Kitty Bennet's Diary (Pride and Prejudice Chronicles) (8 page)

As it turned out, I was thankful that I
had
asked Mr. Dalton’s help, because he responded without hesitation.  “Of course.”

He followed me back to Jane, who was once more hunched over, clasping her middle and breathing hard.  Mr. Dalton knelt down beside her.

“Mrs. Bingley?”

At the address, Jane opened her eyes.  She must have met Mr. Dalton before, because she seemed to recognise him and said, “Oh, Mr … Dalton, was it?  I do not think—  That is—”

I could see a touch of embarrassed colour creeping into her waxy-pale face; above all else, Jane hates to inconvenience others or to create a spectacle.

Mr. Dalton gave her no time to object, though.  “I am going to lift you and carry you out of here.  Can you put your arms around my neck, do you think?”

Jane was still flushed.  But she must have been feeling truly dreadful, because she complied without further protest, and Mr. Dalton lifted her into his arms.  He is very strong.  Jane is tall and of course bulky with the child, but he picked her up seemingly without effort and turned to look questioningly at me.

“Where shall I take her?” 

I started to shake my head.  “I’m not sure.  I don’t know this house well—”

Jane interrupted.  Her eyes were scrunched shut again, but she said, between ragged breaths, “My room upstairs.  Please.  I ought to look in on Amelia, and—”

Her words ended in a sharply indrawn breath, so I took her hand again and said, quickly, “Of course.  Don’t worry.”

There was a door nearby at the back of the ballroom.  I took a chance on opening it and discovered that it led into what looked like the library, lined with tall mahogany shelves of books.  From there, I found the doorway back to the main entrance hall and the front stairs, and Mr. Dalton followed, carrying Jane up to the second floor.

Jane had recovered a little by then—enough at least that she could tell us which door was hers.  Mr. Dalton carried her in and set her down on the big four-poster bed, and I found and lighted a lamp.

Jane’s bedroom was just as elegant as the rest of the house, with a pretty blue and gold carpet on the floor and pale blue paper on the walls.  Through the half-open doorway into the small dressing room next door, I could see two-year-old Amelia, sound asleep in the small wooden bed that must have been set there especially for her.  Her thumb was in her mouth, and her golden curls—exactly the shade of Jane’s—were tousled against the pillow.

Jane looked in, too, and relaxed a bit at the sight of her sleeping child.  But then she gave another gasp, biting her lip and tensing again.

“Jane?”  I perched on the edge of the bed.  “Is it another pain?”

Jane could not speak, but nodded her head.  When the pain had passed, she managed to gasp, “But I am sure it is not serious—”

I did not let her finish.  I may not know a great deal about confinements and childbirth—I was only two when Lydia was born, and Lizzy and Jane never talked to me about their confinements at all—but even I know the dangers to both the child and mother if the baby is born more than a month early—as Jane’s baby would be if it came tonight.

More than likely Jane would die, and the child too.

I went back to Mr. Dalton, who still stood by the doorway.  “Please—could you go and fetch Georgiana for me?  And ask her whether there is a physician who may be called?”

Mr. Dalton glanced up at Jane, then said, “Certainly—at once,” and went back downstairs, closing Jane’s door behind him.  I went back to Jane and helped her out of her evening gown and into a nightdress.  Her face was still sticky with perspiration, so I found a linen towel and the carafe of water on the dressing table and wiped her forehead.

After that, there was nothing to do but wait.  I did not want to speak much, for fear of waking little Amelia, so I sat beside Jane and held her hand through three more of the pains.

It seemed an eternity, but at last there was a light tap on the door and Georgiana came in, her face pale with concern.  She was followed by a tall, bearded man of sixty or so, whom she introduced as Mr. Foster, an eminent physician who had happened to be one of the guests tonight.

Not that—eminent physician or no—Mr. Foster was able to contribute anything terribly useful to the situation.  He took Jane’s pulse and said that he could try bleeding her, though he doubted it would do good.  He decreed that she must stay absolutely quiet and not on any account get up from the bed—and then hemmed and hawed and went on for some time, saying essentially that either Jane’s birthing pains would stop or they would not, and there was no way of determining beforehand which it would be.

And then he left.  Jane’s eyes were shut by then, and she seemed to have fallen into an uneasy doze, so Georgiana and I moved to the far side of the room and spoke in whispers.

