22

Satin: a silk with a glazed surface created using many threads of the warp overlaying the weft.

On my return to London Mrs T. greeted me with an outpouring of woes: late deliveries of a certain important length of satin, a shortage of silk thread of the correct colour for an urgent job and an irate customer who had returned her gown torn after a single outing, claiming it to have been the fault of shoddy sewing.

Over the past few years I have trained myself not to become flustered by such irritations. In fact there is great satisfaction to be gained through placating a complaining customer, or making a recalcitrant supplier understand that your order must be met, and now. Rent must be paid, suppliers’ overdue invoices to satisfy and, most importantly of all, wages to find.

I spent the following week sorting out the accounts; there is nothing like applying one’s brain to the black and white facts that are numbers, ensuring that the books are balanced, for sorting out your priorities. Five people – Mrs T. and the four seamstresses – rely on me for their livelihoods, not to mention the legion of children and elderly relatives who depend in turn on their income.

And all the while new customers arrived requesting outfits for the summer season at Bath and elsewhere. On Wednesday, Eva Garrick appeared at our doorstep and we enjoyed a most lively afternoon considering what she might wear – gowns that were both flattering and pretty – to accompany her husband at the various events of his Shakespeare Pageant. Having previously been so much in awe of her, I realised partway through our meeting that she was talking to me as you would a friend, sharing gossip and jokes.

Mrs T. and the seamstresses were greatly impressed when I told them who she was.

‘Could she get us tickets to see Mr Garrick on the stage?’ they all wanted to know.

As ever, tastes in fashion turned on a penny: waistlines were rising, petticoats disappearing, hoops almost vanished. Sleeve lace must be simpler, necklines lower and more revealing, except for married ladies, of course. A less fussy, more natural look in both line and fabric design seemed an unstoppable trend, but it was a rare sort of customer, the more adventurous types only, who were prepared to embrace it entirely. Some even spoke of the day when stays could be abandoned, though I would eat my hat if this occurred in my lifetime.

‘Why would one want to reveal one’s untamed curves, darling? Mine are in all the wrong places,’ one particularly pompous customer pronounced. Thereafter the phrase ‘all the wrong places’ was bandied about the sewing room as humorous invective, especially when the seamstresses were trying to piece a particularly demanding fit of bodice or sleeve.

Three weeks passed in almost continuous work, save for a couple of visits from Anna, whose own waist seemed to expand by the day. I designed two gowns for her with high waistlines so that she did not have to wear stays, and made them up in soft cambric.

‘At last I can breathe,’ she sighed gratefully as I tied the laces at the back, subtly concealed beneath a flattering false cape. ‘You’re a miracle worker, Charlotte. Why has no one ever thought of designing for expectant mothers before now?’

It set me thinking. Married women spend much of their lives with child, so why should they be expected to conceal their condition or even, as their time approaches, to remain hidden from society? Was their shape something to be ashamed of, somehow offensive to the eyes of men or indeed their fellow women? Surely, the creation of a new life was something to be celebrated?

I determined that the next time a customer came to us asking for a gown to be altered to allow for their expanding belly I would show them my designs for Anna. Of such are small revolutions made, I told myself. Although I rather doubted that it would single-handedly change society’s expectations, at least it might make life a little more comfortable for women undertaking the most important task in the world.

Then, late on a Friday afternoon just as we were shutting up shop, she arrived in a state of great distress, her face flushed and eyes reddened from weeping. As I unlocked and opened the door she stumbled into the showroom and fell into my arms. I pulled over a chair and sat her down at once.

‘My goodness, what ails you? Not the baby?’

She struggled for breath. ‘It’s my father . . . I must go . . .’

‘Theodore? He is unwell again?’

She leaned against me, clutching at my arms and sobbing afresh. ‘Oh Charlotte . . . I cannot bear it . . .’

‘Is he . . .?’ I asked, unwilling to say the dread word.

‘No, but the doctor says we must prepare for the worst.’ She held out a crumpled letter, signed by Theodore’s neighbour Mary Marshall. Quickly scanning it, I caught the words: ‘We may not have long.’

‘Of course you must go to Suffolk at once, and I shall accompany you. That is what I promised,’ I said, already starting to plan, in my head, how to persuade Mrs T. to cover for me once more, so soon after my recent absence. But this was a matter of life and death.

At eight o’clock the following morning, just as I was about to leave to meet Anna at the coach stop as we had arranged, there was an urgent hammering at the front door. It was Henri, grey-faced and dishevelled.

