Pegasus: A Novel (34 page)

“I can’t have the baby now—I’m too sick.” Isabel helped her take her nightgown off,
and reached into the cupboard for a fresh one, as Marianne doubled over again and
clutched her between sobs. She was in terrible shape, and Isabel grabbed a stack of
towels, spread them on the bed, and got Marianne to lie down.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” she promised her, and left the room quickly while trying
to look calm and ran into Charles in the corridor on his way downstairs with a funereal
look. “Get the doctor!” she told him quickly, and he looked instantly worried.

“Is she all right?”

“No. Yes. She’s distraught, but she’s having the baby. She just lost her water, and
she’s quite ill. Tell him to come now.” She hurried back into the room, and Charles
disappeared to do as he’d been told. And when Isabel got back, she could see that
Marianne was having serious contractions. She looked up at her mother-in-law with
sad eyes.

“I don’t want the baby,” she said miserably, as tears slid down her cheeks in rivers.
“He’s never coming home again.”

“I know, dear, I know …” Isabel said, stroking her hand gently, and then Marianne
reached out and clutched her. The pains had started to come hard the moment her water
broke. The baby was ready, whether its mother was or not. It was time.

The pains got harder and longer for the next half hour, as Isabel got more towels,
and wished the doctor would hurry. She didn’t want to deliver this baby alone and
had never done so. She was no midwife. Marianne let out a groan and a scream as the
door opened and the doctor walked in, carrying his bag. He looked somber and
sympathetic, having just heard the news after he saw the wreath on the door.

“I’m so sorry,” he said to Isabel, and then rapidly turned his attention to Edmund’s
widow. It had occurred to Isabel the night before that her daughter-in-law was now
a widow at twenty-one. It seemed a cruel beginning to life, and equally so to lose
a child, as she had. And as he looked at Marianne, he could see from the signs that
things were moving quickly. She looked desperate as she glanced at him and clutched
Isabel’s arm and then her shoulder.

“I can’t have this baby,” she gasped at him. “I’m not ready.”

“Perhaps not.” He smiled at her kindly. “But I think the baby is.” He didn’t tell
her that we get no choice in these matters, whether birth or death, but it was true.
And her baby was going to be born that day, whether she was ready or not.

He examined her as gently as he could, and she screamed, which Charles heard from
the hallway, and scurried downstairs, terrified by the sounds. Isabel went to get
the old sheets that she’d put aside for the delivery, asked one of the maids to bring
in more towels, and returned to Marianne, who was vomiting again, and in agony with
each contraction. “This is horrible!” she screamed. “I can’t do this without Edmund.”

“He’s right here with you, Marianne,” Isabel said calmly. “He always will be. He won’t
leave you alone. Just hear him in your head. He won’t let anything happen to you.”
Marianne looked at her as she said it, and suddenly got very calm and stopped screaming.
It was exactly what she had needed to hear, and the doctor nodded his approval as
he felt Marianne’s belly. The baby was moving down nicely, and then Marianne looked
at them both wild-eyed as a force greater than any she’d ever known pushed through
her, and the doctor told
her to bear down as she braced her legs. It was all happening very quickly, and Marianne
was frightened as she screamed with each push, and fell back against the pillows and
gave up.

“I can’t, I can’t,” she said, crying and then the force seized her again, and she
screamed one long, horrifying, never-ending scream that went on forever and ended
in a small but mighty wail. Marianne looked at them both in amazement and then saw
a small face between her legs.

“Oh my God,” she said, crying, and looked at them with smiles mixed with her tears.
The baby had dark hair like Edmund, and Isabel thought the baby looked just like him.
The doctor told Marianne to keep pushing, and the baby slid out with another long
wail and began crying fiercely. It was a girl, just as Edmund had hoped. Marianne
lay back against the pillows with a victorious smile, and tears ran down her cheeks.

“She looks like Edmund,” Isabel whispered to Marianne, crying, too, with all the joy
and sorrow of birth, especially now. And Marianne had seen it too. The baby was the
image of him. Marianne looked suddenly grown-up and mature as she lay there while
the doctor cut the cord, wrapped the baby in a small blanket Isabel held out to him,
and put the baby to her mother’s breast. She had lavender-blue eyes like her mother’s,
but the rest was her father, without a doubt.

