Kitty Bennet's Diary (Pride and Prejudice Chronicles) (27 page)

Mary and I arrived at Darcy House to find everything more or less in an uproar.  Jane was white-faced and gasping with the labour pains that were already coming on in rapidly-succeeding waves.  But she was—very uncharacteristically for Jane—also refusing absolutely to see the pompous old physician who had attended her the night of Georgiana’s ball.

Luckily Georgiana’s housekeeper—Mrs. Gibbons—knew of a nurse-cum-midwife who she thought might be able to attend.  Edward was pulling on coat and gloves so that he might go out and fetch the woman, if she could be brought.  Georgiana was holding little Amelia—who had her thumb in her mouth and looked as though she were debating whether the situation required tears.  And Charles was staring at Jane and looking deathly afraid.

Though he straightened his shoulders and turned to take Amelia from Georgiana.  “Come here, sweetheart.”  He lifted Amelia into his arms.  “It is time for you to be in bed.  Come and give your mama a kiss goodnight.”  His voice cracked slightly as he said it, but he cleared his throat and managed a smile.  “And perhaps when you wake up, you shall have a new little brother or sister.  What do you think about that?”

Amelia thrust out her lower lip and said, “Cat.  Want a cat.”

Which made everyone—however briefly—smile.  Amelia did give Jane a kiss goodnight.  And Charles kissed Jane, as well, before he carried Amelia out.  He rested his forehead briefly against hers, running a hand lightly over her hair.

And I have just belatedly realised that I seem to have left out a rather large piece of the story.  I ought rather to have begun by saying that when we arrived at Darcy House, we discovered that Charles had arrived as well—only a bare hour before Mary and I did.

Actually, Georgiana told me later, as we sat huddled together in the corner of Jane’s bedroom waiting for the midwife’s prognosis, that it was Charles’s arrival that had brought all this about.  Jane had felt a little better that day—well enough, at least, to come downstairs for an early dinner with Amelia.  Charles had arrived at the house just as they were sitting down.  Jane—of course having had no warning that he was coming—had struggled to her feet at the sight of him and gasped, “Charles.”

And then she had gasped for another reason entirely—her birthing waters had broken.

Which is also a hideously indelicate subject to refer to, even in writing, but I cannot bring myself to care. 

Georgiana was feeling horribly guilty.  She clutched my hand as we both looked at Jane, writhing through another of the birth pains on the bed.  Mary was downstairs in the kitchen, supervising the boiling of water and the airing of clean linens.  Not that Mrs. Gibbons and all of Georgiana’s maids especially needed supervising—but I could sympathise with Mary’s wish to be doing
something,
however unneeded.

“This is all my fault, Kitty,” Georgiana said.  “If only I had not sent for Charles … or if I had only told Jane—”

“You must not think that.”  I felt cold all through—as though needle-sharp crystals of ice were jabbing at every inch of my skin.  But I tried to keep the fear out of my voice.  “You know as well as I do that there has been a danger of this happening at any moment for weeks, now.  Jane’s labour might easily have begun today, whether or not Charles had arrived.   And it is actually much better that he
is
here, now.  He will be here in case—” 

I swallowed.  Jane was lying back against the pillows, her eyes closed and her forehead already beaded with sweat.  “I mean, much better that he will be here to meet his new daughter or son as soon as the baby is born.”

The midwife—her name was Mrs. O’Neil—finished her examination at that point and came over to speak with Georgiana and me.  She was a big, hearty Irish woman of perhaps forty-five, with a freckled, weathered face, keen blue eyes, and a head of fiery red hair just barely threaded with grey.  She had arrived back at the house with Edward and had at once taken charge with a calm, practical manner.  One felt immediately that very little would ruffle or alarm her.

Though as she approached, I saw with a fresh stab of fear that she was frowning, a furrow of apparent worry between her brows.

“Well, now.”  Mrs. O’Neil divided her words equally between Georgiana and me.  “Mrs. Bingley seems to be coming along well.  About halfway to being ready for the babe to be born, I should say.  And this is her second child.  So with any luck, we’ll have the wee one here with us by breakfast time.”

All of which sounded reassuring, but it did not explain her frown of concern.  I said, “That is not the whole truth, is it?  Something is wrong.  Tell us what it is.  Please.”

I barely managed to remember to add the ‘please’ as an afterthought.