‘You must come, Charlotte. She is asking for you,’ he gasped, grabbing my hand.

‘What, who? Now, slowly. Is it her father?’

‘No, not him. It is Anna. The pains have started.’

‘But it is long before her time.’ I know little about childbirth but had heard that if a mother suffered a terrible shock it might bring on a baby too early.

‘She has been suffering all night, crying out with the agony. And there is blood, lots of it.’ He shuddered. ‘She is scared, Charlotte. You know what happened to her mama?’

‘But she is strong, Henri. Have you called the midwife?’

‘She’s just arrived. But Anna wants you. Can you come?’

‘Of course, we shall go at once. Just let me get my cape.’

He set off at such a pace through streets already busy with carts and carriages, shoppers and traders that I had to run to keep up with him. Anna’s agony could be heard from several doors away. As we entered Wood Street, women were already out on their doorsteps, wringing their hands and whispering their sympathies to Henri as we passed.

Mariette appeared at the doorway carrying little Jean, who was clutching his favourite cloth rabbit. ‘We are going to see grand-mama, aren’t we? We’re going to have a lovely day, and then later perhaps we will meet your new sister or brother.’

Henri leaned forward to kiss his son. ‘Be good, little one,’ he said, adding, ‘We really appreciate this, Mariette.’

‘Is there any further news of Theodore?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘Not since the letter yesterday that put Anna into such a spin.’

‘Then we must pray for both of them,’ she said.

The Vendome house is normally such a welcoming place, full of cheerful industry and friendship. But this day the usually bright and convivial atmosphere was cloaked with the heavy weight of anxiety. As we passed the parlour door I saw that Monsieur Lavalle was slumped in his usual chair beside the empty fireplace. He barely lifted his head to acknowledge me.

‘It’s been a long night for the old man,’ Henri whispered.

Breakfast was laid in the dining room, apparently untouched. Not even the normally ravenous apprentices or the drawboy, it seemed, could summon any appetite. By this time of the morning we would expect to hear the familiar thud of the looms from the weaving loft above, but it was silent. Perhaps Henri had told them to go out for the day? No one could have the heart to continue their everyday tasks while such a drama was taking place.

As if Anna’s cries were not distressing enough, we encountered cook descending the stairs carrying a bowl of bloodied red towels. ‘The mistress is calling for you, Monsieur Vendome,’ she puffed. ‘Just going to boil more water.’ We hurried upwards to Anna’s chamber.

As we reached the door a formidable figure who I presumed to be the midwife rushed to block our entry. ‘Sorry, master,’ she said. ‘The birthing room is no place for a man.’

‘But cannot I even see her?’ Henri protested.

‘Be assured we are taking the very best care of your wife,’ she said firmly. ‘Please wait downstairs until we call you.’ He stepped away reluctantly, nudging me forward. ‘Then you must allow our friend Miss Amesbury to go in. Anna has been calling for her.’

‘Are you the person she calls Charlotte?’

‘I am, madam. Please . . .’

We were interrupted by a most chilling sound, a deep baying howl like an animal in the deepest distress; the sort you would hope never to hear from any living being. As the midwife rushed back into the room, I followed. My dearest friend was almost unrecognisable: her face contorted and grey in hue; her body writhing in agony. The sheets were streaked with red.

‘Listen Anna, it’s me, Charlotte,’ I said, rushing to her side and clasping her hand. ‘Squeeze tight if it helps.’

Her eyes turned, wide with fear. ‘Save me, Charlotte. I think I’m dying.’

‘You are not going to die, Anna. This baby will be born soon, and you are in good hands.’ The clearest memory leapt into my head: the low, reassuring voice of the nun as she helped me to deliver Peter. ‘Breathe slowly and deeply, if you can. Listen to me, follow what I do: in . . . out . . . in . . . out. That’s it, keep going like that.’

When the spasm passed I took a cup from the bedside table and offered her a sip of water before the next arrived. Then I took up a clean towel, dipped it into the ewer and wiped the sweat from her forehead.

‘Just get this baby out. Get it out,’ she hollered, dissolving into pitiful sobs. ‘I don’t want to die.’

Between each pain I tried to comfort her, telling her that she was doing well, that the baby would soon be born, that she would be right as rain. But as time went by and the midwife’s face became increasingly anxious, I began to doubt my words. Anna’s cries became weaker, she closed her eyes and her face seemed to blanch yet whiter, as though all the blood in her skin had simply leaked away.

