Scarlett

by Alexandra Ripley

  62

  The three country girls stood in the wide doorway of the Big House bedroom Scarlett had chosen for her own. All were wearing big homespun aprons and wide-ruffled mobcaps, but that was the only thing about them that was the same. Annie Doyle was as small and round as a puppy, Mary Moran as tall and ungainly as a scarecrow, Peggy Quinn as neat and pretty as an expensive doll. They were holding hands and crowded together. “We’ll be going now if it’s all the same to you, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, before the heavy rain starts in,” said Peggy. The other girls nodded vigorously.

  “Very well,” said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, “but come in early Monday to make up the time.”

  “Oh, yes, miss,” they chorused, dropping clumsy curtseys. Their shoes made a racket on the stairs.

  “Sometimes I despair,” sighed Mrs. Fitzpatrick, “but I’ve made good maids out of sorrier material than that. At least they’re willing. Even the rain wouldn’t have bothered them if today wasn’t Halloween. I suppose they think if clouds darken the sky it’s the same as nightfall.” She looked at the gold watch pinned on her bosom. “It’s only a little after two . . . Let’s get back where we were. I’m afraid that all this wet will keep us from finishing, Mrs. O’Hara. I wish it weren’t so, but I’m not going to lie to you. We’ve got all the old paper off the walls and everything scrubbed and fresh. But you need new plaster in some spots, and that means dry walls. Then time for the plaster to dry afterwards before the wall is painted or papered. Two weeks just isn’t enough.”

  Scarlett’s jaw hardened. “I am going to have my baby in this house, Mrs. Fitzpatrick. I told you that from the beginning.”

  Her anger flowed right off Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s sleekness. “I have a suggestion—” said the housekeeper.

  “As long as it’s not to go someplace else.”

  “On the contrary. I believe with a good fire on the hearth and some cheerful thick curtains at the windows, the bare walls won’t be offensive at all.”

  Scarlett looked at the gray, waterstained, cracked plaster with gloom. “It looks horrible,” she said.

  “A rug and furniture will make a great difference. I’ve got a surprise for you. We found it in the attic. Come look.” She opened the door to an adjoining room.

  Scarlett walked heavily to the door, then burst out laughing. “God’s nightgown! What is it?”

  “It’s called a State Bed. Isn’t it remarkable?” She laughed with Scarlett while they stared at the extraordinary object in the center of the room. It was immense, at least ten feet long and eight wide. Four enormously thick dark oak posts carved to look like Greek goddesses supported a tester frame on their laurel-wreathed heads. The head and footboards were carved in deep relief with scenes of toga-clad men in heroic postures beneath bowers of intertwined grapes and flowers. At the rounded peak of the tall headboard there was a flaking, gold-leafed crown.

  “What kind of giant do you reckon slept in it?” asked carlett.

  “It was probably made especially for a visit from the Viceroy.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “The head of the government in Ireland.”

  “Well, I’ll say this for it, it’s big enough for this giant baby I’m having. If the doctor can reach far enough to catch it when it comes.”

  “Then shall I order the mattress made? There’s a man in Trim who can do it in two days.”

  “Yes, do. Sheets, too, or else sew some together. My grief, I could sleep for a week in that thing and never hit the same spot twice.”

  “With a tester and curtains on it, it will be like a room in itself.”

  “Room? It’ll be like a house. And you’re right, once I’m in it I won’t notice the nasty walls at all. You’re a marvel, Mrs. Fitzpatrick. I feel better than I have in months. Can you imagine what it’ll do to a baby to enter the world in that? It’ll probably grow to be ten feet tall!”

  Their laughter was companionable as they walked slowly down the scrubbed granite staircase to the ground floor. This’ll have to be carpeted first thing, Scarlett thought. Or maybe I’ll just close up the second floor altogether. These rooms are so big I’d have a huge house on the one floor alone. If Mrs. Fitzpatrick and the cook will allow it. Why not? No sense being The O’Hara if I can’t have things my way. Scarlett stood aside to let Mrs. Fitzpatrick open the heavy front door.

  They looked out into a sheet of water. “Damn,” said Scarlett.

  “This is a downpour, not a rain,” the housekeeper said. “It can’t last at this rate. Would you like a cup of tea? The kitchen’s warm and dry; I’ve had the stove going all day to test it.”