“Ah, well.”  Mrs. O’Neil lowered her voice.  “I did not wish to worry you ladies without need.  But the child seems to be coming backways first.  Breech delivery, it’s called.”

I bit my lip, confused.  “And is that a bad thing?”

Mrs. O’Neil looked at me and pursed her lips.  But at least she did not refuse to explain, on the grounds of my being an unmarried girl.  “Most babes come into the world head-first, you understand.  That is the normal way, and the safest, for both mother and child.  Sometimes, though, when labour starts early, before the proper time, the child has not yet had a chance to turn right-way-round.  They come out feet—or sometimes bottom first.”

She glanced over her shoulder at Jane, the line of worry appearing on her forehead again.  “It generally means a long, hard labour for the mother to bear.  But there.”  She shook her head, with a return to her former brisk, calm manner.  “Mrs. Bingley is young, and she’s strong.  And I’ve surely caught many a healthy breech-born babe and laid it in its mother’s arms.  Now.”  She turned back towards the bed.  “Let’s see if we can get your sister up and walking about a bit.  The longer she can keep on her feet, the faster the babe will come.”

Between us, we did manage to get Jane up from the bed and helped her to make slow circuits of the room.  Georgiana and I walked on either side of her, each of us supporting an arm.  Mary returned at some point, and took turns walking with Jane, too.  Mrs. O’Neil alternately watched and rubbed Jane’s shoulders through the pains, sometimes instructing Jane to squat down as the labour pang reached its peak.

She was right, though, about the labour being both hard and long.   All the time we were walking, Jane did not speak at all, only clamped her lips together and snorted or moaned when a fresh pain struck.  But at last, after another vicious spasm had left her gasping and red-faced, she lifted her head when Mrs. O’Neil tried to urge her to walk again.  “No!”  Her voice was almost a growl.  “I am
not
walking any more, you horrible old witch!  Go away and let me lie down in peace.”

The tone—and the words—were so completely unlike Jane that I stared.  Mrs. O’Neil smiled a reassurance at me, though, as Jane staggered to the bed and sank down onto the mattress with another moan.

“Never mind, lass.  They always hate me—and usually everyone else in the world—right about now.  Here.”  She handed Mary a cup of water and a clean cloth. “You can see if she’ll let you sponge off her forehead a bit.  Though don’t take it to heart if she ends by telling you to tip the water over your own head.”

Mrs. O’Neil’s face grew ever more sober, though, as pain after pain wrung Jane—and yet the child still showed no signs of being born.

I happened at one point to glance at the clock and realised with some shock that it was past three o’clock in the morning.  We were taking it in turns to bathe Jane’s forehead or hold her hand.  Georgiana was the one currently perched on the edge of the bed, while Mary and I had collapsed onto the upholstered chaise.  And if we were tired, I could not imagine how Jane must feel.

Beside me, I felt Mary’s hand slide into mine, and I gave hers a squeeze in return.  Mary was yawning and rubbing her eyes.  “You could lie down awhile,” I said in an undertone.  “Jane does not really need all three of us here.”

Mary shook her head, though.  “No.  I could not sleep—I would not even wish to try.  Not when—”  She stopped, cleared her throat, and tried to smile.  “I am beginning to think that perhaps I do not regret, after all, that it seems unlikely I shall ever have children myself.”

Who would ever have thought it?  Mary, trying to joke.  I knew she was every bit as frightened as I was myself—but I appreciated her effort.  I forced a smile, as well.  “Beginning?  I was absolutely certain that I was never going to have any children several hours ago.”

Georgiana slid off the bed and came to join us, as Mrs. O’Neil, murmuring soothing reassurances, told Jane that she wished to examine her one more time.

“All very well for the two of you to say.”  Georgiana made a face at us, resting her hand on the barely-there swelling of her own middle.  “Some of us have no choice about the matter.”

She sank down onto the chaise on my other side, and we were all quiet a long moment.  Jane had—incredibly—dropped off to sleep in between pains.  And I think all three of us, Mary, Georgiana, and I, were afraid to break the moment’s silence.  I know
I
was afraid that if I once opened my mouth, I would hear myself saying,
What if Jane dies?

I swallowed and turned to Mary.  “Mary, you were downstairs the most recently of any of us.  Where is Charles, do you know?”

