the seldom opened doors were dedicated to a stairwell which led to a grand three-thousand foot ballroom.

While Christopher had no real fancy for entertaining with the room, though often prompted by guests, it was the deciding factor in his mother's resolution to acquire the manor, over twenty years ago. She had a taste for entertaining large parties and throwing extravagant balls; a trait Christopher most definitely did not inherit. "Just like your Father," she used to tease him. "All work and no fun. You should take your nose out of your books and live a little! You're going to end up such a bore!" she would proclaim; a declaration which would embarrass the young boy, especially since his mother would most often proclaim it in the presence of her successful associates.

The house was decorated with gothic accents of black crystal chandeliers and candlesticks, which did very little for the manor's actual lighting. Horrible, leering portraits of Tudor worthies, which used to scare Christopher as a young boy, covered the walls. His mother said they added to the "dark, nostalgic charm of the house"—a gimmick she would brag about to her wealthy acquaintances. "You may live in a mansion, but I live in a haunted manor," she would brag, not actually believing in ghosts, herself.

Guests were often amused and intrigued by the manor's "creepy" vibe, often referring to it as "spectacular" and "marvelous", which prompted Christopher to develop an affinity to the dark and supernatural as a teenager. As an adult, he decided to keep the decorations which haunted him as a child when he inherited the residence after his mother's death. "It is superior to the average abode," he began to think to himself in effect of all the compliments he would receive on his unique gothic mansion.

His mother's affinity to social dealings led little time for them to become familiar with each other; a misfortune which led them to care little about one another. It would be have been harmless to the child if anyone were to have told him his Mother did not love him. A lack of affection quickly leads a child to understand the harsh reality of a selfish society and find interest in other sorts. For Christopher, it led to him delving into his books and studies, in expectance of becoming a great success in his future intellectual endeavors, like his Father, Grandfather, his Grandfather's Father before him, and so on, as far as his family history told. It was peculiar for a boy his age to take such interest in finding future success, but a quality encouraged by his Father when he was alive and sentient, none-the-less…

Carrying the basket up the lobby's stairs, Christopher made his way into the first chamber room to the right of the hallway, which was dedicated to the new children. The nursery was dressed in soft shades of yellow. It held two bassinettes placed next to the right wall adjacent to the door—one dressed in white and yellow lace; the other in pink—a white wooden rocking resting next to the yellow cradle, next to which was a small wooden white coffee table, and a large white wooden clock on the opposite wall. Two large windows built into the wall opposite the door allowed for plenty of sunlight to fill the room with a warm glow come daylight. Against the wall across the babies' cradles was a white padded dresser, padded with towels meant to be used for changing the children. Filled with portraits of various animals and a large, hand painted pastel portrait of Noah's Arch filling the wall behind the bassinets, as well as oodles of toys and stuffed teddy bears, the nursery exuded warmth and tender affection. Walking to the bassinette dressed in yellow and white lace, he went to take the baby out of the basket. Hesitating, he couldn't quite figure how he was to pick up the sleeping child without waking it from its slumber. Staring at the child in his dilemma, he couldn't help but notice the newborn had very similar features to himself as a baby, as he considered the pictures of himself as a child being held by his father—mementos of his childhood he secretly kept hidden in the library. The only feature she lacked was the dark hair that dressed his head when he was born; the child possessed pale ashen locks of curled tendrils, which gave her warm face and pink cheeks an angelic accent, he thought to himself. "Well, you're definitely my daughter," he smiled, his sense of vanity appeased by the beautiful child.

After staring at the child for minutes that felt like moments, he drew the courage to pick up the sleeping infant. Slowly sliding his hands under the delicate girl, he gently picked her up and instinctually brought her toward himself, holding her lightly against his chest. As he picked her up, she stirred very little, maintaining her deep sleep. "Good girl," he whispered, relieved he did not awaken her. Leaning over, with the child still softly held against his chest, he slowly placed the girl in her bassinette. Reassured by the child's somnolent condition, he gently patted her soft mane before walking towards the room's egress and switching off the lights.

However, as though the child impulsively knew she was to be left all alone for the first time in her short life, she let out a strident howl, halting Christopher from his exit. Turning the lights back on, he walked back over to the sleeping child. Startled and nervous, he made the initial assumption that the child was hungry. Leaving the child crying, he made his way to the kitchen to fetch a bottle of milk, which he assumed would be a satisfactory banquet for the hungry child. However, after minutes of searching, he was unable to find a suitable glass baby bottle in the unfamiliar kitchen. In nervous haste to calm the ailing child, he took a teacup and filled it with cold milk.

Returning to the howling child, he lifted her tenderly from her cradle, after setting the cup of milk on the wooden table beside the rocking chair. Sitting in the chair, he cradled the child in one arm and lifted the tea cup to her lips with his other. However, as he gently tipped the cup to the child mouth, she rejected to drink, spitting it out of her mouth and stirring her head in disapproval. "What's wrong?" Christopher asked, becoming distressed. Wiping the liquid from the child's face, he realised the milk may have been prepared too chilled for the sensitive babe. Placing the child back in her cradle, he made his way back to the kitchen.

Lighting a fire in the iron stove, he transferred the drink to an iron pan he found hanging from the ceiling. He filled the pan with a few more cups of cold milk, in expectance most of the drink would end up on the baby, rather than inside of her. Placing the pan above the set fire, he impatiently paced back and forth, dipping his index finger into the milk every few moments to test if it were warm enough. After a couple of minutes, when the milk had reached tepid warmth, he transferred the drink to a glass jar he found readily available on the counter, and quickly snatched the teacup from the counter before making his way back to the ailing child.

After transferring a portion of the milk from the jar into the teacup, he once again tried to feed the child. After what felt like minutes of trying to nourish the baby, her scream turned into a whimper and as he gently lifted the cup to her lips, she gradually began to accept the warmed ration. After three cups of milk—most of which spilled over onto the child and himself—Christopher exhaled a deep groan of relief. Quite satisfied with himself, he laid the baby back in her cradle and exhaustedly took a seat in the rocking chair beside her. Glancing at the clock he noted it was slightly past midnight, and closing his eyes in fatigue, he inadvertently fell asleep...

