The Yuletide Child, Charlotte Lamb [best novels to read .TXT] 📗

perfect; she has all her bits and pieces so you don’t need to worry about her. She has very good lungs, too—listen to her!’

Dylan laughed. ‘I am! Noisy, isn’t she?’

‘She’s gorgeous,’ Ruth said, shawling the infant in a clean towel before putting her into her old wicker sewing basket, which was the closest they could come to a cot. Lined with a folded sheet, it was just big enough for the small, swaddled form, and the baby’s angry crying stopped as she fell asleep.

Ross had gone downstairs a few minutes earlier tomake a pot of tea while Ruth and Henry dealt with the final stages of the birth.

Watching Ruth’s face as she stared down at the baby, Henry asked her, ‘Do you ever wish you’d had a child?’

She sighed, giving him a little nod. ‘But it never happened, so there’s no point in wishing, is there? What about you?’

He smiled at her. ‘Yes, I’d have loved it But Gwen couldn’t have one, poor woman. If she’d had one she might have been happier.’

‘I don’t think Gwen was the contented wife and mother type,’ Ruth said drily, then flushed; meeting his eyes. ‘Sorry, that sounded catty, didn’t it?’

‘You never liked her, did you?’

‘No,’ she said, chin up in defiance. ‘And she never liked me.’

Henry laughed. ‘Well, she was jealous of you, wasn’t she?’

Ruth blinked, eyes opening wide. ‘Jealous? Of me? Of course she wasn’t—why should she be?’

‘I made the mistake of telling her once what a marvellous person I thought you were.’ Henry shrugged. ‘From then on Gwen loathed you.’

Ross came back at that moment and came over to gaze adoringly at the tiny, red, wrinkled, old man’s face which was all he could see by then of his daughter.

‘I can’t believe how beautiful she is!’

‘Isn’t she? Just look at all that black hair. I think she’s going to take after you, Ross,’ said Ruth, then looked from him to his wife. ‘What are you going to call her?’

‘Ruth,’ Dylan said, by now half asleep after all her exertions. She was feeling as light as air, very contented. Her bedclothes had been changed—the new sheets had a clinging, fresh-air smell of lavender—she had beenwashed, her hair brushed, and was wearing a clean white cotton nightdress.

Flushing, Ruth protested, ‘Oh, no! That’s very nice of you, but really, there’s no need to...’

‘I always liked the name Ruth,’ said Henry thoughtfully.

Through half-closed eyes, Dylan watched them both. Ruth had flushed, her face suddenly years younger. She likes him a lot, thought Dylan. But does he feel the same about her?

‘Ruth “amid the alien corn”,’ Henry went on. ‘That was one of my favourite stories from the Bible at school. She was such a strong woman. After her husband died she didn’t abandon her old mother-in-law; she worked hard to keep them both. Faithful and loyal—old-fashioned virtues these days, when too many people put themselves first; we could do with a lot more people like her.’

‘This is the “me” generation.’ Ross shrugged cynically. ‘People have been brought up to believe they should always do what’s best for them, never mind what happens to anyone else.’

‘This is a sad, bad world,’ Henry muttered. ‘Thank God there are still a few people like Ruth in it.’

‘Ruth is such a lovely name,’ Dylan said with a yawn. ‘We love it, and we would like you to be her godmother, wouldn’t we, Ross?’

They had talked about it while Ruth was cooking lunch; she had done so much for them and they both liked her.

Pink and very touched, Ruth said shyly, ‘I’d love that. But what about your own families? Won’t they mind?’

‘I’m quite sure they won’t,’ Ross said.

For Dylan the last two days had been hectic, a helter-skelterride which took the breath away. She was glad the birth was over and she had a healthy baby, but she knew there were still a lot of problems in her life. She had a lot to talk to Ross about, a lot of questions to ask. There was still a shadow over their future.

But at that moment her eyelids were as heavy as lead; she let them close and a moment later was fast asleep.

When she woke up the room was shadowy, only a faint pink light shining from a fringed lamp on a table by the window. The curtains were drawn but she realised night had fallen. Ross sat in an armchair beside the table, a book open on his lap. He was asleep, face flushed, his head lolling against the wing of the chair, mouth slightly open, his breathing slow and regular.

Dylan watched him passionately, her heartbeat quickening, her nipples hard and hot under her thin cotton nightie. She was taken aback to feel a dampness there too, and put a hand to her chest, eyes widening.

What on earth was that? For a second or two she was confused, then it dawned on her—the ache and swell of her breasts, the slight leakage. Wasn’t nature miraculous? As soon as she had had her baby other changes had begun in her body, so that she could feed the child.

Where was her baby? She sat up, drawing a sharp breath as she realised how stiff her muscles were; having a baby was even harder work than dancing a full performance of a ballet. She felt as if she had been working out for days. Massaging her stomach, she was gratified to find it flatter again—although it must be flabby now. As soon as she was up on her feet she must start exercising, strengthen those muscles, make sure her body returned to its old athletic shape.

Ross stirred, eyes opening slowly, then he sat up, rakingback the tousled dark hair which had flopped over his temples, and looked across the room hurriedly.

‘You’re awake!’ He got up, letting the book on his lap fall to the carpet. He bent to pick it up and put it on the arm of the chair before coming over to the bed. ‘How do you feel?’

‘As