Remembrance

The two children felt good to her; they felt right. She was still quite shaken by the loss of her own two children and now her arms were at last filled with babies.

The babies did not trust her. They seemed to think that she would again try to separate them, so they held each other fiercely, defiantly, as though they dared anyone to try to separate them.

“It’s all right,” she cooed to them. “I won’t let you be taken from one another. I will protect you. I won’t let anyone harm you.”

As though the children understood her, they relaxed their fierce grip and softened in Meg’s arms.

14

Let me see my son,” Alida said, beginning to recover from her near swoon after the birth. She could not understand her reaction to what had happened. This birth was no different than any of her others, in fact it was less difficult since the child had been rather small. But when the midwife’s knife had touched the girl beside her, she had felt the pain, felt every inch of flesh that the callous woman had cut into. Somehow, Alida knew that the girl had been alive until the birth of her child, until she knew that the child did indeed live, and only then had she died. Alida also knew that the girl had died happily, knowing that her child would live and be cared for.

Alida did not like to think of it now but after the girl died, it was as though Alida could feel the girl’s spirit hovering above the scene, looking down at them, watching everything, taking a moment to look at her child. The girl was at peace, no longer in the body that had been split nearly in half; she felt no pain.

It was Alida who felt the pain. Her body felt as though it had been the one cut open. She, who prided herself on her easy births, she who had great contempt for women who screamed and ranted over such a small thing as giving birth, realized that she was screaming with all her might. She was incoherent with pain, her hands on her belly, making sure that it was still in one piece. It did not feel as though it were in a single piece but felt torn and bleeding, ripped, slashed. The pain was intolerable and she screamed hysterically while the midwife and her maids searched frantically for the cause of her pain. In the turmoil of the search, the children were temporarily forgotten.

Now, with utter confidence, Alida asked to see her son, for of course she had given birth to a son. No woman could go through what she had and not be given what she wanted. Alida had never done anything to God to cause Him to be so cruel as to give her another daughter.

Alida’s words effectively managed to hush the room as all eyes except Meg’s were upon her. Meg was interested only in wrapping a clean cloth about the children so they wouldn’t get cold.

“Well!” Alida said with as much strength as she could manage, for she was weak from pain. “Where is my son?”

None of Alida’s maids wanted the blast of her wrath when she was told that she had had yet another daughter.

Meg felt no such qualms. She knew, of course, about her ladyship’s prayers for a son, but Meg thought they were ridiculous. What did it matter whether a child was a girl or a boy? A child was a Gift from God and should be treated as such.

“You have a beautiful daughter,” Meg said, moving forward in the sudden stillness of the room to smilingly present the children to Alida.

At first Alida refused to hear what was being said. She could not, could not have had yet another girl.

“There now, isn’t she pretty?” Meg was saying as she bent over Alida and showed her the two children in her arms. Meg pulled back the soft cloth covering them. “See how white her skin is, how fine her hair. And such pretty eyes! She will be the most beautiful of your daughters, I can tell.”

Alida, dazed from pain, stunned with disappointment, could not yet believe her misfortune. Now all she could see was the big, golden-skinned boy next to the insignificant blonde girl.

“Let me see my son. Let me see him,” Alida said frantically, her hands reaching out to take the boy, ignoring the girl.

When Meg realized what she was about to do, she drew back. “No!” she said sharply. “The children want to be together.”

There was an intake of breath in the room. Alida’s fierce, quick temper was renowned. The anger her husband took out on her, she took out on those around her, and now they feared her wrath.

But there was something about Meg’s common sense, her lack of fear, that brought Alida back to reality. “I want the boy,” she whispered. “He should have been mine.” Quickly, she began to look about the room, seeing who was there, calculating if she could terrorize these women into silence and secrecy.

She meant to have this boy for her own. Hadn’t the girl given him to her? Wasn’t he by rights hers? And who’s to say that in the confusion the children weren’t switched and this boy was hers and the girl belonged to that dead foreigner? Never mind that all her daughters had been blonde and this boy had a thick crop of black hair.

Could she do it? she wondered.

Only Meg, who did not live daily with Alida and therefore did not see firsthand what she had suffered from her husband over the years, did not know what her ladyship was thinking. And had she known it would not have mattered to her, as long as both children were cared for.

Penella, who had been with Alida since her marriage, was the first to speak. There were tears in her eyes, for she loved her mistress and had, over the years, seen her change from a happy, laughing girl into the virago she now was. “That one,” she whispered, pointing to the dead body of the boy’s mother, “had an old servant woman here. The instant the boy was born, she went to tell the father.”

For a moment Alida’s head reeled with anger, anger at herself, anger at everyone for not having earlier thought of switching the babies. She could have made the suggestion to her maid and she could have cleared the room except for the midwife and herself. The switch would have been easy then. No one would have dared dispute that the son was hers and not this dead girl’s.

And if she’d told John that the boy was his he would have killed that odious Gilbert Rasher if he dared contradict the statement. But most important, her husband would love her. Truly love her.

“I will try to catch her,” Penella whispered as she opened the door to run after the herald.

But John was standing outside the door and behind him, drunk, his dirty face red, was Gilbert Rasher.

In spite of all he could do to keep the hope from his voice and from his face, there was anticipation on John’s face. “There has been a son born,” he said, trying to sound as though he did not believe this could be true, but he was not a good actor.