She was still in her costume from the night's performance; this was visible only in the light as a sense of color, although it was evident that her jewels and hair ornaments had been removed. Her face was hidden, her posture the appearance of one having listened and now prepared to steal away again with a heavier heart.
"Miss Harwick," he said, softly. The sight of the girl greatly surprised him. Her head inclined towards him.
"Papa is not pleased with my performance, is he?" Her tone was embittered; although she attempted to sound careless, there was a faint break in her voice. "Nothing I have done lately would please him, so I suppose I should not care."
It was the evident pain he sensed which made him step towards her; an awkward movement, now that the motion of anger was tempered with a clumsier, softer emotion. "It does not matter," he answered. "If you are pleased, that is what matters."
Her fingers tightened about the banister's rail. "You do not think of me as a costume piece. An inconsequence in society except when there is nothing better to be had. Do you, Herr Scheimann?"
She had never before spoken his name in German, a gesture which touched him. "You are capable of being someone of great consequence, I think," he answered. The stiffness had begun to break from his voice. He felt her eyes upon him, aware without seeing them that she had been crying.
"As your teacher, I know this to be true," he said. "I know it also–as your friend. Tonight you proved yourself in a manner which no musician would shame."
"You speak to me as a musician," she answered. "And not as a friend?"
It gratified him that she spoke of their connection as a thing which existed; something tangible, beyond the intuitive glances and thoughts between them at the pianoforte or volumes of music. That she recognized it as he did had not occurred to him until this moment.
"As both," he answered. "But I am not a friend who flatters vanity. As you will remember." He bowed. "Good night, Miss Harwick." He left her upon the stairs in the darkness, taking care to pass the library door as silently as possible despite his swift tread.
Storming into the streets, removing the coat which had cost him a great deal of trouble and salary–all in order to please people unsatisfied that their friends perceived the measure of his student’s talent. His scowl remained fixed, softening only a little with the thought of the words between himself and his student, the pleasure of this evening’s accomplishments.
Hetta had proven herself at the pianoforte; her voice had taken the drawing room at full measure without even touching its full depths. She was promising, but yet young; while it might be the deception of false hopes, he believed his own talents allowed him to glimpse something greater.
She might be something more, her nature capable of driving her to new heights wherever she possessed talent. She needed only a friend who would guide her, who understood such desires and was not ashamed of how society might perceive them. There was her greatest danger: the existence of noblemen of small fortune and great title, the possibility of wealthy sons whose connections were almost as good, the future triumph imagined for every girl of some breeding and beauty.
He mounted the stairs of his boarding house, his entrance heralded by a neighbor whose door was open.
“You have been out tonight, my friend,” his neighbor observed in French, a fellow musician and native Parisian who played for theater companies.
“My student’s fete,” explained Scheimann. The man nodded.
“The one you purchase music for,” he surmised. “And a coat also, it would seem.” Scheimann was not yet hardened enough to refrain from blushing at this statement, aware that his water-stained coat was the only one which had been publicly seen until today.
“It is the sacrifice one makes for promise,” he answered. “Today it is but a pretty skill; tomorrow, it may be greatness in music.”
“Of any student; or of this one only?”
“Of any,” answered Scheimann, affecting carelessness, although badly. “When one makes a great discovery, then the work is made different. Made worth one’s pains.”
Tonight, indeed, had been worth pains. A glimpse of the promise, the possibility of a great career; for himself, he would have said until recently, although the glories of his promising student were no longer reflected upon as a mere chance for more proteges and profits.
The man nodded again. “You are young,” he said, studying Magner. “Perhaps–what? Twenty-six? You will get over it in time and forget when it shall come to nothing.”
He stepped inside his room and pushed his door closed. “Good night, Herr Scheimann.”
The composer, too, crossed his threshold; but with a heart weighted ever so slightly by the undefined burden of his friend‘s remark, even if the visions of this evening shone brightly in his mind.
Chapter Eighteen
It awakened Kitty from the depths of sleep, the low wail from another room. At first, in the struggle to be fully conscious and aware, she believed it one of the children, young Walter with his toothache; but as the fog of sleep lifted from slow realization to sudden comprehension, she recognized that it was not Walter’s cry.
She sprang from the bed, fumbling to light her candle. There was a noise in the corridor outside her room, steps hurrying along. Lifting the door’s latch, she opened it and found Patience in the hall with an armload of folded linen and a candle in hand.
“What is the matter, Patience?” Kitty could see the door to Anna’s chamber was ajar, a candle lit within. A shape moved in the darkness as Anna appeared there, in her dressing gown with her braid of fair hair trailing past her shoulder.
“It is all right, Kitty,” she said. “Go back to sleep.” Even in the darkness, her face was pale and drawn tight with pain.
“Is it the child?” Kitty asked. Despite herself, there was apprehension in her voice with this question. Anna’s face betrayed a flicker of concern, which was then buried beneath a mask of fortitude.
“It is but a little early,” she said, calmly. “It is many hours from birth, dearest. Patience is here; go back to sleep.” She moved to disappear inside the bedchamber again as Kitty stepped forward.
