Saddle the Wind

by Jess Foley

  Catherine had brought into his life a happiness and contentment that in earlier years he had never expected, never looked for. And now she had brought to him also so much promise. He looked past the knitting in her moving hands and took in the swell of her body. In five weeks, come the end of January, the child would be here …

  Glancing up, Catherine caught his gaze and smiled at him. She lowered the knitting, stretched, then leaned forward and looked up at the clock on the mantelpiece. Almost ten-thirty. ‘I won’t do anymore,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll go on upstairs.’

  He nodded. ‘You must be tired. I’ll put out the lights and follow you soon.’

  Dropping the knitting into the basket she got up from the chair. The dog arose, stretched, stood there for a moment and then followed her to the door and out into the hall. When the door had closed behind her Savill put his hands behind his head, closed his eyes and, deep in his contentment, leaned back in the warm, snow-wrapped silence.

  From the library, Catherine crossed the hall to the stairs and started up. She moved slowly. She was tired and her back ached. As she reached the little landing where the stairs turned she saw that one of the window catches had sprung and that snow was coming in through the crack. She clicked her tongue in annoyance and tried to pull the window closed again. She couldn’t do it, though, and after a moment she turned and moved back to the head of the stairs. There she hovered briefly, wondering whether to go back down and tell John, or trust that he would notice it when he came by in a few minutes. She turned away; he would see it himself. But then the next second she was saying to herself, yes, she would tell him. Turning quickly, she moved to step down, and suddenly, in a split second, she realized that the dog was right before her, beneath her descending foot. The realization came too late. She snatched at the banister rail, missed it, and the next moment she was falling, crashing down the stairs in a flurrying, rolling blur of blue woollen skirts and white petticoats, coming to a halt at the foot of the stairs in the hall below.

  She groaned lightly, sighingly, her breath catching as though she was trying to stifle screams welling up inside her. Pressing her hand to her side she moved her pained gaze to her husband as he bent to her, his grey eyes filled with sudden tears of shock and despair. She lay on the carpet, one leg twisted around, the foot raised and resting on the lower step of the stairs.

  Savill had roughly pushed the dog away and now knelt beside her, hands moving impotently, wanting to touch her, to hold her, but afraid to do so. ‘Oh, God …’ His head moved from side to side in his distraction. He could see the waves of her growing pain reflected in her eyes, hear it in the sounds that came from her parted, drawn-back lips. ‘Catherine,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Catherine …’ And then he was straightening again, hurrying towards the rear of the house. He started to call up the back stairs for the housekeeper, Mrs Callow, then broke off, remembering that she hadn’t returned. Then, throwing back his head he shouted for the other servants. ‘Emmie! Dora! Come quickly, for God’s sake!’ A pause and then again: ‘Emmie! Dora! Florence!’ his tone falling as he added, ‘For God’s sake where are you all?’

  Hurrying back to Catherine’s side he bent beside her.

  ‘John … help me up … please …’ Her words came stuttering in his ear and he gave a small cry of anguish. Then, her voice very low, she added: ‘Take me upstairs.’

  He nodded, lifting her up, holding her swollen body to him and turned to make the laborious ascent of the main staircase, her head on his shoulder, her dark hair close to the grey of his own. As he got to the landing, panting and out of breath, he saw Emmie come hurrying towards him from the direction of the rear stairs. He could hear the tears of fear in her voice as she cried out to him, ‘Oh, sir – sir –!’ She wore slippers, and a dressing-gown over her nightdress.

  ‘Quick,’ he gasped out, cutting off her words, ‘open the bedroom door, Emmie. My wife has had an accident.’ And then Emmie was moving past him, towards the door of the master bedroom.

  As he entered the bedroom Emmie moved from turning up the flame of the oil lamp and stepped forward to turn back the bedclothes. Catherine’s hair had come undone and as Savill laid her down it flowed like jet across the pillow and lay stark against her cheek, emphasizing her pallor. Turning to the maid he said sharply, ‘Quick – get dressed and run to the stables and wake James. Tell him he must take the phaeton and go at once for Dr Kelsey.’ Then, as the girl hovered for a moment in panic he rapped out, ‘Now! Go now! Quickly!’

