‘I - I’ll be fine. In a moment.’
He straightened up and held her close to him, sensing the strain in her body even as the carriage jolted along the rutted turnpike. Outside, the first pale grey glimmer of dawn smudged the rim of the hills to the east and the coachman cracked his whip above the heads of the horses, increasing the pace.
Anne forced herself to concentrate. A name was needed - quickly. ‘Arthur.’
Garrett smiled at her and looked down at their son.
‘Arthur,’ he repeated. ‘After the king. Little Arthur.’ He stroked the infant’s silken forehead. ‘A fine name. One day you’ll be as gallant and courageous as your namesake.’
‘Yes,’ Anne said quietly. ‘Just what I was going to say.’
The dawn, grey and drizzling, broke across the Irish countryside, and the rutted track soon became muddy and sucked at the carriage wheels as the vehicle splashed along. At noon they stopped briefly in a small town to rest the horses and take refreshment. Anne stayed in the carriage with the child and tried to breast-feed him again. As before, Arthur’s lips smacked as he sought out the proffered nipple, but after only a few convulsive sucks he turned his face away, choking and dribbling, and refused any more.
As the light faded, and darkness wrapped itself around the carriage once again, the turnpike wound round a hill and, ahead, Garrett could see the distant twinkle of hundreds of lights from windows as the capital came into view. Once more O’Shea had to slow the pace as he strained to see the track ahead. And so it was two hours after nightfall before the carriage entered the city, and clattered through the streets to the house at Merrion Street.
Garrett gently handed down his wife and child, and ushered them inside, giving orders that a fire be stoked up in the parlour at once, and that warm food be prepared for Anne and himself. Then he sent servants out to find a wet nurse and to summon Dr Kilkenny - the most reputable of the city’s doctors.
He was led into the parlour just as Anne and Garrett were finishing their broth. Garrett jumped to his feet and clasped the doctor’s gloved hand in greeting.
‘Thank you for coming so soon.’
‘Yes, well, I was told it was urgent.’ The doctor’s breath carried the odour of wine.‘So where’s my patient,Wesley? This young lady?’
‘No.’Anne gestured towards the crib, warming by the fire.‘Our son, Arthur. He was born last night. The midwife said he was poorly as soon as she saw him. She said we must expect the worst.’
‘Ah!’ The doctor shook his head. ‘Midwives! What does a woman know of medicine, an Irish woman at that? They should never be permitted to pronounce on medical matters.Their remit is purely the delivery of babies. Now what’s the matter with the boy?’
‘He’s not feeding, Doctor.’
‘What? Not at all?’
‘Only a few mouthfuls. Then he chokes and won’t take any more.’
‘Hmm.’ Dr Kilkenny set his bag down beside the crib, shuffled out of his coat and handed it to Garrett before leaning over the baby and gently folding back the linen swaddling. His nose wrinkled at an all-too-familiar odour. ‘Nothing wrong with his bowels at least.’
‘I’ll have him changed.’
‘In a moment, after I’ve examined him.’
Anne and Garrett watched in anxious silence as the doctor leaned over their child and examined the tiny body closely in the wavering glow of the candles in the chandelier. There was a faint cry from the crib as the doctor pressed lightly on the child’s stomach and Anne started in alarm. Dr Kilkenny glanced over his shoulder. ‘Rest easy, my dear woman. That’s perfectly normal.’
Garrett reached for her hands and held them tightly as the doctor finished his examination and straightened up.
Garrett looked at him. ‘Well?’
‘He might live.’
‘Might live . . .’ Anne whispered.‘I thought you could help us.’
‘My dear lady, there are only so many things a doctor can do to help his patients. Your boy is weak. I’ve seen many like this. Some are lost very quickly. Others linger for days, weeks even, before succumbing. Some survive.’
‘But what can be done for him?’
‘Keep him warm.Try to feed him as often as you can.You must also rub him with an ointment I’ll leave with you. Once in the morning and once at night. It’s a stimulant. It may well mean the difference between life and death. The child may cry when you apply it, but you must ignore any tears and continue the treatment. Understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now, my coat, please. I’ll have the bill sent round in the morning. I bid you both good night, then.’
