John sat alone in the train carriage, thankful he did not have to share the space with anyone else. The station was in sight, and he was anxious to return home. Leaving Margaret alone on her first day of confinement was not ideal; he could only hope she had not felt too cooped up. She would have several weeks of it yet, and he hated seeing her unhappy.
He had brought her a small gift of some new ribbon and lace home with him, knowing she had taken to needlework and embroidery as it became harder for her to move around freely. It was not much, but perhaps it would make her smile.
"Master!" A voice called out, and John looked through the steam on the platform for whoever was calling him. It was Higgins. "Master!"
Higgins ran to him, though the man was berated loudly by the disembarking passengers he jostled in his rush to get to his employer. John's heart raced in his chest, his mouth feeling dry as a bone. There was only one reason Higgins would be waiting for him here.
"What's wrong? Oh Christ, is it Margaret?"
Higgins leaned forward, hands on his knees as he panted with exertion. The air here was filthy, and frequent coughs broke up Higgins' message. John had little patience, but he could hardly tell the man to hurry up when he was spluttering so.
"Aye, she went into labour about six hour ago. Yer mother's had me here the past three waitin' for you." Higgins wheezed.
"Six hours?!" John asked with wide eyes as panic flooded his chest. "I've got to get home."
How long had Fanny's labour taken? That was less than six hours. The baby could be born already.
He flagged down a carriage and bade the driver to be as quick as he could. Higgins declined to join him, saying he could do with a walk. John sat back, his eyes staring blankly straight ahead. His wife had been labouring for six hours and he had not known it, he had not been there. Though he would not have been allowed even close to the room, anything could have happened and he was not there!
"Bloody hell." He said out loud in the quiet of the carriage. "I never should have gone. I never should have left her. God, if you're listening - keep her safe. Keep her safe for me, please. Both of them."
Many muttered prayers later, the carriage drew to a stop and the driver banged on the roof. John flung the door open so hard it damn near fell off the hinges. He raced out of the carriage and into the yard, charging to the door of the house with a wide stride. The workers in the yard had obviously heard of what had happened and shouted their best wishes after him. John did not hear.
Watson was waiting for him in the parlour, just as John had been by his side when Fanny was in labour. He stood as John opened the door, though there wasn't a shred of urgency about him. He had clearly been told to wait for John to return, though John was sure his brother-in-law had work to do. He didn't want to see anyone except Margaret.
"How is she?" John asked breathlessly. "Is she well?"
"Aye, calm yourself. Fanny and your mother are with her, and the doctor of course. Fanny came down about five minutes ago to tell me all was well. No baby yet."
"I can't believe I left her." John paced the length of the living room just for something to do. "I never should have gone, she were too close to her time."
His brother in law shrugged indifferently. John felt the overwhelming urge to punch him; he looked so bored by the entire thing. Did he truly not understand how awful this felt?
"What good would it be waiting around for sommet to happen? Fanny went two week over her time, the world don't stop for childbearing, John. She is fine, what good would you being here do?"
John thought back to the day Louise was born, almost two years ago now. Had Watson forgotten has frantic pacing, the way he had run up the stairs to check on his wife? It must be easy for some men to forget the fear of losing their wives in childbirth once they were safely delivered, John thought. He was sure he could never forget the terror that was currently gripping him.
"I must see her." John said after a few moments of painful silence had passed.
He made to leave the drawing room.
"You won't be allowed in, you know that. Leave it to the womenfolk." Watson called after him.
John shook his head. Even if he was not admitted, he needed to at least speak to his mother. She would tell him the true measure of what was going on. He could not wait down here with not a notion of his wife's true state.
Margaret's cries echoed all the way to the staircase. John's hand tightened on the bannister, knuckles turning white as he took a deep breath. He had not expected to be so moved by the sound of his wife's pain; what a coward he was.
Bolting up the last few steps, John strode across the landing and knocked on the door.
His mother opened the door, relief clearly visible on her face at the sight of her son. She reached out to him, touching his face briefly before placing that hand firmly on the frame of the door.