Mary looked startled.  “He is with Amelia, I think.  He put her to bed on the sofa in Georgiana’s sitting room, so that she would not hear—” 

She looked up at Jane, who had woken with a groan to another cruel pain.  She had bitten her lips so many times that I could see even from across the room that they were bleeding.

“All right.  Thank you.”  I stood up.

“Where are you going?” Mary asked.

“To fetch Charles.”

Mary’s expression was shocked—and then worried.  “Kitty, I am not sure that is wise.  The birthing room is not for … that is, gentlemen do not ever attend—”

“I do not care!” I said.  I drew in my breath and managed to lower my voice again.  “Look at Jane.”  I nodded towards the bed.  “Georgiana, if that were you lying there, would you not want Edward to be with you?”

Georgiana bit her lip, but nodded.  “You are right, Kitty.  Charles should be here.  Mary, you stay with Jane.  I will come and offer to stay with Amelia, in case she should wake up.”

We found Charles sitting in a chair beside the little sofa where Amelia lay.  Amelia, luckily, seemed to have caught none of the night’s alarms—she was sound asleep with her thumb in her mouth.  Edward was there, as well, in a chair opposite Charles’s.  One of them—probably Edward—had poured out glasses of brandy, but neither of them was actually drinking.  Charles was merely turning the glass round and round in his hands, his usually good-humoured face taut and strained by the light of the single candle that burned on the mantel.

He jumped up as Georgiana and I entered, and he looked at us, his whole body braced as though in anticipation of a blow.

“It’s all right.”  Georgiana hurried forward and took Charles’s hand.  I could see the effort she was making to sound reassuring.  “Jane is not … that is, it is only that her labour is taking rather longer than we had hoped.  She is growing tired, and Kitty and I thought that it might perhaps help if you were there.”

 Charles was—  He was truly splendid, there is no other word.  For all my determination to fetch him, Mary was perfectly correct; gentlemen do not, as a rule, so much as set foot inside the rooms where their wives are giving birth.  I can easily imagine that many husbands in Charles’s case would have run screaming for the hills.  But Charles did not hesitate, not even for a moment.  He rose and went out of the room, not even waiting for me to lead the way.

Edward had risen, too, and come to put an arm about Georgiana.  They exchanged a murmured word or two, too low for me to hear, and Georgiana rested her head against his shoulder.  She straightened, though, as I made to follow Charles from the room.

“Kitty, I can come back with you, if you like—”

I stopped her, though.  She had tried to make light of it before—but if all this was terrifying for me, it must be doubly so for her.  I shook my head.  “No, you stay with Amelia, just as you offered before.  Charles will be there with Jane now, and me and Mary.  And I will come and tell you at once if … I will come the moment there is any news.”

Georgiana nodded—and the last I saw, she and Edward had settled together in the big armchair, she tucked tightly up against Edward’s side and their hands intertwined.

Charles must have run all the way upstairs, for by the time I reached Jane’s bedroom again, he was already there—facing Mrs. O’Neil, who stood in the doorway and barred his entrance.  She looked as dubious as Mary had.  But whatever she saw in Charles’s face must have persuaded her that arguing would be futile, for as I reached the head of the stairs, I saw her shrug and step aside.

“Ah, well.”  Mrs. O’Neil spoke in a muttered undertone, and I only just caught the words.  “I suppose you can’t be making things much worse for the poor girl.”

I ran the last few steps and entered the room just behind Charles and Mrs. O’Neil.  But I do not think Jane even saw me—or the midwife, for that matter.  She was lying on the bed, curled tightly on her side while Mary dampened the cloth with fresh water from the jug.  But she happened to open her eyes and look up as Charles came into the room, and she gasped, “Charles—you’re here!”

I am not sure that I can even put into words the way she spoke Charles’s name.  Her whole face lighted up, the lines of pain and exhaustion momentarily easing their hold.

Charles crossed to the bed in a few quick strides and knelt down, smoothing the sweat-soaked hair back from Jane’s brow.  “Of course I am, sweetheart.  Tell me what I can do.”

Jane could not answer; another of the birth pains had struck, and she groaned and squeezed her eyes closed.  Charles looked pale when the spasm had at last passed.  I suppose he had never seen a woman in labour before.  But he held Jane’s hand and spoke in low, comforting tones.

Mary slipped past him and Mrs. O’Neil and came to join me once again on the chaise by the hearth.  She put her hand into mine and squeezed, and I squeezed hers in return.