It was the end of a long day and in the Belair kitchen there was a general feeling of relief; at last they could begin to relax. Miss Clarice’s wedding day was almost over and all had been well.
There had been a hectic two hours while the meal was being served, when everyone in the kitchen was at full stretch, but there had been no hitches. Clarice and Lucas’s wedding feast had proceeded exactly according to plan. Didier, dignified as always, had presided in the pavilion and had no problem instructing the waiters hired in for the day. In the kitchen Monsieur Antoine had worked his magic and the exceptional dishes prepared under his eagle eye had been sent out to the guests with smooth efficiency.
Now the tables had been cleared, the remnants of the food were in the cool of the pantry and the piles of dirty plates were stacked up in the scullery to be washed later. Food had been sent out to the visiting coachmen, who waited patiently for the carriages they drove to be summoned, but the household staff were called to eat in the kitchen and there was a welcome respite as everyone sat down at the table.
Leaving nothing to chance, Didier was still busy within the pavilion, making sure that the gentlemen were not short of wine, or following the meal, a cognac or a glass of port; that the ladies, still seated, were supplied with dishes of sweetmeats and their glasses were topped up with cordial or sweet wine.
Madame Sauze took her place at the foot of the kitchen table and began to serve out the food. She sat in Madame Choux’s habitual chair, leaving Didier’s, at the head of the table, ready for his return. She looked round the gathered servants, and having said a brief grace, she began ladling chicken onto a plate.
‘Lizette, child, take this to Madame Choux in her parlour.’
Lizette paled at the idea of going into Madame Choux’s private room, and taking pity on her, Annette got to her feet.
‘I’ll take it, madame,’ she said, and as she picked up the tray she was rewarded by a look of profound relief on Lizette’s face. The young maid, unused to kindness, was finding life more comfortable since Madame Choux had taken to her parlour.
It was as Annette came back to the table that it happened. Her back had been aching most of the day, but now she suffered a sudden stab of pain, so sharp and unexpected that she had to catch hold of the table to steady herself; for a long moment she couldn’t move as she fought the pain and then it was gone, leaving her breathless.
Agathe looked anxiously across at her. ‘Annette! Are you all right?’
‘Yes, aunt,’ she replied shakily. ‘Just a little pain in my back.’ She sank down onto her chair and then realised in horror that her skirt was soaking as water was seeping out between her legs. Colour flooded her cheeks in humiliation. Surely she had not wet herself, here in front of everyone! Those about the table suddenly fell silent as, with a low moan, Annette grabbed her damp skirts and fled from the room.
Ella, a girl who’d come in from the village, giggled, breaking the silence. ‘Annette’s pissed herself, she has! There’s a puddle on the floor!’
Agathe turned on the girl, furious, and snapped, ‘Don’t be ridiculous! She’s expecting a baby. That’s a sign it’s about to be born.’ She got to her feet. ‘I’m going to find her; and you, Ella,’ she retorted, ‘can mop the floor. Now!’
As she followed Annette out into the passageway, she heard an excited burst of conversation in the room behind her.
It’s the worst possible time for this to happen, she thought as she took the back stairs up to their bedroom. On Clarice’s wedding day of all days, when the house is full of strangers and everyone’s at full stretch.
Due to Father Thomas’s systematic abuse, they did not know exactly when the baby was due, but judging from Annette’s size Agathe had guessed there were a few more weeks to go. She had thought there would be plenty of warning when Annette went into labour and they had planned she should be safely in the home of the Madame Leclerc for her lying-in and the birth. But now Agathe was at a loss. Now her waters had broken the birth seemed imminent. Poor child! They should get her conveyed to Madame Leclerc’s at once, but how?
She hurried up the stairs and, on opening the bedroom door, found Annette sitting, pale-faced but dry-eyed, on the side of the bed.
‘Annette!’ she cried. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’ve wet myself,’ Annette replied bleakly. ‘In front of the whole room!’
‘No, you haven’t,’ said Agathe, going over to sit beside her and taking her hands. ‘Your waters have broken. It’s a sign that the baby is coming. Are you having pains?’
‘No. Yes. Well, some backache, it comes and goes, but that’s from carrying those heavy buckets this morning.’
