Chapter 13 #3
Working hard and eating well, she was growing large with pregnancy.
Her skin was touched with gold by the sun, and she had a dusting of freckles on her nose, which concerned her not one whit.
She wore loose, comfortable gowns that would have horrified Madame Augustine and kept her hair in a simple knot.
She did not look too closely into her mind, but she knew there was a lie there—the lie that Nicholas was away for some perfectly good reason and would, one day, come home.
The midwife came to visit. Mrs. Stongelly was a pleasant, wise-eyed woman with a jolly smile and a fund of stories about the local folk. She asked a great many questions and examined Eleanor briefly.
“You’ll do,” she said. “Everything as it should be. Now you’re not to worry, me dear.
I’ve delivered more babies than I care to think, and as long as a woman is healthy and doesn’t take any potions supposed to help but never do, it works out.
Now after, I give no guarantees. God seems sometimes to want a good many little angels in His heaven. That is in His hands.”
She bustled around advising on arrangements for the baby. “Where’s that man of yours, my dear? I saw him two years gone. A goodly lad.”
“He has had to travel. Government business. I hope he will back in time for the confinement.”
It came out so easily. Eleanor found it more comforting every time she said it—to the parson’s wife, the squire’s wife, and to Lady Morgrove, the local lion.
Sometimes she began to believe it and found herself expecting her husband to drive up at any moment.
And whenever Thomas came back from the receiving office with the post she looked for a letter with his distinctive writing.
At the same time, with each passing week Eleanor had to acknowledge to herself that it became more likely Nicholas was dead. He would not, could not, leave her in this abyss of uncertainty if there was any way to send word.
A letter from Lord Stainbridge snapped her out of this bittersweet fantasy.
He was furious that no one had told him of his brother’s disappearance.
He complained about her leaving town without informing him.
He reproached her for not going to Grattingley and commanded her to return to town for the confinement, where he would engage the most eminent accoucheur.
She smiled at his familiar rantings even as she felt guilty at having never given his feelings a thought. The poor man had every right to his primary grievance. Then she was struck by an idea.
“Arabella,” she said, for she and her companion were now on first name terms. “Is there any truth in the idea that twins have a special closeness, that they each know if harm comes to the other?”
Miss Hurstman looked up sharply, catching her meaning immediately. “I believe it is so in many cases. That’s from Lord Stainbridge?”
“Yes. Why did I never think to ask him? He says here he had no idea anything was wrong until he came to town and called at Lauriston Street.” She could feel joy rise in her like the sun. “Am I foolish to think this gives hope?”
Miss Hurstman pursed her lips. “No,” she adjudged. “But to be honest, I’d want to know their track record for sympathetic feelings before I got carried away. After all, if your husband is gone to Canada or Virginia, would such feelings operate at that distance?”
“I will write and ask Lord Stainbridge immediately.”
“Ask him down,” said Miss Hurstman. “If you write he won’t answer the questions properly. People never do.”
After a brief hesitation, Eleanor agreed to this course.
One week later Lord Stainbridge’s carriage, that same carriage that had taken Eleanor to and from Newhaven, came bowling up the drive.
By this time he had discovered the true story behind events and his anger had faded.
Now he was anxious, he was sympathetic, he was proud that Nicholas had apparently done something important (the regent himself had taken him aside to offer discreet congratulations and tactful inquiries about the hero’s whereabouts), and disgusted at how it had been achieved.
He fussed Eleanor to death, but as she had invited him she felt she must endure it.
Eventually, however, she had him settled for questioning.
“Why, yes,” he said, “we do experience such things. It happened first when we went to school. We had rarely been apart before then, but our father insisted we go to different schools. I went to Eton and Nicky to Harrow. When he had a fever there and was very sick, I felt terrible. Not sick, but out of sorts in my mind.”
“What about when he’s been abroad?” asked Eleanor anxiously.
He understood where she was leading. “You are wondering if I would know if he was dead,” he said, losing color.
