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.