by Jane Steen
“Oh, I’ll be as right as rain after a few weeks’ rest in Lake Forest. What about you? How are you?”
“Not too bad. I don’t get so sick in the mornings now. I get plenty of healthy exercise following Mabel around indoors and walking her in her baby carriage outdoors. When we’re in Lake Forest, let’s bathe in the lake, shall we? I know a secluded bit where hardly anyone goes, so we won’t shock the townsfolk with your condition.” The dimple showed in her smooth cheek. “Or mine, when I start to show.”
“I’d like that.” I imagined the cool waters of Lake Michigan lapping over my feet, not spoiled by the railroad as our own piece of shoreline was. “Perhaps not as healthy as the sea-bathing in Normandy, but close enough.”
I pictured the sea, and my stomach roiled. I stopped, doing my best to suppress a small belch, my hand on my bodice. “Don’t make me think of moving water, please.”
“As bad as that?” Elizabeth’s blue eyes were dark with concern. “Have you seen a physician?”
“Once or twice, but there’s not much to be done. If a medicine bottle is so much as in the same room as me, I have to have it taken out—it’s the smell. I can’t take any of the usual soothing mixtures.”
Elizabeth continued upward to the nursery while I stopped to use the lavatory. By the time I’d joined her, I’d splashed my face and held my wrists under the cold water coming from the faucet. What a blessing modern life could be at times; it was astonishing how much better a little cool water made me feel.
Mabel had needed changing, but the efficient Beatrice had managed perfectly well by plundering the supplies I had already been making ready for my baby’s arrival. Sarah had clearly been fascinated by the procedure of changing a baby. She made several observations about Mabel’s anatomy that made me wonder if I shouldn’t start talking to her soon about certain matters. No doubt the questions would only multiply if she were to have a brother.
I sat in an armchair, sighing with pleasure. Martin had provided for the nursery with as much care as he’d devoted to furnishing the rest of the house; the armchairs were soft and low with deep, wide seats and well-padded backs. Even the rocking chair was upholstered in a cheerful, vivid yellow print. The few toys Sarah still played with were arranged on low shelves. She had brought out a set of unused wooden blocks for Mabel, and the two of them had been having a fine time playing a game whereby Sarah built towers and Mabel knocked them down.
“And she walked all the way from the chair to the table by herself, just holding on to one of my fingers.” Sarah held up the finger in demonstration. “She’s so strong—aren’t you, Mabel? No, you mustn’t throw the blocks, remember? It’s naughty. Can you say ‘naughty’?”
“Na na naaa ma mama bam.” Mabel scooted over to where her mother sat and pulled herself up with the help of the chair. She held out a block to Elizabeth, who took it gingerly. It was dripping with spittle.
“I gave her some milk and bread and butter when she started getting fussy.” Sarah darted back and forth, retrieving blocks and building them into a tower again. “We had a picnic. When are we eating? Is there going to be ham? What’s everybody doing?”
“Mr. Fletcher has been playing your piano, and the rest of us have been talking.”
“Thea too?” Sarah shook back her hair, which had become somewhat disordered. Her normally pale face was flushed with heat, and tiny drops of moisture spangled the skin near her hairline.
“When I left the room, she was looking at my latest copies of the Journal des Demoiselles and the Revue de la Mode.” I half closed my eyes, my body heavy and listless. I wanted to rest before I went downstairs again and played the hostess, and I wasn’t sure I’d have the stomach to eat. Everything seemed to be churning as restlessly as the sea—no, don’t think of the sea.
“Is she being nice to everyone?” But Sarah forgot her question as Mabel caught sight of the new tower and toddled toward it, crowing in delight. Beatrice, who had been straightening and tidying various objects that the children’s playing had disarranged, opened the high windows a little wider so that a light breeze blew in, flirting with the wisps of hair that kissed my temples. She disappeared out onto the landing, evidently to put away the unused linen.
