The Regency (38 page)

‘
Lady Aylesbury left instructions what to do,' Mathilde
said with dignity. 'I have them here. There's no need for a mid
wife. In any case, Madame is very much against having one.'

‘
Aye, I know all about them instructions, Miss, but believe
you me, it doesn't look the same in real life as what it does on
paper. To begin with, a piece of paper doesn't groan, nor yet
it doesn't bleed. As for the mistress, she'll want a midwife
right enough when the time comes. It's all very well for her
ladyship: aside of having four — three children of her own,'
she corrected herself hastily, 'she's brought all manner of
creeturs into this world, which it's not what I would want for
a lass o' mine, but there's no denying she does know what
she's at. Which is more than you do, begging your pardon,
Miss, but truth is truth, and there's lives at stake in this
business. What would you do, Miss, if aught was to go wrong?
Your piece of paper wouldn't help you then.’

Mathilde had paled at the first mention of groans and
blood, and the thought of lives being at stake made the whole
business look very different. 'Yes, you're right. Someone
ought to be sent for,' she said when Thomson paused. 'I'll go
and speak to Mr James at once.’

By the time the bedchamber was prepared and Héloïse had
been helped into bed, she no longer had anything to say
against the calling of a midwife. Despite the huge fire in the
grate and the heavy curtains drawn across every door and
window, the great bedchamber was bitterly cold, and James,
coming in to see how Héloïse was, said, 'This is ridiculous!
You'll freeze to death in this great barn of a room. Why didn't
you have them make up the bed in the dressing-room? Or
better still, we can make up a bed in the steward's room,
which is already warm.’

But Héloïse wanted to have the baby in the Butts Bed. 'He
will be a Morland, and I want him to be born in the Morlands'
bed,' she said anxiously.

‘
It might be a girl,' James said, anxiety for her making him
irritable. 'In any case, our child can't inherit. You know that.
Morland Place goes to Fanny.'

‘
I know. But it's what Maman would have wanted. Please
James.'

‘Oh, if you're determined, I've nothing more to say,' he said and went out. Héloïse bit her lip, but the continuous pain
prevented her from feeling his ill-temper very much. And a
short while later he returned, followed by two footmen carrying
braziers. 'They may make the room smell a bit, but they'll
take off some of the chill,' he said, leaning over the bed to kiss
her contritely. 'And I know you didn't really want it, but I've
sent for the midwife and the physician. I'm afraid it looks as
though Lucy won't be here in time, Marmoset. You'll have to
make up your mind to it.'

‘
Yes, I know. You were right to send for them, James,' she
said wearily. 'Oh, please don't leave me. Stay and hold my
hand. I feel better so.'

‘
Of course, darling,' he said, but looked so alarmed that she
almost laughed.

‘Oh, don't worry, nothing will happen for a long time yet.'

‘
I'll stay as long as you like,' he said, smiling. 'I was only
thinking of your modesty. And how shocked the world would
be if I were to witness my own child's birth.’

They didn't talk much. Each was desperately worried, and
afraid of communicating that worry to the other. All through the pregnancy, James had thought longingly of the child, and had been horribly afraid that Héloïse would lose it; but now,
seeing her in pain, he cared nothing about the baby, and
would have sacrificed it cheerfully for Hèloise's sake. He
wanted her whole and well: nothing else now mattered.

For Héloïse, very soon nothing mattered at all. The pain
gradually filled her so that she was unable to think, or to be
aware of anything else. She knew James was there, holding her hand, and was dimly aware of other people coming and
going; but when James left her, she had no strength to protest,
or even, really, to mind. The midwife had come and had
dismissed him from this solely female province. Her face
swam across Héloïse's vision, and her hand came down and
rested on Héloïse's forehead.

‘
Naught doing yet, m'lady? By God, it's warmer in here, I
can tell you, than anywhere else in Yorkshire this night! But
don't you worry — you're in safe hands now. I delivered a
babby yesterday, a fine little boy, quick as you like. We'll do
well enough when the time comes.’

Héloïse was grateful for the reassurance, and wanted to
know whose child it was, but hadn't the strength to ask.

*

 
Time ceased to exist. The room was cold and stuffy, dark, lit
with candles. The physician came, examined her with hands both cold and rough, and pronounced that there was nothing
for him to do here until the waters broke. They should call
him again, he said, at the proper time. They gave her bread
and milk to keep up her strength, but she brought it up again
a little while later; easily, like a dog.

