Dream Weaver (32 page)

Later, as night sounds drifted around them, they lay in each other's arms and stared up at the stars while lightning bugs darted about, flickering in the darkness. The night was hot and still with not even the slightest of breezes. Even then, Gwen wished she could stay in Christian's arms forever.

 
* * *

After she dismissed her class the following day, Gwen strolled in the sizzling heat past all the leantos, where breeches, dresses, and shirts on clotheslines fluttered in a light breeze. Christian would be as busy as ever in the hospital, but Gwen first wanted to visit Judith, a young mother with a new baby.

Babies cried and children played tag among the wooden shacks, knocking over boxes and crates in their youthful enthusiasm. Squawking chickens and barking dogs added to the confusion. Cats prowled among the shanties or climbed to the top of a settler's shack to survey their domain. Cooking smells wafted in the air, not all of them pleasant.

Sunlight glinted off the fort's brick walls, forcing her to shield her eyes against the glare. Her calico frock clung to her skin, and she grabbed a handkerchief from her pocket to dab across her forehead. Minutes later, she stopped by Judith's ramshackle lean-to where the eighteen-year old stood outside, draping diapers over a clothesline. What in the world was she doing out here now, hanging up diapers after giving birth only last week? Where was her husband? Not getting into a fight with another settler, she hoped.

She squinted in the bright sunlight as she stopped to greet the young mother. "Judith, how's the baby?" She looked around. "Must be asleep because I don't hear him."

"Aye, ma'am, the baby's sleepin'." Judith wiped her hand across her shiny forehead and tucked strands of long hair behind her ears. The young mother looked so pretty, with her clear skin, auburn hair, and green eyes. Gwen wondered how long she'd keep her looks, stuck out here in the frontier, working from dawn to dusk, with none of the modern conveniences and a new baby besides.

"Here, let me help you," she said, reaching for the remaining diapers the young mother held, then draping them across the clothesline, one by one.

"Would you like to see the baby?" Judith asked with an eager smile.

Gwen smoothed her damp hands along her hips. "Wouldn't want to trouble you, but I'd love to see the baby."

"No bother, ma'am. Pray come with me." They both ducked under the clothesline, and Judith pushed a blanket aside at the entrance to the shack. Gwen's gaze covered the tiny space, crammed with boxes. It took several seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dark, but finally her gaze settled on a tiny baby who slept inside a large wooden crate, lying on his stomach.

"Why did you place him on his stomach?" Gwen whispered.

Judith looked puzzled. "Your husband told me to set him on his stomach when he's sleeping. Said it's better for his di-di–“

"Digestion?"

"Aye, that's it. Dr. Norgard told me 'tis better for his stomach, said the baby won't have so much gas."

Reluctant to interfere with her own husband, still Gwen thought the baby's life the most important consideration. "That position can be dangerous--no, I don't mean to alarm you, but a baby can die...suffocate if he sleeps in that position. Happens only once in a blue moon," she hastened to assure the mother, "but it can happen."

Frowning, Judith glanced at the baby, then at her, and back to the baby. "But the doctor said..."

"In this case, I must disagree. Honestly, I don't mean to frighten you, but babies have been known to die when they sleep on their stomach."

"Oh!" The young mother wrung her hands, her worried frown deepening. "Do you think I should wake him up to turn him over now?"

"I'd let him sleep for now. Next time you put him to bed, place him on his back or on his side with something braced behind him to support him."

"Yes, ma'am."

After several minutes of small talk, Gwen said goodbye, sorry for such a short visit but anxious about Christian working alone in the hospital.

In the blistering heat, she headed for the hospital again, praying they wouldn't lose any patients this day.

* * *

The next day was as busy as all the other days. Gwen stood in the stuffy smallpox hospital, wiping her hand across her sweaty forehead. While she applied a mustard poultice to a young boy's foot, she looked across the room and saw Christian holding a little girl's hand. A sickening feeling settled in her stomach as she noted the lines of fatigue around his mouth and eyes, the way he continually pushed the hair back from his forehead. Weaving her way between all the beds, she reached him as he closed the child's eyes.

"Nothing more I can do for her," he said in a voice heavy with sorrow. He pulled a blanket over the child's face. "If only I could save them."

She touched his arm, trying to give him what little comfort she could, aware her consolations didn't help much. "But sweetheart, you've done so much good here. Look at the lives you have saved. And remember when we first met, you told me you often wondered how much good you were doing. Honey, you've made all the difference in the world here."

He sighed. "Wish I could believe that."

"You have! But for now, why don't you call it a day--"

"Why don't I what?"

She licked her cracked lips and brushed a wet strand of hair from her face. "Why don't you stop for today. God knows, you've done more than most men would be willing or able to do." She observed--not for the first time--the dark shadows that circled his eyes. "Might be better for you to rest now and then, rather than keep on to the point of exhaustion. Besides," she said as she forced a smile, "soon it will be time for the evening meal, and you know we missed that yesterday."

Wiping his hands on his breeches, he nodded tiredly, his gaze covering the crowded room where the sick and dying moaned. "Aye, you have the right of it. Only let me visit a few of the villagers on the grounds of the fort. Then I'll go to our room to change for the meal." He laughed without humor, looking down at his stained shirt and breeches. "When did I last change my clothes? I can't remember."

* * *

Clad only in her chemise, Gwen dipped a wash linen into the basin of lukewarm water, giving herself a sponge bath as best she could. Oh, would she love a nice, cold shower, or better still, a long soak in a bubble bath with perfumed bath water, talcum powder, and all the works. She closed her eyes in dreamy delight.

