“No,” she said. “You can come with me.” She watched with malicious satisfaction as Angus’s eyes widened in terror. “The mattress is wet and needs turning.”
She had never seen a task accomplished with such speed in her life. Angus worked with the strength of a man possessed, turning the heavy mattress as though it were a feather, his muscles bulging with the strain. Then he vanished, and Beth was left alone with the pregnant woman. She changed the sheets quickly and helped Maggie into a clean nightgown. Then she waited helplessly while another spasm of pain doubled Maggie up, before assisting her gently into bed. Her face was as white as the pillow, her dark auburn hair as red as blood in the candlelight. Beth sat down carefully on the side of the bed.
“Maggie,” she said, wondering how to explain that she had no idea what to do without panicking the young woman. She had to say something, though; she could not bluff her way through this, as she had through so much else in her life.
“Aye, I know,” said Maggie, reading her thoughts. “Ye dinna ken what tae do. Ye’ve no experience wi’ bairns. Dinna fash yourself, Beth, I think it’ll be a while yet. Wi’ luck the midwife’ll be here by then.”
The look of relief on Beth’s face was so immense that Maggie laughed, in spite of her fear.
“I’m sorry, Maggie,” Beth said. “I’ll do anything you ask, but you’ll have to tell me what to do.”
“Pray,” said Maggie, although she knew in her heart it was futile. “Pray as hard as you can that these are false pains. Because I want this bairn so much, Beth, and he canna live if he’s born tonight. He’s not ready.” Tears trickled down her face. “I’ve waited so long,” she cried. “Oh God, I’ve waited so long.”
Beth leaned across and took the despairing woman in her arms, and they clung together, praying for a miracle that they both knew would not be granted.
“She ain’t here,” the sleepy voice called down from the window in answer to Sir Anthony’s frantic banging on his door.
“What do you mean, she’s not here?” cried Sir Anthony indignantly, clearly suspecting that the man was lying. “She must be here. I need her services, immediately. I’m willing to pay very handsomely for her trouble.”
“Even if you was to offer twenty sovs, guv’nor, it wouldn’t do no good,” said the man disrespectfully, eyeing the dandy with disgust. “I told you, she ain’t here. She’s away over the river somewhere delivering twins.”
“Where exactly over the river is she?” said the baronet impatiently.
“I’ve no idea,” came the reply. “But I’ll tell her you called when she gets back, in the morning, prob’ly.”
“Ah. I see,” said Sir Anthony. “Well, do you know of any other midwives in the area, my good man?”
“No,” said the man curtly, annoyed at the term of address. He was nobody’s ‘good man’, particularly not this powdered molly’s. “That is, there’s Sally Morgan in St. Giles, but I wouldn’t trust her to deliver pups, let alone littl’uns, drunken old cow. And there’s Ann O’Neill, but I know for a fact she’s out, too. Uncommon night for babies.” He withdrew his head, preparing to close the window, but stopped at the pleasant sound of coins jingling together. A great many coins, by the look of the leather bag which had appeared in the fop’s hand as if by magic.
“What a shame,” Sir Anthony said regretfully, turning away. “I was of course, prepared to pay up to fifty sovs, as you so enchantingly call them. I have twenty here, on account. But if you don't know where your good lady wife is, there’s nothing to be done. Where exactly does Mrs Morgan live?”
The man leaned so far out of the window he was in danger of falling out of it.
“Now let us not be so hasty, my lord,” he said, quickly revising his opinion of the gentleman below. “You woke me out of a deep sleep, and I was a little fuddled. But I remember now. I’ll get dressed directly.” The head disappeared and within moments a light came on in the room.
“Remarkable how refreshing to the memory gold can be,” remarked Sir Anthony to his manservant.
It was remarkable how refreshing it could be to thieves, too. Especially in the maze of less than salubrious streets around Westminster Abbey. Three emerging shadowy figures faded quickly back into the darkness at the sight of Duncan flexing his broad shoulders and half-drawing his sword. They would go for reinforcements.
