The freedom Mama allowed me during these last few weeks had been bliss. I was even able to assist at several births in the town, though I always used the pretext of shopping at the market with Lucy. These were births to women Mama would consider beneath her—women she would dismiss as “the serving classes”—and their station in life made it easy for me to keep my secrets from her. She would never converse with such people, nor they with her, and hence I hoped she would never find out about what I had been up to.
But this morning offered a surprise or two.
I had just donned my cloak and warm gloves for a walk along the lake when the doorknocker banged. I opened the door to find John Beverley Robinson standing on the threshold. He was out of breath and his face was red, from the wind or perhaps from his evident rush up the front walk.
“Mr. Robinson, please come in.”
“I cannot stay, thank you. But I need your help. Now, please.”
Mama had crept up behind me at this point, and she burst into our conversation. “What is the matter, sir? How can we assist you?”
“Not you, ma’am. It is your daughter I need.” He put out his hand and pulled me towards him. “My sister is giving birth at this moment. She’s screaming and in terrible pain. My brother-in-law said—”
“Mr. Boulton, is it? I might have known. That dreadful shop girl of his, Bess, must have given him my daughter’s name. I cannot allow her to take part in such—”
“Mama, please, this is my affair. If Mrs. Boulton needs me, I must go.” I turned my back on her and grabbed Mr. Robinson’s arm. “I am ready, sir. Lead on.”
We headed down the path, and I was grateful that my companion made no comment on Mama’s loud protests following us as we crossed into the main thoroughfare. She was my mother, after all, and I would have felt compelled to defend her harangue, however much I hated it.
We scurried along towards John Street and the brick cottage where Mr. Robinson’s brother-in-law, sister, and small nephews lived. I had not expected Sarah Boulton to be in birthing mode again. She was two years younger than I, had been married only yesterday it seemed—though it was perhaps four years ago—and already she was about to produce a third infant. I thought of the turmoil of a household filled with a babe and two small children. And if she lived through this pregnancy, there would surely be several more . . .
Mr. Robinson interrupted my thoughts. “The woman everyone calls Granny is in the house now, but Sarah told me, through her screams, to get you, Miss Powell. It seems that Granny is no longer persona grata with the upper class in this town. Word has got around that you are the woman to be present in these most private of moments.”
Granny? The old woman who taught me the basics at Marguerite Vallière’s birthing? I had no time to ask questions for at that moment Mr. Robinson and I reached the front door of the cottage. We entered without preamble, and I was no sooner in the front hall than I heard the screams of the expectant mother.
“What we need is a hyena,” my companion said, grinning.
“What?”
“Pliny the Elder believed that if you put the right foot of a hyena on a pregnant woman, it would be an easy birth.”
I remembered that I had once liked John Beverley Robinson’s ease with a quotation. But now, recognizing the pain that his sister must be experiencing, I found his remark objectionable. But I said nothing as he pushed me ahead of himself towards the door of a room to the right of the entrance hall. Once inside the tiny, overheated bedchamber, I saw the woman he called Granny wiping the sweat from Sarah’s forehead and making some soothing sounds in the back of her throat. Yes, it was the midwife who had set me straight during Marguerite Vallière’s birthing.
“You may leave now,” Mr. Robinson said to the woman. “We have no further need of your services.” To his sister, he added, speaking loudly over her moans of pain, “I have brought you Miss Powell as you requested.”
I turned to Granny, hoping that I did not show my embarrassment at not remembering her real name. “I shall, of course, do what I can to assist you, ma’am, but you must stay with me until Mrs. Boulton delivers her child. I remember how great a boon you were to me in times gone by.” To Mr. Robinson I said, “She must stay. She is an excellent midwife who once helped me overcome my total ignorance of the process of birthing.”
He turned away, slamming the door as he exited. I was glad to see him go. Now Granny and I could concentrate on what was important.
I leaned over Sarah. Her eyes were bloodshot and her face red and swollen. With each contraction, she seemed to push harder as if she could not wait to get rid of the small body within her.
I noticed that her legs were too close together. “Try to hold the babe back,” I said to her, “until we can get you stretched enough to push it out.” Granny pulled her legs apart, working to stretch the opening. Soon we could both see the head coming through. Five minutes more and Granny had the babe in her arms. It was a perfect little boy. My attention now turned to Sarah whose blood was pouring onto the sheets.
I rushed out into the front hall and went down the back stairs into the kitchen where the maid had a pot of boiling water ready. She handed it to me, along with several clean cloths and sheets that she took from the table.