As soon as the doctor had left, Garrett slipped down into a chair close to the crib and stared helplessly at the baby. Arthur’s eyes flickered open for a moment, but the rest of his body seemed as limp and lifeless as before. Garrett watched for a while longer, then rubbed his tired eyes.
‘You should go to bed,’ Anne said quietly. ‘You’re exhausted. You need to rest.You must be strong in the coming days. I’ll need your support. So will he.’
‘His name is Arthur.’
‘Yes. I know. Now go to bed. I’ll stay here with him.’
‘Very well.’
As Garrett left the room, his wife stared down at the baby, stroking her brow wearily.
The next day Anne continued to try to feed the child, but he took little of her milk and shrank away before their eyes. At first the application of the ointment made the infant howl, but after a few moments, Anne discovered that he quickly sought out the comfort of her breast once smeared with the ointment, which smelled faintly of alcohol.
Anne and Garrett kept his birth a close secret, not wishing to have endless visits from concerned friends and relatives. They did not even send word back to their home in Dangan to let their other children know about their new brother.
Then, on the fourth day after his birth, an excited Anne burst into her husband’s study to tell him that Arthur was feeding properly at last. And slowly, as he continued to feed, he gained weight and colour and began to wriggle and writhe as infants should. Until at last it was clear that he would live. Only then, on the first of May, over three weeks after his birth did the parents announce the birth of Arthur Wesley, third son of the Earl of Mornington, in the Dublin papers.
Chapter 3
Corsica, 1769
Archdeacon Luciano had just begun the blessing when Letizia’s waters broke. She had been standing in a pool of light cast by a bright sun shining fully through the high arched window behind the altar of the Cathedral in Ajaccio. It was a hot August day and the light carried a searing heat with it, so that she felt warm and prickly beneath the dark folds of her best clothes, the ones she wore only for mass. Letizia felt perspiration trickle under her arms, cool enough to make her shiver. And, as if in response, the child inside the grossly swollen lump of her stomach lashed out with its limbs.
Letizia smiled. So different from her first child. Giuseppe had lain in her womb so still that she had feared another stillborn baby. But he was a fine healthy little boy now. Meek as a lamb. Not like the one inside her, who even now seemed to be struggling to burst upon the world. Perhaps it was due to the nature of his conception and the life that she and Carlos had been forced to lead during her pregnancy. For over a year they had been fighting the French: long months of trekking across the craggy mountains and hidden valleys of Corsica as they set ambushes for French patrols, or attacked one of their outposts, killing its garrison, then fleeing into the interior before the inevitable column of infantry arrived to hunt them down. Months of hiding in caves, in the company of the rough band of peasants that Carlos commanded. Patriots, hunted down like animals.
It was in such a cave, she recalled, that the child had been conceived. On a bitter winter evening, shortly before Christmas, as she and Carlos lay on a bed of pine branches, covered in worn and soiled blankets. Around them, their followers had slept on, or pretended to, as their leader and his young wife mov
ed quietly beneath their coverings. She had felt no shame over it. Not when the next day might bring death for either, or both of them, leaving Giuseppe an orphan in the house of his grandparents.
They had fought the invaders through the winter, into the first flushes of spring, and all the while Letizia felt the life growing inside her.With the early successes of the rebellion, Carlos and the other patriots had been so sure of victory that General Paoli abandoned his small war of ceaseless skirmishes and led his forces into battle at Ponte Nuovo. There they had been roundly beaten by the ordered ranks and massed volleys of professional soldiers. Hundreds of men cut down; their passion for Corsican independence no defence against the lead musket balls that whirled through their ranks. A waste of fine men, thought Letizia. Paoli had squandered their lives for nothing. After Ponte Nuovo the surviving patriots were driven into the mountains, there to remain until Paoli fled from the island and the triumphant French offered an amnesty to the men deserted by their general.
