Finally, the catalogue ended. Captain Bolton summed up the situation. “Lady Ashton, I believe that my resources allow me to marry and to keep a wife in a favorable situation. I understand that Catherine is the ward of Captain Giles, and normally I would have directed all this recitation to him, but, of course, he is at sea. I understand that you have authority to manage all his affairs.”
“What is it you want to discuss?” asked Daphne, pretending that she did not know why he had inflicted his financial situation on her.
“Why, madam, I am seeking permission to ask Miss Crocker’s hand in marriage. I believe that I can provide her with a secure future.”
“Oh, dear,” thought Daphne, “I hope he can be more romantic when he talks to Catherine. He hasn’t struck me as such a cold fish before this.”
What she said to Captain Bolton, however, was quite different. “Have you asked Miss Crocker to marry you, Captain?”
“No, of course not, Lady Ashton. I could see no point in doing that if she couldn’t get permission to marry. I realize that my roots, though thoroughly respectable, are not on a level with hers.”
Daphne almost choked on this statement. She knew that Captain Bolton’s father was a rector in a rural parish in Norfolk. He certainly was a gentleman and well educated, though he was not rich. How far was that background from what she had been discovering about the status of Giles’s half-brothers, his destitute half-sister, and his appalling father! They might be from the aristocracy and so automatically would considered part of elevated society, but there was no question that Catherine was not really part of that milieu, or of anyone marrying her because of her elevated social status.
“I guess that I can give you permission to court Miss Crocker, Captain Bolton, but I will not pressure her to marry you. You will have to win her to your cause by yourself. I do, myself, consider it a very suitable match. First, though, I should inform you about the dowry provisions that Captain Giles has made for Catherine.”
Daphne then laid out the terms that Richard had already specified and found that they were clearly more favorable than Captain Bolton had expected. They also discussed where the couple would live if Catherine accepted Captain Bolton’s proposal. He had no real attachment to Norfolk, and he thought he should look for a place near Dipton since he would be away a great deal and Catherine now had her family in Dipton and had some friends in the area. Daphne thought that was very sensible of the Captain and that it augured well for the future of the couple. Being Daphne, she had at once started a catalogue in her mind of possible properties that might become available.
Catherine accepted Captain Bolton’s proposal immediately, and much to Daphne’s surprise she blossomed into a quite radiant girl whose dearest hopes had been fulfilled. Daphne realized that her niece’s apparent coolness to romance had been an armor worn to protect her from having to show disappointment and elicit pity. It must have been developed over a long time, but Captain Bolton had broken through it. Daphne hoped that, by allowing Catherine to express joy at happy occurrences, this development would not lead to her niece’s experiencing more painful heartbreak if adversity struck in the future. Daphne herself preferred this less reserved Catherine to the girl to whom she had become accustomed. Her niece remained practical enough to realize that marrying a sailor, especially in time of war, had its own uncertainties and was certain to involve her husband being away for long periods in which his survival might be in question.
There was no hurry to arrange for Catherine’s nuptials since Captain Bolton had left to take his command to sea immediately after Lydia’s wedding. Mr. Dimster, Lydia’s husband, had fitted easily into his duties as Dipton Hall’s new steward and required no immediate guidance from Daphne. The harvest was in full swing, but her tenants and her own chief workers knew their jobs. There was little that might require her immediate attention in that area. Indeed, she could for once laze about, an activity that was quite new to her. It was a particularly attractive way to spend her time since her pregnancy was not so advanced that some regular activities had become somewhat awkward.