  “Might as well.” She followed Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s thoughtfully slow steps to the kitchen.

  “This is all new,” said Scarlett suspiciously. She didn’t like any spending without her approval. And the cushioned chairs by the stove looked too cozy altogether for cooks and maids who were supposed to be working. “What did this cost?” She tapped the big heavy wood table.

  “A few bars of soap. It was in the tack room, filthy dirty. The chairs are from Colum’s house. He suggested we woo the cook into comfort before she sees the rest of the house. I’ve made a list of furniture for her room. It’s on the table there for your approval.”

  Scarlett felt guilty. Then she suspected that she was supposed to feel guilty, and she felt cross. “What about all those lists I approved last week? When are those things coming?”

  “Most of them are here, in the scullery. I was planning to unpack them next week, with the cook. Most of them have their own systems for arranging utensils and such.”

  Scarlett felt cross again. Her back was hurting worse than usual. She put her hands over the pain. Then a new pain ripped through her side and down her leg, shoving the back pain into insignificance. She grabbed the side of the table for support and stared dumbly at the liquid streaming down her legs and across her bare feet to pool on the scrubbed stone floor.

  “The water broke,” she said at last, “and it’s red.” She looked at the window and the heavy rain outside. “Sorry, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, you’re going to get very wet. Get me up on this table and give me something to soak up the water . . . or the blood. Then high-tail it to the bar or the store and tell somebody to ride hell for leather for a doctor. I’m about to have a baby.”

  The ripping pain was not repeated. With the chair cushions under her head and the small of her back, Scarlett was quite comfortable. She wished she had something to drink, but she decided she’d better not get off the table. If the pain came back she might fall and hurt herself.

  I probably shouldn’t have sent Mrs. Fitzpatrick off to scare people to death like that. I’ve only had three pains since she left, and they were hardly anything. I’d really feel fine if there wasn’t so much blood. Every pain and every time the baby kicks it just gushes out. That’s never happened before. When the water breaks, it’s clear, not bloody.

  Something’s wrong.

  Where is the doctor? Another week and there’d have been one right on the doorstep. Now it’ll be some stranger from Trim, I guess. How do, Doctor, you’d never know it but it wasn’t supposed to be like this, I was going to be in a bed with a gold crown on it, not on a table from the tack room. What kind of start is this for a baby? I’ll have to name it “Foal” or “Jumper” or something else horsey.

  There’s the blood again. I don’t like this. Why isn’t Mrs. Fitzpatrick back—at least I could have a cup of water for pity’s sake, I’m dry as a bone. Stop that kicking, baby, you don’t have to act like a horse just because we’re on a tack table. Stop it! You just make me bleed. Wait till the doctor comes, then you can get out. Truth to tell, I’ll be glad to be rid of you.

  It sure was easier starting you than it is finishing you . . . No, I mustn’t think about Rhett, I’ll go crazy if I do.

  Why doesn’t it stop raining? Pouring, more like it. Wind’s rising, too. This is an honest to goodness storm. Fine time I picked to have a baby, to have my water break . . . why is it red? Am
I going to bleed to death on a tack table, for God’s sake, without so much as a cup of tea? Oh, how I’d love some coffee. Sometimes I miss it so much I want to scream . . . or cry . . . oh Lord, more gushing. At least it doesn’t hurt. Hardly a contraction at all, more a twitch or something . . . Then why does so much blood gush out? What’s going to happen when the real labor starts? Dear God, there’ll be a river of blood, all over the floor. Everybody’ll have to wash their feet. I wonder if Mrs. Fitzpatrick has a bucket of feet water. I wonder if she hollers before she throws it out? I wonder where the hell she is? As soon as this is over I’m going to fire her—no references, either, at least nothing she’ll want to show anybody. Running off and leaving me dying of thirst here all by myself.

  Don’t kick like that. You’re more like a mule than a horse. Oh, God, the blood . . . I’m not going to lose hold of myself, I’m not. I won’t. The O’Hara doesn’t do that kind of thing. The O’Hara. I like that a lot . . . What was that? The doctor?

  Mrs. Fitzpatrick came in. “Are you doing all right, Mrs. O’Hara?”

