The Child

Just as Charlotte was sinking into fear that her distant lover had changed his heart, into doubt over her own worth, swallowed by boundless loneliness, a loud, urgent burst of infant crying suddenly came from the next room, like a sharp blade slicing through the dead silence of the deep night.

The cry instantly dragged Charlotte out of her chaotic, painful thoughts. It was Klein! Her son!

Almost by instinct, Charlotte shot to her feet. She did not even have time to throw on an outer robe; wearing only her thin nightgown, she hurried to the door of the adjoining nursery, knocked lightly, then pushed it open and went in.

A dim oil lamp was lit inside. The wet nurse was holding the swaddled baby in a fluster, gently patting and rocking him, trying to soothe the little one who would not stop crying.

Seeing Charlotte come in, the wet nurse showed an apologetic expression and lowered her voice. "Miss, did we wake you? The young master may be hungry, or he may have had a nightmare. I can coax him. Please go back and rest; it's almost dawn."

"It's all right, Jenny. Let me." Charlotte's voice still carried a trace of hoarseness after choking back sobs, but her eyes had already recovered the firmness and tenderness that belonged to a mother.

She reached out with both arms and took the swaddled bundle from the wet nurse, the little face flushed red from crying, the whole body burning hot.

Holding her son's heavy, warm little body, feeling that vibrant throb of life and dependence, the ice-sealed despair and self-pity in Charlotte's heart seemed to have been infused with a warm current, melting slightly.

Holding Klein, she said softly to the wet nurse, "You should go rest too. I'll watch him