Kitty Bennet's Diary (Pride and Prejudice Chronicles)

by Elliott, Anna

  Between us, we did manage to get Jane up from the bed and helped her to make slow circuits of the room. Georgiana and I walked on either side of her, each of us supporting an arm. Mary returned at some point, and took turns walking with Jane, too. Mrs. O’Neil alternately watched and rubbed Jane’s shoulders through the pains, sometimes instructing Jane to squat down as the labour pang reached its peak.

  She was right, though, about the labour being both hard and long. All the time we were walking, Jane did not speak at all, only clamped her lips together and snorted or moaned when a fresh pain struck. But at last, after another vicious spasm had left her gasping and red-faced, she lifted her head when Mrs. O’Neil tried to urge her to walk again. “No!” Her voice was almost a growl. “I am not walking any more, you horrible old witch! Go away and let me lie down in peace.”

  The tone—and the words—were so completely unlike Jane that I stared. Mrs. O’Neil smiled a reassurance at me, though, as Jane staggered to the bed and sank down onto the mattress with another moan.

  “Never mind, lass. They always hate me—and usually everyone else in the world—right about now. Here.” She handed Mary a cup of water and a clean cloth. “You can see if she’ll let you sponge off her forehead a bit. Though don’t take it to heart if she ends by telling you to tip the water over your own head.”

  Mrs. O’Neil’s face grew ever more sober, though, as pain after pain wrung Jane—and yet the child still showed no signs of being born.

  I happened at one point to glance at the clock and realised with some shock that it was past three o’clock in the morning. We were taking it in turns to bathe Jane’s forehead or hold her hand. Georgiana was the one currently perched on the edge of the bed, while Mary and I had collapsed onto the upholstered chaise. And if we were tired, I could not imagine how Jane must feel.

  Beside me, I felt Mary’s hand slide into mine, and I gave hers a squeeze in return. Mary was yawning and rubbing her eyes. “You could lie down awhile,” I said in an undertone. “Jane does not really need all three of us here.”

  Mary shook her head, though. “No. I could not sleep—I would not even wish to try. Not when—” She stopped, cleared her throat, and tried to smile. “I am beginning to think that perhaps I do not regret, after all, that it seems unlikely I shall ever have children myself.”

  Who would ever have thought it? Mary, trying to joke. I knew she was every bit as frightened as I was myself—but I appreciated her effort. I forced a smile, as well. “Beginning? I was absolutely certain that I was never going to have any children several hours ago.”

  Georgiana slid off the bed and came to join us, as Mrs. O’Neil, murmuring soothing reassurances, told Jane that she wished to examine her one more time.

  “All very well for the two of you to say.” Georgiana made a face at us, resting her hand on the barely-there swelling of her own middle. “Some of us have no choice about the matter.”

  She sank down onto the chaise on my other side, and we were all quiet a long moment. Jane had—incredibly—dropped off to sleep in between pains. And I think all three of us, Mary, Georgiana, and I, were afraid to break the moment’s silence. I know I was afraid that if I once opened my mouth, I would hear myself saying, What if Jane dies?

  I swallowed and turned to Mary. “Mary, you were downstairs the most recently of any of us. Where is Charles, do you know?”

  Mary looked startled. “He is with Amelia, I think. He put her to bed on the sofa in Georgiana’s sitting room, so that she would not hear—”

  She looked up at Jane, who had woken with a groan to another cruel pain. She had bitten her lips so many times that I could see even from across the room that they were bleeding.

  “All right. Thank you.” I stood up.

  “Where are you going?” Mary asked.

  “To fetch Charles.”

  Mary’s expression was shocked—and then worried. “Kitty, I am not sure that is wise. The birthing room is not for … that is, gentlemen do not ever attend—”

  “I do not care!” I said. I drew in my breath and managed to lower my voice again. “Look at Jane.” I nodded towards the bed. “Georgiana, if that were you lying there, would you not want Edward to be with you?”

  Georgiana bit her lip, but nodded. “You are right, Kitty. Charles should be here. Mary, you stay with Jane. I will come and offer to stay with Amelia, in case she should wake up.”

