Dark Angels (70 page)

“One must be gentle,” she said to Alice.

The physician motioned for John and his mother to follow him out onto the landing. Alice did, too. “I can take the child. It may save her, but will surely kill it.”

John leaned into the wall, aghast, staggered at the decision he must make.

“Not yet,” he finally said.

Alice ran down the stairs. Dorothy, hollow eyed, her face haggard, already pounds lighter, was sitting in the downstairs chamber; so was one of the king’s gardeners. As Dorothy and Alice embraced, the gardener pointed to bunches of flowers standing upright in luminous porcelain vases. “From Their Majesties,” said the gardener, “and Prince Rupert, the Dukes of York and Monmouth.”

“I think she may die,” Alice whispered into Dorothy’s ear. Saying the words made her hurt in a way she hadn’t since she was a motherless girl. “Pray,” she told Dorothy and the gardener, “with all your heart.” They sank to their knees.

Outside, Walter walked forward, while Poppy slept in the shade of a tree near the tethered horses.

“It’s bad,” she told Walter. “Pray.”

Alice went back up the stairs. She’d never felt so clear and clean, for once in her life certain. I make myself a prayer, she told God. I make myself a prayer for my beloved friend, my beloved sister whom I have wronged. I make every breath a prayer to You, every moment, every blink of the eye. Bless us. Keep us, O Blessed Lord. I will be good forever if You spare her. I will give to the poor. I will never quarrel. I will be Your most faithful servant.

She walked into the bedchamber. The physician had taken forceps out of his bag. Alice blinked at the sight of them, then knelt at the foot of the bed so that Barbara could see her face.

“You can do this,” she said, some power, some assurance, some command, some fierceness from she knew not where, in her voice. “I’ll do it with you. Push, my darling, push, and I will push with you.” Barbara took a breath, knelt, John standing behind her to hold her up. She grabbed the sheets, let out a groan, and Alice groaned with her, matching her sound for sound, pushing inside herself at an invisible child.

“Ohhhh…”

“Ahhh…”

Over and over, they moaned together.

“It’s coming,” cried the midwife.

Barbara smiled. Her face was in that moment as beautiful as Alice had ever seen it.

“Push! Our child is here!” said John. And Barbara gave a primal groan, arched herself upward in a long movement, and at the end of the sound, Alice saw something drop between her legs. Barbara fell forward. The midwife snatched up the child and began to fold a blanket around it.

Why isn’t it crying? thought Alice. Shouldn’t there be crying?

She and Caro followed the midwife out into the hall. The woman sat on the top stair, the blanket open, her hands moving over the tiny body. Again and again, she put her mouth to the child’s mouth, blew; she bent it over her arm and stroked its back; she stroked the small chest, the head, the legs. Then she sighed and began to cover the child with the blanket.

“Let me see,” commanded Alice. The midwife pulled back the coverlet. Tiny sweet, thought Alice. Tiny darling, whom my Barbara wanted with all her heart. God bless you and keep you. Her heart felt broken for Barbara.

“I’ll clean her and wrap her in swaddling,” the midwife said.

“I b-brought a l-little g-gown….” Caro was crying.

Alice went back into the bedchamber. Barbara lay on her back, cradled in John’s arms, John’s mother smoothing back her hair, murmuring to her, calling her “darling daughter,” “precious girl.” The physician packed away his forceps and his saw.

“The baby…” Barbara hadn’t much strength, could only mouth the words.

“Being cleaned as we speak.” Alice was bright, clear, decisive. “She looks just like you.”

“I don’t hear her.” Alice had to put her ear on Barbara’s mouth and make her repeat the words.

“She’s mewing like a very small kitten,” Alice answered.

Barbara closed her eyes.

Alice followed the physician out to the landing. “Will she live?”

“She’s lost much strength. I’ll be back in the morning.”