Suddenly, Christopher jolted forward, nearly projecting himself out of the chair. The child began to cry wildly again, and he was woken up to an unexpected scream. "Oh, Lord!" Christopher moaned, glancing at the clock and realizing he had only been allowed just over an hour of rest. "What now?" he groaned, lifting the child from her cradle.

Overwhelmed by a vulgar blast of a very disagreeable scent, he realized the child had soiled her diaper. "No, I can't," he hesitated. "I'm sorry child; you have to wait until morning," he said, placing the child back in the bassinette and walking out of the room. "I cannot perform such a vile, menial act. I am very tidy," he said to himself, making his way out of the room.

Walking into the master bedroom down the hall, he could still clearly hear the baby's pulsating moans. Closing the door, he walked over to his dresser, desperate to change his clothes, which had been spoiled by spilt milk. However, as he began to open the bottom drawer, his child's moaning echoes still pierced his mind. "Damn it!" he cursed, quickly grabbing a set of linen sleeping garments and shutting the dresser door. Quickly changing, he made his way back down the hall to the baby's room...

He held his breath and picked up the child, holding it as far away from his features as his arms would allow, moving it to the changing dresser, where he unfastened the safety pins and unfolded the diaper. Lifting the bottom of the child and beginning to pull the rancid cloth from underneath her, he was no longer able to hold his breath—he had terrible lungs; an effect of the asthma he developed as a child. Inhaling a desperate gasp, his senses became overwhelmed with the pungent aroma...

Rushing to the bathroom with the screaming child, he placed the polluted baby on its soiled stomach on the cold, white marble counter and began to run the faucet. Waiting for the water to run warm, he left the ailing child on the counter and quickly proceeded through the two other guest rooms and collected both towels that were supplied in each. Placing the towels to the side— laying one out beside the sink—he carefully picked up the child and began to rinse her under the tepid water. "I'm sorry," he moaned, picking up a towel he had placed to the side and lathering the hand soap into it. "I'm sorry, I'm a businessman...I'm in plastics".

As Christopher gently washed the baby, her scream diminished into a whimper, and his heart beat diminished to a normal pulse. "I guess newborn children like being bathed. I would not have assumed so," he thought to himself. Five minutes later, Christopher picked up the baby and placed her on the last unused towel, which he had laid beside the sink. Wrapping the child in the blanket, he gently dried her wet skin. Picking the baby up, he carried it back to the nursery, where he wrapped it in a blanket and placed it back in the yellow bassinette.

However, once again, when Christopher turned to leave the room, the child began to howl in distress. Walking back to the bassinette, he pleaded with the child: "I've fed you, changed you, and bathed you...go to sleep!" As the child continued to cry, he picked her up and cradled her in his arms, and began pacing around the room slowly. As he held her as he walked, her screaming subsided to only a cry. Christopher realized something about the movement offered her some appease. Deciding he would hold the child until she fell asleep, he decided he may as well walk along the beach, which was located just behind his manor—a rare occurrence he did enjoy, especially on a night of such tepid temperature...

Walking along the Ocean's waterline, he noticedsomething about the cool night's salty air soothed the ailing child: her pulsating moans were beginning to subside; her heart slowed to beat softly against his chest. The heavy breath she panted on his neck slowed to soft grazes of warm air touching his throat. "Seems you're a nature aficionada," Christopher said to his appeased child, stroking her soft, fair, sandy blonde hair, becoming more relaxed handling the baby. "I suppose you get that fondness from me. Your mother is not really fond of the outdoors," he said. "I have a feeling 'Eve' won't suit you well as a name…maybe it will the other girl. I think you may deserve more than just another common name," he smiled. "But I'm afraid I'm not very imaginative. Your mother chose the other children's names…" he whispered. You seem to enjoy the Ocean, though…at least being in the outdoors presence. I remember reading a novel when I was a boy. It must have been my favorite book for years. It was a fairytale about a girl who lived in the Ocean…what was her name…" he pondered. "I believe…Kenda?" he questioned himself. "Yes. Kenda," he repeated. "I think that may be a suited name for a girl like you".

Cradling the child in his arms, he continued to stroll along the shore, rocking the baby gently as she began to slip into a slumber. When he was sure the baby was fully asleep, he quietly made his way up and across the screened-in backyard deck and back into his home, silently crept through the kitchen into the entrance lobby, tiptoed up the stairs and slipped down the hallway, back to the nursery.

Walking to the bassinette, he slowly began to place the sleeping child in the cradle, but as the child began to stir, apparently becoming awoken from its slumber, he decided it may be best to continue holding the child himself, in fear moving the baby would disturb her sleep. "You're not about to allow me any sleep tonight, are you, Kenda?" he yawned. Looking at the large wooden clock ticking on the wall he whispered the time: "Two-o-clock in the morning". Walking over to the white wooden rocking chair, he carefully took a seat, so not to wake the baby, and automatically began to softly rock, back and forth, inadvertently putting himself to sleep…

Awoken by a pounding noise coming from the front door, Christopher glanced at the clock to check how long he had been napping for. "Five-fifty," he groaned, wiping his blurry eyes. Hearing the front door swing open, he jumped to alert, instinctually jerking himself to a stance, unintentionally jolting the sleeping baby, who began to shriek wildly having been awoken from her slumber. Oblivious to his unsolicited visitor's identity, and considering the fact it was not even six-o-clock in the morning, Christopher hesitantly placed the crying baby in the crib and nervously made his way out of the room. Making his way down the hallway and peering over the banister into his front lobby, he heaved a sigh of semi-relief.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Chamberlain!" a woman called out cheerfully. "I see you are home. And I hear you have a 'petit ami' with you?" she smiled. As Christopher made his way down the stairs, he noticed Mrs. White was melodramatically dressed, as usual. Adorned in a peacock blue dress, the mounds of multicolored jewelry she bejeweled herself with flashed with each subtle turn she made. She wore a hat to match her dress, as usual. She always claimed that "ladies always wear hats," but Christopher believed she did so to hide her graying hair, a tell-tale sign of an aging woman's maturity. She had a round face, which was usually flushed to a shade of pink, and large blue eyes, almost matching the color of her dress—the only really pleasing feature about her.