Letizia had been with child for seven months by that time, and Carlos, fearing for her health, and by no means content to spend any more time living like a savage, had accepted the enemy’s offer. Within a week they had returned to their home in Ajaccio. The struggle was over. Corsica, so long the property of Genoa, had a fleeting taste of independence and was now the possession of France. And so the child inside her would be born French.
Without warning Letizia felt an explosion of fluids between her thighs and gasped in surprise as she snatched a hand to her mouth in an instant of confusion and fear.
Carlos turned to her quickly. ‘Letizia?’
She stared back, wide-eyed. ‘I must leave.’
Faces nearby turned towards them with disapproving expressions. Carlos tried to ignore them. ‘Leave?’
‘The child,’ she whispered. ‘It’s coming. Now.’
Carlos nodded, slipped an arm round her thin shoulders and with a quick bow of his head towards the huge gold cross on the altar, he led his wife down the aisle towards the entrance to the cathedral. Letizia gritted her teeth and waddled slightly as she made for the doors. Outside in the dazzling sunshine, Carlos shouted at the bearers of a nearby sedan chair. At first they didn’t move, but then stirred when they saw that the woman was in pain. Carlos gently handed her inside and gave curt directions to their house.The bearers raised the sedan from the ground and set off. Carlos trotted alongside, casting anxious glances at his wife as she sat on the narrow seat, clenching her teeth and gripping the window frames tightly. The bearers grunted under their load and soon their breaths came in sharp gasps as their footsteps echoed off the sun-bleached houses crowding the narrow streets of Ajaccio.
A sharp cry drew Carlos closer and he looked on in terror at his wife’s tightly clenched face.
‘Letizia,’ he panted, and forced himself to smile as she glanced sidelong at him. ‘Not far, my love.’
Letizia lowered her head and groaned. ‘It’s coming!’
‘Faster!’ Carlos shouted at the bearers. ‘For pity’s sake. Faster!’
The sedan lurched round a corner, and there ahead of them lay the house, a large, plain building on three floors.
‘There!’ Carlos pointed. ‘That one!’
The bearers set the sedan down heavily, causing its passenger to cry out once more, and Carlos cursed them, even as he wrenched the flimsy door open and lifted his wife out. He threw a few coins to the bearers, fumbled for the key in the fob of his waistcoat, rattling it into the iron lock, then thrusting the door open.
Inside the house the air was cool and musty. Letizia panted in quick sharp breaths and desperately stared round the dark interior.
‘That chair.’ She nodded to a low, worn couch in the corner. ‘Help me down.’
As soon as she lay back against the arm of the couch Letizia reached for the hem of her skirts. Then she paused and looked at her husband. His expression was riddled with fear and anxiety, and she knew he would not cope with what was to come. He had been witness to only one of her deliveries, a stillborn child, and had been consumed by helpless anguish as he had stared down at the pale, lifeless bundle of bloodied flesh. She would have to do this without him. She would do it without any help. The house was empty; everyone was at mass.
‘Go!’ Letizia nodded towards the door. ‘Fetch Dr Franzetti.’
After the briefest of hesitation Carlos turned for the door. He pulled it to behind him and Letizia heard his boots echoing down the street as he went for help.Then all thought of Carlos was gone as the muscles of her stomach turned hard as iron, gripping her in a crucible of agony. She hissed through clenched teeth, then opened her mouth in a silent scream as the pain seemed to endure for an age before it at last relented and slowly relaxed its grasp. She gasped for breath, and felt a terrible straining in her groin. Her hands wrenched the hems of her skirts up and bunched the folds over the stretched smooth skin of her stomach.
Then another contraction seized her and Letizia cried out loud, and as it reached its climax she strained her stomach muscles and with a superhuman effort forced the child from her womb. For a moment nothing happened, just waves and waves of pain, and with a last reserve of strength Letizia pressed down.
With a slick rush of sound the strain disappeared and she felt hollow.At once euphoria flushed through her body as she reached down between her thighs and gently closed her fingers round the sticky body of the infant that lay there. It flinched at her touch, and with tears of relief and joy Letizia raised the baby up towards her chest, trailing its pasty grey umbilical cord.
A boy.
