As he spoke, her body recalled the force of the river against her, the swirling forces that dragged at her, and she shivered involuntarily.
“Charley?”
“All good. I rubbed him down and rewarded him for his bravery with a bucket of carrots and apples. He tried to kick me for it.”
She raised a small smile. “Never knew a mule like him, Sven. I asked so much of him.”
“Word is you helped a lot of people.”
“Anyone would have done it.”
“But they didn’t.”
She lay still, bone-tired, acceding to the pressure of the bedcovers, the soporific warmth. Her hand, deep under the covers, slid across to the swelling of her stomach and, after a minute, she felt the answering flutter that made something in her ease.
“So,” he said. “Were you going to tell me?”
She looked up at him then, at his kind, serious face.
“Had to get you undressed to get you into bed. Finally worked out why you’ve been pushing me away all these weeks.”
“I’m sorry, Sven. I didn’t . . . I couldn’t think what to do.” She blinked back unexpected tears. “Guess I was afraid. Never wanted babies, you know that. Never been the kind cut out to be a mother.” She sniffed. “Couldn’t even protect my own dog, could I?”
“Marge—”
She wiped at her eyes. “Guess I thought if I ignored it, what with my age and all, it might . . .” she shrugged “. . . go away . . .” He winced then, a man who couldn’t bear to see a farmer drown a kitten. “. . . but . . .”
“But?”
She said nothing for a moment. Then her voice lowered to a whisper: “I can feel her. Telling me things. And I realized it out there on the water. It ain’t really a question. She’s here already. Wants to be here.”
“She?”
“I know it.”
He smiled, shook his head. Her hand was still smeared with black and he let his thumb slide over it. Then he rubbed the back of his head. “So we’re going to do this.”
“I guess.”
They sat for a while in the half-dark, each accommodating the prospect of a new and unexpected future. Downstairs she could hear the low murmur of voices, the clatter of pans and plates.
“Sven.”
He turned back to her.
“Do you think—all this business with the floods, all the lifting and pulling and the black water, do you think it will hurt the baby? I had these pains. And I got awful cold. Still don’t feel myself.”
“Any now?”
“Nothing since . . . well, I don’t remember.”
Sven considered his response carefully. “Out of our hands, Marge,” he said. He enfolded her fingers in his. “But she’s part of you. And if she’s part of Margery O’Hare, you can bet she’s made of iron filings. If any baby can make it through a storm like that, it’ll be yours.”
“Ours,” she corrected him. She took his hand then and brought it under the covers so that he could rest his warm palm across her belly, his eyes on hers the whole time. She lay perfectly still for a minute, feeling the deep, deep sense of peace that came with his skin on hers, and then, obligingly, the baby moved again, just the faintest whisper, and their eyes widened in unison, his searching hers for confirmation of what he had just felt.
She nodded.
And Sven Gustavsson, a man not known for high emotion, pulled his free hand down over his face, and had to turn away so that she wouldn’t see the tears in his eyes.
* * *
• • •
The Bradys were not accustomed to using harsh words; while their union could not be described as the perfect meeting of minds, neither enjoyed conflict within the home, and each held for the other such a healthy respect that they rarely allowed themselves an openly cross exchange, and knew each other’s responses well enough after the best part of thirty years to usually avoid it.
So the evening that followed the floods sent something of a seismic shock through the Brady household. Mrs. Brady, having overseen the feeding and watering of the three children in the guest bedroom, seen Izzy off to bed, and having waited till all the servants had retired, had announced her daughter’s intention to rejoin the Packhorse Library project, using a tone that suggested she would accept no further discussion on the matter. Mr. Brady, having asked her to repeat those words twice just to ensure he had heard correctly, responded uncharacteristically robustly—his temper