“We must send for William at Chawton,” said Kitty. “I shall have Martin saddle a horse–”
“William’s return was meant for tomorrow,” she answered. “He is nigh upon us; and will be home by the child’s birth, I am certain.”
“Then for the surgeon,” cried Kitty.
“I have no need of the surgeon, Kitty.” Anna’s voice was terse with impatience, her weight resting against the foot post of the bed. “I have delivered two of my children without assistance and know well the signs of trouble. It will be a great many hours before this child comes into the world, I am sure of it.”
Patience helped her mistress into bed, drawing the covers around Anna’s swollen stomach. Kitty’s eye could detect the signs of pain and fatigue in Anna’s features as she searched for other signs of hidden fears which might compel her to send for assistance or at the very least press the issue of William’s return. Anna did not wish it, however; so much so that the door was closed in Kitty’s face by Patience to shut out the view of the laboring mother.
Commotion awakens children as well as adults. A second door had opened, the frightened faces of Amelia and Caroline attempting to see without being seen. It was Kitty’s duty to usher them to bed again with soothing promises that their mother was only awakened by discomfort.
By four o’ clock, she lit the candles downstairs and made a cup of tea; a tray was prepared for Anna’s room, from which cries were periodically heard downstairs.
“Shall I take it up, Miss?” asked Tillie.
“I shall take it,” said Kitty. “Stir the fire on the grate; the children will be awake in a few more hours and will need breakfast.” She lifted the tray and went upstairs.
Anna was upright in bed, bent forward with concentration. Her forehead was beaded with sweat; there was no fire in the room and no other sound exc
ept Patience, who was preparing a basket for the child. At the sound of Kitty’s entrance, Anna raised her face and offered a smile.
“You might take some tea,” offered Kitty.
Anna shook her head. “I am well enough,” she answered. With effort, she seemed to suppress a murmur of pain which nearly escaped.
“Patience,” she said, “go and have a cup downstairs. You may build the fire up higher so the infant linens will be warm.” The girl obeyed with a short curtsy and departure.
“She is a good girl,” said Anna, after a moment’s breath. “She has assisted in delivery before. With Mrs. Littlewood and with a neighbor who bore twins, also. She knows what to do upon these occasions.”
“I am glad for your sake,” Kitty answered, gently.
The pain increased at this moment, its grinding presence taking its toll on Anna. Instinctively, Kitty reached to take her hand, feeling the tight grip of Anna’s fingers to be at once fierce and reassuring.
“It will not be long now,” said Anna, with a gasp. “The point of turn will come and the child will be born.” She smiled again at Kitty with these words.
Morning was upon them in another hour; Kitty was dressed and downstairs to receive the children, who were half-afraid of their mother’s absence and the strange atmosphere which clouded the house. There was little patience for lessons afterwards; indeed, the cries from upstairs were loud enough to render it impossible for even the eldest children to concentrate.
Young Walter dissolved into tears, taking comfort only in his aunt’s lap despite a rebuke from his brother for being too old for such childishness.
Afterwards, Kitty sat down at William’s desk, although she was impatient to be upstairs where Anna had dismissed even Patience for the moment. Her prediction of a short birth was not coming into fruition; for already, Kitty calculated by the clock, her sister had labored for twelve hours altogether.
She dipped a pen in William’s ink, her hand trembling in anticipation of Anna’s groans.
Dear Louisa, she began, our sister is now in the first hours of her child’s delivery. She is calm and in good spirits; and has the best of assistance from one of her servants...
She heard Anna groan above her, the soft sound of Patience’s footsteps upon the floorboards. Mr. Giles is not at home, but he is expected among us today, so he will be present for his child’s first moments in the world...
Evening came; the glow in the windows was purple and rose from the dying sunlight on the horizon. Kitty sat with an open book of Wordsworth’s poems on her lap, although the words had no meaning for her at this moment.
“Shall I carve t’cold mutton, Miss?” asked Wilkies, the cook. “There’s a joint laid aside for today when t’master was returnin’, but there’s no sign of ‘im yet.”
“No, Wilkies,” Kitty answered, after a moment to collect herself. “There is only myself and the children and I shall take nothing but the soup.” The cook went away again.
Dinner was silent and there was no sound at the door nor step in the hall to indicate the return of William Giles, though his sister-in-law listened for it anxiously. Upstairs, the cries were louder and longer, a sign that the second stage of birthing was upon Anna. The turn had come; surely the child was only a few hours away from emergence.
Kitty did not sleep that night, remaining downstairs with her book and a cup of cold tea. She wished fervently for Anna to call her to her side, but there was no word from her sister laboring in the chamber above, except for the cries of agony. James the valet was asleep, now that there was no chance of Mr. Giles’s return until morning. Only herself, her sister, and the servant girl Patience remained awake.
Towards dawn, Kitty was seated at the converted spinnet in the music room. Her untouched tea sat atop it, her books of music open before her. Softly, her fingers picked out the notes to ‘Egypt was Glad’ in the sheets of Handel from Hetta’s library. The notes reverberated faintly in the depths of the makeshift pianoforte’s frame. The white light of morning was in the window, casting the room in shades of gloom and uncertainty.