I was beginning to fear the worst when her poor battered body seemed to contort again, and the midwife peered between her legs, shouting. ‘I can see the head. Push now, missus. Push as hard as you can. It’s nearly here now.’

Anna revived slightly, trying to summon the strength for this last onslaught, before giving up. ‘I can’t,’ she groaned. ‘I can’t do it.’ She closed her eyes again and seemed to drift from consciousness.

‘For heaven’s sake, isn’t there anything you can do to save her?’ I shouted. ‘She’s slipping away.’

My plea seemed to galvanise the midwife into action. She ripped away the bedclothes and, placing her palms at the top of Anna’s stomach, began to press downwards with such force that her muscles bulged. Then she moved her hands to either side of the bump, massaging the muscles beneath.

‘Come,’ she ordered. ‘Do this for me.’ She placed my hands into position, covering them with her own to demonstrate the pressure required; so fierce that I feared the baby beneath must be squeezed half to death. She returned to the end of the bed and to my horror seemed to thrust her hand right inside my poor friend’s body. All the while, she urged me to push now, push again, harder.

‘Let the child die if you must, please God,’ I prayed silently, sweating from the effort of following her instructions. ‘But please, in your greatest mercy, spare the life of my friend.’

I seemed to lose all track of time, but the next thing I knew was the midwife’s voice. ‘There we go,’ she said, holding up a scrap of blue and bloodied flesh, like a tiny skinned rabbit.

‘It’s a girl.’

She ran her fingers inside the tiny mouth and then proceeded to whack it firmly on the back, several times. The scrap jerked, limp and lifeless. She laid it down and, placing her mouth over the little face, blew into it with her own breath. I gaped, astonished, as with each puff the tiny ribs rose and fell beneath the almost translucent skin. After a few breaths, the skin began to take on a pinker tinge. She stood back and waited for what seemed like an eternity.

And then, such joy! The child coughed and gave a tiny mew, like a newborn kitten.

‘Good girl.’ Swiftly and expertly swaddling it in a towel, she handed it to me. ‘Here, hold her while I try to stop this bleeding.’

It seemed barely credible that such a tiny creature could sustain life. But she continued to mew, so for the moment she was alive. ‘Wake up, Anna, please,’ I said. ‘Wake up! Open your eyes and see. You have a beautiful baby daughter.’

There was no response. I felt for a pulse at her neck and could feel it beating, but only faintly. Desperate now, I splashed water onto her face, gently slapping her cheeks. Her eyelids fluttered, just once, but after that she seemed to drift into a deeper sleep. Now I really feared for the worst.

The midwife lifted what looked like a great lump of liver, wrapping it into a towel and placing it aside. ‘Now we should be able to stem that bleeding,’ she said. ‘But best get the husband to call their pastor, just in case.’

Henri came running as I called for him. ‘You have a beautiful baby girl,’ I said, showing him the tiny bundle.

‘A girl? She’s alive?’ He peered into the miniature face, no bigger than a puckered crab apple, and tears began to course down his cheeks. ‘But Anna . . .?’

‘She has lost a lot of blood. The midwife says we should call the pastor.’

‘The pastor? Bon dieu.’ The expression of utter anguish in Henri’s eyes will stay with me forever. He handed the baby back and kneeled by the bed, taking the limp body of his wife in his arms, placing his head on her chest. ‘Don’t leave me, Anna, I love you so much. And I shall not be able to go on without you,’ he keened, looking around with desperate eyes. ‘For God’s sake, don’t let her die.’

The midwife was busying herself pulling away the bloodied sheets, piling them into a corner. ‘She’s stopped bleeding,’ she said. ‘That’s a good sign.’

‘And she is still breathing. We must pray for the best,’ I said, kneeling beside him. ‘Here, take your daughter, hold her close. The cries might help to bring her round.’

‘Open your eyes, Anna my darling, look at what we have.’ Henri held the little bundle close to his wife’s cheek so that she might hear its tiny whimpers. ‘Wake up and say hello to our beautiful daughter.’

He pulled aside the fabric to more clearly reveal the baby’s angry red face. Her mewing was growing louder by the moment. This child was determined to live.

‘The baby must be fed, Henri. I’ll send for a wet nurse, shall I?’

He nodded, gratefully. ‘And can you ask for the pastor so she can be christened? I want to call her Anna.’