“We canna stay here,” he whispered urgently to his brother just as the midwife’s husband appeared at the door, somewhat haphazardly attired, but respectable at least.
“I quite agree, Murdo,” replied the baronet. “It will take my boy at least a day to remove the filth from my shoes. And my stockings are utterly ruined!”
The man’s look of contempt transformed itself into an unctuous smile as the baronet looked up from his contemplation of his bespattered hose.
“Now, my good man,” said Sir Anthony. “I am sure I can entrust you with this purse, if you will just ride like the very devil to fetch your wife!”
“Er, no thank you, my lord,” said the man, who, though his fingers were itching to count the bag’s contents, knew the area and that his chances of leaving it in possession of such a sum were nil. “I am sure I can trust a gen’leman such as yourself to pay up fair and square later. I’ll fetch my wife to your house directly, sir.”
He set off in the direction of the river, and as soon as he was out of sight the baronet and his manservant vanished with remarkable alacrity in the opposite direction, Sir Anthony having very vociferously checked that his pistol was indeed primed and cocked. They rode for some time in silence, carefully watchful.
“Where are we going?” asked Duncan as Alex suddenly veered off the route home, heading instead for the Strand.
“If the midwife is worth her salt, as I’m sure she is, she won’t leave her current patient until she’s safely delivered, no matter what her husband says. The authorities will revoke her licence if she does. And Maggie needs help now.” He turned down a small respectable street just off the main thoroughfare and knocked loudly at the door of a shop.
There was a short pause, and then a muffled voice came from behind the door.
“I’m closed,” it said. “Who is it?”
Sir Anthony announced himself, and there was the sound of a bolt being hastily pulled back. The door opened and a young woman in a dressing gown peered cautiously round it.
“Sir Anthony?” said Sarah, her eyes wide with alarm. “What’s wrong? Is it Beth?”
“No, not exactly,” he replied, moving past her into the shop without asking permission. “What do you know about childbirth?”
“Lady Anne,” said Sarah confidently, that being the only woman of Sir Anthony’s acquaintance in the family way, as far as she knew. “I’ll get dressed.”
She turned away and he reached out and caught her arm, marking how she shrank from his touch, even though it offered no threat. He let her go.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “No, it’s not Anne. It’s my cook. She’s started her pains, but she’s very early. Beth’s with her, but she’s no idea what to do, and the midwife has been sent for, but is at another delivery. I’m sorry to wake you, but I thought a woman of your… er…past experience might be able to help. Will you come?” His voice was tense and held none of the normal flowery affectations of the dandy.
“Yes, of course I’ll come,” she said, rushing off to dress. He had never alluded to her background before, had never treated her with anything less than the utmost respect, which was one of the reasons that she liked him so much. The fact that he had now, told her that he was more worried than he appeared to be. He was right, she did know something about childbirth. Midwives were often reluctant to attend women of ill-repute, and the prostitutes tended to help each other rather than call in the authorities, whom they instinctively, and generally with good reason, mistrusted.
They arrived home twenty minutes later, Sarah feeling somewhat shaken, having been mounted behind the grim-faced Duncan, to whom, in spite of h
er aversion to physical contact with the male sex, she had clung as though her life depended on it as they galloped through the deserted streets. He jumped down from the saddle and reached up, lifting her down as though she were a feather and placing her carefully on her none-too-steady legs. He smiled, and the grimness was gone.
“I take it you’re no’ accustomed to riding, lassie,” he said.
“I’ve never been on a horse before in my life,” she said shakily. “And will never go on one again, if I live to be a hundred.” She detached herself from his steadying hand and followed Sir Anthony up the steps to the house.
Beth had never in her whole life been so grateful to see anyone as she was to see Sarah. So grateful that she didn’t even question why she was here instead of the expected midwife. She had done everything that she could in the practical sense: the fire was blazing, soothing mulled wine was steaming by the bedside and Beth was sitting with Maggie, holding her hand and feeling utterly helpless. She looked up at Sarah with the same expression that men generally adopted in the face of childbirth.