He opened his mouth a fraction and a bubble of spittle grew on his lips before bursting. Tiny fingers twitched and clenched into small fists as Letizia hurriedly untied the straps that held the top of her dress together. Her breasts were swollen far beyond their normal size and, cupping her hand round her pallid flesh, she offered the nipple up to the boy. At once his lips puckered, began to make smacking noises and then closed round the nipple. She smiled.
‘Clever boy.’
When Carlos and Dr Franzetti hurried into the room a short while later Letizia smiled up at them. ‘He’s fine. See Carlos, a fine healthy boy.’
Her husband nodded as the doctor hurried over and set his bag down beside the couch. He gave the baby a quick examination and nodded his satisfaction before turning back to his bag. From inside he brought out a steel clip and carefully attached it to the umbilical cord close to the child’s stomach before he produced a pair of scissors and cut through the tough sinewy fibre of the cord. When all was done Dr Franzetti eased himself up and stared down at the child, its mother and the father. Carlos beamed proudly at his new son as he held his wife round the shoulders. The infant, even though it had drunk its fill of breast-milk wriggled restlessly in the crook of Letizia’s arm.
‘He’s a lively one,’ Dr Franzetti smiled. His smile faltered as he recalled Letizia’s two previous babies who had not survived into this world. ‘He’s strong and healthy. He’ll do well enough now and should cause you no problems. I will go.’
Carlos drew his arm away from his wife and rose to his feet. ‘Thank you, Doctor!’
‘Pah! I did little. It was Letizia there. She did all the hard work. A brave wife you have there, Carlos.’
Carlos glanced down at her and smiled. ‘I know.’
Dr Franzetti picked up his bag and turned towards the door. He paused at the threshold and turned back, staring at the woman and her child on the couch.
‘Have you decided on a name?’
‘Yes.’ Letizia looked up. ‘He’s to be named after my uncle.’
‘Oh?’
‘Naboleone.’
Dr Franzetti placed his cap on his head and nodded in farewell. ‘I’ll call in a few days from now to see how the child’s faring. Until then, I bid you good day, Carlos, Letizia.’ His gaze flickered down to the lively baby and he chuckled. ‘And you too, of course, young Naboleone Buona Parte.’
Chapter 4
In the years that followed Carlos Buona Parte had not been able to believe his good fortune. Not only had his amnesty been confirmed by the government in Paris, but he had secured a position as a court assistant in Ajaccio on a salary of nine hundred livres. No fortune by any stretch of the imagination but it allowed him to feed and clothe his family and maintain the large house he had inherited in the heart of the town.With another child on the way, Carlos needed the money.The new governor of Corsica, the Compte de Marbeuf, had taken to the charming young lawyer and was now acting as Carlos’s patron, as part of his mission to cement relations between France and her newly acquired province. Not only had Marbeuf secured the court appointment for Carlos, but he had also promised to support Carlos’s petition to the French Court to acknowledge his claim for the title of nobility held by his father. At present there were many such petitions as the Corsican aristocracy attempted to have their traditions included within the French system. But now his petition was being delayed, and each time that Carlos raised the matter with Marbeuf, the old man gently patted his hand and smiled thinly as he assured his young protégé that it would be dealt with in good time.
Why the delay? Carlos asked himself. Only days before, the lawyer Emilio Bagnioli had had his petition approved, despite it being lodged a good six months after that of Carlos. With heavy heart he returned to his house one afternoon and made for the stairs to the first floor. Letizia’s uncle, Luciano, the Archdeacon of Ajaccio, lived on the ground floor. He rarely left the house any more, claiming he was too infirm. But the real reason, the family knew, was that he did not dare part from the money chest he had hidden in his room. Carlos had little time for the dour man and merely nodded a greeting as he passed the archdeacon, leaning against the doorpost. Carlos hurried up the creaking steps to the first floor and entered his family’s rooms, quickly closing the door behind him. From the kitchen, down the corridor, he heard the sounds of his children at the dinner table, together with the scrape and clatter of plates and cutlery as Letizia prepared the settings.
Young Bloods Page 2