Would You Read Beyond The End of This Post?

Mock up cover for blog post only.

This is a snippet from the first chapter of my second novel, Maggie's Child. Feeling positive and focused today I wanted to share part of what keeps me busy all day. After a pep talk from my mentor♥friend the lovely Talli Roland (Author of The Hating Game), I am finding more courage to stride forwards towards my goal. The wonderful comments from you all really made me feel less alone. Author Jessica Bell will relate to my feelings as she lives in a non-English speaking country, and although we like the hermit lifestyle sometimes it can be too far from the writing communities of our original countries. 

I shared a few words of this as a first draft last year. Now it is complete. So would you read beyond the end of this post? *wink*

Maggie's Child

Chapter 1

Monday 13^th October 1856

Intense pain ripped through her body in waves, sweat lay on her brow and nausea drained her. Maggie bit hard on the stick she had placed between her lips. She had entered her sixth hour of labour, the longest she had ever felt the pain of childbirth. She was convinced death must be around the corner for her and the baby. In past pregnancies, labour was over within two hours, and the babies slithered wearily down the birth canal. All had died within the first few minutes of arrival. This- her fifth pregnancy- seemed different. Unable to pinpoint why, Maggie concentrated on the task ahead.

Her body, sapped of energy, gave into nature. Maggie drew in a deep breath, arched her back and pushed through the pain. Now came the moment she dreaded, the split seconds when life and death merged. When body and soul would cry out with the pain of loss. Bearing down, she bit deeper into the stick. Never had she felt so alone and helpless.

Damn you, Stephen Avenell. Damn your promises.

A breeze wafted across her face and Maggie welcomed the cool offering. She fumbled between her legs and her hands recoiled when she touched a warm sticky mass. With speed she felt her way through the debris, and with trembling hands she helped the tiny body into the world. She tugged gently and while she wrapped her hands around the small mound, a hand grasped at her fingers. She inhaled and held her breath for a few seconds; the hand was wet and had a firm grip. Tiny fingers moved and told her there was hope. She pushed away the stick with her tongue. The wood had left behind earthy flavours. She longed to rinse away the taste, but there were no luxuries surrounding her at this delivery. She spat indelicately onto the ground beside her, and with as much speed as she could muster, she pulled the babe onto her belly. With one arm supporting the child, she forced her body downwards and pushed out the afterbirth. With her free arm she wiped herself clean with rags laid out in readiness.

Now came the moment of truth. Slowly she lifted her head and looked down at the pink flesh squirming, celebrating life on her abdomen. A sob caught in the back of Maggie’s throat when a small squeak escaped from rosebud lips. The cries of her baby were an orchestra to her ears. She had never heard a sound from her labours before today. The vibrations against her breastbone were like church bells on a wedding day for Maggie. A sound to be rejoiced.

She cut the cord with a clean knife from her basket, rubbed him clean with a rag and bound a binder tight around the rotund belly. Exhaustion kept her lying on the ground. She comforted the child upon her body with one hand, while she swiftly wrapped the afterbirth in the bloodied rags, with the other. Maggie put them to one side and reached out with trembling hands to hold her newborn properly for the first time. The warmth of its skin made hers tingle.

A red face settled to baby pink when she enclosed her arms around its tiny frame and rested it gently in the crook of her arm. She traced her fingers around the mouth and down the cheeks. Eyes opened and looked into hers. Maggie’s whole being surged with powerful love as she looked back into them. Tears streamed down her face and ran along the soft downy head of a blue-eyed boy.

She had a son. Baby Sawbury had a mother. Two lives from one body was the only miracle Maggie had ever asked God to grant her. The only child who had found solace in her womb and lived was now telling the world the good news at the top of his lungs. Sadness crept into her soul when Maggie remembered what was to be done before nightfall. The task to be carried out would be the hardest task of her life. For nine months she had played the role of the happy pregnant woman but knew for one reason or another, she would never keep the child. Jacob had been fooled into believing the child was his once she suspected she was pregnant with Stephen’s child. He showed no interest, claiming he would only be happy if it was a boy and alive. Maggie knew boy or girl - if it lived - Jacob would play no part in its life. Telling him was a ploy to protect her and the baby’s future. Now the time had arrived, it was a nightmare -- not the plan she thought would be simple to carry out. In her heart of hearts she had convinced herself this baby would die like all the others. Now he lived, she had to face the consequences.

There was no time to spare. Maggie moved quickly and spoke to the baby in soothing tones while she wrapped him in linen robes.

‘I made these, little one. Your mama made these for you. Every stitch holds my love.’

They were nothing like the delicate outfits she had made for her firstborn and those who followed. These were simple garments, with no embroidery, no identifying motif, but it lifted her spirits to think at last the tiny items she had kept secret were to be worn. Maggie would treasure this moment forever. She stopped rushing and gave herself a minute to enjoy her son.  To absorb and make a memory of the most joyous event in her life. A twittering Yellow Hammer flew overhead and Maggie fantasised it was telling the animal kingdom of a special arrival. Looking down at her son, she marvelled at his perfection and traced a finger lovingly over his tiny button nose. Both she and Stephen had narrow noses. Maggie’s was petite with a slight tilt to the tip. Stephen’s was longer. Someone once described it as a Roman nose. The baby’s had a stubby shape, fortunately nothing that could be linked with either parent. His tiny fists punched the air, Maggie drew him close and held her cheek against his downy head.

