by Jocelyn Kirk
Before Frederick’s rallying occurred, the butler, believing that all was over, posted the letters. I did not discover this until yesterday. I immediately sent this letter express to you. I know you will all rejoice in this amendment.
Your dear mother is bearing up as well as can be expected after such an emotional ordeal. She sends her love.
With true regard,
Rosamund
I flew upstairs to impart the glad tidings, and for a few hours, gloom disappeared and joy reigned. We had a merry breakfast of tea and toast, and we all commented on the amazing circumstances that had brought us together in this little cottage by the sea. We ignored Aleta’s situation for the moment as we chatted, recalling shared memories and discussing long-past events.
As the day went on, our thoughts turned to more sobering subjects, and Lila had this to say: “Aleta, let us look in a practical manner at your dilemma. You are of age to marry without permission. Considering your condition, why do you and Ivan not wed immediately?”
Aleta raised her eyes, beautiful and blue-green as the summer sea, and gazed at each of us in turn. She slowly shook her head. “Ivan’s uncle threatened to change his will if Ivan married a woman without parental sanction and with no dowry. Ivan left me in the hope of persuading his uncle to reconsider.”
“Does Ivan know of your condition?” inquired Lila.
Aleta shook her head. “I became aware of it myself only a week ago.”
“Does anyone at all know?” I asked.
“Only you and Lila.”
“You must write Ivan immediately, Aleta. He must marry you.”
Aleta rose and paced the room. “I cannot. What would we live on? No, I must bear the child in secret and then—”
“And then?”
She turned a gloomy face to me. “I will give the child away to someone else to rear. And Ivan will never learn of its existence.”
“Oh, good heavens, Aleta!” hissed Lila. “You cannot give away your child! What about Ivan’s rights as its father? To say nothing of the fact that you will love your child more than you ever believed you could love anyone. You will walk through fire to keep and preserve your child!”
Before Aleta could reply, a rap surprised us. My first thought was of Frederick, and I hurried to the door. John Carter stood before me.
“Good morning, Mrs. Stanfield,” he said with a bow and smile. “I have called too early, no doubt, but I was passing and had a few extra minutes.”
“Come in. We are having tea, and I would like to introduce you to my younger sister.”
John followed me to the dining parlor and bowed to the other ladies.
“Aleta, may I present Dr. Carter. John, my sister, Miss Tenley.”
Aleta nodded, and John made another brief bow. As he seated himself, Aleta regarded him closely. He was certainly handsome in his brown plaid jacket and polished riding boots, and Aleta was as rosily lovely as a June day. The old green ogre, jealousy, arose in my bosom.
I took my seat and commented on the weather, but Aleta interrupted me. “So, Dr. Carter, I understand you have been a great friend to my sisters. I hope I can count on your friendship as well.”
“Certainly,” he replied, sitting forward and folding his hands on the table.
“I find myself in a difficult situation,” Aleta continued, “and I would value your advice on—”
Lila touched Aleta’s arm. “I beseech you, Aleta, do not air these family matters to Dr. Carter. John, pray forgive my sister. I do believe she has taken leave of her senses!”
An uncomfortable silence ensued for a moment, the very air in the room as still as stone. Abruptly John rose to his feet and addressed us all. “I will bid you good day, for I fear I am an unwelcome interruption to a sisterly conference. Miss Tenley, if you require any advice of mine, as a physician, please inform me. I will be happy to oblige.”
“I will see you out,” I said. I accompanied John to the front gate, where his horse was busily pulling grass from between the fence palings.
“Our family difficulties seem always thrust upon your shoulders,” I exclaimed with a smile.
He took my hand and regarded me gravely. “I was surprised to hear your sister introduced as Miss Tenley. She is with child, is she not?”
My eyes opened wide. “How did you know that?”
He shrugged. “A few little indications—rosy skin, bosom too large for her thin frame—and fabric discolorations where her gown had been let out along the seams.”
“Good heavens! You certainly eyed her well!”