  We found Charles sitting in a chair beside the little sofa where Amelia lay. Amelia, luckily, seemed to have caught none of the night’s alarms—she was sound asleep with her thumb in her mouth. Edward was there, as well, in a chair opposite Charles’s. One of them—probably Edward—had poured out glasses of brandy, but neither of them was actually drinking. Charles was merely turning the glass round and round in his hands, his usually good-humoured face taut and strained by the light of the single candle that burned on the mantel.

  He jumped up as Georgiana and I entered, and he looked at us, his whole body braced as though in anticipation of a blow.

  “It’s all right.” Georgiana hurried forward and took Charles’s hand. I could see the effort she was making to sound reassuring. “Jane is not … that is, it is only that her labour is taking rather longer than we had hoped. She is growing tired, and Kitty and I thought that it might perhaps help if you were there.”

  Charles was— He was truly splendid, there is no other word. For all my determination to fetch him, Mary was perfectly correct; gentlemen do not, as a rule, so much as set foot inside the rooms where their wives are giving birth. I can easily imagine that many husbands in Charles’s case would have run screaming for the hills. But Charles did not hesitate, not even for a moment. He rose and went out of the room, not even waiting for me to lead the way.

  Edward had risen, too, and come to put an arm about Georgiana. They exchanged a murmured word or two, too low for me to hear, and Georgiana rested her head against his shoulder. She straightened, though, as I made to follow Charles from the room.

  “Kitty, I can come back with you, if you like—”

  I stopped her, though. She had tried to make light of it before—but if all this was terrifying for me, it must be doubly so for her. I shook my head. “No, you stay with Amelia, just as you offered before. Charles will be there with Jane now, and me and Mary. And I will come and tell you at once if … I will come the moment there is any news.”

  Georgiana nodded—and the last I saw, she and Edward had settled together in the big armchair, she tucked tightly up against Edward’s side and their hands intertwined.

  Charles must have run all the way upstairs, for by the time I reached Jane’s bedroom again, he was already there—facing Mrs. O’Neil, who stood in the doorway and barred his entrance. She looked as dubious as Mary had. But whatever she saw in Charles’s face must have persuaded her that arguing would be futile, for as I reached the head of the stairs, I saw her shrug and step aside.

  “Ah, well.” Mrs. O’Neil spoke in a muttered undertone, and I only just caught the words. “I suppose you can’t be making things much worse for the poor girl.”

  I ran the last few steps and entered the room just behind Charles and Mrs. O’Neil. But I do not think Jane even saw me—or the midwife, for that matter. She was lying on the bed, curled tightly on her side while Mary dampened the cloth with fresh water from the jug. But she happened to open her eyes and look up as Charles came into the room, and she gasped, “Charles—you’re here!”

  I am not sure that I can even put into words the way she spoke Charles’s name. Her whole face lighted up, the lines of pain and exhaustion momentarily easing their hold.

  Charles crossed to the bed in a few quick strides and knelt down, smoothing the sweat-soaked hair back from Jane’s brow. “Of course I am, sweetheart. Tell me what I can do.”

  Jane could not answer; another of the birth pains had struck, and she groaned and squeezed her eyes closed. Charles looked pale when the spasm had at last passed. I suppose he had never seen a
woman in labour before. But he held Jane’s hand and spoke in low, comforting tones.

  Mary slipped past him and Mrs. O’Neil and came to join me once again on the chaise by the hearth. She put her hand into mine and squeezed, and I squeezed hers in return.

  “He cannot lose her,” I whispered fiercely. I was watching Charles: the tenderness with which he continued to speak to Jane and stroke her hair. “He cannot. It would be too cruel.”

  Mary opened her mouth—but then closed it again. There was no need for her to speak; we both knew perfectly well that life is sometimes exactly that cruel.

  Time passed. I have no idea how much, I had lost all sense of it. Jane’s pains seemed to be coming even stronger and more quickly together, now. But then Jane’s whole body began to twitch and her legs to shake. I was frightened it was a further sign of something wrong—and to judge by the tightness of his mouth, so was Charles.