  While the sound of Emmie’s hurrying feet faded along the landing he tucked the covers more closely about Catherine’s trembling body. ‘I’ve sent Emmie to find James,’ he said. ‘He’ll be off to fetch Dr Kelsey any second.’ He tried to force a note of calm into his voice, but the fear overrode it and he suddenly found himself repeating over and over, ‘Don’t worry, don’t worry, don’t worry …’ He was like the parrot in the conservatory. Sitting on the edge of the bed he leaned over her and with shaking fingers brushed the hair from her cheek. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said again, ‘it’s going to be all right.’

  It seemed an age before at last Emmie knocked and came back into the room. This time she had the other housemaid, Dora, hurriedly dressed, at her heels. ‘James, sir,’ Emmie said, gesturing out through the door, ‘’e wants to see you. ‘E’s waiting down in the ‘all.’

  ‘Christ!’ John Savill shook his head in exasperation, then motioned towards his wife. ‘Stay with her,’ he said gruffly, and hurrying past the two girls he went out onto the landing to the top of the stairs. There he looked down to where the groom stood nervously in the hall below, gloved hands clenching his cap.

  ‘What in God’s name are you standing there for, man?’ Savill said sharply. ‘Get off and fetch Dr Kelsey!’

  The younger man helplessly shook his head. ‘Sir, the snow’s so deep. I’ll never even get the carriage out of the yard.’

  ‘Then go without the carriage! Take the mare alone. But go!’ Then when the groom still hesitated Savill cried out: ‘God damn you, man, can’t you understand me? Go! And tell Kelsey to get here as fast as he can.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The young man turned, thrust his cap back on his head and hurried away.

  Returning to the bedroom it was obvious to John Savill that neither the seventeen-year-old Emmie, nor her fifteen-year-old companion Dora would be much help and he sent Dora scurrying away to fetch the cook, Florence, the one remaining servant who was resident in the house that night. She arrived some minutes later, in her dressing-gown, breathless and distressed. By this time the perspiration was beaded on Catherine’s forehead and tendrils of hair clung to her skin. Periodically her back arched and she clutched at herself as the pains struck at her.

  ‘My wife – I think she’s having the child,’ Savill said as the older woman followed Dora into the room. ‘Dr Kelsey’s been sent for but we can’t depend on him getting here yet. If only Mrs Callow were here …’ His thoughts were spinning. Turning to Florence who stood with her mouth open he said abruptly, ‘We’re going to have to do something till the doctor arrives. We’ve got to.’

  It was soon established, however, that none of the three women before him knew much about childbirth. Something had to be done, though; it was clear to anyone just looking at Catherine’s drawn, pain-touched features that things were terribly wrong. In his ears he could still hear the echo of her cry, the sound of her fall; in his mind’s eye still see her as he had found her a moment later, lying at the foot of the stairs. He thrust the picture from him. His hands moved aimlessly for a moment and then he said quickly, ‘The midwife – of course,’ and turning to Emmie he rapped out: ‘Emmie – quickly – put your coat back on and go and fetch the midwife. Mrs Curfee, isn’t it? She’ll know what to do until the doctor gets here.’

  Emmie shook her head. ‘Sir, she’ve gone away. Gone to Bath for Christmas.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Mrs Farrar told me only yesterday when I went to ge
t the washing.’

  ‘Mrs Farrar …’ He nodded. His mind was racing. Mrs Farrar – she was the wife of Oliver Farrar, one of the gardeners. She did the family laundry. Catherine had spoken of her on one or two occasions.

  ‘Mrs Farrar – she has several children, I believe, hasn’t she?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir. And they got a new baby, born just a week ago.’

  ‘Go and fetch her,’ he said, ‘– if she can come out. Bring her back here. Tell her it’s a matter of life and death.’

  The hall clock was striking eleven as Emmie, without her gloves but otherwise dressed and muffled against the cold, let herself out of the house. She could have saved seconds by using the front door and going down the drive but habit survived even such a crisis and she took the long way, leaving by the back door and going across the yard. The snow was driven in such a fury that for a moment it blinded her and took her breath away, but pressing forward she made her way to the narrow door next to the side gates where she drew back the bolt and let herself out. Holding high the lantern she started off along the narrow lane that ran beside the house. She could see no sign of any hoofprints of the mare ridden by James; already the snow had obliterated them.