Elizabeth rose to her feet, took Mabel in her arms, and went to inspect the books that sat on the higher shelves. Sarah loved books so much that we’d kept every one she’d ever owned, even the little primers we had brought in a trunk from the Eternal Life Seminary. Sarah ran around behind Elizabeth, pointing out the titles and promising to lend books to Mabel when she was older, but after a few minutes she came back to me.
“Didn’t you say we were going to eat at five? It’s almost five now.” She pointed at the nursery clock. “Come on, Mama. Our guests can’t start without you.”
She held out her hand. I took it, rising to my feet.
“I must stop by the lavatory again on the way down,” I confessed. “I suspect something I’ve eaten has disagreed with me.”
Sarah huffed with impatience, but just for show; she was looking cheerful at the prospect of festive food. And then I saw her face change. She froze in place, her mouth open, her eyes round with horror.
“Mama! Oh, Mama!”
The words came out in a high, thready squeak that made Elizabeth turn around. I did too, to see what Sarah was looking at. Behind me, the new upholstery of the armchair bore a round, glistening patch of deep crimson.
I looked at Elizabeth and watched her expression change too, to one of deep sadness. But when she spoke to Sarah, her voice was calm.
“Fetch Beatrice back, Sarah. Or no—tell her to go all the way downstairs and ask your housekeeper to come up here immediately. And then would you please come back and look after Mabel again for a few minutes? I’d like to help get your mother to her bedroom.”
“Is she dying?” Sarah’s voice was a thread of sound, her face parchment white. “That’s blood—I know it is.”
“No, sweetheart. I promise you she’s not dying.” Elizabeth’s voice wasn’t quite steady. “But go—quickly—please.”
For a moment, Sarah still seemed frozen, and then she whipped round and charged for the door, screaming Beatrice’s name. Mabel, still in her mother’s arms, began to cry.
It didn’t hurt, not much. But it seemed to go on forever.
There was the chaos of the beginning, as Elizabeth tried to calm her screaming child and hold on to me—my knees had sagged a little, more from shock at seeing the blood than anything else—until eventually she had gotten me to hold her arm. We proceeded slowly downstairs toward my bedroom; aware only of the strength and smoothness of Elizabeth’s arm, I lost track of what everyone else was doing.
There was the commotion downstairs—voices and Martin shouting. They were telling him, no doubt, that such matters were not for a man to meddle in. They failed, and I was more glad of it than I could say, although I wept at the look on his face when he finally gained entrance to the bedroom. He found Elizabeth getting me out of my bloodstained skirts and petticoats, unhooking my corset, unpinning my hair, doing everything in her power to make me comfortable for the ordeal ahead. She had been talking to me all the time, calm, sweet words, saying nothing and everything. It was only when Martin burst in that I saw tears track down her cheeks to match my own sudden sobs.
“Is Sarah all right?” I was desperate to reassure my child I would not die. I remembered only too well the night when my own mother had almost died in childbirth, and I summoned up every ounce of strength that I had in me because I would not leave her to grow up without me.
“I left her with Teddy. He’ll look after her.” Martin curled his fingers around my hand and tried to smile.
“Don’t leave her on her own. Don’t put her to bed on her own. Let her stay up as late as she wants so I can let her know I’m all right.” I was panting in an effort to convey the importance of looking after Sarah.
“I’ve sent to Miss Baker’s house in case she’s able to come over. An
d Tess will be home in a little while.” Martin kissed my fingers. “Worry about yourself.”
“I’m all right. I’m not going to die.”
I was quite sure of that. I was convinced, in a strangely clear-headed way, that I would be fine. My body was young and strong; the cramps and quick, pinching pains that assailed it were not weakening me. The loss of blood was alarming, but not so great that I felt my vitality drain away with each new gush. It was a slow process, like childbirth—it was childbirth but far, far too soon. I was not the one who mattered.
Someone else mattered above all things, someone who didn’t have a name. I had called it a nuisance. I had called it an incubus. Now, lying propped up in my bed with Elizabeth bending over me and Martin’s large, warm hand wrapped around mine, I thought of it at last as a baby. My baby. Our baby. Too late, I wanted to undo the past few weeks and cherish the tiny life I hadn’t carried for long enough. What a fool I was.