Alice went downstairs to Dorothy, who opened her arms to enfold her, and Alice allowed the indulgence of being held. Her body hurt. Her throat felt stripped from groaning. Warm water, she thought. Barbara must be bathed, and all the bedclothes changed. “Find a fresh nightgown for your mistress,” she told the little servant girl. “Are there more sheets for the bed?”

“They all be upstairs in a cupboard, lady.”

“Good. Get them. And fetch water. We’re going to be doing some cleaning.” She wanted Barbara resting in clean sheets, in a clean gown. Let me lose myself in action lest I wither in despair. The quote floated up and back down, as did a glimpse of some despair in her, deep as a river.

B
Y MIDNIGHT, THERE
was a rash on Barbara’s legs and abdomen, and she was feverish. She kept asking for her child, as she’d done all night. “I can’t tell her,” said John. They all agreed they wouldn’t tell her yet.

“Nursing,” Alice told her. “Latched to a wet nurse.”

“Sleeping,” Alice said the next time. “I dare not wake her.”

When he visited early the next morning, the physician shook his head as he pulled the blanket back up over Barbara’s legs. Outside on the landing, he said to John the words every man who has ever loved a woman dreaded: “Childbed fever.”

John closed his eyes.

“What does that mean?” Alice demanded, but neither man answered her, so she followed the physician down the stairs. Balmoral was sitting in the parlor, but Alice wouldn’t have cared if it were King Charles himself; she was intent on the physician, on finding out what she had to know. “Is she dying?” Alice said to him.

“Yes.”

She put her hand on his arm. “How long?”

“It can go as long as a week.”

Alice sat on the bottom step, trembling. A week? How could that be possible? A fortnight ago, she had been refusing Barbara’s friendship. What had happened between now and then? How had time become so cockeyed? How could she have cared what her pride said? How could she be the great, huge fool that she was and live?

Balmoral walked out of the chamber, stood beside her. “Time for you to go home.”

Alice shook her head.

“You need sleep, a fresh gown, some food.”

“If you would have Poll come to me…”

He was silent.

“If she is going to die,” Alice said to no one in particular, her voice breaking, but no tears, “then her last days should be beautiful. Have Poll bring some bedding for me to sleep on. I’ll sleep by the fire like the serving girl. In fact, have Poll bring as many fresh sheets and blankets as Queen Catherine’s housekeeper will allow. Tell her it’s for Barbara. And Queen Catherine must come. She would never forgive herself if she did not say farewell.”

A muscle worked in Balmoral’s jaw. “I think you should go home for a time.”

Alice turned on him, a hissing cat. “For me, at this moment, this is my home! Are you going to aid me in this or not? If not, leave me be! You’re of no use to me!”

He said nothing. Alice walked into the downstairs chamber, looking over the flowers, deciding which she might take upstairs. Pillows, she thought, filled with lavender blossoms to lay her head upon. And rose petals, too.

“What else do you require?” It was Balmoral.

“Pillows. Lavender. Roses. Beeswax candles.”

“Pillows. Lavender. Roses. I’ll bring Riggs. He’ll aid you in whatever you need.”

With a bow, he left her. Alice heard a carriage pull up. A servant handed down Caro, who had left shortly after midnight. She swept in, the servant following with a large basket. Alice smiled. No telling what was in that basket. Caro was always wonderfully practical. When this was over, she’d make her peace with Caro, beg her forgiveness, too.

“How is s-she?” Caro asked.

“The physician was here. He said childbed fever.”

“Dear God.” And on those words, no stammer in them, Caro rushed up the stairs.

The day was hard, visitors coming to call, but Barbara would see no one, crying to hold her child, falling into feverish sleep only to wake again and ask for the child. Across the lane, in a field, soldiers were setting up a great, military tent. Balmoral’s standard flew from the tip of the tent’s top. A base camp, Riggs had explained to her, from which to operate. It will be handy, you’ll see.

In the afternoon, Alice and John and Caro and John’s mother had a conference on the landing. “Should I tell her the truth?” John asked them.