There was another cry from down the hall, a shrill, agonized sound that echoed in the corridor. Kitty froze in her place, upright and still as she listened for another. A moment later, she heard the sound of a chamber door opening in the distance.
It was the sound of the knob to the children’s schoolroom, however, which made her turn around. The door opened behind her, Patience Tibbets standing on its threshold, her face wan and worn beneath its mob cap. Her trembling hands and her apron bore dark bloodstains, fluid glistening in the early light.
“I think you’d better send for the surgeon, Miss,” she said.
*****
In the main hall, Kitty paced anxiously, her hand pressed to her forehead. A sound in the courtyard sent her to the windows, heart pounding with fear. The shape of a man dismounting a horse there, Martin leading it away.
“Mr. Turner,” she said. The surgeon was already pulling off his coat, her hands taking his hat from him with a speed which even a concerned James could not match.
“How long has she labored?” he asked. His bag in hand, he hurried upstairs with Kitty ahead of him.
“Above twenty-four hours,” said Kitty. Her voice was trembling, on the verge of breaking. “There is blood, also. I have not seen her, for she wishes no one near her–”
Mr. Turner opened the door to Anna’s chamber, where the sight of the laboring mother shocked Kitty into silence. Anna supported herself on white, shaking arms, her hair in disarray around her face with its braid half undone. Skin ashen with dark circles beneath her eyes, red-rimmed exhaustion peering from hollow depths.
He did not speak nor request her permission as he drew back the sheet for examination. Kitty stood by, trembling. It was to her face Anna looked, her lips parting with a dry motion.
“Have Patience heat the kettle for the surgeon and for Mr. Giles's return.” Her voice was hoarse and slow, each word pronounced with a forced check against her pain. Beside her, Mr. Turner withdrew from his examination in order to open his bag. Another contraction seized Anna at this moment, her fingers gripping the sheets as she folded herself forward with a cry of agony.
The surgeon laid his hand on her shoulder. “It will be all right, Mrs. Giles,” he said, gently, as the pain subsided again. “You are exhausted after so long a labor and it may be necessary to remove your child by other means.”
“Turning it,” said Anna, gasping for breath. “You mean turning it.” Her fingers were gripping his arm now, as if to prevent him from taking any action.
“By hand, yes,” he answered, speaking slowly to calm her. “If it does not work, then I may need to use forceps to help the birth.” There were red marks upon his sleeve, Kitty noticed, where Anna's blood-stained fingers had touched him.
His movements were hasty as he reached into his bag and withdrew a stethoscope. He placed it against Anna’s chest and listened; then he placed it against her belly also, his ear bent close to listen.
“When did you last feel the child move?” he asked Anna. Before she could answer, another contraction seized her. Her scream ended in a sob-like wail, tearing at Kitty’s heart. She crossed to the bed and took Anna’s hand in hers, propping the woman’s weight against her shoulder.
“It will be all right, Anna,” she whispered. “We shall pray–it will be a speedy delivery, now that Mr. Turner has come to our aid.” She looked at the surgeon, who had grown very swift and silent in his work. From his bag he took an instrument which Kitty assumed must be the forceps which she had heard were used to assist in births such as these. She repressed a shudder, her fingers tightening around Anna’s hand and shoulder.
“Relax if it is possible, Mrs. Giles,” said the surgeon, who was adjusting the bedclothes which covered her. Anna recoiled, then tensed with further pain in response to his work.
A minute passed, in which he adjusted his tools. A minute later, Anna screamed again, her fingers tight around Kit
ty’s as if to break them. Mr. Turner looked up from his examination.
“I will need a basin, Miss Phillips,” he said, softly. “And a damp cloth that would sooth Mrs. Giles's brow. I shall also need you to fetch Mr. Giles if it is at all possible to reach him.”
Kitty rose from the bed and went out of the chamber. She closed the door behind her, which shut out the sound of the surgeon speaking to her sister. Halfway down the stairs, she heard a cry which was not that of labor, sending her more hastily to the kitchen below.
There was no sign of Patience, only a well-stoked fire in the hearth, where she claimed one of the cloths set to warm for the infant’s basket and dampened it. She roused Tillie, who was dozing before the bowl of rising bread.
“Go and fetch Martin and send him to Chawton House for his master as quickly as you can,” she ordered. She took a large white basin from beside the pump, then went upstairs to find Mr. Turner waiting outside her sister’s chamber.
Her steps slowed. His face was dark, an expression so serious that she believed she knew what he would tell her before his lips parted to speak.
“What is it, sir?” Her heart was in her throat, pounding with such force that her words seemed alive with its pulse. He drew the door closed and stepped closer to her, speaking in a low voice.
“Your sister has expelled more than blood from her womb,” he said. “There are signs that the child was distressed from so many hours of labor and Mrs. Giles has confided that she has felt no movement except her natural contractions. I have examined her and determined the child is no longer alive.”
Kitty did not move; nor had she the power to respond at first. “The child is dead?” she repeated. “But what must you do? Can you not–is it not possible–”
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