Page 5 of Saving Miss Pratt
He turned, his nose and cheeks red, his eyes pleading. “You’ll have to help her.”
“I . . . I . . . I don’t know how.”
“It’s a natural process. Have you never seen a calf or lamb birthed, girl?”
A calf or a lamb was hardly a human baby, but she answered his question. “No.”
He huffed, and she cringed at his glare. “All you need to do is help it out and tie the cord. Lettie will do the rest.”
“If it’s so easy, why don’t you do it? I’m here to mind the children.”
He bellowed a laugh. Hardly fitting, in Priscilla’s estimation, given the circumstances.
“Better I show you than tell you.” He moved toward the door of the bedroom, knocking twice before entering.
Moments later, Mrs. Wilson shouted, “Out! Out! You did this to me! Don’t come near me, you brute!” Something slammed against the door or perhaps the wall of the room—the sound of shattering glass followed.
Mr. Wilson exited, wiping his brow. “Be careful going in. She threw a pitcher at my head.” He strolled to the kitchen, returning with a broom and a replacement pitcher full of water. He held them out to her. “I’ll mind the little ones. I can’t do no work in this blizzard anyway.”
A collective cheer rose from his children. Priscilla wasn’t certain how to take that.
She girded herself as she moved on leaden limbs toward the bedroom door where the screaming Mrs. Wilson waited. After pulling in a deep breath, she opened the door and entered.
* * *
Three hours later,Priscilla finished changing the bed linens and Mrs. Wilson’s night rail. Every muscle in her body stung from exhaustion as she placed the newborn baby boy into Mrs. Wilson’s arms.
She gazed in amazement at the woman who cradled her baby and placed soft kisses on his fuzzy head. The beatific expression on the woman’s face was even more astounding, considering what she’d just gone through. Why would anyone wish to go through such torture multiple times?
Priscilla’s gaze drifted toward the tiny bundle. The creature reminded her of a wrinkled pug, only redder. Its loud wail pierced the room, and she jumped. Fear trickled up her spine, and she darted a glance toward Mrs. Wilson.
“A healthy cry is the best music to a mother’s ears,” Mrs. Wilson said, reassuring her.
Priscilla had serious doubts about that statement.
“You can let him in now,” Mrs. Wilson said, placing the baby to her breast.
“Are you certain?” Priscilla wished to avoid any more hurled pitchers.
“Yes, love. I expect he’s wearing out the floorboards. Best let him in to see his new son.”
Priscilla had barely opened the door and four bodies practically poured into the room, the two-year-old tumbling to the floor at Priscilla’s feet. They all raced over to greet the new member of the family, forgetting about Priscilla entirely.
“Mr. Wilson, I suppose I should leave now,” Priscilla said to the excited crowd.
Too busy cooing over the newborn, the family ignored her. Even in the desolate country, she was superfluous, cast aside without a second thought once her usefulness ended. She stepped quietly from the room, feeling very much like an intruder and wishing to remove herself as quickly as possible.
With Grantham closer than home, she decided to walk to town. Once there, she would hire someone to take her home by carriage. She slipped her heavy woolen cloak around her shoulders and stuffed her hands into her kid-leather gloves, then opened the door and stepped outside.
Wind whipped against her, buffeting her body as she trudged through the snow toward town. Snowflakes, which had trailed lazily down from the sky earlier in the day, flew at her from angry angles, stinging her face. She tugged her hood up, pulling it closer around her face.
As she trudged through the snow, muscles in her body she didn’t realize existed ached with each torturous step. Her mood grew as tumultuous as the storm around her. Why had she ever agreed to minding the Wilson children? What else could go wrong in this terrible, horrible, very bad day?
Too late, she realized the foolishness of even pondering the question.
When the storm eased, changing from slashing fury to soft, slow flakes, she gazed about. She should have arrived in town. How had she been turned around? The usual markers she used to gauge her location and distance disappeared under the blanket of snow. As she turned in a circle, trying to spot the telltale signs of chimney smoke, the only thing before her lay a field of white.
Panic seized her, and she turned to head back toward the Wilsons’ cottage, retracing her footsteps. But after a while, even those disappeared. She forced down the urge to weep. It would serve no purpose and only leave her with frozen tears to further chill her already cold face.