Grace didn’t feel at all hungry. She watched her father break his fast, wrap himself against the cold and leave for work, then she stared at the crust of bread and curds on the table that she had prepared for herself and wondered what to do. It was the first day of February, a Monday, and she thought she might begin the new month by cleaning the hearth, sweeping out the room, then moving upstairs to the bedrooms and brushing out the dust. She always kept the besom broom behind the door, and she set to pushing it across the rough dirt floor rhythmically, shifting dry mud and leaves. She stretched up towards the ceiling by the stairs, wafting an empty spider’s web from a corner, and then she stopped, standing still, a hand to her back, which felt hollow and tired. The baby hadn’t moved, not this morning or during the night when he was usually most active, and she hoped all was well. She had risen five times during the night to fill the chamber pot and she had slept fitfully, her spine had ached badly; she had twisted and turned all night, but today she felt energetic, keen to be busy.
Grace resumed sweeping again, then she heard a familiar knock at the door and stopped to listen. ‘Alice,’ she whispered, knowing that the young farmer’s wife often called round on a Monday morning with some eggs in her basket.
When she reached the door, Alice was huddled beneath a warm cape, a basket in her hand.
‘Come inside, warm yourself,’ Grace said. ‘The wind will blow all the dust in again.’
Alice scurried inside, placing the basket on the table. ‘I have brought eggs, cheese, some fish, a piece of Twelfth Night cake that was left over and some fruit pie. I also baked some jumbles – I thought you might like the spice in them. I make jumbles all the time now – the little mouthfuls of sweetness seem to keep Nathaniel happy with me.’ Alice clapped her hands excitedly. ‘There, you see, Grace, I can weave spells too.’
Grace frowned. ‘I weave no spells…’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean to suggest that.’ Alice took two jumble biscuits from beneath the linen cover of the basket, handing one to Grace and nibbling the second. ‘I was jesting.’
Grace held the biscuit to her nose, inhaling the warm smell of cinnamon and nutmeg. ‘I have my simples, my plants and herbs, and that is all I use for the good of others.’
‘I did not mean to offend you. People are very grateful for the remedies you make. Your Grandmother Bett has made a poultice for Ned Shears and I believe he improves on it.’
‘I am glad,’ Grace replied. ‘Then his leg is mended?’
‘Oh no, it will never straighten. I fear it will not bear his weight well again. But the poultice does ease the pain.’
‘Will he be able to work at the farm?’
‘Nathaniel has said he will find him some work to do, although he will not labour with the other men in the fields. Nathaniel feels sorry for him. It was not his fault the branch was laden with so much snow that it broke. I told him you and I had seen it that very day and that you had foretold that it would break.’
Grace nibbled the jumble biscuit. ‘I wish I could have forewarned him.’
‘But you could not,’ Alice said. ‘And there is more bad news. I brought this basket from the kitchen this morning and on the way my sister, Jennet, saw me with it, and she asked me why I often bring food down to Slaugh Cottage. I told her to mind her mouth, but I fear she will tell Mistress Harriet. I will have to take pains that she does not see me again. Jennet has become like Nancy; they are both often in a bad humour. And old Mother Harper is still a shrew. She stares constantly at my belly to see if it has grown. She thinks me an ill match for her son.’
‘And what about your news, Alice? Will there be a child soon?’
Alice’s pretty face crumpled. ‘Not yet, but I wear the acorn against my heart constantly and I burn oak bark on the hearth, and I put plenty of the foods you told me to on my plate: parsley, hazelnuts, pepper, ginger. I have not tried the rabbit’s womb you urged me to eat, but I fear I must be brave and mix it into my dishes for the sake of a child.’
Grace wished that she had some words of comfort. She was filled with sympathy as she reached for Alice’s hand. ‘Can you stay and have some warmed ale with me before you go?’
‘I will, but I must leave soon. My mother-in-law has sent me to the strawed-down barn to milk today. She says since you left, there is not enough milk from the cows and now I must work. None of the milkmaids have charmed fingers to coax the milk from the teats as you do.’