"I see you are back from your visit to France, Constance," he said, forcing an insincere smile and kissing her hand, which she held out towards him, politely. "And who might this be," he asked, turning to the pretty young girl who accompanied the woman.

"I go by Colette, now," the overbearing woman announced. "And this is Elizabeth," she explained. "We found her when we took a fairy to England for a day. She is sixteen and well-trained in etiquette and child rearing. We picked her up as a graduate of the Birmingham Girls School of Etiquette. She expressed interest in coming to see America and finding a fitting suitor for herself!" she exclaimed. "Men from England can be so…stuffy…" she smiled coyly. "She is my husband—who sends his best wishes—and my gift to you in celebration of the birth of your first children! Her first year of employment has been paid for by us…and I know, it's a little assertive of us, giving you a nanny as a gift, but I couldn't resist. She is trained as the finest, and no respectable woman should be expected to raise her children all on her own in this day of age," she said. "Vivienne told me of her intentions to do so, and since I couldn't talk her out of it myself, I insisted to my husband that he simply had to hire her for you. And I'm sure after a year, you will be so pleased with the help, you won't be able to give her up!" With this, she clutched Christopher's hand tightly before moving past him and ascending up the stairwell. "Now let me see the little ones!" she exclaimed, moving up the stairs as quickly as her hefty stature would tolerate.

Following the weighty woman up the stairs, Christopher hoped her visit would be short lived—he found it a burden to have to pretend to take interest in her superficial, trivial conversations and interests. Though she and her husband were close family friends, he would often find himself having to excuse himself to his work, unable to stand their tales of glamorous European trips and glitzy encounters with the rich and famous.

Following the woman into the room containing his ailing offspring, he hoped he would be able to persuade her into a short visit—an unusual occurrence befalling Mrs. White's usually unexpected social calls. "So what do I owe the pleasure of your—very early—appearance, Const—I mean…Colette?"

"Oh, the little girl!" the woman beamed, ignoring Christopher and lifting the crying child from her cradle. "Qu'est-ce qui?" she cooed at the child, who seemed to grow exceeding louder as the woman cradled her. "Apparently she doesn't have a taste for fine French perfume," the woman snickered, placing the screaming baby back in her crib. "You have so much to learn, my dear. Thank goodness you have your mother and I to guide you through the finer things in life…" she smiled at the baby. "But Christopher, darling," she said, turning back to face the already socially drained man. "Where is the other child? Vivienne told me the doctor informed her she would be having twins. And where is my Vivienne!" she exclaimed, beginning to work herself up into a nervous fit, leading the way out of the room back to the front lobby.

"Extended stays in the hospital," said Christopher, in no mood to even begin to think of a proper excuse to explain his wife's situation.

"Still in the hospital!" the woman shrieked. "Oh, dear! I knew something was the matter! When I arrived home late last night—I guess the time would have been around 11-o-clock—I called here, but there so no answer. So, of course, I called your neighbors, the Jacob's residence, to make sure everything was alright. Mr. Jacob answered the phone—he's usually such a nice man, it was strange, he was very short and impatient with me," she said, a puzzled expression capturing her smile. "Anyways, I asked him if he knew where you and Vivienne were and he said 'no'. I asked him if Vivienne had had the babies and he said his wife said she thought so, but she believed she was still in the hospital with the children. When I asked him if he would like to visit your house with me and see if everything was alright, he muttered something under his breath about having to work before hanging up the phone…right on me! Without as much as a goodbye!" she said, her tone turning from concern to snooty bitterness. "The nerve," she shook her head, her cheeks beginning to swell and burn with crimson emblazon. "The nerve he has, hanging up on a lady like myself. Some people have no manners!" she cried.

"He must have been tired, and therefore understandably a little irritable, Mrs. White," Christopher said, forcing a sympathetic smile. "The good doctor works very hard, you know," he said, making a mental note to buy his good friend Mr. Jacob a drink— he often found Mrs. White's puffed-up outbursts over such trivial matters to be of slight severance for her unsought visits, gratifying his sense of comedy.

"Well, I don't believe working hard warrants being ill-mannered," said the older woman. "I work very hard myself, running my house. And would I ever dream of treating one of my close friends so offensively?" she asked in a tense fit. "Never!" she sneered.

"Anyways," Christopher said clearing his throat, attempting to distract the worked up woman from the conversation, in fear of his smile breaking through his tight lips. "That's a magnificent outfit, Colette," he said. "Is it new?" he asked, appealing to her conceit.

"Oh! Yes! With all our gossip I completely neglected to give you a chance to ask me about my trip!" she beamed. "It was fabulous! Paris is so lovely this time of year. 'The City of Romance', I call it! And this marvelous outfit, as you so kindly enquired about, is a piece by the renowned French designer, Jacques Doucet. His work is always 'tres chic'. I'm sure you've heard of him?" she asked, hoping he indeed had not.

"Oh, Jacques Doucet," Christopher repeated, clasping his hands together enthusiastically, as though he were familiar with the designer, knowing well if he showed any sign of ignorance regarding the topic he would be reluctantly tutored on the subject at the woman's will. "The fabulous French designer! Of course, who hasn't?" he smiled.

"Oh, of course you have. How silly of me to ask," she replied. "A prestigious businessman like you having never heard of Jacques Doucet. How ridiculous of me to even inquire…Anyhow, I'm sure your dying to know all about our trip. Let's go to the kitchen, I'll have one of your workers prepare us a cup of tea," she said leading the way out of the room.