‘No, Annette, it’s not. I think you’re in labour.’
As she spoke Annette was gripped by a sudden pain, making her gasp and grip Agathe’s hands so tightly that it hurt. After a few moments she relaxed again.
‘Your baby is on its way,’ Agathe said gently. ‘Very soon you will be a mother… something I’ve never been.’
‘You’ve been like a mother to me,’ responded Annette softly.
Agathe knew a moment’s warmth at the girl’s words, and then she was all practicalities.
‘We should prepare for the little one’s arrival,’ she said. ‘I think it’s too late and too difficult to get you to Madame Leclerc’s now. Lie back on your bed while I send Pierre to fetch her here.’
As she got downstairs Adèle Paquet came out of the kitchen. The cook caught her hand and asked, ‘Annette! What’s happening? Is she going to be all right?’
‘She’s gone into labour,’ replied Agathe. ‘We need to send for Madame Leclerc.’
‘But will she come?’
‘She has to.’ There was panic in Agathe’s voice. ‘Who else can deliver the baby? I’m going to find Madame and ask if Pierre may fetch her from the village. Will you go and sit with Annette, Adèle? Tell her I’ll be back in just a minute.’
The cook immediately started up the stairs and Agathe hurried out into the hallway in search of Madame St Clair, and there she found Hélène, standing talking to a gentleman she didn’t recognise. Even as she explained that she needed to speak to her mistress, Agathe realised what she was doing. How on earth could she interrupt Madame at her daughter’s wedding? She, Agathe, was in charge of the household servants. It was up to her to decide what they should do.
Leaving Hélène and the young man staring after her, she hurried back to the kitchen, where most of the servants were still gathered, and an expectant silence fell as she appeared.
‘Annette’s baby’s about to be born,’ she told them. ‘I’m sending Pierre for the midwife.’
She hurried out into the yard, where she found Pierre sitting on a bench outside the stables, having a last smoke before he turned in for the night.
‘Pierre,’ she cried when she saw him, ‘I need your help. Annette’s gone into labour. I need you to go to the village and fetch the midwife. Madame Leclerc.’
‘Madame Leclerc? Where will I find her?’
‘She lives in the lane behind Le Coq d’Argent. Anyone will direct you. Hurry, Pierre, before it’s too late.’
‘Too late? Can’t you—’ began Pierre.
‘I can’t deliver a baby, Pierre,’ Agathe said, a break in her voice. ‘We have to get help… now. Please, there’s no time to waste.’
Pierre got to his feet. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll take Magic and cut across the fields. He’s quite strong enough to carry both of us back. Tell Annette I’ve gone for help.’
Agathe clasped his hand. ‘Thank you, Pierre.’
‘Though what the master will say when he hears I’ve been gallivanting off into the night on one of his horses without a word or a by-your-leave, I don’t know.’ He grinned down at her. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘we’ll worry about that when the time comes.’
Moments later he was clattering out of the yard on Magic, heading into the night in search of the midwife. He didn’t mind going. He’d quite taken to Annette. She was a pretty little thing, and though he didn’t for one moment believe the story of the dead husband, he thought her brave the way she coped with her situation, for whichever way you looked at it the baby had no father and she was going to have to manage on her own.
Agathe returned indoors knowing she had done all she could with regard to the midwife. She hurried up the stairs to the bedroom, where she found the cook had managed to get Annette into her nightdress and into her bed.
The look of relief on Annette’s face when she came in through the door was heart-rending.
She’s relying on us to see her through, Agathe thought in panic. How are we going to cope if Madame Leclerc doesn’t get here in time?
She pasted a smile onto her face and said, ‘How are you feeling, Annette? Pierre’s on his way to fetch Madame Leclerc. He’s taken a horse and they’ll be back as soon as they can.’
At that moment Annette was overtaken by another sharp contraction and couldn’t suppress a cry of pain. Agathe was at her side at once, grasping her hand as she fought the griping in her belly.
When the contraction had passed, Annette collapsed back onto the bed, breathing heavily. Agathe turned to Adele and said, ‘We’ll need some clean towels. Will you wait with her while I go and find some? Then perhaps you could go down to the kitchen and set some water to boil.’