"Good, you're home at last. She is well John, I can assure you." She blocked the view into the room with her arm, reaching behind her to shut the door.
Margaret's sobs continued. His mother glanced behind her, and John tried to look over her head. His mother stepped into the hall, closing the door behind her. He rubbed at his face, trying to contain his temper. He was not some busybody interfering. He was her damned husband and she was suffering without him by her side.
"I can hear her crying. She's in pain." John said, desperation creeping into his voice.
"Aye, she is. No denying that. But it is natural, and she is a strong thing. Six hours it's been going." She told him. "She's making good progress, it shouldn't be much longer. A few more hours, perhaps."
How could women be called the weaker sex, John wondered, when they endured hours of searing agony like this?
"I need to see her." John told his mother.
"No." She crossed her arms. She pierced him with her eyes. "You're not coming in, son."
"Mother." John pulled himself out of his slouch, aware that his full height was intimidating to those shorter than him - which his mother most certainly was . "Please."
His mother straightened herself up in turn, arms still crossed as she narrowed her eyes. John had had strong words with her many times in his life, and had very rarely won. Yet he had not felt so determined what was right before; he had to see Margaret. He would not leave until he knew she was well. He needed to see her with his own eyes; his wife, his partner in all things. She had stood by him through good and bad, and damn it he would not leave her to suffer this agony alone.
"No, John. You're not coming in."
"John!" Margaret's voice called out to him through the thick wood of the door. "John, is that you? Are you home?"
"Aye, love. It's me."
"I thought you would not be back in time." Magraret said, her voice wavering. "I am so happy you're home."
"Mother, please." John begged. "I'll not talk to my labouring wife through a door. I must see her. Please."
His mother tutted as she relented, unable to deny her son much longer. He was sure to make more of a nuisance of himself is she did not give into him; better he see that his wife was well and leave them to it,
"One minute, and your eyes stay fixed on her head. Understand?" His mother said in a low voice. "There's not much dignity in childbirth, I'll not have Margaret lose hers."
Did his mother think so little of him? How could he look at Margaret at such a time and think of her as anything other than brave?
"Don't look down, I understand."
His mother moved aside to allow him in, and he was with his wife with one large step.
Margaret lay on the bed on her side, staring straight at the door. She was dressed in her favourite nightgown, the material bunched around her waist. He remembered his mother's stern warning not to look down, and he drew his eyes back to Margaret's face. He was vaguely aware of someone covering her with a blanket, whilst muttering crossly - Fanny, probably.
He dropped to the floor beside her, taking her hands in his and pressing fervent kisses to her fingers. She smiled weakly at him, taking her hand away and brushing his hair fondly. She looked weary, her hair loosely pinned back to keep it off her face, the rest flowing down her back.
"My love." John kissed her forehead. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have gone."
"You are here now. Was the meeting fruitful?" Margaret asked weakly. "Will they sign?"
John almost laughed; she was in the middle of birthing their child, and she cared about business? He had forgotten everything that had happened that day at the sight of her.
"Margaret, you don't need to hear about my meeting now. How are you, love?"
Margaret sat up against the headboard, smoothing her hair down. She smiled weakly, her shoulders sagging as she closed her eyes, seemingly exhausted by the effort of moving.
"I am well, I am well. I am just a little tired. It could be hours yet."
"Mrs Thornton, it might not be as bad as all that." Doctor Donaldson said. "She is making fine progress, Mr Thornton. Now, if you would be so good as to leave us."
"No!" Magraret said, her face dropping as she grabbed John's arm with alarming strength. "No, he can't leave me yet. Please, just a few- oh!"
She stopped talking, her face contorted. John dropped to his knees beside her and buried his face in her neck as she clung to his hand howling with pain. She leaned her head into his, her cries of pain directly next to his ear. He barely heard her. He did not know much about childbirth, but Margaret had told him of the contractions and the pain they brought. He did not know how to help her.
"Mother." He heard Fanny say, her voice as loud as it ever was even above Margaret's anguished screams. "Mother, he can't be in here! It is not a man's place!"