  At the end of the lane she came out onto Gorse Hill and set off down towards Coates Lane where the row of cottages stood. Reaching the first cottage she hurried around to the back where she saw to her relief that there was a light in the kitchen window. Moving quickly to the scullery door she rapped upon it, making her bare, cold knuckles sting. When no answer came she knocked harder, and then at last she heard the sound of Sarah’s voice calling softly to her from inside:

  ‘Yes? – who is it?’

  ‘It’s me – Emmie – from Mr Savill’s.’

  The door was opened a moment later and Sarah stood there holding a lighted candle and wearing an old coat over her nightdress. ‘Emmie –’ She peered at the girl, frowning. ‘I was just on going to bed. What is it? What’s the matter?’ Without waiting for an answer she beckoned to her to enter. ‘Quick, come on inside.’ Hurriedly kicking the snow from her boots Emmie stepped into the scullery while behind her Sarah closed the door against the wild night. ‘Dear God, Emmie,’ Sarah whispered, ‘what brings you out on a night like this? It’s not fit for man nor beast.’

  ‘Mr Savill’s sent me,’ Emmie cried out, and Sarah raised a hand urging her to speak quietly so as not to wake the children. Bringing her voice down to a whisper, Emmie blurted out the reason for her errand. ‘Oh, you must come, Sarah!’ she finished. ‘Mrs Savill – she looks that bad, I tell you. And none of us knows what to do.’

  Sarah didn’t hesitate but simply said, ‘Come into the warm,’ and turned and led the way from the scullery into the darkened kitchen where the range was giving out the last of its heat. ‘Wait here.’ Moving to the hall door she opened it and hurried out of the room.

  Upstairs in the bedroom she stood above the bed where Ollie lay asleep, then leaning down she put her mouth close to his ear and softly called his name.

  ‘Ollie … ?’

  She waited for a second then called his name again and after a moment he opened his eyes and turned to her.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he said sleepily.

  She held the candle a little higher. ‘I’ve got to go out,’ she said.

  ‘Go out?’ He frowned. ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Getting on for half-eleven.’

  ‘In God’s name, girl, what’re you talking about – go out?’

  ‘I must – now. Mrs Savill’s had an accident and Mr Savill’s sent for me to help till the doctor comes.’ She put the candle-holder on the chair at the bedside and began to take off her nightdress. ‘Just keep an eye on the children till I get back. I’ll try not to be long.’

  ‘The baby,’ Ollie said, ‘– she’ll wake and want to be fed.’

  ‘No, I’ve just fed her. She’ll be all right for a while yet. She’ll sleep soundly if she’s not disturbed.’

  When Sarah had put on her dress and fastened the buttons she stood for a second looking down at the crib in which the baby slept peacefully, blonde hair gleaming dully in the light of the candle. Then, turning away, she moved out of the room and down to the kitchen where Emmie waited, warming her cold hands at the range. There Sarah put on her coat and pulled on her boots. Minutes later she and Emmie had left the house and started up the hill.

  The way was difficult as they struggled through the deepening snow, their heads bent against the biting wind that struck their faces like shards of glass, rocked them in their tracks and seemed to enter through every fibre of their clothing. Like Emmie, Sarah was without gloves, and the hand she held to keep closed the collar of her coat was soon almost numb with cold. Then at last, after what seemed an age, they reached the side door of Hallowford House, entered and made their way across the yard. When they reached the rear of the house Emmie opened the back door, and Sarah, after kicking the snow from her boots, followed her inside. There Emmie took Sarah’s coat, shook it free of snow and hung it up.

  The scullery was the only part of the house Sarah had ever seen before and as she followed Emmie into the hall she couldn’t help but be aware of the elegance of her surroundings. The soles of her old, worn boots sank deeply into the soft pile of the carpet and the thought went briefly through her mind that the whole house where Ollie and the children now lay sleeping would have fitted into this hall alone.