Grace handed Alice a cup of ale, and Alice settled herself in front of the hearth.
‘It would be a nice life, to feel your baby grow and sit by the fireside dreaming of all the moments of happiness to come…’ She stretched out her palms to warm them in front of the blaze. ‘I do believe Nathaniel would love me more if I gave him a son.’
‘He should love you most in the world, Alice, for you are a good person.’ Grace moved to the linen-covered basket on the table. ‘I am grateful for what you have brought. I will use the eggs and the fish later to—’
Grace did not finish her sentence; she slumped forward onto the table, the eggs smashing against the dirt floor, shells and yolk spreading. Then she groaned, a muffled sound of pain.
Alice was at her side. ‘What ails you? Is it the baby?’
Grace looked up, her face contorted. ‘It may be coming now.’ She gripped Alice’s arm. ‘Can you send someone into Ashcomb to fetch my Grandmother Bett? She promised that she will be with me and help me with the birthing.’
Alice’s eyes were wide. ‘I must go myself, Grace. There is no one from the farm who will go in my place. If old Mother Harper beats me, then so be it. I will run as fast as my legs will carry me and fetch Mistress Bett for you.’
‘Go quickly, please.’ Grace bent double again, catching her breath. ‘Bring her as soon as you can.’
Then Alice was gone and Grace stood alone in the room. She leaned over carefully to clean up the broken eggs. When she stood up, there was an intense pain in her back and she felt dizzy. She wondered what she could do to get ready and she tried to recall the time she had helped her grandmother deliver Kitty Stokes’ baby. Everything would need to be clean.
Grace looked around the room. There was a black kettle steaming in the grate, a pile of dry linen scrubbed with ash and urine; she wondered whether she should go to her bedroom and wait there. She felt another pain clutch deep in her belly, and she dragged herself towards the fire, resting against her father’s chair, groaning through tight lips. Grace thought about her father, what he would eat for supper; he would be cold and hungry when he returned from the fields and she did not want him to go without.
She eased herself away from the chair, her hands on her belly; she was not comfortable sitting down. Another pain grabbed her, forcing the breath from her body. Her forehead was damp with perspiration, even though the room was cold as she walked away from the fire to lean against the wooden table. She took a small breath, and then began to walk around the room slowly, squeezing her eyes closed each time a new pain held her.
Grace felt the urge to go outside, to feel the cool wind against her face. She rushed towards the door – Alice had left it open – and she stumbled towards the chattering well. The wind was strong, grass blown flat, the oak tree rustling its branches, the blackthorn rattling twigs against the window shutter.
Grace dropped to her knees and leaned over the well, whispering into the murky depths. ‘Please remember the words we spoke to each other – let my baby thrive. Whatever comes to me, I am contented as long as my child is whole and strong.’
Her words echoed in the dark water at the bottom of the well and she eased herself upright. A pain shot through her abdomen and she wrapped her arms around herself, moaning until it left her. The wind took her cap into the air, across the grass, and her hair blew around her face; the droplets of sweat on her brow cooled and Grace shivered. A crow landed in the oak tree and called out, a harsh cry.
Grace breathed shallow gasps, and hoped that Alice would arrive soon with her grandmother. Then a magpie landed in the herb garden, pecking at the soil. Grace stared at it and spat over her shoulder to ward off evil: a magpie was a harbinger of bad luck. She knew that one bird was an omen: death would follow.
She cradled her belly as another pain came and felt a trickle of liquid beneath her dress.
A second magpie landed in the herb garden, foraging with its beak for worms. Grace whispered, ‘Two for joy.’
She began to shiver; her entire body was convulsing with cold beyond her control, and she staggered back towards the cottage.
A third magpie landed next to its mate. The baby would be a girl.
Grace leaned against the doorpost; she was gripped by a pain that held her there, she could not move. She felt water splash from her body onto the ground. She was not sure what was happening to her, but she needed to be inside the house, to be warm, to hunker down on the dirt floor and wait for the next overwhelming ache to envelop her.
She glanced again at the herb garden; four magpies were there now. One glanced towards her: four, a boy.