“Yes. Yes, I honestly think I would. He was shot once in Massachusetts and was close to death with fever afterwards. I knew how ill he was, though not where he was or what was the matter.”
Eleanor could not put the question, but he answered it anyway.
“I do not think he can be dead, Eleanor. It is impossible that I not feel anything. It could be that at the time all this was going on I felt something. I was … disturbed … is the only word for it. I confess it might have been an ordinary malaise. It did not amount to anything significant, I am sure.”
Relief flooded her like a golden tide. She hardly had time to savor it before it was swamped by grievance. “You do not feel there is anything wrong with him at all?” she persisted.
Sublimely un-attuned to her outrage, he said, “Not that I am aware of.”
Eleanor was forced to face the idea that Nicholas had not been murdered or kidnapped or hurt in any way but had blithely left with his light-of-love for a life of adventures in the Americas.
Lord Stainbridge stayed for a few days, attempting to persuade Eleanor to make her home with him, but finally he gave up and left disgruntled.
Eleanor was relieved to see him go. Holding her tongue with him had been difficult, especially as he had constantly assured her that Nicholas was in excellent health.
As she waved his carriage farewell, she admitted that would rather Nicholas be alive and with his mistress than be at the bottom of the ocean. But if she ever set eyes on him again she’d carve him into tiny pieces!
She wrote to Francis and told him of Lord Stainbridge’s opinion.
Soon she had Francis on her doorstep, eager to discuss the matter and convince himself that there was, in fact, hope.
He understood Eleanor’s ambivalence, and they spent some time fruitlessly trying to make the facts fit the picture of Nicholas they wanted to cherish.
Eventually they tacitly agreed to abandon the subject and enjoy the autumn weather.
When he left, she gave him her gift for Amy’s wedding, and in due course she received thanks and a long letter describing everything about what seemed to have been a perfect day.
Eleanor disciplined herself to accept the fact that her husband was a wanderer, both physically and emotionally.
She reminded herself that she still had much for which to be grateful to him, and it was unfair to blame him too harshly for following the way of life he obviously preferred.
She had a lovely home, a comfortable independence, and a child growing within her. She would take joy in her blessings.
As the first frosts feathered the windows and she grew larger, Eleanor’s life became a matter of waiting.
Waiting for the child and, despite everything, waiting for Nicholas.
She felt sure that even if he was again bewitched by Madame Bellaire he would send her word.
She believed that one day he would want to see the baby.
She and Miss Hurstman spent a quiet Christmas walking down to the village church on a crisp, sunny morning and exchanging joyous greetings with all their new community.
Despite Eleanor’s advanced pregnancy they had received many invitations, but because of it, their polite refusals were completely understood.
On the first day of the new year Eleanor was awakened by a change in her body, a change as yet unclear.
Soon, by concentrating, she felt the tightening low in her abdomen.
The midwife was immediately sent for. She indulgently listened to Eleanor’s excited description and then told her to go along as normal, walk about as much as possible, and eat every now and then.
“For if the child is born before midnight, I’ll be surprised, Mrs. Delaney. No need to wear out your excitement before it’s needed. Send for me if you need me and I’ll be back to stay in the evening.”
It was as the woman said. The day passed much like any other. Eleanor even took time to walk around the garden and pick a few late roses for her room. Flowers to greet her child.
By the time the midwife came back she was lying in the bed, but she was soon up again.
“Keep up and walking as long as you can, my dear. It’s easier that way. Tell me if it hurts, and I’ll see what I can do, but don’t be afraid to yell. It’ll help to get the baby out, you’ll see.”
Then gradually it was as if a wave took her, and there was pain and pressure and she had to go with it, because if she fought the force it would surely break her.
She grabbed on to the midwife’s hands and read her safety in her eyes, but she still groaned and grunted and found herself whimpering, “Nicholas.”
She would give anything to have him here. She could trust him.
A part of her mind looked down and laughed.