“I’ll stay with her,” I said.  “If that is all right with you, of course.  I can sit in the armchair, so you needn’t give me a bed.”

“Of course it is all right,” Georgiana said.  “I’ll see that you have blankets and tea—and anything else you would like.”  She looked behind me to where Jane lay, pale and exhausted-looking on the bed.  “I expect Jane would rather have you here than anyone else.  But call me if there is any sign the baby truly is coming tonight?  I wouldn’t know what to do if there was a true emergency, but I was there last Christmas with Elizabeth when baby James was born.”

I said that of course I would call her if need be.  And then, with a jolt, I recollected that Mary was downstairs without any idea of what was happening.

“Will you tell Mary for me?” I asked.  “Don’t frighten her, though.  There is no sense in both of us being alarmed.  Just say that Jane is feeling a trifle unwell, and I am staying with her?  She can take the carriage home to my aunt and uncle’s by herself.”

Georgiana agreed, and when she had gone out, I settled down into the chair at Jane’s bedside.

I have thought before—last summer in Brussels, for example, when we were waiting to hear whether the battle was lost or won—that the most exquisite torture in the world is a combination of fear and boredom.  I was frightened for Jane; worry sat in my stomach like a block of ice, preventing me from dozing off, tired as I was.  But there was nothing to do but sit and wait … and wait and wait.

Jane still slept, though she half-woke from time to time with a gasp or a groan, so I knew the pains had not ceased.  Downstairs, I could hear the strains of music from the ball.  I suppose it must have been an hour or two later that little Amelia abruptly woke up and let out a loud wail of “Mama!”

Jane jolted fully awake, then, and struggled to sit up.  But I pushed her back.  “No, you are absolutely not to get out of bed.  Didn’t you hear what Mr. Foster said about your staying quiet?  I’ll see to Amelia.”

I went into the little dressing room.  I am usually quite good at calming unhappy children—a small talent, but goodness knows I have had practice between all Aunt Gardiner’s brood.  But nothing I tried tonight seemed to work with Amelia.  She wanted her mother and no one else.  And her small face turned red, her hands bunching into fists and her mouth opening in a bellow of pure two-year-old rage.  “Mama!  Mama!  Maaaamaaaa!”

I finally scooped her up—she was still kicking and shrieking—and carried her over to the bed and let her see Jane.  I was afraid to set her down on the mattress beside Jane, for fear she might kick or bounce the bed and do Jane some further injury.  So I held her just within reach of her mother, and Jane held Amelia’s hand while I swayed with her back and forth.

And Amelia kept on screaming.  More loudly still.  Apparently being in reach of her mother while yet not able to actually crawl into Jane’s lap was even worse.

Jane was in little better case; she looked as though she were about to burst into tears.  And she kept biting her lip and gasping with fresh pains.

I would have believed the sudden knock on the bedroom door an answer to prayer, if I thought that God or whatever Fates were governing the night owed me any favours.

Still holding Amelia, I crossed and opened it—hoping for Georgiana, who would be able at least to take Amelia into the next room for me.  It was Mr. Dalton who stood in the hall, though.  He looked slightly startled by the combination of myself—probably looking half-wild—and a screaming, red-faced Amelia.  But he recovered himself and said—well, half-shouted, rather, over Amelia’s screams—“Miss Bennet.  I came to see whether I might be of any further—”

I did not give him time to finish.  “Here.”  I dumped Amelia unceremoniously into his arms.  “Will you take her into the dressing room, please?  I have to see to my sister.”

Which was not precisely kind to Mr. Dalton.  But my insides felt all tangled up tight with a fear that refused to be shaken off: that Jane was going to die tonight—and it would be in some way my fault, because I had not been able to make Amelia stop crying.

Mr. Dalton did not—amazingly, really—seem so very much discomposed to find himself in sudden possession of a two-year-old in the throes of a magnificent tantrum.  He hefted Amelia easily into his arms—managing to avoid her flailing fists and feet—and carried her into the dressing room, closing the door behind them.  Which did at least muffle Amelia’s screams.

I went back to Jane.  Mr. Foster had at least told me what signs I ought to watch out for—an increase in the frequency of the pains.  A discharge of fluid or blood.  I checked Jane, but saw no sign of either of those.  So I took her hand and said, “Do you want me to write to Charles for you?  I am certain Edward and Georgiana would see the message delivered with all speed—”

“No!”  Jane’s face looked waxy pale and beaded with sweat.  Her fingers clenched involuntarily around mine.  But she said, between pauses for breath,  “No, do not trouble yourself.  I am certain everything will be perfectly … fine.”

