OF COURSE, EDWARD WAS DELIGHTED when Sophia shyly shared with him the hope that she was expecting a baby. The darling little secret that grew in their minds and her body drew them together most tenderly, but once the news had been announced to the world in general and the Harrington family in particular, everything changed. According to Mrs. Harrington’s wisdom, there was nothing a woman needed more during this delicate period in her life than her mother’s support and guidance. So, following her own mantra, Mrs. Harrington duly descended on Biggenden and made herself comfortable. Edward ruefully asked himself when his mother-in-law would feel they could cope without her and return to Hertfordshire. When the baby turned eighteen?
This afternoon he had won a small victory by spending twenty minutes alone with his wife in the sitting room, drinking tea while his mother-in-law had a nap, but before the teapot was drained, their tête-à-tête was rudely disturbed.
“Why, Sophia!” gasped her mother from the doorway. “You should still be resting in your bed. Think of your poor legs!”
“My poor legs are just fine, Ma,” Sophia said gaily. “And I wanted to join Edward for tea.”
“Then he should have put your feet up. Edward, you must put her feet up.”
Edward found a stool.
“No, that is no good. What Sophia needs is a chaise-lounge so she can recline elegantly.”
And with that Mrs. Harrington rang the bell to get her order executed post-haste.
When all the fussing and rearranging of furniture was over, Mrs. Harrington rang again for a fresh pot of tea.
“Don’t let us delay you, dear Edward,” she purred as she sat down with an air of satisfaction. “I am sure you have plenty to do.”
“You aren’t delaying me,” Edward replied.
Mrs. Harrington sniffed. “Then I hope you are not being slovenly, sitting around all day.”
With difficulty, Edward managed a mild response. “A man is permitted tea with his wife on occasion.”
“Be that as it may, priorities have to be right,” retorted the formidable woman with an air of finality.
She always says that if she has lost one argument and is thinking of another, thought Edward.
“But Sophia and I have some baby talk to do, and as a man you will neither be helpful nor necessary.”
“Mother, you can’t say that!” protested Sophia.
“My bank account may be helpful and necessary,” joked Edward.
“My dear Edward,” his mother-in-law said with a hand to her bosom, “I hope you are not begrudging my darling grandchild basic nursery necessities.”
Edward drew himself to his full height. “Of course not. I by no means implied I was. In fact, I would delight in providing for my own.”
And with that Edward kissed his wife and left the room.
And you need not forget that this baby, whom I am not allowed to join in any discussion about, is actually mine too! he thought quietly to himself as he left the house to inspect the farm.
As he walked, he kicked clods of mud angrily. How could such an interfering woman produce such a wonderful daughter, he wondered, then thinking with a shock, What if the grandmother’s traits come out in our offspring? He pondered this vexing problem as he inspected and prodded the fattening pigs with Mr. Brookes. They were ready for the next market day. As he left the sty, Edward smiled to himself. If mother-in-law were a pig, we wouldn’t breed from her. This irreverent thought tickled him and removed some of the irritation he had been feeling.
Edward wandered through a few meadows to an orchard. The last of the apples were being picked, and the workers were hurriedly loading full bushel boxes onto a wagon ready to be sent to Tunbridge Railway Station and onward to Covent Garden Market in London. The scent of earthy sweetness and the sight of full boxes of shiny apples usually produced in Edward a feeling of satisfaction, but today, despite handling and smelling the abundance of fruit, no such feeling arose. Edward helped the men heave the last bushel onto the wagon, joined in the jovial chatter, and then retraced his steps.
The dissatisfaction Edward felt could no longer be ignored or dismissed. For months, it had grown in his heart, and for months he had tried to suppress it, but the persistent nagging disquiet continued to intrude. As the feeling grew, its features developed and pervaded every area of his life, and only recently had he diagnosed the malady. It was not his shooting friends’ rudeness, the servants’ slovenliness, or his wife’s family that were the root of the problem. It was not the responsibilities of the estate: the leaking roofs of farm cottages, the tenants behind with their rent, or the holes in hedges. It was not the agricultural cares: the foot rot among the sheep, the hail damage of the apples, or the hay stacked too damp. No, his problem was deeper than that, right down in the depths of his soul. He had lost his peace and purpose. He felt empty.
