by Lisa Berne
Who was now, it seemed, fighting for her life, and that of her unborn child.
The three of them went down a hallway and came to a room where the door had been left half-open. Together, softly, they went in.
A big, elegant, comfortably furnished bedchamber, curtains drawn against the sun. A large bed, and within it a still figure. His stepmother. Hair of light brown and lank beneath a little cap. Eyes sunken, and a face that looked as if all color, all life, had been washed away. And a large bulge at her midsection. Her hands, above the covers, upon that bulge, with such protective tenderness that it almost broke Christopher’s heart with pity to see it. Slowly she turned her head and looked at Father.
“Jonathan,” she whispered, her voice a mere thread.
Father went to the bed, bringing Christopher with him.
“Cora, here is my son. Here is my Christopher.”
Those sunken, tired eyes went to Christopher’s face, and a faint smile curved her bloodless lips. “My son too,” whispered Cora Beck. “If that’s all right, Christopher?”
On an impulse Christopher sat on the edge of the bed. And he reached out to put his hand atop hers, gently, gently, as light as a feather. “It’s more than all right, ma’am. And you’re my mother now.” Deep inside, he knew that his own kind mother, so long gone, wouldn’t mind; he knew, somehow, that she would approve.
That faint smile on Cora Beck’s white, haggard face widened just a little bit, and in that moment he loved her already.
Then he heard a new voice and turned his head. A gloomy-looking man in an old-fashioned tailcoat—he assumed it was Dr. Baynes—was saying to Father and Diana, “There’s no hope. For either of them. Have you made arrangements for—after?”
Christ in heaven, Christopher thought, furious, the man didn’t even bother lowering his voice. If he was hearing this dire prognosis, so was Cora Beck. He remembered Mauro della Valle telling him during a difficult foaling, You must never let your fears show, you must always be confident—be brave in the face of despair—so that the mare will draw from you your strength.
All too audibly Diana burst into fresh tears, and Father turned to look at his wife, his mouth opened in what was plainly a silent scream.
Christopher said to Cora Beck, “Excuse me, Madre,” and she gave a very small weak nod. He got up and went to where the doctor stood with Father and Diana. “Come into the hallway,” he told them quietly, and when they were gathered there, with the bedchamber door closed, he said, “What exactly is Mrs. Beck’s condition? What’s wrong?”
Dr. Baynes looked at him rather haughtily. “You are, I believe, Mr. Beck’s son?”
“Yes.”
“Have you any particular medical knowledge?”
“I’m asking you what her condition is,” replied Christopher impatiently. “Just tell me.”
“In layman’s terms,” said Dr. Baynes, very frosty, “she’s simply worn out. Vetus mulier gravidam, primum infantem—it’s not unexpected in such cases.”
“As it happens, I know some Latin. You mean she’s rather old for a first baby.”
“Yes.”
“She’s only thirty-five,” put in Father.
Dr. Baynes shrugged. “Further to her condition, the contractions stopped a few hours ago. A very unfortunate sign.”
Recalling how white and weak Mrs. Beck looked, Christopher said, “Has she eaten anything since the contractions first began?”
“I don’t allow laboring women any food or drink. It interferes with the process of expulsion.”
Christopher scowled. “Process of expulsion? That’s what you call it?”
“It is,” responded Dr. Baynes, with lofty superiority, “a medical description. Processus ab urbe regnoque tarquinios.”
What an ass. Or, in terms the good doctor might prefer, Qualem blennum. Christopher looked to Father. “It’s been forty-eight hours, hasn’t it, since her contractions started? That’s what Nan told me.”
Father nodded wearily. “Yes.”
“That’s too long without food, or at least something to drink. Diana, is there any broth? Or beef jelly?”
“Yes, I believe so—fresh broth, at least—”
“Go get some and bring it up.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Dr. Baynes coldly, as Diana hurried away, “but what right have you to interfere?”
Christopher ignored him. “Father, did you bring Mrs. Cranford with you from Whitehaven?”
“Our laundress?” Father sounded dazed again. “Yes, I brought all the servants who wished to come. Why do you ask?”