Elizabeth ceded her place to the doctor when he arrived with a nurse but stayed with us. Time passed; blood flowed; my belly contracted and smoothed while I stared up at the canopy of our bed and the surrounding faces.
“The doctor says he sees no cause for alarm about you.” Elizabeth appeared beside me, holding a cup to my lips. I sipped the cold water with pleasure.
“The baby?” I heard Martin ask and saw the quick shake of Elizabeth’s head.
“I’m sorry, darling.” The tears slid down my nose and cheekbones, as unstoppable as the process happening in the rest of my body. I felt guilty—horribly guilty—as if I had wished the child away, as if I had done it actual harm. “I think I’m going to lose your son.”
“Our son.” Martin gave my hand a little shake. “And it’s you I’m concerned for above all. Make no mistake about that, Nellie.”
“Sarah. Go to her. Tell her from me I’m going to be all right—she’ll believe it coming from you. She needs you, Martin.”
I turned my head to see Martin’s eyes squeezed tight shut. He breathed hard through his nostrils a few times and then opened his eyes again.
“I’m afraid to leave the room,” he said rapidly.
“I’ll tell her.” Elizabeth’s voice had something of her mother’s tart briskness, but there was a catch in it. “If you absolutely insist on abandoning all sense and ignoring Dr. Walter’s express request that you behave like a proper husband and wait downstairs, you can at least make yourself useful. See that she takes some sips of water. It’s such a hot day.”
She shoved the cup into Martin’s free hand and exited the room rapidly, banging the door.
By the time Elizabeth returned, red-eyed but briskly cheerful, I was in the grip of an inexorable process I remembered well from the long-ago day of Sarah’s birth. The pangs were almost constant; they were quite bearable, but I was glad I had Martin’s hand to cling to.
“Miss Baker is here, and Tess has come home,” Elizabeth informed me. “Sarah’s all right. She’s asking a lot of questions; we sent the men away, and I did my best to explain.” She grimaced. “She’s a little young, but . . .”
“She always wants to know everything.” I blew out my cheeks as my belly squeezed, and I fumbled for the handkerchief to wipe my eyes for the thousandth time. “I’m sorry.”
“No need.” Elizabeth hesitated. “David says we should both take Mabel home. He’s concerned for me. I told him it wasn’t catching.” She put her hand on her bodice, and Dr. Walter’s eyebrows rose.
“If you are also enceinte, then you should definitely leave, Mrs. Fletcher. Shock and excitement will do you no good.”
“Women have fought in battles and traveled hundreds of miles in my condition,” Elizabeth said tartly. And then to me: “I’m beginning to think I should leave you alone since Martin won’t go and you’ve got more help than you need now. But if you don’t want me to go . . .”
“I do.” I reached out a hand to my friend. “Look after your own health. Are you sure Sarah’s fine?”
“Yes, goose, she’s fine. Children are stronger than we imagine. I reassured her several times that you were wide awake and talking. There was just one question I couldn’t answer . . . I hope you’ll forgive me, Nell, but you know what your daughter’s like. She made me promise to ask.” She turned to the doctor. “How big is the baby?”
Dr. Walter coughed. “I’ve never known a more irregular household. Quite improper. But since you must know, about the size of a weaned kitten.” He held out his hands, half-cupped, to illustrate. “Just a little manikin.”
“Then I think I’m done for today.” Elizabeth cleared her throat and sniffed, forcing away another access of emotion. She’d been crying quite a lot, if I were any judge. The doctor was right—it wasn’t good for her to stay.
She hugged us both; Martin returned her hug with considerable force. I heard her footsteps recede down the stairs, and we were left to ourselves again.
I was weary. In the hushed and purposeful silence, my eyelids drooped despite the now-familiar pains. I wasn’t asleep; but Martin must have thought I was.
“I want to see him,” I heard him say. “The child. Don’t take him away. We’ll bury him ourselves.”
Yes. But I kept my eyes closed, oddly reluctant to make the effort to open them. Was I weaker than I realized? Or perhaps I just needed sleep. What time was it? It had been five o’clock when Elizabeth and I came down from the nursery, and I seemed to have been in this bed forever.