"They aren't back, yet," Christopher explained. "I gave them a leave while Vivienne stayed in the hospital. I have no need for them when I am alone with no company, I didn't see a point in having to have them stay here when there was really no work to be done. I am always at my office…I eat, work, and sleep there. I didn't see a point in having meals prepared if I were only to eat alone."

"Hmm," Mrs. White frowned disapprovingly. "You know, we don't only hire help to cook meals. What if someone were to visit the house when you were absent? There would be no answer…that would be very rude," she said. "And what if you were home? Were you to answer the door yourself? That is just uncivil," she lectured the tired man. "I suppose I will have to make us a drink," she frowned. Go to the picture room, I'll prepare the tea and bring it for us"…

Sitting in the picture room, after what felt like hours of conversation about her and her husband's grand endeavors in France, Christopher exaggeratedly pulled up his shirt sleeve to look at his watch. "Six-thirty!" he exclaimed, as though in absolute shock. "Already? I hate to interrupt our fascinating conversation, my dear Colette, but I'm afraid I must begin preparing for work," he said, exhaustedly standing from his seat.

"Oh, you poor man," Mrs. White smiled sympathetically. "Don't you know it's Sunday. You must be exhausted from work and worrying about your poor wife and sickly baby."

"Oh, yes. That must be it," he yawned. "Maybe I should go catch up on my—"

"Sleep. That's exactly what you need, sir. Sleep," she interrupted authoritatively, collecting Christopher and her own cups and saucers. "Now you go upstairs and relax. And don't worry about little…oh, dear…in all our excitement I failed to catch your darling little girl's name."

"Kenda," Christopher whispered, apprehensive to reveal the child's name he had elected. He awaited public scrutiny of all his professional and personal undertakings with great anxieties; even the judgments of the women of thriving men.

"Kendra!" the woman beamed. "How lovely! What a beautiful name; it sounds French!" she exclaimed. "Kehn-drah," she repeated, exaggerating her interpretation of the name with a forged, pretentious French accent. "Is it French?" she questioned Christopher.

"I believe it's English," said Christopher, recalling the novel he had borrowed the name from to have been set in the English Channel and to be written by an English author. "And it's actually pronounced—"

"Maybe…but I do believe it is French," she retorted, interrupting him again. "And I just spent nearly three weeks in France, so I have, of course, developed an ear for the language. And Kendra sounds very French to me. So, yes, it's French."

"Maybe it is French," Christopher nodded his head. He was almost sure the name's origin was English, but it was not in his character to partake in trivial quarrels.

"Of course, it's French," she smirked, pleased with herself. "It is a lovely name. Wait until I tell the Pacquets—I know Mr. Pacquet is a descendant of French blood. He informed us of it when we announced our trip."

"Yes. I do believe Ophelia has French kin, as well: Chamberlain connections, from her father's family."

"Chamberlain…hmm…" she pondered. "It sounds rather German to me. I think it must be German."

"I think you may be correct," Christopher forced a tired, lax smile, knowing well his wife's father hailed from France.

I believe Now, I must insist you sleep. You look exhausted, Christopher."

"As you wish, Mrs. White," he grinned sincerely, aware he would be alleviated of the self-important woman's presence soon. "I'll see you out," he said, standing from his chair to escort the woman out the door.

As they made their way to the front door, Christopher said goodbye and Mrs. White bid Christopher 'adieu'. As Christopher was in the midst of closing the door behind her, suddenly Mrs. White halted his closing of the entrance, pushing it back open with a forceful counter thrust. "I almost forgot!" she exclaimed, re-entering the house's lobby. "When will Vivienne be arriving home? I want to be sure I'm here to welcome her back after her extended stay in the hospital, the poor petite dear."

"That would be up to her doctor," Christopher said lethargically, exaggerating his exhaustion in an attempt to see the woman out quickly. "I'm sure we all hope it will be soon. I can assure you that you will be the first person I call once I am informed myself," he said, yawning.

"Maybe I should go visit her today," said Mrs. White, making her way back to the picture room. "I would hate to have her hear her dearest friend is back in town and hasn't come to visit her, yet. Yes, I think I'll head over and surprise her with lunch. I brought back some fabulous French delicacies that would surely be a welcome relief from the tragic food I'm sure they're serving her in that hospital."

"She's been transferred to another hospital," said Christopher, quickly thinking of an excuse for Vivienne, who he knew was no longer residing in the town's hospital where she gave birth to the children. "They needed her room for other patients. They were overcrowded, you see. And we couldn't very well have her share a room with another person. Could we, Colette?"

"Heavens, no!" cried Mrs. White, appalled by the notion. "That would be simply uncouth," she sneered. "So tell me, Mr. Chamberlain. Where does Vivienne reside now? I'll travel hours to visit my darling, unwell, friend. She must need the company."

"Umm," Christopher hesitated. "You know, it's quite far. How about we make plans to go see her together later on this week," he said, with no actual intention of seeing the woman. "She is very weak, and I'm afraid she may get too excited with a visit from her 'dearest friend'. So, we'll make plans in a few days."

"Well, I suppose you're right," Mrs. White sighed. "But don't you dare tell her we're coming. I want her to be completely surprised. She doesn't even know we're back from Europe yet. I told her we wouldn't be back until the beginning of December."

"Of course," smiled Christopher. "I would never want to ruin such a grand surprise". With this, Mrs. White finally left, and as Christopher watched her walk down the path. As soon as she reached her awaiting carriage, he locked the door—an unpracticed occurrence in his household. Their neighborhood was so companionable and free of crime, he never saw any reason for it. In this case, however, he decided his respite was at risk and proper precautions had to be taken.

Walking back up the stairs, he walked into the baby's room to find his new help sitting in the rocking chair, softly rocking the soothed child in her arms. "I trust everything is fine here? I'd like to go take a nap in my office downstairs. We will discuss the terms of your employment later. Feel free to make yourself at home," he said turning to take his leave. "Oh, and I suppose you will take room in our guest room across the hall," he said, turning back around and pointing to the room. With this, the young girl simply smiled and nodded her head in understanding. "Good," smiled Christopher softly, turning back around and retreating down the two flights of stairs to the basement.