No sooner had Daphne realized fully that she did have some spare time to indulge herself than a spasm, a bit painful and not quite like anything she had ever experienced, rippled through her abdomen. She was puzzled by it, but since it was not immediately followed by anything alarming, she ignored it. She would indeed try having breakfast in bed for once and she summoned Betsy to arrange for it. As she returned to bed from the bell pull, she felt a gushing of water between her legs. She knew immediately what it was. Mr. Jackson, apothecary, surgeon, male midwife, and friend, had explained to her all the details of giving birth. Her water had broken! At last, she would cease to be ‘with child.’ Despite Mr. Jackson’s careful instructions, she was afraid and not sure what to do next. Except, she must have Betsy inform Mr. Jackson right away and have the cook start boiling water. She wasn’t entirely sure of the reason for boiling water, but it seemed to be the first step required when a woman went into labor.
Betsy was dispatched to arrange for Mr. Jackson to be informed right away. Obviously, she had also told everyone else at Dipton Hall, for soon Lady Clara and Catherine were at the door offering assistance. Luckily, Mr. Jackson arrived very quickly, and found tasks for the women to perform other than hovering over Daphne looking concerned. He also arranged for her father to be notified, joking that it would do Mr. Moorhouse no harm to get quietly drunk while waiting for further news.
Mr. Jackson quickly examined Daphne and proclaimed that everything was proceeding properly. His assistant, Mrs. Hales, arrived. She was an older woman from the village who often acted as a midwife to mothers who thought that a man, even a well-trained medical man, should have no part in births. She took charge of minor matters as Mr. Jackson concentrated on Daphne.
“You are opening up nicely, Daphne,” said Mr. Jackson, poking his head up to look Daphne in the face. “But it will still take time. Have a little bit of small beer. Birthing can be a thirsty business. Later you can have some of the water that Mrs. Darling is boiling. I’ve noticed that unboiled water may cause later complications. Now, tell me, have you arranged for a wet nurse?”
“I took your suggestion. Nancy from the dairy has agreed to take on the task.”
“Good. Young Thomas is ready for weaning.”
Daphne’s reply was preempted by another spasm, something that Mr. Jackson had called a contraction. She gritted her teeth to keep from making any distressed sounds.
“Let it out,” said Mr. Jackson. “Make a big noise if you feel like it. I know that doing so actually makes things easier. It may even encourage the baby to come faster.”
“I could never do that. That would not be at all ladylike. Ooooch.”
“Just let it out. It helps. There is nothing ladylike about giving birth. Bellow. Remember that cow when you helped me with the calving.”
Daphne did not like being compared to a cow. But Mr. Jackson had a point. She didn’t feel ladylike. Maybe giving birth was too elemental to be ladylike. She would try making a large noise when the next contraction arrived, just as the cow had. Not holding back her moans, nor trying to swallow them, did actually seem to help!
Giving birth seemed to Daphne to be taking forever. The process settled into a routine of Mr. Jackson shouting encouragement when he was not telling her “push”, while she met the worst contractions, as Mr. Jackson named the spasms, with a shriek. Betsy seemed to be rushing around as if she was trying desperately to find something to do, even though Mr. Jackson seemed to have everything under control. Soon, although Daphne would not have described it as ‘soon’, he was also calling out, ‘The baby’s coming. It won’t be long now.”
Then his cries became more interesting. “It’s almost here… Push… the head is out… almost there Daphne… one more push… it’s born, Daphne! Well done! It’s a boy! Just relax now while I get him cleaned up.” His patter was interrupted by the most joy-bringing sound Daphne had ever heard, a bab
y’s cry. Mr. Jackson was still pattering on about how perfect the baby appeared to be and about what an easy delivery she had had.
“Here we go,” the male midwife finally proclaimed. “Here is your son, Daphne.”
Mr. Jackson placed the baby, well wrapped in a wool blanket in Daphne’s arms. Right in front of her was the sweetest little face she had ever seen. Cutely wrinkling its forehead and opening bright blue eyes to look at her, before closing them tight again. She knew those eyes! They were the same as Richard’s. Her son had hardly any hair yet. It looked rather dark, but she had heard that infant hair was not a good predictor of adult hair. Would he end up with her husband’s blond locks?
