Chapter Eight

When one reaches a decision, however painful the decision might be, one feels a sort of relief, a certain peace of mind. The next few weeks passed with my seeing very little of John, and when he did call, it was to engage Lila’s assistance or bring us a pail of clams or a bundle of fat corn. He made no attempt to distinguish me among my sisters, nor did he linger long among us. The correctness of our behavior gave serenity to my wounded heart.

However, one morning he stepped into the cottage carrying a letter. “I need to speak with you,” he declared after making his bow to Aleta and Lila.

“Very well.” I led him from the sitting room into the dining parlor. He walked about as I sat still, my sewing task still on my lap. “May I order tea for you?”

“No, I thank you.”

Finally he seated himself. “Cassie, I had a specific reason for calling this morning. I received a letter from my solicitor friend in London. He has been trying to ascertain whether or not Mr. Stanfield is attempting to procure a divorce.”

“Oh,” I replied, having nothing else to say. The subject was a very uncomfortable one. I had treated Mr. Stanfield badly and had not yet learnt to forgive myself.

John continued, “According to my correspondent—his name is Victor Pratt—your husband and his mother disagree over the matter. The gossip about the courthouse is that she wants her son to remain married, but he is arguing for a divorce as quickly as possible.”

“Yes,” I sighed. “That sounds like Mrs. Stanfield. She loves nothing better than to dictate to others, especially her son. But why would she want Charles to remain married to me? She disliked me intensely.”

“Mr. Pratt asked himself the same question. He could not speak with Mr. or Mrs. Stanfield, of course, but he was able to obtain some information from the clerk of the attorney who handles Mrs. Stanfield’s affairs when she is in London.”

“And…?”

“Apparently, Mrs. Stanfield fears that Charles would never marry again. She insists he seek a reconciliation with you.”

“Good heavens.”

“According to the clerk, Mr. Stanfield is considering the matter.”

I dropped the blouse I was repairing. My heart pounded, and my breath came in gasps.

John seized my hand. “My darling, I did not know these tidings would upset you so!”

“John, do you not see? Charles’s mother is a harpy who is simply toying with me, tormenting me! She wants to keep me tied to him and destroy whatever happiness I might in time gain!”

John was silent, holding my hands in his. No circumstance had yet made me know that I loved him until now when love was vain. I had been certain Charles would divorce me, but I had not counted on the vitriol of his mother—she with her boundless influence! She had the power to hurt me and would use it.

Lila and I were finishing our tea and scones the next morning while Aleta slept, when John once again arrived, driving into the front garden at a fast trot. I ran to the door to admit him, for he looked to be in a great hurry and I guessed his purpose.

“Mrs. Loch, I need you!” he called upon entering. “Damien Pitt has half severed his left arm with a scythe. I must stitch it without delay and will need your help!”

“Why does your mother not assist you?” I asked.

“As luck would have it, two women in the village are in labor and one of the labors has gone on far too long. My mother is with that woman, trying to save her and the child. The midwife is with the other, but she needs an assistant. Cassandra, could you…?”

Lila flung on her cloak. “Do not be absurd, John. She would be of no more use than a fly.”

I glared at Lila. “We made a pact, Lila. I will not disparage you, and you will not disparage me.” I turned to John. “I will do my best to help.”

“I knew you would! Come!” he called as he headed for the door. “We have no time to lose.”

I scribbled a quick note to Aleta, seized my cloak, and followed Lila out the door. John helped us into the carriage and slapped the reins. My heart was beating rapidly. Not only was my body pressed against John’s, an exciting circumstance in itself, but also I was going to help with the birth of a child! I prayed that I would not disgrace myself by vomiting, fainting, or running away.

John drove his horse at a canter, bouncing us rapidly over the rutted roads and into the main street of the village of Caemre. The shops of the chandler, the butcher, and the tailor went by in a blur, and the gig rocked as we galloped around a corner into a narrow lane. John pulled up next to a closely shuttered shop. The weathered sign on the door said T. Battley, Greengrocer.

John jumped out and helped me down. “Mrs. Battley is on the first floor. I’ll call for you later.” He leaped into the gig and slapped the reins. Lila’s head jerked as the horse bolted forward.

I stood in the mud of the village street, alone and frightened. But I had promised to help, so I opened the heavy door of the shop and climbed a flight of steep, dark stairs. A musty aroma filled my nostrils, and when I reached the landing and stood before the door of the apartment, a cry of pain made me stop with my hand raised to knock.

I gasped for breath as the scream subsided. The edge of my vision blackened, and I had to lean against the door for a moment. I took a breath and carefully pushed open the door.

I passed through a small parlor and into a bedroom, following the sounds. A very young woman was writhing on the bed, while an older one—the midwife—bent over her. They both looked at me as I entered, and I was barely able to breathe out the words, “I came to assist.”

“Good,” said the midwife. “Sit here.” She pulled a worn and scratched wooden chair next to the bed. I sat down and stared at the distorted face of the young woman as she cried out in agony. Finally her pain ended, and she fell back on the pillow gasping. I realized I had been holding my breath, and I sucked in air with a shudder.

“Mrs. Battley,” said the midwife, “this lady is here to help you.” To me she added, “She’s two minutes apart. Hold her hands when the pain comes. Hold her tight. Don’t let her hit me.”

I believe my face at that point was as white as the patient’s. I was shaking as I smiled at Mrs. Battley and gently took one of her hands in mine. With my free hand, I brushed her pretty light hair back and carefully wiped her face with a clean linen square from a pile on the bed. The midwife stood up and stretched her back, and then she stationed herself at the foot of the bed. She eased up Mrs. Battley’s nightgown.

“What is your first name?” I asked.

“Constance,” she whispered.