John did not take his eyes off his wife, though he sat up so as not to speak too loudly close to her ears. He brushed the hair from Margaret's damp forehead, fingertips tracing down the length of her face as she sobbed.
"Fanny, I don't care if it's a man's place or not. My place is with my wife."
Fanny tutted, turning away from her brother to busy herself with something or other. His mother opened her mouth to speak, but Margaret spoke first.
"They are right John." Margaret said as the pain seemed to ease. "You do not need to witness this. Please, wait downstairs and I shall see you again when our baby is here. I just needed you here for a moment, to know you are back safely and waiting for us."
John shook his head. How could she ask him to leave her? Did she really not want him by her side in this, the most difficult trial she had ever faced? He clung onto her hand, kissing her knuckles. He shook his head again.
"I cannot leave you in such pain." John said, his voice pleading and soft. "I will not."
Margaret tried to smile - to reassure him somehow though her face was tense and flame red. As ever, it was no good arguing with her. She was sure to win; he would do whatever she asked of him. Unfortunately, what she was asking of him was a terrible wrench. He did not care if men were not allowed to be present; he wanted to be with her, to know that she was still alive. The fear that she would die threatened to swallow him whole. But, he must listen to what she asked. It was not about him.
"I shall bear it, John. It is for our child, so it is worth every moment."
There was a serene quality about her, now that the pain had passed. Her eyes seemed to shine, her face damp with sweat, and her lips twitched into a smile. John did not know how he would leave her. He could not leave her. Yet somehow, he had to. It was what she had asked of him and God knows - he would have moved Heaven and Earth if she requested it.
"If you need me, call for me. I will be here in a heartbeat." John swore.
Margaret merely smiled, her hand on his cheek. Her thumb traced his jaw, and she kissed the end of his nose.
"I know, John. I will be fine, I swear it. I love you, darling."
John kissed her firmly on the lips. Margaret weakly responded, her hand cradling his face.
"You are incredible." He said as he leaned his forehead against hers. "I love you."
"I will see you soon, with our baby." Magraret promised. "Wait for me. Stay close, should - should anything happen. Promise me you will stay close."
There was a tiny, almost undetectable shake of fear in her voice. John felt fear too; it stabbed at him like a rusty knife to the gut. They were pretending. They were pretending that childbirth wasn't the most dangerous ordeal a woman could go through. As though there wasn't a very real chance that Margaret would not make it out of this room alive.
John kissed her once more. He could not speak; he felt his throat tight with fear. Let her live. God, let her live.
Watson had gone when John got downstairs, and he was thankful to be alone. It was nearly the end of the working day, and he could hear the noise of the machines and the workers. He wished then that they had a more peaceful house, that Margaret had quiet to give birth in, rather than the roar of industry right outside.
He could not calm himself; he paced endlessly from one side of the room to the other, unable to focus on anything but the far away screams of his wife as she laboured upstairs. He itched to be beside her; to share this with her. But it was not his place, so instead he waited alone while she suffered with only his family for comfort. Dixon came into the room; he had forgotten about Dixon.
"Oh, thank heavens you're back Master. I was just out for more hot water. Try not to worry yourself, sir. She is doing very well, I promise you."
"Thank you, Dixon." He said with a tight smile, not wanting to talk to anyone. "Best get that water upstairs."
"Indeed. She really is doing splendidly." Dixon said again as she left the room.
John did not know how much time passed. The whistle went, and the workers dutifully trooped out of the yard and headed towards home. The machines stopped. Silence fell over the mill. The only thing that the silence did was amplify the sounds of his wife's pained screams. They echoed through the house, each anguished wail a knife in his gut.
He sat at the foot of the stairs, knees tucked under his chin, just listening. If he was not allowed to be with her, he could at least listen as she laboured. He needed to hear what was going on. Thank God he was home in time; he could not live with himself if he had returned from Manchester to find the babe had already been born.
Margaret let out a loud, wretched scream and John could not take any more. He bounded up the stairs and slumped against the door to the spare bedroom. Though the wood was thick, he could hear her as clearly as if she were beside him. Hours could have passed, and he would not have known. Time had no place in that hallway.