She at least had Arabella Hurstman, though that lady for once looked flustered almost to panic. She settled eventually, however, and sat reading aloud from the works of Mr. Wordsworth:
“…Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
And even with something of a mother’s mind,
And no unworthy aim,
The homely nurse does all she can
To make her foster child, her inmate man,
Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came…
Then, exhausting that slim volume, she progressed desperately on to the poems of Sir Walter Scott:
“…Before their eyes the wizard lay,
As if he had not been dead a day;
His hoary beard in silver roll’d,
He seemed some seventy winters old…”
Part of Eleanor’s mind wandered through ancient castles with Sir Walter’s hero, then the sudden force of a push made Eleanor gasp and come sharply back to reality. Miss Hurstman stopped reading and stood, clutching the volume to her chest.
“Good, me dear!” encouraged Mrs. Stongelly cheerfully. “Soon now. Go with it. Rest when you can. There’s no hurry with a first. No hurry at all…”
The reassuring murmur of the midwife was the music of life as Eleanor was overwhelmed. She pushed with her body and then rested, pushed and then rested. Had she ever had an existence other than these whirlwind of forces?
“Is it not born yet?” she gasped, collapsing limply upon a moment of calm.
“No, my dear.” The midwife laughed, giving her a sip of wine. “You’ll know well enough when it is. Now move on your side, dear, and hook your leg over me shoulder so…”
Eleanor followed every instruction as she followed her body’s guidance. And she certainly did know well enough when the baby was born. She felt the baby bulge between her legs. She felt it coming out—first the head, slowly and big, so big; then the rest with a slippery, satisfying rush.
Then the waves were all over and she was on a peaceful shore…
A cry.
Eleanor looked down to see her child on the bed, the dark cord still running from the baby’s body into herself. The child looked up with big, dark, wondering eyes. Eleanor reached hungrily, not tired any more. “My baby,” she said. “My baby…”
“A lovely girl, see?” said Mrs. Stongelly with a wide smile as she wrapped a blanket loosely around the child. “Move gently onto your back now, Mama…” Then she gave the baby to Eleanor.
Eleanor looked into her daughter’s eyes. “Oh, you beautiful one.” This was worth even the night at her brother’s. “And there won’t even be any fighting over the Delaney heir, my sweet. Aren’t we a clever pair?”
Miss Hurstman exchanged a look with the midwife, who just smiled indulgently. “They’re always the same, ma’am.”
When the cord was cut Mrs. Stongelly took the babe from Eleanor for a moment and gave her to Miss Hurstman to hold. She too found herself whispering all sorts of nonsense to the wide-eyed mite. She was almost reluctant to return the child to her mother.
“Such a sweet child,” she said, holding her close. “And you did so well, Eleanor.”
“Indeed she did,” said the midwife. “I find the ladies often give me trouble. They fight it. No, you did very well, ma’am. The baby is as healthy as they come. Keep her warm and feed her yourself and you’ve as good a chance of her thriving as any.”
She took the child from Miss Hurstman and showed Eleanor how to put her to the breast. The baby sucked immediately.
“Ah, the sweet!” said the midwife with satisfaction. “Now she’s set. Keep her close and warm and feed her when she wants it. Get your rest and drink plenty.” With that she sat in a chair by the fire and appeared to snooze.
Miss Hurstman sat on the edge of the bed and watched the baby suck. “I have never seen any of this before, Eleanor,” she said with unusual softness. “Thank you.”
Eleanor smiled up at her. “I’m glad you were here and that you bullied me so. To think I could have hurt this precious.” Her hand gently stroked the soft golden down on the baby’s head. “I just wish…”
“That your husband had been here. He would have been here with you, wouldn’t he? No going off to a cockfight, waiting for word.”
Eleanor didn’t answer. Tiredness was at last beginning to creep over her and she couldn’t face the thought of Nicholas.
She saw the child’s soft mouth had slipped moistly from her breast and that her daughter was asleep.
She let Miss Hurstman take the tiny bundle to the cradle by the fire and suffered a careful examination by the midwife.
Then she lay down to sink into a deep and dreamless sleep.