The three of them exclaimed over the beauty of the baby, and then they laid her in
a bassinette, and Isabel helped clean the mother up, and then washed the baby, and
swaddled her and gave her back to her mother. The doctor was satisfied that all had
gone well—in fact, it had been an easy birth, and had only taken four hours from beginning
to end. Isabel suspected she’d been in labor the night before and didn’t know it.
And she left Marianne alone with the doctor
for a few minutes to find Charles and tell him the news. He was in his study and drinking
straight scotch. She smiled when she saw it. He deserved it, so she didn’t comment.

“You have a beautiful granddaughter, your lordship,” she said as she came around the
desk to kiss him, and took a sip of his scotch. He smiled. She was a good woman, and
a game one. She had come through the past two days admirably—she always did. She had
never let him down in more than twenty-five years, and he knew she never would.

“Are they both all right?” He looked worried. He didn’t want another tragedy, for
any of them.

“Very much so. The baby is huge, but Marianne did fine. And she looks just like Edmund.”
He seemed pleased, although slightly disappointed that it was a girl.

“It sounded awful for a while.”

“It always does. You’ve just forgotten. I nearly brought down the house with ours.
You were probably too drunk to notice.”

“I think I went out hunting.” He smiled at her for the first time in two days, but
this was a happy event, no matter how great their loss. And it was a piece of Edmund
to have with them forever.

“Would you like to see her?” Isabel offered, but he looked nervous at the suggestion.
It was a little too soon for him.

“Let the poor girl recover for a few hours at least.” Isabel nodded and went back
to Marianne and the baby and the doctor left shortly afterward and promised to return
the next day. He had had to do a little stitching up, which was to be expected with
such a big baby, and he predicted that Marianne would be sore, which she already was.
But she was looking at her baby with rapture and smiled at her mother-in-law when
she walked in.

“She’s so beautiful,” Marianne said softly, touching the tiny fingers,
and she had unwrapped her feet so she could see her toes. She had everything she was
supposed to. Marianne had never seen anything as exquisite as her child.

“What are you going to call her?”

Marianne thought about it for a long moment. She had been looking at her violet eyes.
“Violet,” she answered, looking peaceful. What Isabel had said to her had calmed her
down, and reminded her that in some way Edmund would always be part of her life, through
this child. “Violet Edwina Alexandra Isabel Charlotte Beaulieu,” she said, and Isabel
laughed. She was honoring the baby’s father and all her grandparents at one shot,
since it would be Edmund’s only child. Isabel was touched.

“Good lord,” Isabel said laughing, “she’ll have to marry at least a prince with all
that, or a duke at the very least. And sit on a throne.” But Isabel was well pleased
by her choices, as Marianne lay with her daughter in her arms. She thought of Edmund
and felt him close to her, and quietly closed her eyes as she and the baby drifted
off to sleep. Isabel gently smoothed the covers, and silently left the room to go
back to her own. She still had much to do, and none of it as joyful as welcoming a
grandchild. She had her son’s memorial service to plan, and her heart was heavy as
she left. Marianne’s journey with her baby had just begun. And hers with her son had
just ended. The two ends of life had come together too quickly.

It was July on tour in California when Nick heard from Alex that Marianne had had
a baby girl and lost her husband, all within two days. Alex said nothing of his own
doings, but Nick imagined that there was little going on in the county and his life
was quiet, although there was much going on on the war front, both on the Russian
front and in North Africa, but the tides hadn’t turned yet for the Allies. And Nick
stayed constantly abreast of what was happening in the Pacific. News was scarce from
Toby, although he had written to Katja that he wanted to marry her if he came home
for Christmas, or on his next leave. And it was all she could talk about whenever
Nick saw her. It gave both young people hope and some kind of affirmation of life
to make plans.

Nick read avidly about the first American air attack in Europe on occupied France,
in mid-August. The United States joined Britain in continuing bombing missions against
Germany.