He laughed. “A doctor’s habit, I’m afraid.”
I hated myself for my next words but spoke them anyway. “I suppose you think her very beautiful. She was always considered the prettiest among her sisters.”
He leaned forward, took my face in his hands, and whispered, “I do not know if she’s pretty. When you are present, there is only one woman I see.”
My face felt hot, and I gripped the gatepost and turned away. We regarded each other silently, the longing in his eyes no doubt reflected in mine.
John suddenly turned from me and busied himself adjusting something on his saddle. I lowered my eyes and stilled my galloping heartbeat by examining a climbing rose, whose few pink blossoms defied the season.
Recovering my composure, I straightened my back, folded my hands in front of me, and faced John. “This will not do, John. I am not free, and it is wrong of you to treat me as if I am. Each time you touch me, you add to my shame and misery. If Mr. Stanfield divorced me tomorrow, nothing would change. It would be inconceivable on your part to marry me. I would be in disgrace, and you would be dragged into it with me.”
He paced a few steps and sighed. “You are correct. Forgive me. I have no wish to cause you pain. As to marriage, if we reached a decision at some future time to wed, we would put out the information that you are a widow. I despise that sort of ploy, but I could not allow our happiness to be destroyed by the foolish prejudices of ignorant minds.”
“Indeed,” I replied slowly, “such a plan could succeed perhaps. But what if it did not? What if my true situation were found out?”
“In such a case, we would make our home in Ireland.”
His statement shocked me, for I was convinced in my own mind that he would never leave the burial place of his wife and babe. A shiver slipped through me, for his willingness to return to Ireland indicated the depth of his love for me.
“John,” I blurted, “why on earth do you love me?”
He grinned and approached the rose vine. Finding a healthy blossom, he held it out to me. “Do you see this rose, Cassie? While other flowers have succumbed to the chill, this rose has burst into bloom. It is courageous; it is undaunted—and you are like this fair blossom. I fell in love with you when I tied you to a rock and you jumped into the sea to find a clam. How could I not love such a bold spirit—not only bold but clever and quick to learn. Lila says I am besotted, but I would choose the word ‘bewitched.’ ”
“Bewitched? And what if the spell comes to an end?”
He laughed but then turned a serious face to me. “I never thought I would love again, Cassie. I cannot pretend to understand the nature of my sensations, nor could any man in love, I suspect. You are the flame that has warmed my cold heart; you are the key that has unlocked me—I could probably think of any number of foolish metaphors but will stop there.”
I longed to embrace him, but instead I faced him squarely, regarding him unflinchingly. “Your love honors me,” I stated, “but from this moment on, I desire to hear nothing more. I am not free and likely never will be. I greatly hope you will be a friend, a dear family friend. Beyond that, nothing. No further discussion of love or marriage, no proclamations of attachment.”
He made no move toward me and kept his hands at his sides. “I will heed your wishes,” he stated. Without another word, he bowed, mounted his horse, and trotted down the path to the lane.
I stared after him, grateful fo
r the cool breeze that soothed my hot cheeks.
Chapter Eight
When one reaches a decision, however painful the decision might be, one feels a sort of relief, a certain peace of mind. The next few weeks passed with my seeing very little of John, and when he did call, it was to engage Lila’s assistance or bring us a pail of clams or a bundle of fat corn. He made no attempt to distinguish me among my sisters, nor did he linger long among us. The correctness of our behavior gave serenity to my wounded heart.
However, one morning he stepped into the cottage carrying a letter. “I need to speak with you,” he declared after making his bow to Aleta and Lila.
“Very well.” I led him from the sitting room into the dining parlor. He walked about as I sat still, my sewing task still on my lap. “May I order tea for you?”
“No, I thank you.”
Finally he seated himself. “Cassie, I had a specific reason for calling this morning. I received a letter from my solicitor friend in London. He has been trying to ascertain whether or not Mr. Stanfield is attempting to procure a divorce.”