“It’s coming too soon,” she said, Maggie being temporarily incapable of speech.
“I know, Sir Anthony told me,” said Sarah. “How too soon is it?”
“About ten weeks,” gasped Maggie. Her face was white, her lips pale.
“Can we do anything to stop it being born now?” Beth asked desperately.
Sarah looked doubtfully at the pregnant woman. This was a new experience for her. The last time she had been present at a premature birth the mother had been glad it was coming too early, having tried unsuccessfully for four months to dislodge it from her womb. But then to prostitutes babies were often an inevitable but unwelcome side-effect of their profession. This one clearly wasn’t.
“Well, we could raise the foot of the bed so her legs are higher than her head,” she said tentatively. Beth shot off the bed as though from a cannon, ready to go and call the men. “Wait,” said Sarah, “have your waters broken yet?”
Maggie nodded.
“It’s coming,” she said tearfully. “I hoped it was false pains, but it isna. Oh!”
Sarah nodded, watching as Maggie fought her way through another contraction, sweat pouring down her face. They were very close together, she noticed. It would not be long. Maybe an hour or two.
“I need towels or clean cloths,” she said, thinking fast. “To put under her. When the baby’s born it’ll be very messy. And oil, warm water and something to wrap the baby in when it’s born. And a sharp knife and string.”
Beth ran from the room and Sarah took her place on the bed, taking Maggie’s hand in hers. The woman was trembling, and Sarah’s heart went out to her.
“Is it your first child?” she asked.
Maggie nodded.
“We’ve been trying for three years,” she said. “I couldna bear it if…”
“Don’t think about that now,” interrupted Sarah hastily. “Concentrate on getting through this, and we’ll worry about the baby when it arrives. Get used to the pains, because you’ll probably be having them every year now your womb’s discovered what it’s there for.” She saw Maggie’s face light up as she grasped at the straw Sarah had given her and hoped God would forgive her the white lie.
“Try to breathe slowly,” she said. “Can I have a look at you?”
At Maggie’s nod she folded back the sheet and gently pushed the woman’s legs apart.
“There’s no point in keeping your legs together,” she said gently. “It doesn’t work anyway.”
“It’s burning,” said Maggie indistinctly, her face contorted.
“I know,” said Sarah. “It does. I’m not a midwife, but I’ve seen several born. When Beth brings the oil I’ll feel to see if the baby’s in the right position, but I think – oh shit!” she said, as the top of the baby’s head suddenly appeared. She felt carefully with her fingers as she’d seen the midwives do, to see if the cord was looped around its neck, but before she could be sure, Maggie gave a strangled cry and the baby slithered out in a mess of blood and fluid into Sarah’s hands.
Beth, choosing that moment to reappear, her arms full of the things Sarah had asked for, nearly fainted on the spot.
“It’s all right,” said Sarah frantically, glancing over her shoulder. “It’s normal. Just a bit faster than I expected, that’s all. Give me the knife.”
She tied and cut the umbilical cord and reached for the jug of water, taking it and the baby over to the corner of the room, where there was a basin.
“Beth,” she said, hooking her finger into its mouth to pull out any mucus and then gently washing the tiny infant, who showed no sign of life. “In a few minutes the afterbirth will come. You can help by pulling very gently on the cord, but only when the contractions start.”
Hopefully that will occupy Beth and stop her from fainting, Sarah thought, although a quick glance told her that the colour had come back to her face. Not so Maggie’s. The absence of a child’s cry was deafening in the small room. Sarah kept her back carefully to the bed, gently rubbing the baby’s limbs dry. It was a boy, but too small, much too small. His skin was wrinkled and almost transparent and he was very thin. At least she could clean him, and let Maggie hold him before his body cooled and she had to accept he was dead.
“It’s a boy,” Sarah said, feeling Maggie’s eyes boring into her back.
“Let me see him,” Maggie said, trying to accept the inevitable. “Please. Just once, before….please.”