  “Just fine,” said The O’Hara.

  “I’ve brought sheets and blankets and soft pillows. Some men are coming with a mattress. Can I do anything for you?”

  “I’d like some water.”

  “Right away.”

  Scarlett propped herself on an elbow and drank thirstily. “Who’s getting the doctor?”

  “Colum. He tried to cross the river for the doctor in Adamstown, but he couldn’t make it. He’s gone to Trim.”

  “I figured. I’d like some more water please, and a fresh sopper. This one’s soaked through.”

  Mrs. Fitzpatrick tried to hide the horror on her face when she saw the blood-soaked towel between Scarlett’s legs. She wadded it up and hurried to one of the stone sinks with it. Scarlett looked at the trail of bright red drops on the floor. That’s part of me, she told herself, but she couldn’t believe it. She’d had lots of cuts in her life, as a child playing, when she was hoeing cotton at Tara, even when she pulled up the nettles. Put them all together and they’d never bled as much as that towel had in it. Her abdomen contracted and blood gushed onto the table.

  Stupid woman, I told her I needed another towel.

  “What time does your watch say, Mrs. Fitzpatrick?”

  “Five-sixteen.”

  “I reckon the storm’s making travel slow. I’d like some water and another towel, please. No, come to think of it, I’d like some tea, with plenty of sugar.” Give the woman something to do and maybe she’ll quit hanging over me like an umbrella. I’m sick and tired of making conversation and brave smiles. I’m scared half-witted if truth be known. The contractions aren’t any stronger, or closer together, either. I’m not getting anywhere at all. At least the mattress feels better than the table, but what’s going to happen when it gets soaked through, too? Is the storm getting worse or am I just spooked?

  Rain was buffeting the windows now, propelled by a mighty wind. Colum O’Hara was nearly knocked down by a branch torn from a tree in the wood near the house. He climbed over it and moved on, bent against the wind. Then he remembered, turned around, was blown onto the limb, fought for a foothold in the quagmire mud of the drive, dragged the limb to one side, fought against the wind again towards the house.

  “What time is it?” said Scarlett.

  “Almost seven.”

  “Towel, please.”

  “Scarlett darling, is it very bad?”

  “Oh, Colum!” Scarlett pushed herself to half sitting. “Is the doctor with you? The baby’s not kicking as much as before.”

  “I found a midwife in Dunshaughlin. There’s no getting to Trim, the river’s over the road. Lie back, now, like a good mother. Don’t tire yourself more than you have to.”

  “Where is she?”

  “On the way. My horse was faster, but she’s close behind. She’s brought hundreds of babies, you’ll be in good hands.”

  “I’ve had babies before, Colum. This is different. There’s something bad wrong.”

  “She’ll know what to do, lamb. Try not to fret.”

  The midwife bustled in just after eight. Her starched uniform was limp with wet, but her competent manner was as crisp as if she hadn’t been rushed on an emergency at all.

  “A baby, is it? Ease your mind, missus, I know everything there is to know about helping the little dear things into this vale of tears.” She took off her cape and handed it to Colum. “Spread that out near the fire so it can dry,” she said in a voice accustomed to command. “Soap and warm water, missus, for me to wash my hands. This will do over here.” She walked briskly to the stone sink. At the sight of the blood-soaked towels she wilted, gestured frantically to summon Mrs. Fitzpatrick. They had a whispered conference.

  The brightness that had come to Scarlett’s eyes faded. She lowered the lids over her sudden tears.

  “Let’s just see what we have here,” said the midwife with false cheer. She lifted Scarlett’s skirts, felt her abdomen. “A fine strong baby. He just greeted me with a kick. We’ll see about inviting him to come out now and give his Ma a little rest.” She turned to Colum. “You’d better leave us to our women’s work, sir. I’ll call you when your son is born.”

  Scarlett giggled.

  Colum removed his Balmacaan overcoat. His collar gleamed in the lamplight. “Oh,” said the midwife. “Forgive me, Father.”

  “For I have sinned,” Scarlett said in a shrill voice.

  “Scarlett,” Colum said quietly.

  The midwife pulled him towards the sink. “It may be you should stay, Father,” she said, “for the last rites.”