“Oh,” I replied, having nothing else to say. The subject was a very uncomfortable one. I had treated Mr. Stanfield badly and had not yet learnt to forgive myself.
John continued, “According to my correspondent—his name is Victor Pratt—your husband and his mother disagree over the matter. The gossip about the courthouse is that she wants her son to remain married, but he is arguing for a divorce as quickly as possible.”
“Yes,” I sighed. “That sounds like Mrs. Stanfield. She loves nothing better than to dictate to others, especially her son. But why would she want Charles to remain married to me? She disliked me intensely.”
“Mr. Pratt asked himself the same question. He could not speak with Mr. or Mrs. Stanfield, of course, but he was able to obtain some information from the clerk of the attorney who handles Mrs. Stanfield’s affairs when she is in London.”
“And…?”
“Apparently, Mrs. Stanfield fears that Charles would never marry again. She insists he seek a reconciliation with you.”
“Good heavens.”
“According to the clerk, Mr. Stanfield is considering the matter.”
I dropped the blouse I was repairing. My heart pounded, and my breath came in gasps.
John seized my hand. “My darling, I did not know these tidings would upset you so!”
“John, do you not see? Charles’s mother is a harpy who is simply toying with me, tormenting me! She wants to keep me tied to him and destroy whatever happiness I might in time gain!”
John was silent, holding my hands in his. No circumstance had yet made me know that I loved him until now when love was vain. I had been certain Charles would divorce me, but I had not counted on the vitriol of his mother—she with her boundless influence! She had the power to hurt me and would use it.
Lila and I were finishing our tea and scones the next morning while Aleta slept, when John once again arrived, driving into the front garden at a fast trot. I ran to the door to admit him, for he looked to be in a great hurry and I guessed his purpose.
“Mrs. Loch, I need you!” he called upon entering. “Damien Pitt has half severed his left arm with a scythe. I must stitch it without delay and will need your help!”
“Why does your mother not assist you?” I asked.
“As luck would have it, two women in the village are in labor and one of the labors has gone on far too long. My mother is with that woman, trying to save her and the child. The midwife is with the other, but she needs an assistant. Cassandra, could you…?”
Lila flung on her cloak. “Do not be absurd, John. She would be of no more use than a fly.”
I glared at Lila. “We made a pact, Lila. I will not disparage you, and you will not disparage me.” I turned to John. “I will do my best to help.”
“I knew you would! Come!” he called as he headed for the door. “We have no time to lose.”
I scribbled a quick note to Aleta, seized my cloak, and followed Lila out the door. John helped us into the carriage and slapped the reins. My heart was beating rapidly. Not only was my body pressed against John’s, an exciting circumstance in itself, but also I was going to help with the birth of a child! I prayed that I would not disgrace myself by vomiting, fainting, or running away.
John drove his horse at a canter, bouncing us rapidly over the rutted roads and into the main street of the village of Caemre. The shops of the chandler, the butcher, and the tailor went by in a blur, and the gig rocked as we galloped around a corner into a narrow lane. John pulled up next to a closely shuttered shop. The weathered sign on the door said T. Battley, Greengrocer.
John jumped out and helped me down. “Mrs. Battley is on the first floor. I’ll call for you later.” He leaped into the gig and slapped the reins. Lila’s head jerked as the horse bolted forward.
I stood in the mud of the village street, alone and frightened. But I had promised to help, so I opened the heavy door of the shop and climbed a flight of steep, dark stairs. A musty aroma filled my nostrils, and when I reached the landing and stood before the door of the apartment, a cry of pain made me stop with my hand raised to knock.
I gasped for breath as the scream subsided. The edge of my vision blackened, and I had to lean against the door for a moment. I took a breath and carefully pushed open the door.
I passed through a small parlor and into a bedroom, following the sounds. A very young woman was writhing on the bed, while an older one—the midwife—bent over her. They both looked at me as I entered, and I was barely able to breathe out the words, “I came to assist.”
