Page 7 of Beneath the Harvest Moon

Elijah followed.

A woman stood in the doorway with a palm resting on her heavily pregnant stomach.

After instructing the governess to oversee the unloading of the waggon, Blythe entered the house. “Jane.”

Her brother’s wife wrapped her in a warm embrace. Her round belly bumped into Blythe’s, and they pulled apart with a soft chuckle.

“You are brave to disobey Mother Dixon, but I’m so glad you did.”

“In our correspondence, did we not agree that we would no longer allow Mama to overrule us?” Whether her resolve endured further interrogation would remain to be seen. It must! “You look well.” Blythe ran a hand over Jane’s swollen stomach.

“Hopefully the babe will arrive before the end of September.” Jane rubbed her spine. “My back cannot withstand another month.”

Blythe linked her arm in Jane’s, and they headed towards the parlour. “I can take over your duties, and you can rest.”

A teasing smirk formed on Jane’s lips. “When was the last time you did such things?”

She halted. “I have not forgotten what it is to work.” Blythe ignored the sardonic tilt to Jane’s dark brow and asked, “How is Papa?”

“Mother Dixon says he’s on the mend, but I’m not allowed in the sickroom.”

Blythe nodded. “You cannot risk becoming unwell so close to the birth. You are older now and must take extra care.”

“May I remind you; you’re a lady now and no longer an apprentice midwife.”

Not if her plans were to come to fruition, but there were more pressing matters at hand. “I will visit Papa in a moment.”

“He’ll be happy you’re home. We’ve all missed you.”

Home. Just the word eased the pressure on her chest.

Jane headed into the parlour while Blythe climbed the stairs. The fifth step creaked under her feet, and she could not help but smile. She removed her gloves and ran her hand up the dark wood banister.

Before her parents' bedchamber, she paused, inhaled, then rapped on the wood.

“Come in, Blythe.” Papa’s words were followed by a racking cough.

Papa stood before the window in nothing more than his shirt and stockings.

“What are you doing out of bed?”

Papa coughed into a handkerchief, then said, “Did you drive through the village in that? Your mam will be preening like a peacock to think her friends will have seen you in that fine carriage.”

“I do not care about Mama’s friends. I care about why you are not in bed.”

“Stop fussin’, child.” Papa waved her off.

He wobbled when he turned, and she took his arm, guiding him towards the carved four-poster bed. “Papa, you have had lung fever. You must rest, or it may return.”

Papa clambered onto the mattress. She plumped his pillows before allowing him to recline, then pulled the sheets and blankets up to his neck before tucking them in.

“I’m not an invalid. I’ve been in bed a month. I need to get back to work.”

“You will not get back to anything if the lung fever returns. Besides, I am certain John is doing a fine job of overseeing the harvest.”

“Aye, your brother knows what he’s doing. I’ve no worry on that score. But it does a man no favours to malinger in bed, especially one who’s never been struck by illness afore.”

“I hate to say this, Papa, but you are getting older.”