  Seconds later she had reached the top of the stairs and was following Emmie across the landing to the door of a gaslit bedroom. There on the threshold she stopped as John Savill came towards her. He reached out to her and took her cold hands in his. ‘Thank God you’ve come,’ he whispered. Turning, he led her into the room. ‘Help her,’ he said, his voice breaking on a sob. ‘Please – help her.’

  Sarah moved to the bed and looked at the young woman as she lay on her back, wincing and biting her lip as waves of pain racked her body. ‘I’ll do whatever I can, sir,’ she said.

  On the landing outside the bedroom John Savill stood motionless as he waited, his face pale in the gaslight and looking older than his fifty years. Inside the room the fire was banked high, and the atmosphere was humid. The sweat shone on Sarah’s face as she bent over the young woman while beside her the elderly Florence leant over and gently dabbed at her mistress’s forehead with a cool, damp cloth. At the same time Emmie and Dora, who had already brought in towels and steaming kettles of water, hovered, ready to help, waiting for instructions. The group of women was like a tableau; they had been like this, their positions hardly changing, for over an hour.

  The long, long minutes continued to drag by, and then all at once from the bed the woman’s breath began to come even faster and suddenly she gave a scream and arched her back. Sarah saw then that the top of the baby’s head had begun to appear. ‘It’s here!’ she whispered. Then, slowly, so slowly, the tiny baby made its way out into the world and at last lay limp and seemingly without life in Sarah’s bloodstained hands.

  ‘It’s a girl …’ Florence breathed while Sarah, after quickly clearing the baby’s nose and mouth of the matter that had lodged there, lifted the deathly still form, holding it by the ankles in her left hand. Then with her right hand she gave it a small sharp slap on the buttocks. There was no reaction and she tried again. Still nothing; the small body just swung there like some lifeless doll. Sarah became suddenly aware of the stillness of the room, a stillness broken only by the sound of breathing and the occasional crackle from the fireplace. She was aware too of the women as they gazed, awed, and of the pale face of the child’s mother as she anxiously looked on.

  Raising her hand again Sarah struck the child once more, and this time she felt the tiny body convulse in her grasp as it sucked the room’s warm air into its lungs. Then a moment later it began to squall and she cradled it in her arms and smiled at the woman on the bed. ‘Yes, you’ve got a daughter,’ she said to the young woman. ‘A beautiful daughter. And she’s perfect.’
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  Turning back to the infant, she tied the cord, cut it, and with warm water washed the little body clean of the signs of its ordeal. It was such a tiny creature, but for all its lack of size it seemed healthy. Quickly, tenderly she wrapped it in a sheet and shawl and placed it in Florence’s waiting arms.

  Mrs Savill, watching intently, gave a sigh, a sound full of heartfelt relief and satisfaction and half-turned her head to glance towards the door, beyond which her husband waited for news. Sarah nodded to Emmie. ‘Go and tell Mr Savill he’s got a fine daughter. And tell him not to worry about Mrs Savill. We’ll do all we can to make her comfortable till the doctor gets here.’

  As Emmie hurried from the room Sarah turned her attention back to Mrs Savill. She looked so much better now, she thought. For a while there she had been very worried. She had the feeling now, though, that everything would be all right. And anyway, soon the doctor would be here and he would take charge of the situation.

  In a bowl of warm water on the table at her side she wrung out a flannel cloth and then moved to Mrs Savill. ‘How are you feeling, ma’am?’ she asked.

  The young woman gave a faint nod. ‘I shall be all right now,’ she murmured. Her face and body were bathed in sweat and she looked exhausted. Gently Sarah began to clean her, wiping away the blood, and as she did so Mrs Savill reached out a hand and laid it on her arm. ‘Thank you for what you’ve done,’ she said. There were tears in her eyes.

  Sarah shook her head. ‘You’ve no need to thank me, ma’am. I’ve done very little.’

  For brief moments the two women faced one another, sisters in their shared relief, and then Sarah turned back to the bowl to rinse and wring out the flannel again. As she did so she was aware of Emmie slipping quietly back into the room. The baby had stopped crying now and lay sleeping in Florence’s arms. Glancing at the servants Sarah saw their faces reflecting her own feeling of growing calm. The worst was over now; they all felt it. Turning back to Mrs Savill a moment later she saw the same look of peace on the woman’s face as she looked fondly towards the sleeping babe.