14th April, 1838
Darius awoke with a start. Marianne wasn’t next to him in the bed. God, would the panic of finding her missing ever abate? He doubted it. Propping himself up on his elbows, he scanned the room in the dim light of daybreak. There she was. Wrapped in her blue shawl, sitting on the chaise before the fire. She sat very still. So still he would think her asleep if her back wasn’t so ramrod straight.
He kept his eyes on her as he got out of bed and donned his robe. He could see her shoulders moving, just barely, and in a predictable rhythm that followed steady breaths. He came to her slowly and knelt on the rug at her feet. She kept her eyes closed, but he could tell she was wide awake. Her hands rested one on each thigh. He lowered his head onto her lap at her knees and felt the gentle weight of her hand touch him, beginning a soft, rhythmic pattern of trailing through his hair with her fingers.
Words weren’t necessary. Communication flowed through to their minds from their hearts, or so it seemed to him. Darius put his energy into savoring this precious moment with her because he suspected the time was very near. Everything was equipped, and had been for weeks. They’d pored over books together and prepared themselves with as much knowledge as they could glean. All that remained was the experience and for nature to take its proper course as had been done by women for millennia. He cared only about one woman though. His. He would not press her now. She would tell him when she was ready.
The finger-combing went on for a good five minutes, when she froze abruptly. He could feel her legs tighten under his cheek and her back stiffen against the seat of the chaise. Her fingers gripped a hank of his hair and formed a fist. She stayed like that until the spasm ceased, and he felt her relax.
Darius lifted his head and looked up at Marianne. Her eyes were still closed. He waited, watching her even breaths raise and lower the big swell of her belly. Their child safe inside her body. Her eyes snapped open and captured his. A very intense indigo-blue gaze held him—the gaze of a female warrior.
“Darius?”
“Yes, mia cara?”
“It’s time. Tell Mrs. West we need the doctor and the midwife. Our child will be born this day… ”
The next fourteen hours were not a stroll through the garden for Darius. But he wouldn’t allow for acknowledgement of his own struggles because the strength that Marianne displayed while fighting to bring their baby into the world just stripped him down, bare to the bone, humbled at her feet. He had pause to consider how she had looked at him early this morning when she’d said it was time. He’d thought her a warrior queen then. The metaphor was an apt one because she was in battle now sure as any soldier could ever be.
Watching Marianne bear down through another pain, he felt drops of sweat roll down his back and his hand squeezed in a bone-crushing grip that defied possibility. Her strength was amazing. Hell, all women were amazing in their ability to create new life. The notion they were considered “the weaker sex” was sheer idiocy in his view. Maybe men who held such beliefs should present themselves at a birth and see if their opinions might not merit drastic revision.
He exhaled in relief when the birth-pain eased and she flopped back against him and the pillows that propped her. Marianne was set up in her bed, and he at her side, bracing her through every gripping contraction, and despite doctors’ and midwives’ disinclination to allow a father into a birthing room, he was going nowhere. Marianne wanted him, and he’d promised, so he was here for the duration. She so rarely asked for anything, that when she did so, he was more determined than ever to give her what she wanted. “So brave, mia cara.” He blotted the sweat and tears away and whispered at her ear. “That’s another done.” He pressed his lips to her damp brow. “You’re so strong. Breathe deep now, before the next one comes.” He looked helplessly at Dr. Winslow, who arched a brow at him as if to say, “I’d really like it if you took your irritating arse out of here.” Darius just shook his head in a definitive “no.”
“Thirsty… ” Marianne panted, breaking through the tension and meeting his eyes, bringing him back to her.
“Of course, cara.” He held a glass of water to her lips, trying to hurry before the next pain took hold. In less than two swallows she was seized by another contraction—the biggest one so far. She bit out an agonized cry that rent his heart to further shreds.
Dr. Winslow perked up, but retained his steady calm. “Ah. There it is. The head, I can see the head now. Mrs. Rourke, time to push. Now, my dear. Hard as you can. Your baby wants to meet you,” he sang. “Mr. Rourke, sit her up please… ”
What followed next was the hardest thing he’d ever had to witness, but would not have missed for anything in the world. Holding her upright and steady, he endured every cry and forceful push and streaming tear, hating that she must suffer so, and wishing he could bear it for her.
But their reward came in due time. Those last few moments of Marianne’s intense pain evaporated into greatest joy when Dr. Winslow proclaimed, “Congratulations. You have a son.”
Marianne had never been more beautiful, nor had he ever seen her more radiant, or perceived more joy in her than right now at this moment, holding their son in her loving arms. Darius hung back at the doorway and watched, loathe to break the enchantment of the moment. He felt like an intruder.
Earlier, he’d found it prudent to excuse himself while the midwife, Mrs. West, and Martha, got down to the business of post-birth necessities such as bathing the baby and seeing to Marianne. Some intimacies were best left to the women, after all. Refreshed in clean bedding and wearing a new gown, Marianne had her shawl over her shoulders. Dark coffee waves spilled over the sea-blue silk, the way he’d always loved her hair best, tied with a ribbon to the side. Her twilight eyes could look no further than the infant in her arms though. She simply gazed, looking totally in love and in awe of what she held. Her thumb brushed back and forth in a soft caress on the creamy blanket that swaddled him.