Making his way into his "private" bedroom—a secluded area that was connected to his den in the basement, he decided he must only sleep shortly, so not to waste the day having accomplished no work. "I'll only sleep for a couple hours," he thought to himself. Exhaustedly, he walked over to his bed and sat down. The bright light pouring through the window caused some distraction to his eyes, but he was too tired to have to walk over and close the blinds. As he lay down, heaps of distracting thoughts swam through his mind. How was he going to explain his wife's extended leave to his neighbors? How long would she be gone for? When will the other child be home? Will one young girl be able to cope with the responsibility of two children until his wife made her return? Alas, within moments of thought, his heavy eyes won an easy battle over the light and his racing mind and he fell asleep.

#

Awaking from his nap, he noted the how the fresh, bright ginger sun no longer shone through his window; cool smog had taken over to disguise the evening. "How long was I asleep for," he groaned, forcing himself up from his cot.

"It's almost ten, sir," a soft voice whispered, startling him to full alert from his slumber.

"Oh, it's you," he heaved a sigh of relief, realizing it was the young nanny Mrs. White had so promptly—yet conveniently—forced upon him.

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry sir," she replied shyly, her cheeks turning a warm pink tone. "I'm sorry to have started you, sir. But I haven't been able to find where you keep your towels. I searched upstairs, but I was unable to find any," she whispered, her soft English accent barely audible through her hushed tone.

"Yes, well. I'm not exactly sure," he replied. Standing up and walking over to his dresser, he opened the bottom drawer. "Here," he said, handing her a clean towel. "You may use one of mine." The girl thanked him and turned to leave the room, but Christopher halted her exit: "How long have you been—"

"Just for a moment, sir!" she said, pivoting back around to face the man, a tone of timid anxiety clear in her approach. "I just didn't want to wake you from your rest…but I would like to take a bath before I fall asleep, and it was getting so late…"

"It's alright…my dear," he said. Pausing, he realized in his exhausted state, he had failed to pay attention to their speedy introduction by Mrs. White. "And I hate to be rude, but I seem to have forgotten your name…"

"Elizabeth," the girl smiled shyly, relieved with Christopher's amiable tone. "And thank you, sir. I won't bother you again". As she turned to leave the room again, Christopher once again arrested her exit.

"Elizabeth. How old are you?" he asked.

"Sixteen, sir," she hesitated nervously, as though he would be displeased with her age.

"Sixteen, what an exciting age. You're a young woman, now," he grinned. "Would you have dinner with me tomorrow, Elizabeth? The servants will be back in the morning and I would like to get to know you a little better," he smiled sincerely, causing the young girl to blush even harder, turning her cheeks to a bright cherry hue.

"Of course, sir," she smiled, looking into his eyes for the first time since their introduction. Peering into her face, Christopher felt how the warm glow of her pale green eyes was accented so vibrantly by her church straight honey blonde tresses. He noted how her flushed, round cheeks, and pale blonde freckles, which kissed her small, round nose, added to her youthful radiance, which he notioned made her look even younger than her green age. He admired her thin, delicate frame and pale, warm creamy skin—traits best supported by young women in their teenage years. She was beautiful, he thought to himself.

#

"Very good, Jean," Christopher said to his servant as she placed the soup in front of him.

"Thank you," Elizabeth whispered shyly, without so much as glancing towards the older woman.

"You're welcome sir…and ma'am," replied the servant warmly, exiting the room to prepare the next course of the meal.

"So, tell me about yourself," Christopher said, waving his hand towards the girl's bowl to summon her to begin eating as he picked up his spoon.

"My name is Elizabeth. I am sixteen years old, and I just graduated from the Birmingham School for Girls," she said, her tone hushed, as always.

"I know that," Christopher chuckled. "Tell me about yourself."

"I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean, sir," she whispered.

"Well, what do you do in your spare time? Do you have any hobbies—besides caring for children, I mean. How did you like school? What was your favorite class? I imagine as a girl you must have despised the reading, writing, and arithmetic aspect," he laughed. "But I assume you were made to do very little scholarly work."

"You're correct," she said, a slight grin escaping her lips.

"Ah! Did I spot a bit of a smile?" Christopher laughed, catching the girl's moment of expression. "And what a pretty smile it is. A pretty young girl like yourself should always smile. You never know when a fine young gentleman is going to fall in love with it".

"Thank you," Elizabeth beamed, her grin evolving as her cheeks turned pink. She took such a compliment coming from a successful man like Mr. Chamberlain with genuine gratitude.

"Oh, and let me get the business out of the way before I forget. I want you to understand that you are a nanny, not a servant, my dear. Please leave the cooking and cleaning for Jean. She tells me you made your own meals today. That is her job…you just inform her when you would like your meals and she will have them prepared for you. A good girl from a good family, like yourself, has no business doing slave work," he smiled. "It is your duty to watch after the children, and the children only."

"Children, sir?"

"Oh, yes," Christopher chuckled. "Did you not notice the second bassinette? There is another girl who will be coming home soon. I'll send Adam to retrieve the other girl tomorrow morning. I'll have Jean inform you when she is home. I trust you will be capable of taking care of both children. If you do need help, you may inform Jean she is to enlist her help, as well."

"Of course, sir," Elizabeth replied. But…who is Adam?" she hesitated.

"Jean's son. He works as a hired hand," explained Christopher. "You see, Jean and her husband, Blue, worked for my Mother, who I lived in this house with before she died. Many years ago, Jean became pregnant with the boy. My Mother, being the feeble-hearted woman that she claimed she was, said she found it 'immoral' to fire the help when they had been with us for so long," he said, a clear tone of disapproval apparent in his voice. "At least, that is what she told people," he said, shaking his head. "Anyway, Blue and his wife were a couple from Ireland, you see. And my Mother used to claim she had a soft-spot for the less fortunate…and by less fortunate I suppose she meant by both function and nationality," he chuckled.