Then, through the door, he heard a sound that would surely stay with him all his life.
Their child's first cry.
His heart was in his mouth, tears pooling at once in his eyes. He was a father.
He could not hear what was going on, only muffled conversation in low voices. He moved away from the door, standing against the facing wall. He did not know whether he should knock, or simply wait to be told whether he had a son or a daughter. Either would be blessed, as long as mother and babe were both well.
He tried to call out, but found that his voice was gone. He could not utter a word.
Fanny opened the door, visibly startled to see her brother standing so close to the door. She ushered him away, to the top of the stairs.
"Well?" John asked impatiently, his voice coming back as he followed her. He could not stand his sister's dilly dallying.
"A boy!" Fanny said, smiling. She turned serious, crossing her arms and looking up at her brother with her best stern expression. "Mother said you're not to try to go in, they must deliver the afterbirth and clean the room. She said to make it very clear you're to wait to be called, and that I was to spare you no details so you understand precisely why you must stay downstairs."
John had no intention of going downstairs.
"I'll stay out of the way. A boy. And Margaret, is she alright?" John pressed his sister.
"She is." Fanny assured him. "She's very brave, you know. For the first few hours she barely made any complaint at all. In fact, Mother practically had to drag her into bed."
"That sounds like her." John said, his head going to his hands in sheer relief. He mumbled breathlessly from behind his hands. "A boy."
Boy or girl, John would have been happy with either. But the law favoured boys, and his ever practical mind whispered that the mill would be in Thornton hands for another generation. He chased those boring, unemotional thoughts away. A boy. A son.
His boy. His son.
Theirs.
"He seems very strong. I helped to clean him and he gave me a right good kick." Fanny smiled. "He's got your hair. And your temper. Congratulations, Johnny."
She stretched up, almost on her tiptoes, and pressed a kiss to her rather surprised brother's cheek. She ruffled his hair as she had done when she was a child, a broad grin on her face. John held his sister's hand; for all that she was silly, sharp tongued and occasionally thoughtless, he loved her.
"Thanks, Fan. Thank you for taking care of her." John said, meaning every word.
Fanny shook her head, her eyes glinting in the dim light of the hallway. She smiled, looking up at him with the softest expression he had ever seen grace her features.
"I've never forgotten all she did for me when it was my time, you know. Nor the promise that you made me. How could I not return the kindness? You'll be fine parents, Johnny."
With a small squeeze of his hand, Fanny bid him goodbye and went downstairs. John heard the front door gently close after her. No doubt it had been a long day for his sister, and he was glad that she had seen fit to help Margaret through her labour.
John sat on the floor, legs crossed like a child, back pressed against the wall facing the door of the room that held his beloved wife and their newborn son. He could scarcely wait to see them, his fingers picking at his knuckles just for something to do. His mind would not stay still, and he could not calm himself until he had seen his wife with his own eyes. So much could go wrong in childbirth, even in the days following. Losing Margaret - he could not even bear to think of it. He knew he could not survive such a loss; he would die from grief.
Dixon and two of the maids came out, each with an armful of sheets. John could not help but notice they were stained red, and his eyes widened in panic. He stood up hastily, the sight of Margaret's blood in such great quantities alarming him.
"Nothing to worry about." Dixon clucked as she caught sight of the look on his face. She walked past him and down the stairs, but called out over her shoulder. "You're meant to be downstairs, Master."
John said nothing. He closed his eyes, his stomach still churning at the image of Margaret's blood. What a weak man he was, to be rendered so incapable by the mere sight of it. Margaret had laboured for hours, without him by her side, and the evidence of her suffering made him feel acutely guilty for allowing himself to be banished. Should they be blessed with another, he would not leave her.
"John." Mother emerged, and he opened his eyes at the sound of her voice. As ever, it was hard to read her expression, particularly in the dim light of the hallway. "The doctor's finished. Let him leave and then you may come in."