“Aren’t you going to come in? We’ve been waiting for you.” Her voice was low, but welcoming, as if she could sense his hesitation, and she never took her eyes off the baby. “Your son wishes to meet his papa.”
God, how he loved her. How she perceived that he needed some reassurance and gave it so generously. He came to the edge of the bed and saw his son. He had a son. A tiny pink face topped with dark, fine curls peeked from the blanket, a miniature hand and five fingers clasping the fabric’s edge. Bow-shaped baby lips made phantom sucks as their son dreamt in his mother’s arms. Such emotion flowed into him; he’d never have believed it possible to feel so deeply. They had made this tiny person and would always be bound to him by blood. Darius would lay down his life to protect these two people, and the knowledge of that fact made his heart swell in his chest.
“He is beautiful. Just like his mother.”
“Just like his father.” She cooed at the baby. “He looks like you, Darius.”
“You think so?” He tilted his head, smiling down at his son, pride filling him.
“I know so. I’ve been memorizing his features. His chin, that strong brow are a mirror of yours. Not quite sure about his nose yet—” She stopped suddenly and looked up. “How about you come into the bed with us and get a closer look.”
He eased down next to them and was grateful for the soft cushion, for his body suddenly registered the effects of this arduous day.
“Now, you’ve got to support his neck for him and just tuck him against your chest,” she announced, transferring the precious bundle.
“What are you—I—I—am to hold him?” he sputtered. “He—he—is so small and fragile—” He found his words resisting the idea, but his body had a different response as his hands just reached out and brought the baby close.
“Yes, Darius, you are to hold him, and he’s not that fragile.”
“Oh.” Pure, innocent, perfect love was what he felt for this small, new person in his arms. He fell in total love with him all in an instant. Darius brushed his finger against the tiny hand, which responded by gripping around it with force. “My God,” he gasped. “You’re right. He’s not fragile, I feel his strength. He is so strong. Our son is very strong. Such a strong little man you are,” he crooned, “aren’t you, my son?”
Marianne laughed at him. Just a small, satisfied laugh, but he didn’t care. He had a son… and they were holding on to one another. Life was good.
“You know, Darius, we’re going to have to come up with a name for this little prince.”
“I can think of only one name that would suit, cara.”
“And?”
“Don’t you know?” He met her eyes. “I think you know the name, Marianne.” He smiled at the woman he loved. “Only if you wish it, but understand that I think the name will honor him and honor our son, both at the same time.”
She leaned into him, resting her head on his chest, reached out and gently touched the silky fine hair of their son’s head. “Then, Jonathan, you are. Jonathan Darius Rourke. Our Jonathan.” They enjoyed the quiet together, content to watch Jonathan sleep, his pure baby scent an ambrosia of fragrance, hovering over them. Her beautiful voice floated softly to him. “I love you, Darius. And I love our Jonathan. Thank you. For both of you.”
“As I love the both of you, cara.” He kissed the top of her head. “How are you? Are you well? You were so amazingly brave and strong and magnific—”
“I am perfect.”
Now it was his turn to laugh. “You’ve never said as much to me before.”
“But it’s true. You asked me how I am. I am perfect. Perfect child. Perfect husband. Perfect love.” She smiled that half-mast smile of hers.
“Do you mean it? Truly?” Darius asked.
“Oh yes, with every beat of my heart,” Marianne answered.
Darius became a believer in heavenly blessings after that day. As the years unfolded, he lived his life in good measure, but thinking of his wife in the very same way he always had, for in his heart she had never changed. Marianne was still as he had found her to be from the very first. Still beautiful and mysterious, still loving and generous, still taking his breath away with her unending gifts so freely given to him.
She was all of that for him and more. Marianne was his reason for being. He had found his true perfect passion. Darius Rourke knew he was a blessed man.
28th May, 1838
I have written of the weight of my guilt many times upon these pages. Moments when I was consumed so greatly, I could not see a future of any kind ever becoming a possibility. A heavy burden, carried for years until one person helped me to cast it away. I know there will be times I feel guilt still cloaking me, but for the first time, I have some clarity of forethought to understand how my burdens did nothing to help any of those who have been lost to me.
Darius saved me from myself. Of this, I am very aware. Without his love, I am certain I would not breathe to this day, nor would my heart beat within my breast.
There is great beauty in the simplicity of giving oneself to another in trust, and allowing them to hold you up. My Darius taught me this lesson. From the beginning, he could really see me. I believe he is the only person to ever see inside my soul. A rare gift, which has served to give back to me—my life.
He gave me our precious Jonathan, and also the gift of serenity in letting my J. go. I now know J. is at a peaceful place, where what transpires in this earthly realm, is but a speck floating along in the oceans of time. In the hours of the darkest kind, Darius has ever been my light. My lover who saw inside my battered soul and freed me.
MR