Caro pointed at the prayer stand. “S-see what He s-says. My heart says n-no.”

Alice’s father called, and she ran down the stairs and into his arms. He led her into the parlor, held her hands as words tumbled out of her, about the dead child, about how they didn’t tell Barbara, about the fever, about how stupid she was to have quarreled with Barbara, about what a prideful, thickheaded fool she was, about how she was going to tell Barbara so, beg her forgiveness; yet she saw as the words were pouring out of her that she wouldn’t do it before the others, that she was waiting for a moment alone. So her pride wasn’t quite killed yet.

“What can I do?” he asked.

“Make her live.”

He pressed her hands. “May I see her? Ask if she will receive me.”

Afterward, out on the landing, he cried. “Your mother was that sweet. I wish Barbara’s babe had lived. Your mother’s face when we placed you in her arms…”

When they stood outside the house saying good-bye, he told her, “You need sleep and a change of gown. You’re running on air and unshed tears. You’ll break, Alice.”

“Poll is coming.”

“I’ll be back this evening. And I’ll send Perryman to wait on you.”

“I have Riggs.”

“Well, you’ll have Perryman, too.”

Queen Catherine came to call, leaving her attendants downstairs, Luce and Kit silent, tearful, afraid, the ladies-in-waiting quiet, respectful of this dying they all faced to bear children. Queen Catherine sat by the side of the bed.

“Good and faithful servant, none better, not even Verney here.”

“My child—” whispered Barbara.

“Beautiful. I make her maid of honor someday.”

“I’m so hot.”

“God blesses you and keeps you always.”

Downstairs, a small, dignified doll, Queen Catherine walked to her carriage. Glancing at her face, those who accompanied her knew better than to speak. Alice went to the tiny back room adjoining the downstairs chamber to wash herself, Poll helping her to dress in a fresh gown. On a table sat the tiny coffin the groom and Walter had made. Caro had collected flowers from the arrangements that had been left for Barbara, and these lay across the coffin’s top, covering it. John had sat beside it for a long time this afternoon, one hand touching the wood. And then Alice had an idea. She walked outside. Riggs rose from a chair placed under a tree. Walter, Poppy, and Perryman joined him. “I need a carriage.”

He didn’t blink an eye. “Anything else?”

“Walter, I’m going to need you to accompany me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What bee have you got in your bonnet?” Poppy asked.

She put an arm around Walter and walked down the lane a bit with him, explaining her idea. Then she was off to talk to John and Caro about what she wished to do.

“I don’t know…” John was reluctant. Caro didn’t say anything at all.

Downstairs, her father walked in. Alice flew down the stairs, dragged him up to the landing. “Tell John about when my mother died. Tell him what you told me this morning about my being in her arms.”

She went into the bedchamber, sat beside the bed. Caro was on the opposite side, holding Barbara’s hand.

“There you are.” Barbara spoke slowly.

Alice kissed her hand. “I love you. I have been a bad friend.”

But it was as if Barbara didn’t hear. “Is the baby dead? Please tell me.”

The little serving girl entered the bedchamber. “There’s a carriage downstairs for you, ma’am,” she said to Alice.

“Wait for me, Ra,” Alice said. “I’m not going to be long.”

Caro followed her outside to the landing. “You’re g-going for that baby?”

“Yes. If she must die, let it be with a child in her arms.”

“Alice, I-I think s-she’s much worse. I don’t t-think you should leave.”

“I have to give her this if I can.” At the bottom of the stairs, she saw John and her father sitting together in the parlor chamber, John’s face haggard.

“Have I your permission?” she asked John.

“Alice, I don’t know what to say,” he said. “I can’t think clearly anymore.”

“Give me every pence you have,” she told her father. He handed her a bag of coins. She was out the door. Walter and Poppy were sitting with the coachman, but what she didn’t expect to see was Balmoral inside the carriage. “Your G-Grace,” she stammered.

“I thought I’d better keep an eye on you.”

She was silent once inside the carriage.