John exhaled heavily. His mother smiled at him, stepping forward and raising a hand to cup his cheek, just as she did when he was a boy.
"Thank you." John muttered. "Thank you for staying with her, Mother."
His mother ran her thumb along the line of his jaw, smiling as she looked up into his eyes. She looked weary, no doubt exhausted after such a long day.
"Of course. She's family, John. I did my best for her, just like I did with Fanny. She did very well. She's exhausted, and mighty sore. Be gentle with her."
Doctor Donaldson came out, offering his hand to John. John shook it, though he was desperate to see his wife. He could hear no sound coming from the bedroom, not a peep. His heart raced. His eyes could not leave the doorway, though the door was closed and he could see nothing.
Doctor Donaldson offered him a hand to shake. John took it, though he still did not look away.
"Congratulations. A fine boy, weighty and lusty. Nout wrong with his lungs, that's for certain."
"I am glad of it." John said. "Thank you, Doctor. Send me your bill."
"Aye, there's time to worry about that. Go on, meet your boy."
Hannah followed the doctor out, leaving John alone. With a deep breath, he pushed the door open. Margaret lay on the bed, propped up against pillows and lying on clean sheets, cradling their newborn, much longed for son.
John looked to the bed, his heart more full than he had ever known at the sight. Margaret turned her head to see him, her shoulders sagging with relief at the sight of him. John's eyes were fixed on that tiny little bundle in her arms. He dragged his eyes away from their son, up to the woman who he adored so very much. Though visibly exhausted, Margaret smiled broadly at her husband.
"You have given me the most perfect child." She whispered, beckoning him closer with a nod of the head. "The most exquisite boy."
John sat beside her on the bed, careful not to disturb her. He took a deep breath and looked down at the child in her arms. He had a rounded face with the chubbiest cheeks John had ever seen, with a smattering of dark, almost black hair that lay straight as a poker atop his head. A button nose rested between two chubby little cheeks, tiny lips pursed and pink as petals. His eyes were a dark blue, gazing up at his father as he made his own assessment. John was besotted.
"He is perfect." He agreed, choked. "Maggie, you are a wonder."
"It was nothing. I'd do it all again. Though, perhaps not right away." She shifted on the bed, wincing as she did so. "Would you like to hold him, darling ?"
"Yes." John answered instantly, eagerly holding out his arms to take the child.
Margaret smiled, and gently transferred the babe to his father's waiting hands. John held the child close to his chest, marvelling at the tiny snuffling sounds he made as he settled in this new person's embrace. John held his finger by the child's tiny fist, and the babe grabbed on tight. The sight of this new life's tiny, wrinkled hand wrapped around his own long finger brought untold joy to his heart.
"My boys." Margaret said happily, kissing John's cheek and then the top of the baby's head. "What shall we name him, husband?"
"We don't need to decide right away, Maggie. You must be tired." John told her. "There's plenty of time to name him."
Margaret sank back against the pillows, wincing as she tried to get comfortable. John could not help her, though she seemed to find a position that suited her after a few moments of shuffling. John moved to lie beside her, kicking off his shoes then stretching his legs out and moving the baby to lie on his chest so Margaret could see him. Every move was done with meticulous care; though he had held babies before, this new little life felt so very fragile in his arms. Margaret did not notice his unease; she merely stroked the downy black hair on the top of the child's head. Her face was a picture of love.
"It feels strange to not give him a name. He is here now, we can't just call him 'baby'. He deserves to have a name of his own as quickly as possible." Margaret insisted, tracing the shell of the child's ear with her fingertip. "I thought I would know his name as soon as I saw him, but I fear I do not."
"You liked Matthew." John whispered, suddenly aware that his voice was too deep and too loud for such tiny ears. "Or Joshua?"
Margaret thought about it, mouthing the names as she looked down at the child nestled in his father's arms.
"They do not seem right, now. What else was on the list? Luke? Joseph?"
"They don't seem quite right either." John studied his son's face intently, as though the name would appear in his mind. Though the babe had not even been in the world for an hour, John felt as though he were looking at an old friend; he could not imagine a time when he did not know his son. Now, what was this boy's name? "Arthur."
