“She’s so small, Mama. And quite ugly.”

“She’s had a difficult journey.”

“But why is she so wrinkled?”

“It means she’s lots of growing left to do.”

“When can I play with her?”

“Soon, Fanny, darling.” She blinked at Mrs. B. “We must have a little patience.”

“I don’t know how to think about patience,” said Fanny, with a scrunched-up nose.

Mary swept a lock of hair away from her little girl’s face. “Well, then, think about spiders.”

Across the veil of her own weariness, Mrs. B wanted to hear about spiders. She herself never killed one in the house, remembering the nursery rhyme from her own girlhood: “If you wish to live and thrive, let a spider run alive.” It wasn’t superstition so much as a “do unto others” way of being good to all living things.

Marguerite stepped near to peek at the baby, and without a word between them, Mary placed the bundle gently into her arms. As soon as she saw the little face, Marguerite’s eyes glossed with tears. She turned away so Mary wouldn’t see.

“Do you remember that we watch spiders sometimes, through my quizzer,” said Mary, pulling Fanny onto her lap. “How steady and careful they are, silk by silk, one stitch at a time, knitting their home just right?”

“I remember, Mama,” said Fanny, throwing an easy arm around her mother’s neck.

“That is a kind of patience. And we must admire it very much.”

Fanny nuzzled her mother’s neck, and twisted the indigo fringe of her shawl in her fingers. Mary rested her chin against Fanny’s fine hair and breathed her in.

“Does she have a name?” asked Marguerite, fretting over the wee one in her arms.

“Not yet,” said Mary. “Maybe Mr. Godwin and I can discuss it at dinner. Will you tell him I’ll be down to join him, as promised, only one day late.”

“Something light, mind you,” said Mrs. B. “A little boiled bread pudding and vegetables, fresh fruit. And could the missus have some dry toast and chamomile for now?”

“I’ll see to it,” said Marguerite, walking close to Mrs. B.

While Fanny whispered and giggled into her mother’s ear, Marguerite leaned in to the midwife, carefully passing her the swaddled child.

“Should we pray for her?” she whispered.

“Sooner the better,” Mrs. B whispered back.

Marguerite let out a small sad sigh. “Tell your Mama good-bye until later, Fanny.”

Fanny kissed her mother on the lips, natural as could be, and took to Marguerite’s arms. When they’d gone, Mrs. B helped Mary change into a clean muslin gown.

“Sweet girl, Marguerite,” she said.

“Oh, even sweeter than Fanny. Worries over every little thing.”

“Not all worries are wrong ones,” said Mrs. B, settling Mary back in her chair.

“Let me try again?” said Mary, reaching for her child.