Embrace the Day by Susan Wiggs

bed and touched the blanket that swaddled the child. Then, growing bolder, he ran his finger along the wizened little cheek.
    The child turned his head toward the finger and opened his tiny mouth. Roarke felt a sting of emotion in his eyes. It didn't matter that the child hadn't sprung from his loins. The boy was his now, in every sense of the word.
    While Roarke marveled over the child, Mrs. Weems busied herself with Prudence. She removed the bed linens and toweling. Watching her, Genevieve felt a shiver of fear. So much blood… There wasn't an inch of linen that wasn't soaked.
    She followed the midwife out into the hall. "What's wrong?" she asked. Her voice was low, as if she were loath to give voice to something dark and unimaginable.
    "She's very weak," Mrs. Weems explained. Her face was somber. "She's spilled enough blood for a dozen birthings, and it shows no sign of stopping."
    "What—what does that mean?" Genevieve demanded, terror pounding through her veins.
    Mrs. Weems brushed a tear from her cheek. "She's bleeding to death, Genevieve. She won't last another night."
    "No!" Genevieve stifled a sob with her fist, nearly breaking the skin of her knuckles with her teeth. "You're wrong, Mrs. Weems—"
    "I wish I were, lovey. I wish I were. But I've attended too many birthings to be mistaken about this. 'Tis a risky thing, bearing children."

    Genevieve almost wished the baby would begin crying again, if only to break the silence that crowded into the darkened room throughout the day. But the child was as patient as an angel, bearing the clumsy, inexperienced way she cradled him in her arms with great calm, sucking occasionally from a small twisted cloth that had been dipped in water.
    Roarke merely sat and stared at Prudence's inert form, looking bleak and helpless as he watched his wife slip away. From time to time, Mrs. Weems came and exchanged the blood-soaked rags for fresh ones.
    The blood never seemed to stop. Genevieve shivered and tried not to give way to panic. The horror, the helplessness of watching the dearest friend of her heart die, was almost too much to bear. So she clung to the baby and watched his mother and didn't bother to wipe away the tears that, like Prudence's lifeblood, flowed copiously.
    "I never should have brought her here," Roarke said, his voice thick with self-loathing. "I never should have listened to Angela Brimsby. Prudence wasn't strong; I saw that from the first. But my own selfishness kept me from heeding that warning."
    "It's not your fault, Roarke," Genevieve whispered. Bitterness twisted in her gut at the thought of the Brimsbys. Such fine, upstanding Londoners. So rich and secure in their neat little life. Prudence meant nothing to them. Edmund had planted the child that was killing her, while he himself was untouched by scandal and tragedy. Genevieve had never before realized she was capable of the cold hatred she now felt.
    Afternoon slid into evening. Mrs. Weems had engaged a wetnurse, a French Indian woman named Mimi Lightfoot who had lost her husband and baby to fever. Mimi slipped into the room and built up the fire in the grate. Then she placed a candle on the bedside table and withdrew, her face pinched with regret. Neither Roarke nor Genevieve spoke to her.
    Finally, as the first stars of twilight began to wink in the sky, Prudence stirred. Roarke leaned forward, hope springing to his eyes.
    "The baby…" Prudence breathed.
    Genevieve came to the bedside and held out the child, who was just waking from a long nap. He opened his tiny mouth and yawned delicately. She laid the bundle beside Prudence and brought her friend's arm about the baby.
    Prudence squinted and blinked, as if she were having trouble seeing. Then her eyes seemed to focus, and her lips curved into a smile of unbearable sadness.
    "He is worth it," she said, mouthing the words, too weak to give voice to them.
    "He's a fine boy, Prudence," Roarke assured her.
    She looked at him as if seeing him for the