Daphne had always thought that newborn babies were rather ugly and had been hard put to show the proper enthusiasm when their mothers had shown them proudly. But this one was different! He was beautiful! Bernard David Horatio Giles. She and Giles had chosen the names before he had sailed, the first for her father, the second for his brother and the third for Giles’s great hero. What a lot of names for this little human bundle to live up to. However, for the time being, he was just himself, and her very own. How she wished that Giles could have been here! Not that he would have been in the same room for the birth -- that would never have occurred. However, he would have been with her now to share her joy and excitement.
Her reverie was broken by Mr. Jackson proclaiming, “There, that’s all done. Daphne, do you want to see your father and Lord David for a moment now. They have been in the parlor all this time.”
Daphne nodded her compliance.
“Mrs. Hales, Betsy, tidy Lady Ashton so that she can receive her guests. It will only be for a moment, Daphne. You need rest.”
Before the men could come upstairs, Daphne was visited by Lady Clara and Catherine. Daphne vaguely remembered that they had been in the room for the early parts of her labor. Mr. Jackson had then unceremoniously evicted them after Lady Clara had started to issue a string of irrelevant orders and Catherine started fluttering around like a lost moth, trying to be helpful. Any annoyance they had felt by their treatment vanished when they saw the baby. They both cooed over him extravagantly. Lady Clara also claimed that Bernard’s eyes looked exactly as had Richard’s at the same age.
The male relatives were admitted immediately after the ladies. Both with the glassy-eyed look of men who might have consumed too much port or brandy while waiting for the ordeal to be over. Both showed less wonder at the new baby and somewhat more concern for how Daphne was feeling. Though it was only the early afternoon, her eyes were already closing as Mr. Jackson chased all the visitors from her room.
Daphne’s first thought when she awoke in the morning was for her baby, and a host of questions arose. Was he still all right and healthy? Had the wet nurse fed him already? Had the nanny arrived? Would Giles really be pleased with a boy? He had said that he hoped for a girl, but she suspected that had been so that she would not be disappointed if the child were a girl. All the women she knew claimed that men always preferred sons, especially for their first born. She must write to Richard immediately, even if only heaven knew when the letter might be delivered. Obviously, with all these questions, she must not just slack the day away. Before she could begin to fulfill her resolve, there was a knock on the door and Mr. Jackson entered.
“How are you feeling, Daphne?”
“A bit tired and a bit sore. Nothing serious.”
“Let me see.” Mr. Jackson first checked for fever by touching Daphne’s forehead and then held her wrist to judge her pulse. He followed this by an examination of her lower region. “Everything looks fine. You really should move about and resume normal life as soon as you feel able or even a little earlier. However, I don’t want you going downstairs for at least another day. Otherwise, a reasonable amount of activity is the best way to return to normal, even if, in your case, ‘normal’ means an inordinate amount of activity. ”
“Now, Lady Ashton, are you still intending to use a wet nurse?”
“Yes, I am. Nancy, my dairy maid, you know the one who just moved here with her son, Thomas, has agreed to serve. But why did you suddenly call me ‘Lady Ashton’?”
“Because, I suppose that I really should think of you that way and not as Daphne.”
“Why in the world would you do that? Have I offended you in some way?”
“Not at all. However, the word is already out that Lady Ashton has had a successful confinement with me as the male midwife. I already have had two notes to call on ladies who, I know, are with child and who are being looked after by Dr. Verdour. They indicated that they might be interested in switching to me. I will be happy to displace him, but it will not happen if I refer to you as Daphne, because that is not elevated enough for them and they will expect a suitable amount of respect. They certainly wouldn’t have me if I called them by their Christian names as I told them what to do, and referring to you as I think of you would spoil the illusion. Quite beneath their dignity, even if preserving that priceless quality would kill them. So I was practicing trying to think of you as Lady Ashton.”
“Well, I hope you will continue to think of me as the girl who used to follow you around to the dismay of her nanny and whom you taught so many wonderful things.”