It was not a well-preached sermon that finally confirmed his diagnosis; rather, it was Sophia’s announcement of her pregnancy. Suddenly he realised she would soon be facing possibly the most dangerous day in her life. After all, everyone knew of a woman who had died in child-birth. Sophia had all of this looming ahead, and he was responsible for getting her into the situation. Was she ready for eternity? He had never asked her this question; she seemed so good and sweet it almost felt rude to pose a question like this. But he was well enough grounded in doctrine to know that being good and sweet was not good enough. She needed to trust Christ as her personal Saviour. It was his duty to recommend Christ to her, but he was so distant from the Lord himself that he would feel like a hypocrite doing so. He thought of his unborn child and then of his own childhood. His mother had sacrificed a materially rich lifestyle to marry the man she loved, who also shared her love of Christ. They had very little worldly possessions but a treasure in heaven. They had made it their concern to bring up Edward to know the Lord. Had he sacrificed everything, but the other way around to his mother—Christ for lifestyle? Heavenly treasure for earthly gains?
These questions had dogged his mind for weeks and hung heavy on his soul. He pleaded with the Lord to forgive him for the weakness of his faith, but his prayers seemed to go unanswered. He had ignored God for a long time and now felt the situation was reversed. And it serves me right, thought Edward.
It had never been a conscious decision to side-line the Saviour. It happened as a gradual drifting away from Him. Now the distance seemed so great that the Lord seemed out of reach. Edward knew that God never completely deserts His people, but was he one of His? He doubted all his previous Christian experiences. Had he just been a little boy with a religious temperament and affectations? He envied people who experienced a remarkable, powerful, dramatic conversion. People who could name and date the day the Lord met with them and could clearly see how and when Christ had entered their lives, and by His Spirit had changed their character, conduct, and outlook. Edward had no special date to remember. There had never been a time he did not fear the Lord or pray. Could his religiosity after his parents’ deaths have been some sort of emotional prop to escape from his sadness and help him cope with his abject loneliness? These plaguing questions removed any assurance, peace, and comfort.
Edward wandered around his land in turmoil, praying as he paced through the fields, and then re-checked his timepiece. With mother-in-law about, I’m like a schoolboy who is not allowed home until bedtime. I shouldn’t feel like this in my own house, he thought rebelliously, and walked back with the determination of a rightful owner. Before entering his study, he silently crept to the sitting room door and listened.
“One nursery, Sophia?”
“Yes, and a pretty one it is too.”
“Pretty it may be, but one is insufficient. It is imperative that the child has different nurseries for night and day.”
“Seems most unnecessary, Mother.”
“Not in the least. Babies need different air to breath during the day and night, and to mix them is most dangerous. Everyone knows that.”
Edward’s eyes grew narrow.
“Many a baby sleeps in the same room as the rest of their family,” Sophia said with assurance.
“But many a baby dies young.”
“Then we will instruct the nursery nurse to open the windows and air the room.”
“Never in the evenings! Night air is bad for babies.”
“In the morning then.”
“Draughts are also dangerous.”
“The room can be aired when the baby is with me.”
A pause indicated a truce, or so Edward thought.
“ . . . and I can choose you a suitable wet-nurse of good nature and breeding, so your dear baby doesn’t imbibe any bad traits from her.”
“Mother,” Sophia protested, “I am not having a wet-nurse, and that is that.”
“You are being very unreasonable, my dear,” answered her mother. “In your delicate condition, your thinking is not entirely rational.”
“I am rational!”
“You need a wet-nurse to get your figure back quickly. That is what Edward would like.”
Edward grimaced and forced himself to stay still. As if she knows me at all, he thought.
“Edward doesn’t just love me for my figure!”
“Men are all the same, dear, and moreover, you need to produce a sibling as soon as possible. If you are breastfeeding, you are delaying the process unnaturally.”
“There is nothing unnatural about breastfeeding, Mother. Think of all the animals!”
“Exactly, darling, think of all the animals! You don’t want to be like some dairy cow, do you?”
Edward could bear it no longer. “Sophia,” he said as he sprang into the room, “you breastfeed our child for as long as you like, and if your figure suffers, or if another child takes longer to come along, don’t you worry. I will admire you the more for it!”
Sophia looked both relieved and embarrassed by his entrance and outburst, and Edward wondered if he had done the right thing. Mrs. Harrington had no mixed feelings though.
“Well, if you two will be so modern and unguidable, I wash my hands of you and will let you learn the hard way. My poor, poor grandchild!” she fumed as she stalked out of the room.