THE MIDWIFE BRAGGED that the beautiful countess dropped her first three babies as easily as a peasant. When the fourth was delivered even more quickly, the old woman cackled. She tipped the last drops of wine into the mouth of the exhausted mother, snipped the cord, and handed the slippery infant to the young wet nurse, who wrapped him in a warm blanket.
“Perfect. A second son for Count de Muguet,” announced the midwife.
She hoped the count would be generous. His lordship’s bad temper was certain, but his generosity was unpredictable. Leaving the other servants to attend the mother and child, the midwife rushed from the chamber with the good news. The baby cried, a cry strong enough to be heard through the thick oak door. Muguet nodded and flipped the midwife a gold coin. Delighted, she scuttled away.
Inside the dim, candlelit room, the wet nurse cradled the blanketed baby in one arm and wiped his nose and mouth with a damp cloth. The infant was plump and alert, with a lovely little face. She carried him to a windowed alcove.
Perfect, the young woman thought, with a bittersweet smile.
As the sun’s first light brightened the room, the wet nurse ached for her own little boy. Her son would be waking; he would cry for her, hunger for her milk, but he was a year old, old enough to be weaned. From today, her milk belonged to this baby; the count would pay handsomely. But this was the first morning apart from her son, and she fought her tears as she rocked the newborn in her arms.
This child will never know hunger, she thought, and she kissed his forehead.
Laying the baby on a table, the wet nurse unwrapped the blanket and began to rub olive oil into his skin. She studied the rosy infant: five toes on each foot, five fingers on each hand, bright eyes, pale downy hair. But something was missing. She gasped and covered her mouth. On the right side of the baby’s head was a tiny seashell of an ear. But on the left side, there was nothing at all. Just smooth skin where an ear ought to have been.
The young woman crossed herself and set a drop of honey on the baby’s tongue with her finger. Taking a deep breath, she now wondered if this unfortunate child would ever have a happy day. The wet nurse knew what everyone in the castle knew: the count despised imperfection. And here was his son, with an obvious and strange flaw. She swaddled the baby from head to toe in fine white linen just as the count stormed into the birth room.
“Where is my son?”
The startled nurse held up the linen-swathed child for his father.
The count was not a tall man, but he was square, with short legs and broad shoulders; his arms were thick, his fists were enormous, and his voice was loud. His presence was big. He nodded with a rare smile.
“Good. Another hearty boy. Wrap him in this, and bring him to the chapel,” he said, and he tossed the wet nurse a priceless golden cloth, embroidered with pearls and silken threads of all colors. “I shall welcome this fine son into my family before God.”