“She was a midwife. Don’t you remember? Where is she?”
“In the basement, I suppose.”
“Good. I’ll go find her.” He took hold of Father’s shoulder and gently shook it. “Go back to Cora. Tell her she’ll be all right, tell her the baby will be all right.”
“I can’t, Christopher, I can’t. My God, I’m losing her . . .”
He tightened his grip on Father’s shoulder. “You must. If you love her, you’ve got to try.”
“I do love her,” said Father, his voice cracking.
“Then go in there and show her how strong you are—how much you believe in her. I’ll be right back.”
“And what,” said Dr. Baynes, “am I to do, pray tell?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, stand by, man, stand by,” said Christopher, and waited only long enough to see Father going back into the bedchamber before he bolted down the stairs and into the basement rooms where, sure enough, Mrs. Cranford stood by a window, wielding her irons on a white bedsheet with the large capable-looking hands he remembered. Sunlight poured over her, enveloping her stout form in what struck him as an actual blaze of glory, and for just a second he found himself thinking of angels descending from on high.
They spoke for a few minutes, and finally Mrs. Cranford said, shaking her head, “These doctors, Mr. Christopher, these men! They lay a woman flat on her back and expect the baby to pop right out! Aye, let the poor lady have the broth if she will, and have her sit up, or stand if she can, and walk about.”
“Will you come, Mrs. Cranford, and help us?”
“If you like, Mr. Christopher. Will your father allow it?”
“Yes. Can you come now?”
“To be sure. I’ll set these irons to cool, and wash my hands first—”
“Thank you, Mrs. Cranford,” he said, “I’ll see you there,” and he ran up the steps three at a time and returned to the bedchamber, where Mrs. Beck was now sitting limply against a bank of pillows, with Father, next to her on the bed, holding her securely while Diana, trembling, offered her a spoonful of broth. Dr. Baynes stood in a corner looking so entirely the picture of offended disapproval that, under other circumstances, Christopher would have laughed and been tempted to tweak his carefully shaped mustachios. As it was, he came to the bedside and smiled down at Mrs. Beck.
“How’s that broth, Madre?”
“Oh, it’s good,” she said in that little thread of a voice. “It’s very refreshing.”
He nodded. “Diana, let me help.” He took the bowl and spoon from her unsteady hands, and gratefully she went to sink into a chair. He sat on the bed, close to Father, dipped the spoon into the bowl, and offered it to Mrs. Beck. She sipped at the broth, swallowed, smiled feebly at him.
“Thank you, Christopher.”
“You’re welcome, Madre. More?”
“Yes, please.”
She took a few more spoonfuls, and he was glad to see that a bit of color was returning to her face. Father said, “Well done, Cora my love,” his voice heartier now, and Christopher was glad to hear that too.
A few minutes later, in came Mrs. Cranford, very brisk, very sure, her hands and forearms red from the scrubbing she’d given them, and Christopher would have sworn he could feel the energy in the room changing—as if she was, in a very real way, a breath of fresh air. She came to the foot of the bed and said with quiet dignity:
“Madam, yo
u’ll not know this about me, but I was a midwife in Hensingham for many years, till the doctors came and chased me away, and Mr. Beck took me in. Will you let me help you?”
Mrs. Beck looked at Father. He said, “She’s a good woman, our Mrs. Cranford,” and so Mrs. Beck answered softly, desperately:
“Yes. Oh, please, if you can.”
Mrs. Cranford nodded. “Let’s bring your baby into the world then, madam.”
She had Christopher give Mrs. Beck more broth, till half the bowl was gone; then she had him and Father, with enormous care, help Mrs. Beck out of bed, help her take feeble steps back and forth across the room. She had Diana summon a maid, to bring in fresh bed-linens and make the bed clean and comfortable again.
More than once did Father falter, and Christopher would send him an encouraging look, hoping to communicate to him: You can do this. And Father would nod, and straighten just a bit, keeping firm hold on Mrs. Beck, and murmur, “Well done, my love, well done.”
Finally she gave a little cry. “A contraction,” she whispered, and the relief in the room was palpable.
