of the curtains from the small carriage door and pulled down the window.
‘O’Shea!’
‘My lord?’
‘Why are we not going faster?’
‘It’s dark, my lord. I can barely make out the way ahead. If we go any faster we could run off the road, or turn the carriage over. Not long to dawn now, sir. We’ll make better time as soon as there’s light to see.’
‘Very well.’ Garrett frowned, sliding the window closed before he slumped back against the padded seat. His wife took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.
‘My dear, O’Shea’s a good man. He knows he must hurry.’
‘Yes.’ Garrett turned to her. ‘And you? How are you coping?’
‘Well enough. I’ve never been so tired.’
Garrett stared at her, thin-lipped. ‘I should have left you to rest at the inn.’
‘What? And carried our son to Dublin by yourself ?’
He shrugged, and Anne chuckled. ‘My dear, much as I think you are a fine husband, there are some things that only a mother can do. I have to stay with the boy.’
‘Has he fed?’
Anne nodded. ‘A little. Shortly before we left the inn. But not enough. I don’t think he has the strength.’ She lifted her little finger to the baby’s lips and teased them softly, trying to provoke a reaction. But the child wrinkled his nose and turned his face away. ‘It seems he has little will to live.’
‘Poor lad,’ Garrett said softly. ‘Poor Henry.’ He felt his wife stiffen as he used the name. ‘What is it?’
‘Don’t call him that.’ She turned away to the window.
‘But, it’s the name we agreed on.’
‘Yes. But he might not . . . live. I’d saved the name for a son who would be strong. If he dies then I’d not use the name for another. I couldn’t.’
‘I understand.’ Garrett gently squeezed her shoulder. ‘But no Christian child should die without a name.’
‘No . . .’Anne looked down at the tiny face. She felt powerless, knowing that scant hours might lie between the present and the moment at which the baby moved on to the next world, scarcely drawing breath in this. There would be sorrow in vast disproportion to the duration of the infant’s life. Conferring a name on the sickly thing would only make matters worse and she shied away from the duty.
‘Anne . . .’ Garrett was still looking at her. ‘He needs a name.’
‘Later. There’ll be time for that later.’
‘What if there isn’t?’
‘We must trust to God that there will be time.’
Garrett shook his head. It was typical of her. Anne hated life to confront her with any difficulties. Garrett drew a deep breath. ‘I want him to have a name. Not Henry, then,’ he conceded.‘But we must agree one now, while he still lives.’
Anne winced and looked out of the window. But all she saw was the juddering images of herself, and her husband and child reflected back at her.
‘Anne . . .’
‘Very well,’ she said irritably. ‘Since you insist. We shall name him. For whatever good it will do. What name shall we give him?’
Garrett stared down at the boy for a moment, marvelling at the depth of his feelings for the infant, and at the same time dreading the midwife’s verdict. For Anne to have carried him in her womb for so many months; to have felt his first fluttering movements; to know that she carried a life within her . . . When she had told Garrett of the awful stillness within her womb, they had rushed to Dublin in a blind panic, only to have the birth begin on the way.When the child had been born alive, Garrett had felt his heart fill with relief, which had been crushed when the midwife had gently explained that the child was too weak to live. He fought back the grief welling up inside his heart.
‘Garrett?’ Anne raised her face to look into his eyes. ‘Oh, Garrett, I’m so sorry, I’m not being much help, am I?’
‘I - I’ll be fine. In a moment.’
He straightened up and held her close to him, sensing the strain in her body even as the carriage jolted along the rutted turnpike. Outside, the first pale grey glimmer of dawn smudged the rim of the hills to the east and the coachman cracked his whip above the heads of the horses, increasing the pace.
Anne forced herself to concentrate. A name was needed - quickly. ‘Arthur.’
Garrett smiled at her and looked down at their son.
‘Arthur,’ he repeated. ‘After the king. Little Arthur.’ He stroked