Sarah held the tiny baby easily in one arm, and picked up another cloth, intending to wrap him up before giving him to his mother. The little chest fluttered, and he suddenly opened his mouth and uttered a tiny, thin wail that stilled all activity in the room.
“He’s alive!” Sarah breathed in awe, her eyes filling with tears.
“Let me see him!” cried Maggie desperately, struggling to rise. Beth pushed her back gently as Sarah hurriedly crossed the room, placing the minute bundle into his mother’s arms.
“Oh, mother of God, oh God, he’s beautiful,” she said, bursting into tears. Her face screwed up as the contractions began again, but she hardly noticed, so intent was she on her son.
Beth left Sarah to the unpleasant business of dealing with the afterbirth and moved round the side of the bed to take a look at the new arrival.
She had never seen anything so tiny in her life. He was impossibly small, must weigh no more than three pounds or so at best. He had a shock of black hair like Iain’s, and the tiny hand peeping out from the enfolding cloth was no bigger than the first joint of her thumb. His eyes were closed tight, but she knew enough about babies now to know that when they opened they would be blue. If they opened. She glanced at Maggie, and a look of sudden acceptance of the inevitable passed between them. Maggie lifted him gently off her chest.
“Baptise him,” she said, holding him out to Beth. Beth’s eyes widened in alarm and she backed away.
“I can’t, Maggie, I’m not a priest!” she said.
“Midwives can baptise children in an emergency,” Maggie replied, her voice trembling. “And you’re of the faith, Beth. Please.”
“I’m not a midwife, either,” Beth pointed out. “But she’ll be here soon. Or I could get Al…Anthony to fetch a priest.”
Where would they get a Catholic priest at this hour? In these uncertain times? The thought ran through both their minds at the same moment.
“There isna time,” Maggie said desperately. “Look at him, Beth. I’ll no’ have him die unbaptised, and go to Limbo. Please.”
Beth made a decision, took the fragile bundle carefully, and moved across to the jug of water. It wasn’t holy water, but it would have to do.
Sarah, aware that she had been all but forgotten at this intense moment, froze, not wishing to draw attention to the fact that she had just been effectively informed that Beth, as well as her cook, was a Roman Catholic.
Beth put one finger in the water and carefully made the sign of the cross on
the baby’s forehead.
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, amen,” she said, crossing herself. “I name this child,” she stopped and turned to Maggie, “what do you want to call him?” she asked.
“Iain,” said Maggie, gazing intently at her son and the woman who held him, her pain, her distress, the other occupant of the room, everything else forgotten. “Iain Charles Stuart.”
Beth closed her eyes, then opened them again and looked at Sarah, whose expression of studied blankness told her that she’d understood only too well the implications of what she’d just heard. There was nothing she could do about it now. She turned, dipped her finger in the water again.
“I name this child Iain Charles Stuart…” She stopped. She could not say the child’s surname. Sarah knew too much already. Sure that God would recognise the child when it came to Him, surname or no, she hastily wet the baby’s forehead and blessed him again, before handing him hurriedly back to his mother. She pulled the sheet gently up over Maggie and turned to Sarah.
“We have to tell Iain,” she said, remembering as she said it that his name was supposed to be John. She grabbed Sarah’s hand and they left the room together.
“Don’t say it,” said Sarah as soon as the door was closed and Beth turned to her. “I won’t say anything to anyone, ever. I haven’t heard anything and I don’t want to know any more.”
“Sarah,” began Beth.
“If it wasn’t for you I’d be dead, or at best still selling myself to people like Richard, for pennies,” Sarah interrupted. “I owe everything I am to you, and to Sir Anthony. And even if I didn’t, you’re my friend, Beth, the only true friend I’ve got. That means more to me than you know.”
Beth grabbed Sarah by the shoulders, wrapped her arms round her and hugged her fiercely.
“Thank you,” she said simply. They moved to the top of the stairs together. The men were in the drawing room; the door was slightly open and a patch of yellow light filtered into the hall, along with a murmur of conversation.
The Gathering Storm (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 3) Page 30