“Good, madam, good, keep walking if you can,” said Mrs. Cranford, and so the weary, anxious minutes passed, as slowly, it seemed, as if each one was a year. But more contractions did come, each one something to welcome, something to celebrate. Christopher and his father continued to support Mrs. Beck, who bravely kept at her faltering perambulations until, finally, not long after midnight, Mrs. Cranford had her kneel on an old soft length of carpet she’d had Nan fetch; had Christopher and Father, on either side of her, hold her up. At this the doctor gave a puff of outrage, exclaiming:
“What are you doing? Put her in the bed!”
“No, sir,” said Mrs. Cranford, “it’s better this way,” and he rolled right over her, raising his voice to say:
“And men at the birthing? Unseemly! Get them out at once!”
“You’re a man, ain’t you?” retorted Mrs. Cranford. “I need them here.”
“Now see here, my good woman—”
“Doctor,” said Christopher, “if you don’t shut up, and right away, I’ll silence you myself.”
Dr. Baynes snapped his mouth closed with an audible click, Diana gave a slightly hysterical laugh, and Mrs. Beck surprised them all by giving a little ghost of a laugh herself.
“Christopher,” she murmured, “you’re quite wonderful, you know.”
He grinned. “Just a brute, Madre, that’s all.”
“My kind of brute,” she murmured back, and after that she bent with renewed determination to her work, with Mrs. Cranford right there to advise and reassure her, and Christopher and his father supporting her—Father gray-faced with fatigue, but stalwart.
And just after two in the morning, the baby arrived, a little on the small side, but otherwise pink and healthy and with, as Mrs. Cranford said approvingly, a fine set of lungs.
Jasper Tobias Beck.
Dr. Baynes, in the end, made himself useful by managing to catch Diana just as she toppled over from the aftereffects of fright and sheer exhaustion, and even carried her to a settee in a corner of the room. Still, no one was sorry when, having made a great show of assuring himself that both mother and child were in a satisfactory condition (Mrs. Cranford having already done so fully half an hour previously), he went away.
Mrs. Beck was comfortably tucked up in bed, holding a well-wrapped Jasper at her breast, and Father, his shoes set aside, was next to her, his legs stretched out and a blanket over him. They both looked very, very tired but also extremely happy. Nan had come in, bringing tea for those who wanted it, and stayed to tidy things up and stoke the fire in the hearth. Diana, much recovered, was sitting up and drinking tea; and Mrs. Cranford, at Father’s hearty invitation, was sitting in a chair drinking her own cup of tea.
Christopher, looking at all of them, felt a massive wave of contentment sweeping over him. This was, he thought, a perfect moment in time. Well, nearly perfect. It lacked only—
It lacked only Gwendolyn.
He wished she were here with him. With all of them.
Would she have cowered before Dr. Baynes, or refused to help Cora Beck?
No, not his Gwendolyn. Brave, kind, wonderful Gwendolyn—
But not, he corrected himself, his.
It hurt to acknowledge the truth of this.
Still, there was no use in dodging reality. She was engaged to another man. He would have preferred it weren’t so—but there it was, and with all his heart he longed for her happiness.
“Christopher,” said Cora, “would you like to hold your brother?”
With effort he set aside his private pain, and smiled at her. “Yes, Madre, very much.”
He went to her, and sat down next to her on the bed, and with infinite tenderness he took hold of the little bundle she held out to him. He stared down at Jasper’s perfect, peaceful face, with his tiny button nose, rosebud mouth, and absurd wisps of dark hair.
“Ciao, fratellino,” he murmured. “Benvenuto in famiglia.”
Hullo, little brother. Welcome to the family.
“Is that Italian, Christopher?” asked Cora.
He smiled at her. “Sì, Madre.”
“I didn’t know you spoke Italian,” Father said.
“Well, I was in Italy for a while.”
“Were you? I’d like to hear all about it. Tomorrow?”
Christopher nodded, and Cora said:
“You’ll stay with us, Christopher, won’t you? We’ve guest rooms aplenty, and all made up.”
“Thank you, Madre, I’d like that.”
Mrs. Cranford set aside her teacup and rose from her chair. “Madam, it’s time you got some sleep.” She went to Christopher and added, “I’ll hold him, sir, shall I?”
