Aeons of time later, or was it just a few minutes – she was beyond telling – a kindly face bent over her and a deep male voice said, ‘Mrs Lemaire, can you hear me? I’m Dr Lawrence and I’ve come to take care of you, m’dear. Everything is going to be all right, you’re in safe hands.’
The baby, a little girl, was born three excruciating hours later. As the infant took her first breath, Esther breathed her last. The doctor and Mary were dealing with the child so it was only Bridget who was aware of Esther’s passing. A deep breath, a flutter of her eyelashes and she was gone.
‘Dr Lawrence?’ Bridget was still holding Esther’s hand but it had gone limp in her grasp, and the note in her voice caused the doctor to spin round and bend over his patient.
It was a minute or two before he straightened, and then his voice was sad-sounding. ‘There’s nothing I can do. She was not bleeding unduly and although the child took its time it wasn’t a particularly long labour. I can only think her heart was not strong.’
Mary had come to the foot of the bed, holding the baby wrapped in a blanket, and after a moment she said, ‘I understand from my husband that his mother had another child two years after he was born who only lived six months. It was thought there was a problem with that child’s heart.’
Dr Lawrence nodded. ‘It could well be a defect of some kind that was passed down. Mrs Lemaire might have lived to old age had she not had children, but both carrying a child and bringing it forth fatigues the mother, and in this case it was too much. I’m very sorry.’
Bridget was listening to the conversation above her head but she could not bring herself to let go of the slim white hand in hers. Mrs Lemaire was dead; after all that pain she was dead – and she hadn’t even seen her daughter. And the baby, it would never know its mother, poor little mite, and its father dead too. What a start to life.
Bridget watched as her mistress drew the doctor to the other side of the room, there to confer with him in low whispers. She caught a few words: ‘ . . . husband recently died and left destitute,’ and then ‘ . . . do our Christian duty to the best of our ability,’ but as she laid the still warm, soft hand on the coverlet and stood stiffly to her feet, she could make out nothing more.
‘Take the child, Bridget.’ Mary’s voice was quiet as she held out the bundle, but behind her sombre facade she was feeling heady with relief. She had been in turmoil ever since Jeremiah’s sister had entered the house, and had laid awake most nights worrying what the outcome of this catastrophe would be. Now it appeared her frantic prayers had been answered. The problem was taken care of. Of course, it would have been more beneficial if the child had died with its mother, but it was clearly strong and healthy, which was a pity. But she would not shirk her responsibility. The child would be brought up in the sight of God, and any badness thrashed out of it before it could take root and grow, as it had with the mother.
She glanced at the still figure on the bed, at the golden hair fanning out in a mass of silky curls and waves across the pillow, and her mouth tightened into a thin line. History would not repeat itself. Not while she had breath in her body.
Chapter 3
‘She’s bonny, isn’t she, Mam? Have you ever seen a bonnier babbie in all the world?’ Bridget gazed down in rapt adoration of the sleeping baby in her arms, the small face with its silky smooth skin and tiny eyelashes and rosebud lips enchanting. ‘The mistress’s bairns were nothing like this. Skinned rabbits they were and they’ve all got her nose.’
It was a full week later. Esther had been buried in the churchyard next to her parents that afternoon, and although the day had been dark and overcast and bitterly cold, it had kept dry until the last guest had gone home. Now, at nearly midnight, the wind was howling like a banshee and rattling the windows, and the second bout of snow they had been expecting for the last day or two was coming down thick and fast.
The funeral had been a quiet one, attended by a few older folk who remembered Esther as a child and had come to pay their respects at the church service, and several colleagues of Jeremiah who sat with him on the local Board of Guardians for the Sunderland workhouse among other things. They and their lady wives were invited back to the vicarage for refreshments. The villagers were not.
Dr Lawrence had been one of the guests. When he had asked after the deceased’s child, he had been told she was feeding well and thriving. The baby was to be christened Sophy Miriam in the spring, after her dear grandmother, and they did so hope Dr Lawrence and his wife would do them the honour of becoming the child’s godparents, Mary had added. The doctor had happily consented. ‘Such a fortunate little girl,’ he had commented on the way home to his wife, ‘to have devoted guardians like Jeremiah and Mary.’