"I would like to meet them," Elizabeth replied, forcing a grin to appease Christopher's tactless humor.

"Well, unfortunately Jean informed me upon her arrival this morning that on their vacation—I gave them a holiday while I was the only one home, as I was always at my office, you see—that Blue died. He was old and sickly; we all knew it was coming."

"How tragic," Elizabeth replied, bowing her head in empathy.

"To be honest, it isn't much of a tragedy…he was too brittle to be of any real help around the house," Christopher explained, no sympathetic emotion for the old man apparent in his voice. "I really only kept him around out of my…good will. Besides, if I threw him out I would have lost Jean and the boy. And it's hard to find good help. So I allowed him room and board in his trying age."

With this, Elizabeth nodded her head in understanding and Christopher revolved the conversation to lighter subjects.

#

Over the next few nights, Christopher and Elizabeth held the tradition of their evening meal. For Christopher, it was the highlight of his stressful day. It was the light that pulled him home after a long day of work at the office, which, before the girl's arrival, was a welcome relief from his home. Each night, Christopher would talk, and Elizabeth would listen politely, little more than a 'yes' or 'no' escaping her during their conversations—a mannerism Christopher quickly became fond of. "How a proper woman should be mannered," he thought to himself.

One night during dinner, as Elizabeth was gazing out the large dining room windows as Christopher was speaking, she noticed the young man she often saw working odd jobs around the house pilling chopped wood beside a large stack of logs.

"Who is that?" she whispered, without even realizing she was interrupting the man mid-sentence.

"What? Who?" asked Christopher, turning to look out the window in the direction Elizabeth was staring. "Oh, that's just Adam," he said. "Don't worry about the brute," he laughed. "I imagine I would be a little nervous too, seeing a degenerated looking giant like him, myself," he said, mistaking Elizabeth's abrupt curiosity for apprehension concerning the nearly seven-foot colossus.

"Oh…is he the Irish boy? Jean's son? I see him working at the back of the house sometimes. He seems fine. I suppose I should be polite and introduce myself soon."

"Yes, that's the one. But enough about him. There is no need for the two of you to become acquainted. He is just a laborer; he has nothing to do with the children. And how have you been handling the two girls?" Christopher asked, deviating from the conversation.

"Very well, thank you for asking. Jean has been a great help without me even asking. She is a very nice lady," Elizabeth smiled, her attention still captivated by the man, who she still watched as he began to chop more wood.

"Don't waste your time, girl," Christopher said, his light tone turning serious as he noticed Elizabeth's still steady gaze. "He's just hired help. No suitable match for a proper lady, like yourself. I understand you may be approaching an age where you must look for a proper suitor. But, he is definitely not fitting for you," he said, taking Elizabeth's hand. "Besides…he's Irish!" he laughed. "What would your poor English father say?"

With this, Elizabeth bowed her head and nodded in agreement, and Christopher went on to continue about how he started his business in plastics. After finishing their slices of pie that was prepared for their desert, Jean came to collect their dishes. Elizabeth thanked her and Christopher reminded her to have their meal delayed tomorrow, as he would be working late. Standing from the table, Christopher made his way downstairs to his office, and Elizabeth made her way upstairs to tend to the babies. As Elizabeth entered the room, she found both children to be sleeping soundly. Hopelessly curious about the tall, strange boy, she couldn't resist taking one more peek at the man she now understood to be Adam. She laughed to herself as he chopped wood—his oafish build made the axe he wielded look more like a hatchet. His large stature made him look almost like a giant, his strong arms and chest intimidating to a man almost any size. But there was something about him which made it almost irresistible for her to stare. She watched the sweat drip down his soft face, which glistened in the warm night, and she noticed how the setting sun highlighted his golden blonde hair so tenderly. How his curls, matted with sweat, seemed to radiate against the soft freckles grazing his angelic face. Suddenly, she shut the curtains in a charge. He had spotted her staring.

Still flushed with embarrassment from being caught peeping, she decided she still had to take one more look at the man. She pulled away the curtains, which she only opened no more than an inch, in trepidation that any more disturbance to their leeway would cause him to catch her gawking again. Peeking through for only a moment, she quickly shut them once again. Her breath taken away and her heart beating fast, she paced quickly to the rocking chair, where she took a seat to catch her air. Apparently, he had some interest in who she, the silly girl who he must have realized had been spying on him for days was, as well. For when she had opened the curtains, he was still standing in the same spot, holding the axe over his broad shoulder, a large smile consuming his face as he gazed up towards the window from which she spied had on him. Her heart beating furiously, an uncontrollably immense smile consumed her lips. For the first time, though she had seen him many times before, she had the satisfaction of being able to look into his eyes. Even though it was for only a split second, and from a distance, her heart became encapsulated by the kindness of his heavy, deep brown gaze. His affectionate gaze shone with an unambiguous kindness which warmed her very heart. "He is beautiful," she thought to herself.

#

A couple of weeks later, Christopher and Elizabeth's dining was interrupted by a knock at the door. "How rude," Christopher sneered, spreading a dollop of red onion marmalade onto a piece of his lamb. "It's over half-passed six-o-clock; formal dinner time. What kind of insolent person would have the indecency to interrupt during a meal?" he sneered to Elizabeth, who nodded politely in agreement. Exhausted and irritable after a very long, discouraging day of work, he stood up agitatedly and walked to open the double doors which led toward the kitchen and summoned Jean. Making her way into the dining room, she asked Christopher what he needed. "Go answer the door. Whoever it is, tell them that I am in the middle of my supper and cannot be bothered for anything…" Jean nodded her head in understanding and turned to leave, when Christopher swiftly realized to add, "And if it is Mrs. White…tell her I am not home and I will not be until very late tonight. Tell her you do not know when and that you will inform me of her visit…please do not allow her in".