Grace stumbled inside the house, leaving the door ajar, and managed to reach her father’s chair before doubling over in agony, grunting through her teeth. She knew the baby was ready to come. She breathed rapidly, panting hard, then she was down on all fours, teeth bared like an animal, waiting for the next wave of pain to clutch her.
Less than an hour later, she heard voices at the door, Bett gasping, Alice’s high cry behind her. Grace sat on the dirt floor leaning against the table, holding her son in her arms; he was suckled, almost asleep, wrapped tightly in a woollen blanket for warmth. Her eyes glowed in the dark room; Grace’s face was soft with love, but there was something else in her expression now, a defensive set of her jaw, the new knowledge that she would protect her child at all costs; she would kill, if need be, to keep him alive.
Bett was by her side. ‘How are you, Gracie? How is the child?’ She turned to Alice. ‘Fetch a warm drink, some posset, something to keep up her strength. And bring me some clean linen and a pitcher of hot water from the kettle. Quickly to it.’
Grace spoke quietly, easing herself into a comfortable position. ‘I am well, Grandmother. And the baby, too, he is well.’
‘You have done this by yourself.’ Bett busied herself with Grace and the baby, speaking as she worked. ‘You have had a good birthing. The baby is strong. It is a wonderful sight, when both mother and child are hearty.’
Then Bett stood slowly, placing a hand on Alice’s shoulder, moving her away from Grace, her voice low and confidential.
‘In truth, Alice, I had not expected the baby to come so quickly. It is not usually this way the first time. But Gracie and the child thrive and I am full of gladness for it. My own sister, Mary, had six children, but only two survived. The first died within half an hour of the birth; the second, at eighteen months. The third, a boy, died during the birth – a terrible time Mary had of it – and the fourth gave her haemorrhages and it died forthwith. The fifth I delivered for her, and the sixth, both safely born. But Gracie has managed it by herself, and my heart is happy to see her so swiftly recovered.’
‘And thank God the child is well.’ Alice turned to gaze fondly at the baby held tightly in Grace’s arms. ‘He is perfect, and so strong. And look at his deep-set eyes and dark hair, his noble brow. He is going to be an important man, I know it.’
‘I know it too.’ Grace’s lids fluttered and closed for a moment. ‘I am sure of it.’ She accepted the cup that Alice placed in her hand and sipped gratefully.
Bett placed her hands on her hips. ‘Well, Gracie, you have a fine son. Alice and I will help you upstairs to your room and you and the baby can rest awhile.’
Grace frowned. ‘I need to prepare my father’s tea.’
‘I will do that,’ Bett said firmly. ‘I will stay here tonight and make sure Will has breakfast tomorrow and I will see that you are warm and comfortable and well fed. After all, you must suckle your son, so you need to eat and drink heartily.’
‘I will bring some things from the kitchen at Hill Top Farm,’ Alice added. She stroked the baby’s round cheek; Grace noticed the soft expression on her face as she gazed at his dark eyes and long eyelashes. Then Alice took Grace’s hand in hers, pressing her fingers fondly. ‘I have sewn a blanket to keep him warm and I will embroider it with the initial of his name and the year of his birth. Bett has promised to help me to copy the numbers from a page, and then I can stitch them. I will bring it to you tomorrow or the day after, once I have finished my chores and milking.’ She laughed softly, placing a hand across her mouth. ‘I know my mother-in-law will be angry with me today, but I am truly happy that I am here with you now, Grace. And your son is so sweet-faced, so handsomely favoured.’
‘He is,’ Grace replied; she noticed her grandmother’s sharp glance, and she knew Bett’s thoughts. The child did not look like Grace; he had tufts of dark hair; he was broad-shouldered, not slender as she was. But Grace had vowed never to talk again about the child’s father.
Bett patted her hand, urging her to drink. ‘And what will you call your son, Gracie? What have you decided to name him?’
Grace pulled the child close to her, smelling the warm, sweet scent as her eyes closed in sleep. ‘His name is Gabriel,’ she said. ‘Gabriel Cotter.’