The circus got to San Francisco and was set up for two days in Oakland. Nick was shining
his boots, as he always did before each
night’s performance. Christianna always offered to do it for him, but he smiled and
said it was one of those things a man had to do himself. He always looked impeccable,
whether in work clothes, or white tie and tails. He was listening to the news on the
radio and didn’t hear the bicycle messenger stop at his trailer. And when he looked
up, a young boy in a Western Union uniform was holding out an envelope to him with
a trembling hand. For a second, Nick didn’t want to take it, and then he grabbed it.
He hated telegrams now. The messenger ran off before Nick could open it. He stood
there, reading it, with his shined boots at his feet in the dust, and the brush beside
them, and he read it again and again and it didn’t sink in. He wouldn’t let it.… 
The War Department regrets to inform you that Corporal Tobias Bing … killed in action … in
the highest service to his country … regret to inform you … regret to inform you …
 the words were swimming before his eyes as he let out a low animal howl. Christianna
heard it as she came down the road, and came running, thinking that an animal was
injured. She found Nick looking dazed, and the telegram clutched in his hand. She
took it from him and read it, and he sobbed uncontrollably as she held him. Thank
God Lucas was off with the clowns—he was taking juggling lessons. She led Nick into
the trailer, and he just stood there still crying.

“He’s dead … he’s dead … oh my God, they killed him …” he kept saying over and over.
Toby was a baby. He was almost nineteen and now his life was over. Nick was inconsolable,
and Christianna held him for hours as he rocked back and forth, keening for his son.

News spread through the circus within hours. There had already been many losses of
boys who had enlisted or been drafted, roustabouts, performers, sons, brothers—the
list was long, and now Toby was on it. They had a page in the program now honoring
those who
had died in service to their country. Christianna’s brothers and father came over
that afternoon to talk to Nick, but he was almost incoherent and he cried in his father-in-law’s
arms like a child, and Sandor cried too.

“He was such a good boy,” Nick said. “He never gave me any trouble.” Sandor sat with
him for a long time, and finally Christianna asked him if he wanted to cancel that
night’s performance. He was in no condition to go on, but he knew that he was expected
to, and he felt he had to. He and Christianna were their star act, and the audience
would be furious if they didn’t go on, whatever the reason. His private tragedy was
not their problem, and he shook his head in answer to her question.

“Are you sure?” She was worried about him, and John Ringling North, Joe Herlihy, and
the ringmaster came to see him too. Mr. North had ordered their flag to be flown at
half-mast. Everyone felt terrible about what had happened, and Christianna could hear
Katja scream when Gallina told her. All those who had known and loved Toby were devastated.
And the worst was telling Lucas. He lay on his bed and sobbed, mourning his brother,
who had been his hero and best friend all his life, even more than their father.

Nick looked like he was going to a funeral when he left for the performance that night,
and he’d been in no condition for rehearsal, although they didn’t need one. They could
do their act in their sleep. And even if the performance was lackluster that night,
the crowd probably wouldn’t know it. The horses were so spectacular and Christianna
so beautiful that all Nick had to do was be there. It was all he was capable of now
anyway.

Christianna helped him dress, and he followed her blindly to the horses’ tent, where
the handlers helped him get the horses to the main ring, and all of them expressed
their sympathy about Toby.
The ringmaster asked for a moment of silence for one of their brave boys fallen in
battle, and mentioned him by name, at the beginning of the performance. Fortunately,
Nick didn’t hear it, or he would have come unglued. Nick was devastated. His boys
meant everything to him, and it was the second child he’d lost, after his daughter
nine years before. Out of three children, only Lucas survived.

Their familiar music played, which was their cue to go on, and Nick and Christianna
rode into the spotlight on Pegasus and Athena. Nick was smiling, which looked like
a grimace, and Christianna tried to put more into it than usual, to compensate for
whatever Nick was lacking, but his performance was flawless. She knew him well enough
to see that he was going through the motions blindly, without paying attention to
anything, but no one else could see it, and she smiled at him to encourage him, but
he was in a daze and looked like he was sleepwalking. Pegasus did the show himself
with almost no guidance from Nick, and as they were leaving the ring, Nick was holding
the reins slack, and didn’t see a pole someone had left on their path, and neither
did the stallion, and he stumbled badly and nearly fell. The shock of it woke Nick
out of his stupor, but too late. The Lipizzaner stallion had pulled something in his
leg, and was limping badly when they left the ring. Nick was off the horse’s back
instantly to check it, as was Christianna, standing near him.