Mr. Boulton and his brother-in-law were seated nearby, drinking glasses of grog. I told them about the successful birth of the child. I expected some relieved comments from them. Instead I heard Mr. Robinson ask, “Did you really need Granny? I assumed you could handle things on your own.” I could hear the irritation in his voice. After showing a commendable concern for his sister’s welfare, he now seemed to be regretting the expense involved.
“Perhaps I might have,” I said, “but I could see no reason why you wanted to dismiss the woman. She had done her best to help your sister until my arrival.” I turned to Mr. Boulton. “And you, sir, must have wanted your wife to have all the attention possible during these painful moments.”
There was nothing the man could say to that statement. He could only nod agreement.
I took the pot of water and clean cloths back to the bedchamber. Granny dipped her scissors into the boiling water and cut the cord. She smiled at me and nodded. I knew she was remembering my ineptitude at the time of Marguerite’s birthing.
Then she bathed the babe—it was such a beautiful boy—and put it to suckle, while I washed the blood from Sarah’s body and slipped clean sheets under her.
* * *
An hour later, after the mother and babe had drifted into a peaceful sleep, Granny and I emerged from the bedchamber and went belowstairs to announce the good news to the two men. I hoped for a better reception this time.
Mr. Boulton began to fumble in his waistcoat, perhaps for a coin or two. He seemed reluctant to part with his money. This made me angry. He was a wealthy man. I remembered hearing from Papa that he had spent money on a large tract of land just outside of town on which he intended to build an imposing brick house.
“I do not wish payment for my services,” I said. “It is enough that I was able to assist and to help bring a fine new babe into the world. But I know that you will want to show your gratitude to my friend.”
“Thank ye, sir,” Granny said, accepting the coin he gave her, and turning to me, she added, “And thanks be to ye, also. And now I must be on me way. A long day it has been.”
* * *
Sometime later, having shared a glass of sherry with the two men, I got up to leave. Mr. Robinson announced that he would see me home.
Our walk this time was more leisurely. As we strolled on, my companion said, “May I call you Anne?” His voice was soft.
“Yes.” I was too tired to comment on the sudden change in his manner from tight-fisted to friendly.
“And I hope you will call me Beverley.”
I was eager to seem compliant because what I really wanted to discuss was news about affairs in Niagara. I had heard some disturbing rumours. So, after a few sentences in which I was careful to insert the name Beverley into my discourse, I found it easy to swing our conversation in that direction.
“The Americans are about to retreat from Fort George,” he said, “and that is good news. But I fear that there will be trouble. Joseph Willcocks has turned traitor and is now apparently coaching the Yankees on how to take revenge on the town of Niagara before the retreat.”
“Joseph Willcocks is a cousin of William Willcocks?” I asked, remembering the old brute who had tried to squeeze me during a dance at Governor Gore’s residence.
“They are cousins, yes, both odious, but Joseph is by far the worse.”
“What kind of revenge does he have in mind?”
“We shall soon see, and I fear it.”
By this point, we had begun our walk down the path to the front door of my house. I could see Mama peering out through the parlour window.
“May I see you again soon?” Mr. Robinson—Beverley—asked.
“Yes,” I said, though I was of two minds. We had somehow drifted suddenly into a first-name friendship. But did I want to enter into a more intimate relationship with this man? Or did I want to pursue the career that I loved and which, now, seemed to have achieved a modicum of respectability? I had, after all, been present at the birthing of Mrs. D’Arcy Boulton. Mama could surely not censure my part in the delivery of a new scion of this distinguished family.
Beverley—how strange the name still sounded in my mind— added, “You have been of immeasurable help this day. I have always admired you. Indeed, I shall never forget that dreadful day when you helped out so bravely at the garrison. There is not another woman in this town who can measure up to your standards.” He paused, cleared his throat, and added, “I hope I am not being too forward when I say that it is my greatest hope that we may someday become man and wife.”
We were now on the front stoop. “I cannot answer you now,” I said, “but I shall consider what you have said.”
A stupid sentence. But it was all I could manage.
Inside the house, I threw my coat on the rack, and headed straight for the staircase. “I cannot talk now, Mama,” I said. “I’m so tired I simply have to rest for an hour or two.” I ran up the stairs into the bedchamber I shared with my sisters and slammed the door shut.
I was tired, yes, but sleep was not in my reckoning at the moment. I had to think of how to get to Niagara. If this Willcocks scoundrel was indeed planning revenge, I had to find a way to warn my brother John and his family and to help keep them safe. I also had to give my friend Charlotte Dickson whatever assistance she might need.