Free A Mother's Love by Maggie Ford Page A

of helplessness. The punishment Will had inflicted on her would never end.
    Yelling made things worse. The day before had become so bad that she had smacked Sara – really hard – on her arm and her legs. It was as though she couldn’t stop. She was only expressing her frustration, she told herself; she was fully justified. Except that Matthew’s concern when he noticed the angry pink stains of her handprints on Sara’s plump little limbs made her cringe in remorse.
    ‘You should be careful,’ he warned. ‘She’s still a tiny mite.’
    ‘A tap,’ she brazened. ‘What harm does a tap now and again do? I remember being strapped many a time when I was little. I only used my hands. Children have to be taught when they’re naughty.’
    ‘She’s not old enough to be naughty, Harriet.’
    ‘You don’t know what it’s like,’ she had wailed defensively. ‘Here on my own. If you had her all day, all night, no one to help …’
    He had put his arms around her, comforting her, kissing her gently.
    ‘You won’t be on your own for much longer. Soon I’ll be here all the time to help take care of her, my sweet.’
    Oh, how she longed for the day, But meanwhile …
    A tingling in her nose made her tilt back her head. The exploding sneeze rocked her small frame. There was a thickening in her head. She would have been better off in bed, but the baby, tiring of its spoon and starting to whimper, put paid to that luxury.
    Being with her parents over the festive season meant that Sara was taken off her hands, doted on, cooed over by the whole family gathered at her parents’ home, allowing her to nurse the remnant of her cold in peace.
    ‘Will would’ve been so proud,’ Clara said, sitting beside her on the sofa in the parlour. Everyone had made a beeline for the cosy room after Christmas dinner had been cleared away, and out came the port and cigars and nuts.
    Clara was jogging Sara on her lap, enjoying her giggles while her own three-year-old Henry, and eighteen-month-old Alice played with empty cobnut shells on the rug in front of the bright hearth.
    Annie, sitting nearby, her own youngest on her lap – six-month-old Robert George – was taking little notice of Sara; had done so all day, and Harriet felt galled, puzzled and a bit hurt by her offhand behaviour.
    ‘If only Will was here,’ Clara’s voice was heavy with pity. ‘Poor fatherless little mite.’
    Harriet’s attention was averted from Annie for the moment, and she grabbed at the chance Clara presented. ‘There’s something I’ve got to tell you,’ she began, but Clara wasn’t listening.
    ‘What a lovely smile – just like her poor father’s. And those pearly teeth – how many has she got now? She’s really going to be a beauty, Harriet. What did you say you’ve got to tell me?’ she asked at last, her eyes still on the baby.
    Harriet swallowed. ‘The matter of Sara not having a father … I was going to say I don’t think she’ll be fatherless much longer.’
    There, she had said it. ‘You see …’
    ‘Shall I take her awhile?’ Aunt Sarah stood before them, small and commanding.
    ‘Of course, Aunt.’ Clara gladly handed over the mite. She was tiring of holding the baby anyway. And her eyes were now on her own two, who were dropping roasted chestnut shells all over the rug far too freely.
    ‘Don’t make a mess, Henry! Your grandma can’t keep on clearing it all up. Sorry, Harriet, what were you saying?’
    Harriet took a second gulp, almost tempted to abandon her confession. But she’d already embarked upon it, and if Matthew could tell his family, she must tell hers. The words tumbled out in a gabble.
    ‘I said … Sara might not be fatherless for much longer.’
    Clara was suddenly all ears. ‘What
do
you mean?’
    ‘Someone … more or less offered … to marry me.’
    Clara’s disbelieving laugh tailed off. ‘You mean, take you
and
the baby? Who? Do we know him?’
    ‘Matthew Craig.’
    ‘Not your landlord … Not