It was as she gathered towels from the linen cupboard that Rosalie appeared at the head of the stairs.
‘Madame Sauze,’ she said, ‘Hélène said there was some kind of trouble, some problem?’
‘Oh. Madame, I didn’t want her to trouble you. I should not have spoken to her.’
‘Well, you did,’ replied Rosalie briskly. ‘So, what is the problem?’
‘It’s Annette, madame. She has gone into labour and…’’
Rosalie closed her eyes. Today of all days! Still, there was nothing they could do about that now. ‘Where is she?’
‘In our room, madame.’ Agathe drew a deep breath and added, ‘I took the liberty of sending Pierre for the midwife.’
‘Did you now?’ If Rosalie was surprised at her housekeeper sending the coachman on errands on behalf of a maid, she didn’t say so. ‘Let’s hope she gets here in time. Bring those towels and let’s have a look at her.’
‘Oh, madame, it’s not appropriate for you to—’ Agathe began.
‘And it’s not for you to tell me what’s appropriate!’ interrupted Rosalie. ‘Come along.’ And with that she turned on her heel and set off along the landing, followed by Agathe, still clutching the pile of clean towels.
When they reached the bedroom they found Annette sitting up in her bed, with Adèle sitting beside her, admiring the small clothes Annette had made in readiness for her baby.
‘Now then, Annette,’ Rosalie said when the girl stared at her in horror at having been found in her bed by her mistress and tried to get up. ‘No, no, stay where you are.’ Rosalie waved a staying hand. ‘I hear your baby is on the way. Pierre has gone to fetch Madame Leclerc, and as soon as she arrives she’ll be up here to help you. I’m sure she won’t be long.’
Even as she spoke Annette was gripped by another contraction, making her cry out in pain. Agathe was immediately at her side.
Rosalie turned to Adèle Paquet. ‘How long since the last one?’ she asked.
‘Not long, madame,’ replied the cook. ‘Maybe fifteen minutes.’
‘Then you’d better go downstairs and as soon as the midwife arrives bring her straight up. Make sure there is plenty of boiled water ready when needed.’
As the cook scurried out, Rosalie said, ‘We’d better spread the towels, I fear the birth is very close.’ But there were no more contractions before the door opened and Madame Leclerc stepped into the room.
Rosalie greeted her with relief and said, ‘I’ll leave you to it, madame, I have matters to attend to downstairs.’ As she reached the door she said, ‘Madame Sauze, I will expect to hear from you as soon as the child is born.’
Madame Leclerc moved quickly to the bedside. ‘How long has she been like this?’ she asked.
‘For over an hour,’ replied Agathe. ‘At first her contractions were coming regularly, but they aren’t any more.’
‘This is serious,’ said the midwife as she began her examination. The waters staining the bed ran dark, which she knew was a bad sign. When she had finished her examination she turned to Agathe and said, ‘The baby is lying crosswise. The only chance of saving it – and the mother – is for me to try to turn it so that its head is able to engage.’ She looked at Agathe and went on, ‘It is all I can do.’
At that moment Annette gave another cry as a further contraction gripped her, her face now the colour of putty and covered in sweat.
‘Do what you can,’ Agathe said, and standing aside she watched as the midwife struggled to turn the baby.
Annette’s son was born several hours later. With difficulty and skill Madame Leclerc had managed to turn him, but still he was taking his time to arrive and the mother was getting weaker. Agathe sat beside her, holding her hand as Madame Leclerc encouraged her to bear down and push. At last, with a groan from his mother, the baby’s head emerged and with one further push he slithered into the arms of the waiting midwife. Swiftly she cut the cord that was twisted round his neck and gathered him into a towel. She took one look at him and turned away, keeping her back to the mother, who now lay, eyes closed, exhausted on the bed. He was small, too small, and his skin was pale and blotchy and he made no sound. She rubbed him gently in the towel, wiping his face, clearing mucus from around his nose and mouth, but he remained unmoving in her hands. She turned him over and gave him a sharp slap across his tiny bottom, but still there was nothing, no catch of breath, no cry and gulp of air. She had seen this once before, when the baby, a girl that time, had never drawn breath. She felt for a pulse, holding the baby against her face in search of a heartbeat, but there was none.