“She looks like a prison warden, Malcolm. How can we let her take care of our child?” The real issue for Marielle was, why did they need her? She had taken care of Andre herself, but then the memory of that was too painful to endure, and there was no way now that she could discuss that with Malcolm. “I can take care of the baby myself.” But he only laughed at her and told her she was being silly. He wanted her to let everyone spoil her.

“You'll be exhausted when the baby comes. You'll need to rest. Miss Griffin will be perfect. She has excellent references, is hospital trained. She's just what you need, and you don't even know it. You'll see, babies aren't as easy as you think.” She knew for a fact they were easier than he thought, but she couldn't tell him. At eighteen, she had taken care of her own baby, with no assistance from the likes of Miss Griffin.

Miss Griffin announced early on that Marielle's migraines were bad for the child, and probably a sign of some very dangerous weakness in the mother. It was as though she wanted to shame Marielle out of them, but they were too severe for anything except a dark room and bed rest. A thousand things brought them on. Tension, worry, an argument with Malcolm, a cruel remark from a maid, a head cold, a virus, a late night, too much rich food, even a glass of wine. They were torture for Marielle, and she was always apologizing for them, as though they were a serious character disorder, just as Miss Griffin had suggested.

Only Haverford, the English butler, was ever kind to her. He had never shown any undue interest in her, but he was unfailingly polite and always pleasant. Unlike Miss Griffin, who was intent on allying herself with Malcolm, who had hired her in the first place. And like everyone else in the house, she rapidly began treating Marielle like an intruder. She treated Marielle like the unpleasant but necessary vehicle they had to put up with in order to get the baby. Eventually, it began to make Marielle feel frightened.

She wanted to be with people who loved her now, and she longed for her happy days with Charles before their baby. Sometimes she just lay on her bed and cried, and on more than one occasion, Malcolm was shocked when he found her.

“You're just sensitive right now. Try not to take it all so much to heart,” he tried to tell her. But after talking to Miss Griffin, he did think she was being a little foolish. She seemed to cry all the time. She even got upset when she came to the office and saw Brigitte. Marielle felt so fat and ugly in comparison to her that for three days she refused to go anywhere with Malcolm. But he was always patient with her, and tried to be understanding. But it was obvious even to him that Marielle was desperately overwrought at the end of her pregnancy. It was as though she was terrified, and barely able to cope, but he did all he could to help her. Miss Griffin explained that some women are so afraid of delivery that they go crazy in anticipation of the pain. It seemed to support her general theory that Marielle was weak, and worse yet, a coward.

She wanted to have the baby at home, she had insisted on it early on, but Malcolm was equally insistent that the baby be born at Doctors' Hospital, with every possible modern development near at hand in case there was a problem. Marielle felt it would be more peaceful to have the baby at home, and she was worried about kidnapping, as she confessed to Malcolm. Bruno Richard Hauptmann had been arrested in September for kidnapping the Lindbergh child and she became obsessed with the Lindbergh kidnapping again, but Malcolm decided she was just unduly nervous because she was six and a half months pregnant. It was a difficult time for her, in ways no one else knew. Only her doctor realized what she was going through, and whenever she saw him, he tried to soothe her and reassure her that this time everything would be different.

They were at home the night the baby came, she was reading in her room, and Malcolm was working on some papers in his bedroom when the first pains came. She waited for a while, and then she went to tell him, and he rushed to her side the moment he saw her. Patrick drove them to the hospital and Malcolm stayed with her as long as the doctor would let him, and then they wheeled her away to have their baby. She was groggy from the medication they'd given her by then, and she was telling Malcolm something about how different it had been in Paris. The doctor smiled at him, and the two men exchanged looks of understanding, she was in a dream world.

“It should go easily for her,” the doctor said softly as the nurses took her away. “I'll come back to you very quickly.” He smiled and Malcolm settled into a chair to wait in the huge private suite of rooms they'd reserved for her. It was midnight by then, and Theodore Whitman Patterson was born at four twenty-three that morning.