“Of course I will, but also the girl who has developed into a very remarkable woman, indeed a true lady in every respect.”
“Then, in answer to your question, as I indicated earlier, I have engaged Nancy, my new dairymaid to be Bernard’s wet nurse. She can take him in a basket when she is going about her duties, or he can be looked after by Nanny Weaver.”
“Nanny Weaver? Your old nanny?’
“Yes. Did you know that she married right after I came out and that her husband died last winter of consumption?”
“Of course.”
“Well, she isn’t really very old and she is very good with children.”
“I’m not too sure of that. She did allow you to follow me around, even into places that were not entirely suitable for young ladies.”
“That didn’t hurt me at all. After all, how else would I have found out how a cow gave birth to calves? Anyway, it was really my father’s doing. Nanny Weaver wasn’t always very happy about what I was doing going off on my own into the neighborhood, but my father usually took my side in such arguments.”
“Very good, Lady Ashton. I imagine that I can look forward to introducing little Bernard to some aspects of life that are not part of a nobleman’s standard education.”
“I certainly hope so. Now you really should get on with attracting Dr. Verdour’s patients. I know that there is nothing that pleases you more.”
“Nonsense. Delivering healthy babies certainly gives more pleasure. In this case, my gladness is as much in improving the mothers’ chances of a successful delivery as it is in showing up that old fraud Verdour. Now, let me examine Bernard after which I will follow up on seducing Dr. Verdour’s customers.”
“Betsy, please ask Nanny Weaver to bring Bernard here.”
Nanny Weaver must have been waiting for the summons and came immediately with the baby. He was awake, but looked sleepy. Daphne was even more convinced that she had never seen a lovelier infant. Mr. Jackson examined him quickly, but thoroughly. “Nothing the matter with this little fellow. He’s doing very well. Of course, with you looking after him, Nanny Weaver, he wouldn’t dare do anything else, would he?”
Daphne remembered how often these two had had disputes about how much she should be allowed to do and see when she was allowed to follow the medical practitioner about. She hoped that before too long, they would have the same sorts of good-natured disputes, though, of course, young boys were not supposed to be as sheltered as young girls were.
Mr. Jackson took his leave, but not without first telling Daphne, “Don’t spend all day in bed even if you want to and Nanny Weaver encourages you to. You will recover much faster if you at least walk around a bit, but don’t go downstairs until tomorrow or, even better, th
e day after tomorrow.” That produced a glare from Nanny Weaver, who undoubtedly was of the view that new mothers should be coddled, exerting themselves at most to coo at their new offspring.
Daphne did spend several minutes adhering to Nanny Weaver’s belief of the proper occupation of a new mother, but then she realized that she did have other things that needed doing. Especially, she desperately wanted to write to Richard with the news of the birth of Bernard. It didn’t matter that it would take weeks before the letter could be delivered. It had to be done now. Despite Nanny Weaver’s frown and mutterings about how she had always been headstrong, she summoned Betsy to help her dress and then had her fetch writing materials to her table.
Words seemed to gush onto the page as she started her letter to Giles. They were all about what a wonderful boy had been born and how proud his father would be. She told only the bare facts about her own labor. No one reading the report would guess that there had been loud cries and frequent shrieks emerging from her room as the labor continued or that it had not been over in an instant. That was almost how Daphne now remembered the experience. After filling one side of the page, Daphne turned it over to give more prosaic news. She glanced out the window to see that the remaking of the grounds was still progressing well and had yet to be halted by heavy autumn rains. She would have to review plans to cease work when the grounds became too sodden. However, news of Dipton and the changes being made took up less than half a page and she was back to writing on the topic of the baby. She finished with the hope that Giles would soon be home to see this marvel, though she was careful not to indicate that she blamed him for being away.
Two days later, Daphne was downstairs in her usual writing room, composing another letter to Giles when Mr. Moorhouse came bursting into the room waving a sheet of paper.
A War by Diplomacy Page 21