  But Mrs. O’Neil drew a breath of something sounding almost like relief, checked Jane again and said, “Well, now. I do believe this babe’s at last ready to be born.”

  She spoke with an echo of her former brisk cheerfulness. But I could see that a furrow of worry remained on her brow, and as Jane lay gasping and panting, wrung out by another of the pains, the midwife lowered her voice and said to Charles, “Sir—a word, if you please.”

  Charles drew a step or two away from the bed, and Mrs. O’Neil spoke in a rapid undertone. “Your wife’s done bravely well so far. But she’s tired by now. And I must warn you, this babe needs to be brought into the world quickly. I do not know if you’ve been told, but the child is wrong-way round—and in those cases, there’s always the danger the cord might be crushed, or might wrap around the child’s neck and strangle it before ever it’s born.”

  Charles’s face blanched further. But before he could speak, Jane opened her eyes. For some while, now, she had seemed scarcely aware of her surroundings—of anything, for that matter, save for the pains. But now she looked frantically around her and said, “Charles? Where are you?”

  “I’m here.” Instantly, Charles was back by her side, taking her hand. “I’m right here.” He looked up at Mrs. O’Neil, and said again, “Tell me what I can do.”

  Mrs. O’Neil eyed him consideringly—but Charles must have already proved himself in her eyes, for she said with scarcely a pause, “Get behind her. See if you can help her to sit up a bit.”

  Charles did not hesitate. He climbed onto the bed and gently eased Jane upright, holding her with her back against his chest and his arms looped around her.

  “Charles, I can’t,” Jane whimpered.

  “Yes, you can.” Charles’s face was still pinched with worry, but he somehow managed to make his voice absolutely sure. “I know you can.”

  After that … after that, everything is a confused blur in my memory. Mary and I stayed where we were, both of us scarcely daring to draw breath. I know Jane alternately groaned and grunted, her face turning red with strain—and that Mrs. O’Neil crouched before her raised knees, almost shouting encouragements as Jane struggled to push the child out into the world. Charles sat behind, holding her the whole time.

  Then Mrs. O’Neil said, “That’s it—one last push, now.”

  Jane gave another groan that ended on a scream. There was a heartbeat of silence. And then Jane’s scream was echoed by a baby’s loud, lusty wail.

  “Well, now, nothing the matter with your lungs, is there, my bonny one?” Expertly, Mrs. O’Neil lifted the red, squalling infant and laid him on Jane’s chest. The midwife was smiling broadly as she looked from Charles to Jane. “Congratulations to the both of you. You have a fine, healthy son.”

  I drew what felt like my first full breath since setting foot inside Darcy House—and beside me, I heard Mary do the same.

  Jane’s hand came up to cup the baby’s small, sticky-wet head. She looked positively radiant—every trace of pain and tiredness gone. “A boy,” she whispered. She smiled up at Charles. “What shall we call him?”

  Charles was gazing wonderingly down at his son. Even from across the room, I could see that his eyes were wet. He gave a half-laugh and tentatively reached out one finger to stroke the baby’s tiny hand. “I’d say that you ought to have the choice of naming him. You’re the one who has done all the hard work tonight.”

  Beside me, I saw that Mary’s eyes had flooded with tears. I know my own cheeks were wet, as well. We got up—quietly—and tiptoed from the room. Though the way Charles and Jane were looking at each other, I suspect that we could have marched out to a regimental drumbeat with clashing cymbals, and they would not so much as have glanced our way.

  Once we were in the hall, Mary wiped her eyes and whispered shakily, “I believe … I believe I may need to revise my wish for children again after all.”

  That was not the end of the night’s wonders, though. Not quite. The baby—actually I should write, ‘small Charles,’ for Jane did not even hesitate on the choice of a name—was washed and tidied and swaddled in blankets for Jane to nurse. Jane and he both fell dreamlessly asleep almost at once. And Charles—the elder, I mean—managed to tear himself away to offer to drive Mrs. O’Neil back to her home.

  I think that if Mrs. O’Neil had asked for a horse and carriage weight in gold, Charles would have promised her that, too.