“I’d advise against it.” The doctor’s tone was dry. “It’s not an easy sight. And the child could be deformed. That could be why—”
“I want to see him.” Martin’s grip on my hand had loosened. “My first wife, she was carrying a child when she . . . when she died. A boy. I never saw him, and it’s haunted me ever since.”
The doctor tutted. “I’m sorry. Rotten luck.” He used a different tone of voice with Martin than with me, I noted through the haze of tiredness.
“I’ve been told—” Martin cleared his throat. “That it’s better to face things. Not let them grow in my mind.” He was silent for a long moment; I thought I could feel his breath on my face. I tried to open my eyes but couldn’t. “Is my wife all right?”
I sensed a cool touch against my wrist. “Her pulse is tolerably strong for the circumstances.” A long hesitation. “I think she’s exhausted. She—” but his words were becoming garbled and I couldn’t grasp the rest of what he said.
I want to see our son too, I decided. Martin shouldn’t do this alone. And then I seemed to feel Mama’s lips against my forehead and dropped into the soundless void below me.
36
Lighter
Our daughter must have been born very late at night. I lost all sense of time, but I sensed the household asleep around us when I finally swam back to the surface of life. The urge to push had awakened me, and rest had strengthened me so that I was able to accomplish that part of the proceedings with relative ease. I had stopped crying too and insisted on seeing the baby with a forcefulness that overcame the doctor’s objections.
We had seen her heart beat. For perhaps three minutes, we had witnessed the blood move beneath her transparent skin, seen a slight movement behind her sealed eyelids, and then it was over. There was no deformity, only perfection; a tiny chin, ears that seemed hardly to have separated from the skin covering her hairless skull, hands and feet that displayed every bone and blood vessel like an anatomical drawing. So small, so vulnerable. Within a minute or two of the ceasing of the butterfly beat in her chest, the lividity of death had become discernible. We both knew it was finished beyond all repair.
Mercifully, the doctor and nurse withdrew, and we wept freely over our lost child. It was both the worst moment I had ever experienced and a time of utter peacefulness, made sweeter by Martin’s gratitude that I had come to no harm.
We called her Ruth.
“What o’clock is it?” I asked as Martin returned from letting the doctor and nurse out.
“Three in the morni
ng.” Martin pushed his fingers through his disordered hair. “Can I get you anything? Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m fine.” I was still aware of the slow leaking of blood, but I told the truth; I was certain I would recover in the physical sense. “Perhaps you should sleep though.”
“Do you want to sleep?” Martin looked down at me from his considerable height.
“I’d rather talk. Come and lie next to me.”
Martin bent to unlace his shoes. He had shed his coat long before; now he removed his waistcoat, unhooking his gold timepiece and placing it on a table with its chain wound around it. He unpinned his collar and cuffs, scratching at his neck as he freed himself from the starched cotton. He pulled off his socks and garters, throwing the whole bundle into a chair before coming to join me on the bed.
“That’s better.” Martin sighed with satisfaction as his head settled on the pillow. He must have been utterly exhausted, I realized. He shifted to place an arm under my shoulders; I moved so my head rested comfortably in the hollow of bone and muscle where his arm met his upper chest. The blood flowed again as I changed position in the bed, but the nurse had left me well provided for. In the morning, Alice would be there, and I needed no other assistance.
“Are you all right?”
I didn’t grasp whether Martin was asking if I was comfortable or inquiring after the state of my spirits. I chose to respond to the latter.
“I’m sad.”
I wanted to say, and I feel guilty, but I wasn’t quite ready to confess how much I’d resented the child. Ruth. How much I had resented Ruth. When I remembered her tiny face, unfinished yet already perfect, I glimpsed the lost future. The little sister who would toddle about after Sarah, the child learning her lessons, the young woman dreaming of suitors or a destiny without a husband, the adult with whom I could have sat and talked one distant day, wondering at the changes in the world around us. Not a nuisance, not an incubus, but a being of infinite potential.