"Arthur?" Margaret asked. "I do not remember that on your list. Arthur. A fine name."
"I looked at him and thought of it. Arthur Thornton." John mulled it over. "Do you like it?"
John was not sure where the name had come from; he did not know anyone called Arthur, nor had he ever considered the name before. Yet, looking at this child's face, the name seemed to provide itself. He would not mind if Margaret did not want it, but that was what his mind told him.
"I think it suits him. And his middle names?"
"Whatever you wish." John told her. "I cannot choose both his first and middle names, it isn't fair."
Margaret was quiet for a long time, leaning into John's side as she looked carefully at the child. She must have still been in pain, but she did not show an ounce of it. Her face was pale now the redness had faded, her eyes shadowed and fatigued after her ordeal. John could not help but marvel at her strength.
"John?" She asked after a while.
"Yes?" John asked, his eyes not moving from Arthur's face. "Yes, love?"
"No, I mean John, as a middle name." Margaret answered with a small laugh. "You have your father's name as your middle name, I have my mother's, let us continue on with that tradition. I cannot think of a finer man than you."
His throat was right, the sincerity of her words making his heart ache with love for her. He would never be fine enough for her, but dammit he would spend his life providing for her and their child. He spoke, keeping his words short so as to not betray the emotions that overwhelmed him.
"Arthur John. That sounds good, I think." He ran a finger down his son's nose. "Arthur John Thornton."
"I think so too. So, we have decided?" Margaret asked.
"If you are happy with it. We can take more time if you wish."
"No. Hello, Arthur." Margaret cooed to the child in her husband's arms. The baby stretched his arms out, yawning widely. "I think he likes it."
"I think he is tired." John said with a chuckle. "You must be tired too, love."
"Could you move the cradle into our bedroom?" Margaret asked, paying no mind to his worries for her welfare. "I wish to sleep in my own bed, with my baby beside me. Not far away in the nursery. I am sick of this lying in bed, I want to be back in our bedroom. I have slept too long without you."
It had only been one night, and ideally Margaret would spend the next few weeks alone to recover her strength. He would sleep on the floor if he had to, just to be close to her.
"Of course." John said, willing to do anything she asked after she had been through such an ordeal. "Do you want a bath?"
"Oh, that sounds nice." Margaret smiled. She yawned, her eyes fluttering helplessly as she struggled to keep them open. "Perhaps I will close my eyes, just for a moment. I shall have to feed him soon, but while he is content perhaps I will rest. Be sure to wake me as soon as I am needed."
There was a bassinet in the corner - waiting for its new occupant. John stood up with the baby in his arms, the little cry the child gave at the new movement damn near breaking his heart. He walked tentatively over, his arms locked around this precious angel that had been sent to them. Laying the baby down, he gazed at him. His son. He was a father, they finally had a child.
When he turned around, Margaret was fast asleep. He lay beside her, careful not to jolt or disturb her. He pressed one soft kiss into the curled tendrils of her hair that wisped around her shoulders. He did not want to wake her, but he needed to touch her. His beautiful Margaret, who had longed for a child so desperately, was still here. She was safe and healthy, their precious offspring sleeping close by.
Never was a man so blessed as John Thornton.
Three hours later, as the hour turned late and the house settled into calm after a most unexpectedly chaotic day, John and his mother stood admiring the newest member of their family. They had not spoken for some time, merely gazing down at the tiny baby who lay contentedly in his bassinet.
"He looks just like you did." Hannah murmured. "I remember the day you were born like it were yesterday. I thought my heart would burst with love for you. And now here we are, you a father with a son of your own."
"Mother, what if I do not know how to be a father?" John asked. "This tiny thing depends on me, I cannot let him down."
"It is terrifying at first, I'll not deny it. Do your best by him, John. You are an honourable man, a careful man."
"Father was a-"
John wanted to say that his father had been an honourable man. His father had been a good man. Yet that had not been enough. The words were lost. Still, as she always had done, his mother understood what he was trying to say.