  Mary and I went back into the bedroom, to stay with Jane while Charles was gone. Mary tiptoed down to tell Georgiana and Edward, and found them both asleep in Edward’s armchair, but Amelia just beginning to wake. Mary let her come upstairs—after extracting a solemn promise from her that she was absolutely, positively not to wake her mother—and I lifted Amelia up so that she could gaze at the small, bundled form of little Charles with saucer-round eyes.

  Soon after that, Charles returned. He picked up Amelia and swung her around and whispered, “Well, now, what do you think of your new baby brother?”

  Amelia answered in a two-year-old’s version of a whisper—which of course is not especially whisper-like at all, but luckily Jane was so deeply asleep that she did not even stir. “Nice.” Amelia rested her head against her father’s shoulder and put her thumb into her mouth. Then she took her thumb out again and said, “Can I still have a cat?”

  Charles laughed, and then answered gravely that he supposed she could. And then he looked over the top of Amelia’s head and addressed Mary and me. “Do you know, the most extraordinary thing happened, just as I was pulling the carriage up to the house outside. I drove Mrs. O’Neil myself—no sense in rousting Saunders out of bed when I was already awake. But I was so anxious by the time I got back to get up here again to Jane that I wasn’t paying close enough attention. I drove straight through a pool of mud and absolutely soaked a woman who was walking by on the pavement. Of course I stopped to apologise. And of all people, I discovered that it was my sister. Louisa!”

  Charles shook his head in amazement at the memory. “I did apologise all the same, naturally. But Louisa seemed scarcely even to hear me. She stood quite still for quite a half-minute—simply looking from the carriage to the mud puddle to the splashes on her dress and back again. She looked quite pale—so much so that I thought perhaps she had heard about Jane’s recent danger, and been worried. But when I told her about small Charles’s having safely arrived, she said that no, she had had not the smallest idea of the child’s being born so soon. And then she said that she had actually been on her way here to give Jane this.”

  Charles dug in his pocket and produced a necklace—the same circlet of diamonds I had seen Mrs. Hurst flaunting at Vauxhall. “It was our mother’s. I gave it to Jane. And Jane apparently gave it to Louisa, and asked her to have it cleaned at our old family jeweller’s. Louisa had just yesterday retrieved the necklace from there, and was on her way to bring it back to Jane this morning.”

  Charles shifted Amelia in his arms and looked down at Jane and the tiny, sleeping Charles. Then he laid the necklace on the table beside the bed and shrugged. “Well, there is no hurry. Jan
e can see it whenever she wakes.”

  I had to clamp both hands over my mouth to stifle my laughter. Mary looked at me as though I had lost my mind, and towed me—still giggling helplessly—out of the room.

  “Kitty, what on earth?”

  “Wait a moment.” I managed to stop laughing and struggled to catch my breath. “I will tell you the whole.”

  I did. I told her everything, from Jane’s gambling debt to my turn as Madame Mariana, and Georgiana’s and my efforts to make my gypsy’s prophecy come true. And it truly was a night of miracles—or else Mary is even more changed than I had thought—because she listened, and then started to snort with laughter, as well.

  Neither of us told Charles, though, the reason for his sister’s very odd behaviour. Jane may tell him her side of the story, as far as she knows it—or she may not, the choice is entirely hers. I rather think she will; Jane is scrupulously truthful. But regardless, I have not the smallest doubt that she and Charles will continue together as happy as they have always been. Happier, even, now that they have their small son.

  Friday 16 February 1816

  I believe I may have just had the oddest interview of my entire life.

  It was just after breakfast, and Mary had gone to Darcy House to visit with Jane. Aunt Gardiner and I were sitting together in the morning room and sewing. Or rather, she was sewing. I was using the excuse of crawling around the floor in pursuit of Susanna to entirely avoid darning any of the three pairs of stockings in my pile.

  Perhaps Mary was right that I am changed, but I still have not made much progress in developing a liking for mending.

  We heard a knock at the door, and a few moments later, Rose came in to announce that Lord Henry Carmichael had come to call, and was asking to speak with me.