Marielle saw him first through a kind of haze, and the doctor held him out to her swaddled in a blanket. He had a round pink face and a shock of blondish hair, and he looked at her with surprise as though he'd been expecting someone else, and then he gave a long loud wail, and everyone in the delivery room smiled while tears coursed down Marielle's cheeks. She had thought he was gone…she remembered him so well…the same round cheeks, those surprised eyes…but his hair had been black, like Charles's…shiny black hair like a raven…this wasn't him and yet it looked so like him. She nuzzled her cheek next to his, feeling a primeval ache in her soul, and at the same time a rush of joy and tenderness and completion. They took him away to clean him up and introduce him to his father, while Marielle dozed, and the doctors did some minor repair work.

It was morning when they brought her back to her room again, and Malcolm was dozing peacefully there, waiting for her return, and there was champagne cooling in a silver bucket near her bedside. He woke as soon as the gurney entered the room, and she was more awake than she had been the last time she saw him. Awake, and sore, and happier than she'd been in years…and proud…she had finally fulfilled Malcolm's dreams, and their agreement.

“Did you see him?” she asked as Malcolm bent and kissed her cheek, her eyes tired but content as he watched her.

“I did.” There were tears in Malcolm's eyes now too. This was all he had ever wanted. “He's so beautiful, and he looks just like you.'

“No, he doesn't.” She shook her head, wanting to say the forbidden words… he looks like Andre… “He's so sweet…where is he?” She looked at the nurse, suddenly terrified…what if he was gone?… if something happened to him… if someone took him…

“He'll be back in a little while. He's sleeping in the nursery.”

“I want him here, in my room.” Marielle looked nervously at Malcolm and he took her hand in his own.

“He'll be all right.”

“I know…but I want to see him…” She was never going to take her eyes from him, never going to let him go, never going to let it happen again…never…she began to feel frantic as she looked around the room for him, and for an instant she was afraid she was getting a headache. But the moment passed and Malcolm poured her a glass of champagne, which she only pretended to sip at. After all she'd been through and the medication they'd given her, even the Cristal he'd brought wasn't too appealing.

They brought the baby back to her after that, and she held him close to her while he slept, and when he woke, she unbuttoned her nightgown and nursed him. It all came back so easily, as though nothing had happened since, no grief, no loss, no tragedy…nothing…the eternity of motherhood was hers, and she was lost in love at the hands of this tiny baby.

Malcolm watched in fascination as she nursed, and he held the baby afterward, watching his son in adoring silence. And later that morning, Malcolm went home, and slept peacefully in his own bedroom, knowing that his life was full, complete, and almost perfect. And despite any doubts he may have had in the past two years, he was glad now that he had married Marielle. The child had made it all worth it.

The heavy oak door swung open somberly, as Marielle stepped into the house on silent feet. She was still serious, from having seen Charles after so many years. It had been a shock, but it had also touched her.

“Good afternoon, Madam.” The butler took her coat from her, as one of the maids stood by to help her. And Marielle sighed as she saw them. It had been a difficult afternoon, a difficult day. She could still feel the chill of the church in her bones as she took off her gloves and laid them beside her black suede handbag.

“Good afternoon, Haverford.” She spoke to the old butler. “Is Mr. Patterson at home?”

“I don't believe so.”

She nodded, and walked up the stairs, torn as to whether she should go to her own room, or the third floor. Often, when she wanted to visit him, she de-tided not to. At first, much to her own surprise, she had had mixed reactions to Malcolm's child. She had a passion and a love for him she had never expected…more even than the first time…more than she'd been capable of at eighteen…more than she had known she could ever love another human being. And yet at the same time, outwardly she held back from him, and often the love she felt for him was a well-kept secret. It was too dangerous to allow herself to fall that much in love with him. She knew that, this time, if something happened, it would kill her. So she forced herself to stay away from him, or even appear to be a little indifferent. But there were times when she couldn't feign the pose, times when she had to be with him, times when she crept upstairs at night on bare feet, and just looked at him while he was sleeping. He was more beautiful than any child she had ever seen, warmer, rounder, sweeter, lovelier, more perfect… he was the reward for all her pain, the gift from God for all she'd lost. He was everything she lived for.