"I shall, sir. I won't allow anyone in," Jean said before making her way to the front door. Christopher listened to the heavy front doors open, intent on hearing the conversation between his help and the unmannerly visitor. However, before any words were exchanged, the sound of pointed heels began to make their way past Jean, through the first lobby and hallway before abruptly pausing in the second foyer. A moment after the delay, the patter made its way to the dining room door. The entrant knocked on the door with two taps. Christopher, bewildered by who the invader could be, just sat in disbelief. Silent. After about ten seconds of delay from the knocking, the door was opened by a tall, slender, woman. "Hello, Sophia," Christopher said, his facial expression turning from confusion to an impassive smile. "How are you?"

"I have been fine, thank you, sir. I've brought Vivienne with me," the woman said, her response also emotionless. "But I am staying here for a time. I need to ensure everything is in order before I take my leave". Turning to Elizabeth, the young girl was barely able to hold eye contact with the intimidating older woman. "I'm Mrs. Chamberlain," she said, slowing her speech and straining her eyes at the girl, her tone turning slightly callous.

"I'm Elizabeth, madam," the shy girl whispered, unable to maintain eye contact, intimidated by the cold, older woman.

"Elizabeth? What do you mean, Elizabeth? Are you a dog? Or do you have a family name?" the woman sneered.

"Elizabeth…Elizabeth Cox…" the girl whispered nervously, her face becoming flushed with nerves.

"She's a hired nanny," Christopher interrupted irritably, before Sophia could continue to berate Elizabeth. "What did you think she was, Sophia?"

"I see. I'm sorry, sir," Sophia replied, bowing her head in regret.

"A family friend, Mr. White, insisted on offering the help as a gift for Vivienne when his wife was informed she refused to hire a nanny, and I couldn't turn it down considering the circumstances. She is from a good family and is educated…for a woman."

"Yes, sir," Sophia said, her head still bowed. "Where are you from, girl?" she asked Elizabeth as she inspected the girl with her eyes.

"England. She is a graduate of the Birmingham School for Girls," Christopher said, deferring Sophia's still prying gaze from the nervous young girl.

"Fine, sir. Please inform the rest of the help of our arrival and have them fetch our things from the carriage," she said. "I told Vivienne to wait in the car. Please greet her when you are ready."

Christopher nodded and stood from the dining table to follow Sophia to the awaiting car to fetch his wife. Stopping at the doors, he turned to Elizabeth: "Enjoy the rest of your meal. When you are finished, take comfort in the library downstairs. I'll fetch you from there." Elizabeth nodded, and Christopher left to fetch the help to attend to his wife's arrival. Taking a few more bites of her lamb to half clear her plate, so not to insult the cook, Victoria managed to sneak through the second lobby of the house and into the basement, without being noticed.

As she awaited Christopher's arrival, Elizabeth sat nervously in one of the large cushioned leather chairs which was placed by the library's fireplace. She seldom ventured into the basement, only once or twice to fetch Christopher when Jean was tending to their meals, never actually having her foot touch the library's cold wooden floor. Something about the room made her uneasy. The library, like the rest of the house, was dark and drafty; a large room filled with abundant ceiling-high shelves filled with old, decrepit looking books, decorated with dark gothic accents of candelabras. The dark red walls mimicked the color of aged, desiccated blood; a unique color choice made by the manor's predecessor inhabitants. As she examined the shelves, she wondered how one would find a novel on one of the higher ledges, considering she saw no ladder available for the climb to the top of the twelve foot ceiling. Rotating her uneasy, yet intrigued, gaze from the intimidating bookshelves, she focused on the grand, dormant fireplace which rested directly in front of her. The Tudor fireplace was gigantic, nearly three-by-six feet at its base. Staring at the large, dark red crest which hung above the crown, she noticed the inscription 'Humus Penurious'. The intimidating presentation of the ruthless lexis chilled her bones. She continued to stare at the crest in a toxic haze for some time, enchanted by the governing crest…

"Do you read Latin?" Christopher questioned Victoria as he entered the room and noticed her eagerly gazing at the crest, interrupting her gawking. "That crest, like much of this manor's decorations, was left by the home that inhabited this place before me. I moved in here with my mother in 1897, but the house itself was built in the early 1800's," he smiled, walking to Victoria's chair and resting his hand on the top of the large seat she rested in, which was assembled to reach nearly a foot above the top of her seated head.

"Very little…" Victoria lied. "Language was never my gift."

"Ah," Christopher smiled and nodded in understanding, taking a sip of the drink he held in his hand. "You know, this room has remained nearly untouched since its construction; no book has even been removed. I have added a few of my own, however," he said, pointing to one of the accessible shelves, which held a row of fresher looking books than the rest. "I have read all of those—nearly fifty," he beamed proudly, still pointing to the latest novels. "I've read some of the rest, but there are hundreds, as you can see. When I was young I used to like to think that within my lifetime I would read each every single one of them. However, as I've reached a more modest age, I can't imagine that a possibility; reading for pleasure is a gratification I had as a young man that I rarely am able to carry on."

"So you do enjoy reading, sir?" Victoria continued the conversation politely.

"Very much," Christopher grinned, placing his drink on the desk placed facing the bookshelves. "More than conversation, sometimes," he continued. "I wonder why humans insist so greatly on conversation. Trivial banter rarely constructs such fascinating content as novels. I wonder why people insist they would rather chat about minor matters of their daily lives than read a work of practiced, qualified perfection. I assume it must appeal to their narcissism; a book won't listen to you about how you bought a new dress, or how you just visited Europe…but a polite personality will," he said, moving from the back of Victoria's seat to the second leather chair facing the fireplace, angled toward Victoria's. "A novel will take you to a new place and time, which is perfect in its own means. It is unchangeable and unapologetic, and believe me, there are some I have finished that I would burn if I didn't have such respect for their acknowledgement by the general literary public. What is the most fascinating book you've read, Victoria? I assume they would still have some great classics in the Birmingham girl's curriculum," he said, leaning in towards the girl.

"Dickens…" Victoria hesitated; unsure her response would be satisfactory to the intimidating scholar.