Carefully Christopher handed Jasper over to her and she said, “You did very well tonight, Mr. Christopher, very well indeed.”
He grinned. “As did you, Mrs. Cranford.”
Half an hour later, he was in bed and sound asleep. He dreamed of Italy—of Mauro’s estate, of horses, green hills, lush orchards, and of Gwendolyn, who perched on the top rail of the horse-pasture fence, eating an apple, jauntily swinging one booted leg back and forth, and smiling at him.
But on her left hand was a beautiful ring made of rubies and a single, glowing pearl.
Chapter 14
What seemed at first to be only a late-spring cold afflicting Lady Almira rapidly devolved into a severe attack of influenza. Several of the servants, including the footman Sam, had also succumbed. Then the Duchess and Helen fell ill as well, though, fortunately, neither one was in bed for longer than a week. Gwendolyn was busy from dawn till late into the night overseeing their care as well as that of all else who were sick under the Egremont roof, and was very thankful for Tyndale’s unflagging assistance and that of the Duchess’s very competent doctor.
Percy, blithely oblivious to any risks to himself, came by whenever his duties permitted, and proved himself valuable entertaining both Helen and the Duchess when the doctor had given them permission to venture downstairs. He read out loud to them, cajoled them into eating, played cards with them, and in general helped alleviate some of Gwendolyn’s caregiving burden.
The Earl sent flowers every day, accompanied by affectionate notes for Gwendolyn expressing his concern for the sufferers as well as his love for her, describing his various activities, and assuring her that he was counting the hours till they could meet again. His mother, fearful of contagion, had forbidden him to call at the Egremont townhouse—a dictum which, he wrote, given her frail state of health at all times, he felt honor-bound to respect.
Gwendolyn would stop whatever she was doing to quickly read Julian’s letters and then, without comment, give the flowers to Tyndale to share with the various invalids among the staff. Once or twice she scrawled a hasty note in return, thanking Julian for his kindness. In her few spare moments she would catch herself staring thoughtfully into space. Beyond the immediate preoccupations of ca
regiving, she could feel her brain working, working, at something—as one would turn a challenging puzzle over and over in one’s hands, studying it, looking at it from different angles, trying to figure it out.
It was nearly two weeks after Christopher had gone away that she sat one afternoon in the drawing-room with Percy, the Duchess, and Helen. Tea had been served, with Percy courteously handing round the cups and plates. She’d been doing it again—gazing unseeingly at nothing—but broke out of her reverie when Percy said:
“Gwennie! I say, Gwennie!”
She blinked and looked over at him. “I’m sorry, Percy, I was woolgathering. What is it?”
“It’s taken me a full quarter-hour to persuade Helen to go to Carlton House tonight, and—”
“Persuade?” said Helen. “Riding roughshod over me, you mean. Easier to say yes than to have you go on nagging me.”
Percy laughed. “It worked, didn’t it? But for God’s sake, Gwennie, don’t tell me I’ve got to chivvy you along as well.”
“It’s well worth going,” said the Duchess, “if only to marvel at the Prince Regent’s girth. Do you know, if he wishes to ride, he’s lowered into the saddle by means of a specially constructed mechanical device. Dreadful! One can’t but feel sorry for the horse.”
“If it makes you feel better, ma’am,” said Percy, “we’ve brought in a Belgian draft horse. Incredibly strong, and wonderfully good-natured, too. And poor old Prinny rarely calls for him these days—says that as he can’t fit into his uniforms anymore, there’s no point in going riding. So you’ll come, Gwennie?”
Gwendolyn was remembering how, back in February, back in Whitehaven, she had said to her family:
And I must visit Carlton House, where I shall be suitably impressed by its staggering magnificence. I’ll crane upwards at all the ceilings and go up and down the main staircase at least twice, pretending I’m a princess in disguise. I daresay I’ll bump into the Prince Regent, too. Do you think it’s true that he wears a corset, and creaks when he walks about? Oh, goodness, I hope I don’t giggle. That would be fatal. Also, of course, I’m going to meet my one true love.