‘
Thirsty,' she said later. The midwife leaned over to look into her face. Her breath smelled of gin; but after all, it was
very cold, and the night was very long. 'Thirsty.' The midwife
gave her a drink of water, which tasted of tiredness and sick
ness and aching, but she soon brought it up again. Would the
night never end?
No, it wasn't night any more. There was daylight in the far
end of the room, though the candles still burned near the bed.
The day was a dark one.

‘Is it snowing?' Héloïse asked.

‘
No, Madame.' That was Mathilde beside her. 'It's a little
milder outside.’

She dozed, and woke in alarm. 'James!'

‘
My lady?' Marie leaned over her. Beyond her, the midwife
dozed in a chair. It was dark again.

‘Is the baby born?'

‘No, my lady.'

‘What time is it?'

‘Just after six, my lady. Could you eat a little broth?’

Héloïse turned her head away fretfully. 'I feel sick.' Marie
fetched the basin, but nothing happened, and the nausea
gradually passed. The pain was everywhere now, filling the
room, pressing the walls out of shape.

‘
This'll never do: we're getting nowhere. It's high time we broke them waters to hasten things along,' the midwife said.
She got to work, dilating the external parts to insert her hand
and rupture the membrane. It was painful, a different kind of
pain from the one Héloïse had got used to, and she resented
it, and wept a little. Then she felt a tremendous warm rush,
and she cried out in terror, thinking she was bleeding again.

‘
No, m'lady, it's only the waters,' the midwife said. 'Now
we shall have some movement. You'll get relief soon, m'lady.

It's been a tedious long labour for us all.’

But nothing happened for a long time; the candles burnt
down and were replaced. 'What time is it?' Héloïse asked. Her
lips were dry and when she tried to wet them, the tip of her
tongue stuck to the skin.

‘
Nearly eight o'clock, Madame,' said Mathilde. Héloïse
wondered if it were eight in the morning, or eight in the
evening.

‘Which day?'

‘
It's Tuesday, Madame, Tuesday morning.' She had been
in labour since Sunday afternoon.

‘Is it snowing?'

‘Not now, Madame.’

Did that mean it had been snowing, she wondered? Lucy
would never get through. But suddenly the pain was gone,
and in its place a contraction; a strong, normal contraction.
Héloïse's eyes flew open. Oh, thank God! The baby was
coming at last.

‘
It's coming!' she cried, but the midwife was already there.
‘Right you are, m'lady. Told you so, didn't I? Out of the
way, please, Miss. Let t'dog see the rabbit.'

‘Shouldn't we send for the physician?'

‘
Lord, no, Miss, I know well enough what to do. We'll soon
have the babby out and in its cot now.’

But something was wrong. The contractions came, but
nothing moved. Héloïse knew it, and her fear made her sweat,
despite the cold, despite her thirst.

‘
What's wrong?' she asked, but no-one heard her. Then she
heard Mathilde's voice.

‘What's that?'

‘
It's a hand, Miss.' The midwife, grim, displeased. 'Bloody
thing's put an arm down. Now we've our work cut out.’

Oh, it was an agony. The midwife cajoled, bullied,
encouraged, and whenever Héloïse bore down as instructed,
she pulled on the offending arm, but the baby wouldn't come.
Héloïse was growing weaker, she knew, worn out with pain
and effort, and soon she wouldn't be able to push any more.
For the first time, she knew she was going to die, and she felt
a terrible despair. She didn't want to die like this, not like
this, leaving James, failing him.

‘Oh God, help me. Oh Lady Mother, help me,' she prayed.

Later again, and the thought of death no longer alarmed
her. She was sinking into darkness, and in the darkness there
was relief from the pain and exhaustion. If only they would
leave her alone. If only James would come.

‘
Marie,' she whispered. 'Bring James. Bring Father
Aislaby.' But no-one heard her.

A long time later. They had sent for the physician: she
heard his voice. 'That arm will have to come off, then the
head. Then we can deliver the rest.' Someone said something
inaudible. 'No, no, it's dead of course. I doubt whether we can
even save the mother, but we must try.’

The baby — she had killed the baby. Even that comfort
would be denied James when she died. She turned her head
on the pillow, and weak tears broke from her eyes — only
two, for she had no moisture left in her body.

‘
Father, help me,' she prayed inwardly. 'Oh James, I'm
sorry.’

And then the miracle happened. Into the dim and smoky
room, blood-smelling, filled with despair and pain and death,
where the physician was already preparing his grisly tools to
deliver not a warm, living child, but a heap of bloody pieces,
came a gust of cold, clean air, and a strong, wild voice cried
out, 'What the devil is going on here!’