"Dickens! Charles Dickens!" Christopher exclaimed excitedly. "A fine author Dickens is!" he beamed, standing from his chair. "I really enjoy reading Dickens, myself. I have found most of his work in this library…nearly thirty novels. I believe if you searched these shelves in their entirety you could find his complete collection," he said, gazing at the higher, unreachable shelves. "Unfortunately for myself, I've only read a few: Oliver Twist, The Christmas Carol, A Tale of Two Cities, Pictures from Italy, and a couple of others…you see, I became interested in Dickens when I first moved in here when I was a boy and discovered this room. It was of no use to my Mother, who was always hosting company upstairs, so it became my private sanctuary. But in the case of reading Dickens, I had an English tutor who insisted that Shakespeare was the greatest author and playwright of all time, so I have read nearly twenty of his plays…Dickens, on the other hand, was left to my free time. So which of Dickens works have you read?"

"Only a couple, myself," Victoria whispered. "But I really did enjoy his work," she smiled shyly, bowing her head.

"So which was your favorite? Which would you recommend to a person who had yet to indulge in his work?"

"Well…" Victoria hesitated. "I enjoyed Oliver Twist very much".

"Oliver Twist! A classic! One of his most famous pieces!" Examining a shelf that rested in his eyesight, he pulled out a brown leather-bound book, which had "Charles Dickens" inscribed in bold print down the spine. "David Copperfield," he smiled, staring at the front of the novel. "This may have been my favorite piece of his work. Have you read it?"

Victoria shook her head, "No, I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure".

"Then I insist you take it! A gift!" he grinned, walking over to Victoria and handing her the novel.

"I couldn't sir," she said, taking the book from Christopher in her hand and staring at the cover. "You said no book has ever been removed from here…and it's your favorite by Dickens…I couldn't…"

"I insist, my dear. What good is a book if it is only read by one? I would consider it abuse for one avid reader to deny a piece of great work to another. Books are meant to be shared and passed on through good people. These books just sit here idly. To be honest, I've never really found another female who enjoys books as you do…I used to ask Vivienne to sit with me while I read aloud," he said, his tone turning colder. "When we were first married, our time together was quite lovely: we would site right here, by the fireplace, and I would read to her. She would listen quietly and contently, completely enchanted by the fantastic stories. However, after only a few months of moving in, when we would read, she would sit restlessly and constantly interrupt; completely disrespectful to the author's work…" he sneered. "She was more interested in discussing the town's latest gossip she had captured from her new friends—my close acquaintances' wives. I suppose that also drove my lack of motivation to continue reading so avidly. It just seems that people today are more interested in shallow gossip than achieving mental prominence and personal gratification through works of great art. I suppose now, who you know and what you know about them is more important than who you are and what you know…if that makes any sense in your young understanding of this World".

Elizabeth shook her head. "It does, sir. Very, much," she smiled genuinely. "And if you wouldn't mind, sir…I would greatly enjoy if you would read to me…sometimes…if you had the time…"

Victoria's inquiry lit Christopher's glum disposition and ignited his literary passion almost immediately. "Fantastic!" he beamed. "You, my dear, may be my new inspiration! Reading is pleasant when silent and personal, but there is something about reading aloud to a devoted listener which lights a fire in the author's words. I had long lost my hope of another I could read with…it is one thing to discuss works cited with my acquaintances after all has been read and interpreted, and long since studied…but it is another to share in the delight of the work itself and share the account transpiring from its beginning to end."

"How exciting!" Victoria beamed; the most excitement she had expressed since moving into the manor. "I look so forward to it!"

"Then it's a date! After desert we will meet here. I shall set the fire, and I will read for us," Christopher grinned. "Now, what novel shall we begin with?"

Holding up the novel which was still resting in her hand, Victoria smiled: "David Copperfield? I'd very much like to since it's one of your favorites…oh, but since you've already read it it might—"

"David Copperfield it is!" Christopher interrupted excitedly, turning back to Victoria, having had turned his back to her to inspect the shelved books for an initial read. "A truly good book is like a good discussion: the more you delve into it, the more it becomes". Collecting the book from Victoria, he flipped through the yellowed pages. "This was one of the original books left from the previous owner, you can see," he said, turning the novel to show Victoria the age-stained pages and worn spine. "You can smell the musky history it holds in its pages," he said, holding the book to his face and inhaling deeply. "You know, I do enjoy your company, Victoria," he said, his demeanor turning serene as he took the girl's hand and stood her from her seat. Looking in her large, pale eyes, he continued: "It has become rare to find a woman like you; a face so beautiful, untainted by cosmetics, and a mouth so soft, untainted by airs. It's a shame you weren't brought to me a couple of years ago, before my marriage," he whispered, pulling her towards him. "But there are ways around that, aren't there?" he smiled, letting go of her hand and walking over to his desk, opening his drawer to reveal a stash of cigarettes.

"Sir?" Victoria whispered, nervously. "I don't think I understand what you mean…"

"I'm saying…there are ways around everything," he said, picking up a fresh cigarette and tapping the bottom against his desk a few times. "It clearly expresses so in the vows." With this, Victoria bowed her head in naïve bewilderment. "What's the matter, my dear? It's not as though I'm asking you to do away with her by your own hand."

"Sir…" Victoria whispered, having come to understand Christopher's dark intention. "You mustn't!" she cried, stumbling over her words. "Your business; everything you've worked for…"

"Ha! But I'm not so stupid," Christopher laughed. "Like I said before…there are ways around everything."

"I'm afraid I still don't understand what you mean by that, sir."

"Well," Christopher said, lighting his cigarette and taking a deep pull, "There is a crime one can be charged for…" he said, lifting Victoria's chin and looking into her eyes tenderly. Looking into his face, Victoria fought hard to hold her breath—the overpowering power of whisky besieged her every sense, inadvertently forcing her eyes to water and her nose to crinkle. "Now…let's go introduce you to my wife…" Christopher grinned. "I'm sure from what her mother has said to her about you by now that she's simply dying to meet you."