“Good,” said the midwife. “Sit here.” She pulled a worn and scratched wooden chair next to the bed. I sat down and stared at the distorted face of the young woman as she cried out in agony. Finally her pain ended, and she fell back on the pillow gasping. I realized I had been holding my breath, and I sucked in air with a shudder.
“Mrs. Battley,” said the midwife, “this lady is here to help you.” To me she added, “She’s two minutes apart. Hold her hands when the pain comes. Hold her tight. Don’t let her hit me.”
I believe my face at that point was as white as the patient’s. I was shaking as I smiled at Mrs. Battley and gently took one of her hands in mine. With my free hand, I brushed her pretty light hair back and carefully wiped her face with a clean linen square from a pile on the bed. The midwife stood up and stretched her back, and then she stationed herself at the foot of the bed. She eased up Mrs. Battley’s nightgown.
“What is your first name?” I asked.
“Constance,” she whispered.
“May I call you that?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I started to thank her, but she gasped and arched her back. I seized her other hand, and her fingers gripped me so hard her fingernails bit into my skin.
“Hold tight!” cried the midwife. “The babe is crowning!”
Constance tried to rock back and forth as the pain drove her into a frenzy. The midwife was between her legs easing a bloody lump out of her. I felt my gorge rise, so I looked only at Constance. I placed my body against her chest to hold her still and kept a tight grip on her hands.
“Push!” cried the midwife. Constance threw her head back and forth, but I pushed myself against her chest and whispered in her face, “Push, Constance. It’s nearly over. Push.”
Constance gave one last push, accompanied by a weak scream. Then she fell back on the pillows, gasping hoarsely.
“Aha!” cried the midwife. “You have a fat son, missus!” She rubbed the infant vigorously, and he hiccupped as he took his first breath. He wrinkled up his tiny face and mewled. The midwife wrapped him loosely in a linen cloth.
I thought Constance had died, so still and white she lay. “Midwife,” I gasped. “Look at her!”
“Don’t you worry, madam. She’s fine. You can cut the cord for me, and we’ll welcome this little feller to the world.”
Constance’
s eyes fluttered open, and she tried to smile. I breathed a sigh of relief. “Do cut the cord, madam,” she whispered.
I watched in horrified fascination as the midwife tied a length of string around the purplish cord that curved from the baby’s stomach. Then she handed me a great pair of shears and told me where to cut. I gasped and held my breath as my trembling hand guided the blades through the pulsing tissue. Blood splattered me, and I gagged. The midwife laughed. She handed the baby to me and asked me to give him to the mother while she delivered the afterbirth. I gazed at the tiny visage with its tightly shut eyes, and tears of awe dampened my face. I would give my life to protect this helpless infant.
I assisted Constance to sit up and placed the babe in her arms. She was full of joy now, the pain forgotten as she looked at her son.
“Put him to the breast, Mrs. Battley,” called the midwife, as she busied herself with towels and rags to control the bloody lumps issuing from under Constance’s nightgown. Together, the young mother and I exposed one breast and positioned the babe for suckling.
I sat with Constance until John arrived to take me home. The new father arrived at the same time, and there were hearty congratulations all around. The midwife informed John that I had done a superb job and made a great difference to the well-being of the mother and baby. I was so proud, I couldn’t stop smiling. I kissed Constance goodbye and promised to visit often to see her and the little boy.
We trotted away from the village at a slow pace, savoring the fresh September air. The meadows were filled with autumn flowers, and butterflies moved among them like graceful dancers. As the road became rougher, the horse slowed to a walk, and my eyes feasted on the loveliness of this wild land. As I sighed with contentment and exhaustion, my tense body relaxed and swayed with the rhythm of the carriage.
My thoughts eventually returned to the miraculous birth I had witnessed and from there to the other emergencies of the day. I was sitting between John and Lila, and I turned to my sister and asked how the arm of the injured man was faring. She turned red and looked away and then muttered something I did not hear. I raised my eyebrows at John.