‘Hush little one, all is well, you survived. God be praised. Know this, I will always love you. My heart will always hold you close. It is torn in two as I look down upon your beauty. Forgive me, but I cannot burden you with my life. When I next hold you it will be in Heaven when we are reunited in the after world. I cannot let you live in my world on Earth. You deserve better, and my husband does not deserve you. He is not your blood and I cannot bring myself to inflict him upon you. Your true father will never know you exist. He made his choices in life, as I have to make mine.’ Her voice was soft and tender as she crooned the only words she would ever say to her son.

She wiped away the tears and gathered her belongings. The baby lay in a wicker basket she had woven from soft wood. She had made a quilt in secret from rags the farm workers had left lying around over the past six months. From the moment she realised her pregnancy, she prepared for this day. Each item had to be anonymous -- there could be no connection to her or the farm.

The walk across the field to the roadside was a long painful one. Each bump of the basket tugged her insides. A rag had been tied around her waist, and wedged between her legs to absorb any blood that may release itself. It chafed as she moved; she was sticky and sore. Now was not a good time to stop and adjust it for comfort. She reached the main road leading into Redgrave village centre. It was tree lined with large horse chestnut and sycamore trees. A russet carpet of leaves lay across the pathways. The white tower of St Mary’s church was to her left; it indicated the south side of the village and marked approximately one mile away. Maggie turned her back to the majestic building in order to get her bearings. She looked at a lone, large shape on the brow of a hill. Dark and dismal against the powder blue skyline was the outline of her home. It sat among the furrowed lines of grey, brown fields and dilapidated fencing. The north side; the side that love forgot. It looked every bit as depressing as it was, and even a bright autumn day could not improve the view. A cruel fact of Maggie’s world gave her the nudge forward she needed. There was no turning back.

Shaking off the morbid mood that threatened, she scouted around for a safe spot in the shade. The midday sun was not fierce but it could dehydrate an unattended child. Gently, Maggie placed the basket with its squalling contents onto the ground beside a large wall of greenery. The gorse bush would protect him from stray animals and give him shelter, but still allow him to be found. Despite the temptation, she did not touch him again. Maggie knew her resolve would break down. It would be so easy to scoop him into her arms and take him home.

Fight it, Maggie. Fight the urge.

 Blowing him a kiss to last a lifetime, Maggie walked away with a heavy heart. Regret and remorse had no place inside the gap he had left at the present time, she would grieve later. Prayers and hope were her companions. Crawling into a small hollow of a hedge, Maggie lay low among the hawthorn and gorse. Her head ached and she was thirsty. There were only two hours left before she would be missed by her husband and Maggie prayed for a swift remedy to her predicament. It would be easier to walk away, but she wanted to see who claimed the child. She needed to reassure herself that all would be well in his new world. Should an unsavoury passerby pick him up, she would show herself and pretend she was answering the call of nature. Maggie had spent months contemplating how to secure a safe home for her child. To give birth and walk through the village holding a child was not feasible. To give birth, hide a baby until dark, then place it on the doorstep of someone with money was not possible. A plan was needed and this was the only one Maggie could come up with. Not ideal but necessary.

She could feel her nipples tingle with the urge to feed her child. Her blouse was soaked. She fought against Mother Nature. Her son screamed for his mother. The louder his cries, the more the milk flowed, and she resisted with all her might. Brambles scraped at her legs, she crouched low, and placed her hands over her ears. Tears ignored her inner battle, they flowed adding to the dampness of her clothing.

Her insides ached with the need to hold him. To inhale his sweet baby perfume one last time. The want was so powerful. Then she remembered something she had meant to tell him.

‘Nathaniel,’ she whispered on the wind, ‘your name is Nathaniel. I forgot to tell you, forgive me.’

The pain between her legs subsided to a dull throb. The tender belly area was not so uncomfortable, but the pain in her heart would never leave. Temptation was building by the second. If she took him home, she could only protect him for a few years and enjoy his baby life. However, after that it would be a life of drudgery and aggression. One she had endured since the age of fifteen. With no consideration for Maggie, her parents had sold her to a widower. A man with no morals or love in his bones. A stray dog showed Maggie more affection with one sniff than Jacob Sawbury had shown her in five years. He lay on top of her and grunted like a pig from the sty in order to reproduce.

 If Nathaniel’s biological father, Stephen Avenell, knew the truth, he might be tempted to take him from the farm. Their secret would be discovered. If her husband found out the truth, he would destroy all three of them. He would take pride in being the one to bring scandal to the doorstep of the squire. The safest thing to do was to hope someone investigated the wailing sounds. Maggie prayed Nathaniel would not cry himself to sleep.

Keep screaming, my son. I will come for you one day. Dear God just give me a chance to glimpse who takes him.

End of Snippet.