  She spoke too loudly. Scarlett heard her. “Oh, dear God,” she cried.

  “Help me,” the midwife ordered Mrs. Fitzpatrick. “I’ll show you how to hold her legs.”

  Scarlett screamed when the woman’s hand thrust into her womb. “Stop! Jesus, the pain, make it stop.” When the examination was over she was moaning from the hurt. Blood covered the mattress and her thighs, was spattered on Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s dress, the midwife’s uniform, the floor for three feet on each side of the table. The midwife pushed up the sleeve on her left arm. Her right arm was red halfway to the elbow.

  “I’ll have to try it with both hands,” she said.

  Scarlett groaned. Mrs. Fitzpatrick stepped in front of the woman. “I have six children,” she said. “Get out of here. Colum, get this butcher out of this house before she kills Mrs. O’Hara and I kill her. So help me God, that’s what will happen.”

  The room was lit suddenly by a flash of brilliance through skylight and windows, and a heavier torrent of rain slashed against the glass.

  “I’m not going out in that,” the midwife howled. “It’s full dark.”

  “Put her in another room, then, but get her out of here. And when she’s away, Colum, go bring the smith. He doctors animals; a woman can’t be that different.”

  Colum had the cringing midwife by the upper arm. Lightning scored the sky above, and she screamed. He shook her like a rag. “Quiet yourself, woman.” He looked at Mrs. Fitzpatrick with dull hopeless eyes. “He’ll not come, Rosaleen, no one will come now it’s dark. Have you forgot what night this is?”

  Mrs. Fitzpatrick wiped Scarlett’s temples and cheeks with a cool damp cloth. “If you don’t bring him, Colum, I’ll do it. I’ve a knife and a pistol in the desk at your house. It only needs showing him there’s more certain things to fear than ghosts.”

  Colum nodded. “I’ll go.”

  Joseph O’Neill, the blacksmith, crossed himself. His face glistened with sweat. His black hair was plastered to his head from walking through the storm, but the sweat was fresh. “I’ve doctored a horse once, same as this, but a woman I cannot do such violence to.” He looked down at Scarlett and shook his head. “It’s against nature, I cannot.”

  There were lamps along the edges of all the sinks, and lightning flashing one jagged bolt after another. The huge kitchen was brighter than day, save for the sh
adowed corners. The storm raging outside seemed to be attacking the thick stone walls of the house.

  “You’ve got to do it, man, else she’ll die.”

  “She will that, and the babe too, if it’s not dead some time past. There’s no movement.”

  “Don’t wait, then, Joseph. For the love of God, man, it’s her only hope.” Colum kept his voice steady, commanding.

  Scarlett stirred feverishly on the bloody mattress. Rosaleen Fitzpatrick sponged her lips with water, squeezed a few drops between them. Scarlett’s eyelids quivered then opened. Her eyes were glazed with fever. She moaned piteously.

  “Joseph! I order you.”

  The smith shuddered. He raised his big muscled arm over Scarlett’s mounded belly. Lightning glittered on the blade of the knife in his hand.

  “Who is that?” said Scarlett distinctly.

  “Saint Patrick preserve me!” cried the smith.

  “Who’s that lovely lady, Colum, in the beautiful white gown?”

  The smith dropped the knife on the floor and backed away. His hands were stretched in front of him, palms outward, fending off his terror.

  The wind swirled, caught a branch, hurled it crashing through the window above the sink. Shards of glass cut Joseph O’Neill’s arms, now crossed over his head. He fell to the floor, screaming, and through the open window the wind screamed in above him. Shrieking noise was everywhere—outside, inside, within the smith’s screaming, around and on the howling wind, in the storm, in the distance beyond the storm, a wailing in the wind.

  The flames in the lamps jumped and wavered and some went out. Quietly in the midst of the storm’s intrusion the kitchen door was opened and closed again. A wide shawled figure walked across the kitchen, among the terrorized people, to the window. It was a woman with a creased round face. She reached into the sink and twisted one of the towels, wringing out the blood.

  “What are you doing?” Rosaleen Fitzpatrick snapped out of her terror, stepped toward the woman. Colum’s outstretched arm halted her. He recognized the cailleach, the wise woman who lived near the tower.