“But Jane, just in case the child is born early, do you not want Charles—” 

“I said no, Kitty!”  It was the sharpest tone I had ever heard from Jane in my life.  I looked at her in astonishment.  But since the subject only seemed to be upsetting her more, I said, “Well, close your eyes then and try to relax.  Here, if you give me my hand back, I can rub your shoulders for you.”

I tried to study Jane’s face as she exhaled a deep breath and nodded, but I could not guess what the trouble between her and Charles might be.  I should have said that it would be impossible to quarrel with either of them, and still more impossible for two such sweet-tempered people to quarrel with each other.  Jane turned over onto her side—awkwardly, with the bulk of the child.  I rubbed her shoulders and stroked her hair, hoping that the pains might slacken off if I could somehow lull her into sleep. 

She did start to relax.  I was watching the clock on the mantelpiece—counting off each tick of the second hand that passed.  And a full twenty minutes passed without Jane gasping or biting her lip with the onset of a pain.  Her eyes began to droop closed, and I started to hum—an old lullaby I can remember Jane herself singing to me when I was small.  Our mother was never exactly the sort for singing cradle songs by our bedsides; any lullabies Lydia and I did get were usually courtesy of Lizzy or Jane.

Lavender blue and Rosemary green,

When I am king you shall be queen;

Call up my maids at four o’clock,

Some to the wheel and some to the rock;

Some to make hay and some to shear corn,

And you and I will keep the bed warm.

By the time I had finished the last verse, Jane was truly asleep.  And I realised something else: at some point, the muffled sound of Amelia’s screams from the dressing room had stopped.  I got up from the bed and tiptoed across the room—expecting to find that Amelia had finally exhausted herself enough to fall back to sleep, as well.

But when I reached the door, I heard a murmur of voices.  And opening it, found Mr. Dalton sitting on the floor opposite a slightly wary-looking and tear-streaked Amelia.  She had stopped crying, though, her big blue eyes fixated on a small rabbit that Mr. Dalton had made from a folded-up pocket handkerchief.

“Here.  You can keep him, if you’d like.”  Mr. Dalton held out the rabbit to her, and Amelia immediately snatched it from him, hugged it tightly—then yawned and put her thumb in her mouth.

“Goodness,”  I said in an undertone.  “You must be a magician, Mr. Dalton.  I never thought you would manage to actually make her calm.”

Mr. Dalton gave me a brief, lopsided smile as he rose to his feet.  “I admit young Miss Bingley and I got off to a slightly rocky start, but we eventually struck up a truce.  I promised to make her a rabbit, and she agreed not to shatter my eardrums.”

I bent and picked up Amelia.  She was yawning again and rubbing her eyes, and felt limp and heavy as a bag of sand in my arms—the way children do after they are completely and thoroughly tired out.  “All right, sweetheart, into bed with you.”  I lowered her into the small cot and pulled the blankets over her.

Amelia gave a slight whimper of protest, but I bent and kissed the top of her head.  “I happen to know that that is a very special,
magical
rabbit that your friend Mr. Dalton was kind enough to make for you,” I told her.  I nodded to the handkerchief creature still clutched tight in her arms.  “Anyone holding him will have only the very nicest, sweetest of dreams.  Will you promise to hold him tightly all night long?”

Amelia’s eyes grew round, and she nodded, hugging the rabbit tighter.  “Good, then.”  I kissed her again.  “Goodnight, Amelia.”

Amelia’s eyelids were already beginning to flicker shut, but she gave me a small murmured, “Night-night.”

I drew Mr. Dalton with me out of the little dressing room.  One glance at the bed told me that Jane was still sleeping peacefully, too, so I stepped out into the hall, Mr. Dalton following.

 I pushed loosened hair back from my face and said, “Thank you, Mr. Dalton.  Truly.  I do not know what I should have done if you had not arrived when you did.”

Mr. Dalton shrugged.  “It was nothing, Miss Bennet.  And really I ought to credit my brother—he was the one who taught me that trick with a handkerchief when we were young.”  He gave me another quick smile.  “We were trying to find ways of passing the time, because … well, to be honest, we had been confined to our room for a week.  Our mother having proved remarkably unenthusiastic over our plan to use her bathtub to house our collection of newts.”