“May I call you that?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I started to thank her, but she gasped and arched her back. I seized her other hand, and her fingers gripped me so hard her fingernails bit into my skin.

“Hold tight!” cried the midwife. “The babe is crowning!”

Constance tried to rock back and forth as the pain drove her into a frenzy. The midwife was between her legs easing a bloody lump out of her. I felt my gorge rise, so I looked only at Constance. I placed my body against her chest to hold her still and kept a tight grip on her hands.

“Push!” cried the midwife. Constance threw her head back and forth, but I pushed myself against her chest and whispered in her face, “Push, Constance. It’s nearly over. Push.”

Constance gave one last push, accompanied by a weak scream. Then she fell back on the pillows, gasping hoarsely.

“Aha!” cried the midwife. “You have a fat son, missus!” She rubbed the infant vigorously, and he hiccupped as he took his first breath. He wrinkled up his tiny face and mewled. The midwife wrapped him loosely in a linen cloth.

I thought Constance had died, so still and white she lay. “Midwife,” I gasped. “Look at her!”

“Don’t you worry, madam. She’s fine. You can cut the cord for me, and we’ll welcome this little feller to the world.”

Constance’s eyes fluttered open, and she tried to smile. I breathed a sigh of relief. “Do cut the cord, madam,” she whispered.

I watched in horrified fascination as the midwife tied a length of string around the purplish cord that curved from the baby’s stomach. Then she handed me a great pair of shears and told me where to cut. I gasped and held my breath as my trembling hand guided the blades through the pulsing tissue. Blood splattered me, and I gagged. The midwife laughed. She handed the baby to me and asked me to give him to the mother while she delivered the afterbirth. I gazed at the tiny visage with its tightly shut eyes, and tears of awe dampened my face. I would give my life to protect this helpless infant.

I assisted Constance to sit up and placed the babe in her arms. She was full of joy now, the pain forgotten as she looked at her son.

“Put him to the breast, Mrs. Battley,” called the midwife, as she busied herself with towels and rags to control the bloody lumps issuing from under Constance’s nightgown. Together, the young mother and I exposed one breast and positioned the babe for suckling.

I sat with Constance until John arrived to take me home. The new father arrived at the same time, and there were hearty congratulations all around. The midwife informed John that I had done a superb job and made a great difference to the well-being of the mother and baby. I was so proud, I couldn’t stop smiling. I kissed Constance goodbye and promised to visit often to see her and the little boy.

We trotted away from the village at a slow pace, savoring the fresh September air. The meadows were filled with autumn flowers, and butterflies moved among them like graceful dancers. As the road became rougher, the horse slowed to a walk, and my eyes feasted on the loveliness of this wild land. As I sighed with contentment and exhaustion, my tense body relaxed and swayed with the rhythm of the carriage.

My thoughts eventually returned to the miraculous birth I had witnessed and from there to the other emergencies of the day. I was sitting between John and Lila, and I turned to my sister and asked how the arm of the injured man was faring. She turned red and looked away and then muttered something I did not hear. I raised my eyebrows at John.

“We had to take the arm off,” he said. “The poor devil’s elbow was shattered.”

“How horrible,” I whispered. “Will he survive?”

“I hope so. But we had very little laudanum available to kill his pain. We had to tie him down during the surgery, and his screams were too much for Mrs. Loch. She fainted.”

“John, how could you have exposed Lila to such a scene? I am appalled!”

“Yes, it was my fault entirely. I should not have subjected her to an amputation. It is a circumstance that can make strong men faint, but your staunch sister soon regained her feet and again administered to the patient.”

“How amazing! Lila, I salute you!”

Lila’s pale visage turned to mine. “I must thank you for the compliment so that John will not scold me for bad manners. But in truth, I was quite disappointed in myself.”

John reached around me and patted Lila’s shoulder. “You are a brave, brave lady.” He continued, “Without Lila’s assistance, Cassie, Damien Pitt would be in much worse condition than he is now. His wound is clean and well stitched, but thanks to her suggestion, his stump will swell less.”

“What do you mean?”

Lila explained. “Old Dr. Bailey, who took care of us at North Commons before you were born, Cassandra, told me that if a wound is left a bit open, fluid will drain out of it, and the patient will not swell up and have as much pain.”

John nodded in agreement. “It makes perfect sense, and I am ashamed that I never realized this myself. My mother will be interested to know this, also.”

“Have you spoken with your mother?” I asked. “How is the other poor woman in labor?”

“She sent a note while I was still with Damien Pitt. The mother and child survived, but it will be a long recovery for both. In such cases, there is a fear of infection in the mother.”

“Where is your mother now?”

“I believe she and Caitlin are at home. In her note, she said a farmer who had brought in a delivery of vegetables offered to drive her to the cottage on his way back.”

“I hope I can call on them tomorrow.”

“Why not today? I’ll wait while you and Lila change your clothing, and you can dine with us. Caitlin is a fine cook, and I know she’ll have something prepared. Miss Tenley is welcome too, of course.”

I exchanged a glance with my sister, and we read each other’s minds. We were covered in blood and any dinner item that resembled blood or involved rare meat would send us to the necessary house to lose our gorge!

“You are very kind,” I replied. “I certainly would like to join you, but I’m quite sure I’m not capable of eating anything more than the lightest fare.”

John laughed. “Fresh-baked breads with jam, some cheeses, and a great deal of wine would no doubt suit us all after such a day!”

John Carter’s mother and sister stayed in Wales another week and were pleasant additions to my little social group. Even Lady Lovell left the independence of her isolated estate to have tea. Mrs. Carter was a serious person, who had little appreciation of a joke or bon mot, but Caitlin was more like her brother, warm and forthright. Although our lives had been very different, we formed a comfortable friendship. When Caitlin and her mother were about to board ship for the journey home, they pressed my sisters and me to visit them at any time.