Just the same, a sense of pride filled her. She'd learned to manage quite well in the eighteenth century, doing without so many luxuries she'd taken for granted in her own time. Why, if she weren't careful, she might even get used to life at this time. As long as she could be with Christian, that was all--

The door banged back and Christian strode into the room, looking mad as a pit bull with PMS. "What do you mean by countermanding my instructions to Judith Halloway?"

"Counter--?" She thought hard, at a loss to know what he was talking about. After so many days and nights with little sleep, she could hardly think. "Oh--you mean about the baby."

"Aye, the baby." Christian closed the door and leaned against it, breathing heavily. Arms folded across his chest, he tapped his fingers against his arm. "I'm waiting."

She dropped the cloth in the water and reached for a towel, trying to calm her thudding heart. Oh, oh, now she'd done it, made him angrier than she'd ever seen him. At the same time, Gwen caught his gaze on her and became aware of how her full breasts thrust against the thin material of the cotton chemise. It occurred to her that it would be a simple matter to divert him from his anger, but she decided not to practice her feminine wiles on him now. That wasn't her style. Far better to meet him on his own ground--calm logic.

"Any day now, Gwen."

"Yes, yes, I'm thinking." She dried her arms and legs, glancing over at him. "How can I begin?" she mused aloud. "Well, doctors nowadays--"

"Nowadays?"

"In my time, I mean. Doctors have discovered it's safer for the baby to sleep on his back or his side. He's less likely to die from sudden infant death syndrome."

"From what?" Christian snapped. Pushing himself away from the door, he strode toward the bed. He perched on the edge, his face pinched with anger and exhaustion. His unshaven cheeks appeared even darker in the oil lamp's dull glow, his long hair falling past his shoulders, instead of secured in back.

"Sudden infant death syndrome," Gwen repeated. "SIDS for short." Gwen tossed the towel aside and grabbed a cotton dress from a peg, the only clean dress she had left. Somehow, she'd have to find time to-- She brought her mind back to the discussion. "Doctors have discovered that newborn babies are more likely to die when they lie on their stomachs. They can smother to death." She eased the dress past her hips and began to lace the bodice. "Haven't you ever heard of babies dying in their sleep?" She stopped with her hand midway down the bodice, waiting for his answer.

"Once in
Philadelphia
I dealt with such a case," he said as he closed his eyes for a moment. He opened his eyes and peered up at her. "But who's to say why the baby died? Another doctor and I examined the baby, and we found no apparent cause of death."

"That's it, Christian! That's just it! Doctors in your time don't have the sophisticated methods of examination and don't keep such careful records--"

"I keep a record of all the cases I treat, as did the doctor in
Philadelphia
." He rose and drew his shirt over his head. He hung the shirt on a peg and wrung the washcloth out, then sponged his face, his voice muffled through the cloth. "I'd say I'm as conscientious as any doctor."

She watched the play of muscles along his broad back and arms and wished they could postpone the evening meal for more sensual pursuits. Besides, she didn't like any kind of conflict.

"I'm sure you are conscientious," she said, "but it's so much different in the twenty-first century. Doctors can gather da--information from all over the country and feed the facts into a computer and--"

"I don't understand this 'feed the facts into a computer'. Gwen, I oftimes feel as if we're speaking two different languages. Will you speak the king's English, damn it!"

"I'm trying to." Finished lacing her dress, Gwen thought hard. "Remember the other day I told you about computers? Well, doctors and researchers can study all the records from all over the country and--and--oh, I can't explain about a computer, but it's a machine that--"

"Right-ho! Another machine." He toweled himself and jerked a clean shirt off a peg. "I fear we have strayed from the subject. We began by having a disagreement--shall we say?--about Mistress Halloway's baby."

Gwen slipped into her moccasins, balancing herself against the wall. "And that's what I've been trying to tell you. Doctors have found it's safer for a baby to sleep on his side or on his back, but not on his stomach." Could she ever make him see what life was like in the twenty-first century, how details that no one thought about in his time could mean a matter of life or death?

Looking thoughtful, Christian checked his watch, then returned it to the pouch at his waist. "We'd better hurry or we'll miss the evening meal again. We'll talk more on this later."

Just when Gwen started to relax, he waved a finger at her. "Don't ever countermand my advice again. I have enough worries with the smallpox sufferers--sick and dying--without having to worry about my wife giving contradictory advice behind my back."

"But Christian--"

"Have done with it, wife!" he said, slashing his hand through the air. "No more talk and from now on, let me give the medical instructions. You can continue to help in the hospital if you wish, but after this, pray check with me first before you give any medical advice."

She stifled her irritation--she was right, after all! She had to admit, though, that only exhaustion would make Christian talk to her like this. Hadn't he always acted the perfect gentleman around her, never scolding, never criticizing? Well, usually he acted the gentleman. But these weren't usual times. Forget it for now, she told herself. No point in making things harder for him.

* * *

"Christian," Gwen said on the way back to their room after the evening meal, "remember what the officers were saying about Indian attacks on the other forts?"

He nodded grimly. "All they talked about during the meal, and no wonder!" He made a wide gesture. "Only look at all the refugees pouring into
Fort
Pitt
from the other forts, Presqu'Isle and Le Boeuf--"

"Venango!"

"True. Now we must feed these people, take care of them." Christian sighed. "As if
Fort
Pitt
weren't already overburdened! But who can blame these unfortunates for seeking refuge here, when their forts are under attack or destroyed? They have nowhere else to go."