"No, John. You are not your father, God rest his soul. Put those fears from your mind." His mother covered his hand with hers, squeezing tight. "You're a fine husband to Margaret. Not many men would fight to be in the delivery room. I don't even think your father was in the house for any of my labours."
"It felt wrong to not be with her, Mother. You are sure she is not hurt?"
"She is as hurt as every woman is after birth, John. Give her time to recover. These next few days will be hard. She might cry, she might shout at you, she might not let the baby out of her sight. Just let her feel whatever she must."
"I will. I cannot stop looking at him." John said in a whisper.
"That's the way of it." Hannah smiled fondly. "You'll not be able to take your eyes off him for a good many years, I swear it. I still catch myself looking at you. Your wedding day - the sight of you standing at the altar, a grown man.. The love I felt for you on that day was just the same as the day you were born - it never goes away. Merely grows stronger with every passing day."
"If I could be a fraction of the parent you have been to me-" John began, and he felt his throat tighten. "If I can teach my son half the things you have taught me, Mother - he would be the luckiest boy in the world."
His mother did not look at him. She stared down at the newest Thornton. Wide eyes stared back, tiny snuffling noises filling the air. Oh, John was not sure how he would ever be able to leave this child's side.
"You'll make a fine father. You'll do right by him." Her voice was quiet, tight with emotion. "Margaret will be a fierce mother, I've not a doubt."
"That's for certain." John smiled. "She waited a long time for him."
"It was not so long." His mother said, confusion lacing her voice. "What, a year?"
John had not confided in his mother that Margaret had been so very downcast that they had not conceived easily. He had been worried that she would dismiss Margaret's concerns; though they had now been proved unfounded, there were times that John too had worried they would not be blessed with a child of their own.
"Long enough." John said. "She wanted a child very much."
"She never said." Hannah said, fussing with the swaddling blankets Arthur was wrapped in. "Well, he's here now."
"She loves children, you have seen that. A child of our own was something we both wanted very much. Of course."
"I can understand her wanting of a child, do not misunderstand me. A child is more than an heir - they are part of your soul, proof of a love shared between man and wife. Then it becomes a love all of its own." His mother looked up at him, her eyes redder than he had ever known them to be. "I must rest, it is very late. Move the baby in with Margaret, he'll be hungry soon."
"Aye, I will."
John gingerly scooped the child from the bassinet. Margaret had been in the bath for a while, Dixon by her side. She would need help to do everything for the next few days. John would try his hardest to be nearby whenever she needed him, but he knew there were certain things he would not be allowed to help her with.
He walked the baby along the corridor to their bedroom. Margaret was being helped into bed by Dixon, very slowly. The crib was on her side of the bed, moved at her request, and John walked round to slowly lower Arthur into it. When the babe was safely nestled inside, he turned to his wife.
"I will help her now, Dixon."
"Very well, Master."
"Rest, you've done Margaret a great service today." John said, his arms looping through his wife's as he helped her make her long journey to the bed. "Thank you."
Dixon paused, staring down into the cradle. She ran a hand over Arthur's cheek.
"He looks just like you did, Mistress. Save for the hair, of course."
"Thank you, Dixon." Margaret smiled, though a yawn began to muffle her words. "Thank you for all your help."
Dixon nodded and left, the door closing. John helped Margaret climb onto the bed, though she winced at the movement. He rubbed at her back, smoothing down her hair. It was still damp beneath his hand, presumably washed in the bath.
"You are a wonder." John said, kissing her forehead. "Are you sure you want to be back in our bed? Perhaps you should have complete rest, I do not want to disturb you. The doctor said-"
"I am never leaving you again." Margaret interrupted, her hands fisting in the front of his shirt. "I never want to be apart from you again. Or Arthur."
"I'm sorry I was not there." John murmured, his hands stroking her hair. "I should never have left."
"The doctor would not have been pleased but - if we should have another, would you stay? I mean, if it is not-"
"I'll stay. No man could tear me from your side again."
A/N: See you next week for an epilogue! Please review 3