i.
Dr. Clarkson stood slowly, curling his body over the baby, passing her off to Isobel in one sweeping motion. Then, he turned himself back to where Anna bled.
"She's beautiful," Elsie said, letting go of Anna's leg and going to her side, "Anna, open your eyes — you have to see her. She's so lovely. You have to wake up and see her —"
Charles stood at the foot of the bed, attempting to process what was happening around him. When he felt Dr. Clarkson nudge his hand from Anna's knee, only then did he move, looking down at the doctor as though he'd stumbled into the wrong house.
"Mr. Carson, if you would, I'm going to need more clean towels," Dr. Clarkson said, not lifting his gaze from his hands. Charles looked over at where Elsie had scooched down next to the head of the bed, brushing hair from Anna's eyes and imploring her to open them.
"I'll go to the linen closet . . ." he said breathlessly, stumbling backwards slightly and into an end table as he attempted to exit the room, the world suddenly spinning around him. The stench of blood, of birth — and something else, something that made his stomach turn — the mildewed scent of death — hung in the air around them.
"Those are some lusty cries your daughter has, Mrs. Bates," Dr. Clarkson said, trying to sound encouraging as his hands shook, attempting to stop the bleeding, "Mrs. Carson— can you rouse her?"
"Anna? Anna, open your eyes, love," she said, shaking her by the shoulders, "No, no, no, God no, don't take her — don't take her, please God," Elsie wept, pressing the heel of her hand against her forehead.
"The baby is perfectly fine," Isobel said meekly from the corner of the room. Elsie looked up, spotting the small, white bundle in Mrs. Crawley's arms. Her chest heaved and she looked at Anna again, smoothing the fine wisps of blonde hair from her bloodless face.
"Lord, don't take her — please, don't take her," Elsie whispered, lifting Anna's hand and pressing it against her cheek, "Anna you're strong — you're so strong—"
"Will these do?" Charles said, bustling into the room, his arms nearly overflowing with an array of towels and linens. He stopped short when he saw Dr. Clarkson pull his hands away, standing slowly, bloodied the length of his forearms, to where he'd rolled up his shirtsleeves.
"My God," Charles breathed, his knees buckling, "But the baby—?"
"The baby is fine," Isobel said again, her voice faltering, "She's perfect."
Dr. Clarkson took a few steps back from the bed, then turned, covering his face. Charles' stomach sunk at the realization; it was happening again.
"Why've you stopped?" Elsie said from the bed, picking her head up to look toward them, "She'll come through — she can weather this — she's survived so much more than this —"
"Mrs. Carson, I —" Dr. Clarkson began, his hands shaking, "I can't stop the bleeding. Even if we could get her to the hospital, the nearest blood-bank is in Durham last I knew. She's not clotting and — and as a civilian physician I don't have access to what we used in wartime —" his voice trailed off and he looked at Isobel, turning his attention to the baby in her arms, "She's alright?"
Isobel nodded, pushing the blanket aside from the baby's face, "Ten fingers. Ten toes. Respirations are good. Cries are strong — she's alert," Isobel let out a shuddered breath, "—and look at her eyes. . ."
Charles took a few steps closer, peering at the bundle in Isobel's arms. The baby was red-faced, a bit squished and wrinkled from her journey, but she stared up at them intently with the clearest blue eyes he'd ever seen. They were almost violet.
"It's a girl?" Anna breathed. Elsie pressed a hand against her hair, smoothing the sweat-drenched hair from her eyes.
"Yes — open your eyes so you can see her," Elsie whispered. Isobel appeared next to her; it took Elsie a moment to register that she was offering the bundle in her arms to her.
Reluctantly lifting her hand from Anna's hair, she rose slowly so that she could lower herself properly on the bed, facing the window. Isobel lowered the baby into her arms and her chest ached with sorrow; but also, something else. A feeling welling up in her that she had never felt before and thought, perhaps, she'd never feel again.
The slightest touch of magic.
"She's alive?" Anna asked, her voice practically no more than faint sounds across a haggard breath. Elsie turned slightly, bringing the baby down close to Anna's head against the pillow.
"She is," she said quietly, running her finger along the curve of the baby's tiny, soft cheek. She lifted her gaze from the bairn only long enough to see that Anna had begun to cry – and was not looking at her daughter, but at Elsie.
"Love her," she rasped, "Love her — how you loved me—"
"Anna," Elsie cried, "Darling girl,"
"And — go to John. Tell him — tell him that I will wait for him."
The baby began to fuss in Elsie's arms, and a panic began to swell in her chest, stealing her breath, making her suddenly dizzy and afraid, "Anna —"
"Tell him we'll be together again," Anna said, tears streaming down her pallid face. The crying only stood to hasten the struggle of each breath, and hearing her begin to wheeze, Dr. Clarkson came to the other side of the bed, lifting Anna's limp wrist, waiting to see if life would leave her then.
Elsie blinked, looking down at the baby in her arms — who was all at once a stranger and a native of her heart. Dr. Clarkson began to fumble with his stethoscope, his movements suddenly frenzied. Searching the darkness of the room, Elsie found Charles. She'd not been certain where he'd been since the night began. His nervous comings and goings something that she had not been able to follow. No longer merely in her periphery, his downcast eyes lifted, boring into her with dismay and something she could only describe as startled grief. Perhaps he had not known, until now, how much he cared for Anna. How horrified he would be to watch her die.
Or maybe, she thought, as she watched him stride toward her and felt him gather her into his arms, taking her and the baby from Anna's bed, he was agonized at her pain; knowing better than she that once the shock wore off, the inconsolable sorrow of the woman's death would take hold, drowning her — and what would Charles do without her light to guide him home?
ii.
The baby had fallen asleep in Elsie's arms as she sat in the wingback chair next to where Anna lay. They had been there quite some time. She could feel the heat beginning to flood in through the window from the sun, so night had turned over into day while she settled into grief. Dr. Clarkson, Charles and Isobel had left her in the silence of the room. There were practicalities to attend to, arrangements to be made. Usually it would be she to take charge, to plan, to fix — but not this night, this day.
She would do nothing but hold the child for now.
A light rap on the door startled her and she looked up to see Isobel (and she would call her that, because the nurse had implored her hours ago, as she removed the solid linens from the bed and tenderly washed the blood from Anna's body, not to call her anything but Isobel — for there was no room for distance between them now).
She did not speak as she crossed the room, sitting at the foot of the bed, folding her hands in her lap. For a moment, Elsie found herself wanting to tell her to get up — to not disturb Anna (and was she Anna, still? Where was that girl, that woman, now? Was she somewhere eternal where she would wait for John, who would hang one day? Was she still in the corners of the room, trying to find a way to leave?) but instead she said nothing, merely looked at Isobel with an empty, feeble resignation.
"Charles phoned the staff," Isobel said, turning her hands over in her lap, "They will come later to help. Someone will come from the village. Arrangements will be made. You won't have to concern yourself with the details."
Elsie nodded, hoping the gesture was enough gratitude, for she found she couldn't speak.
"Lady Mary is — shocked, of course. Much like the rest of us. But she wanted me to tell you that she will see that everything is paid for. Certain arrangements will need to be made, provisions for the child — she will see that it is done, and in haste."
Again, Elsie nodded. The baby stirred awake in her arms, disrupted by voices or, perhaps, something else. A a deeper sense of loss and aimless drifting. Punching her tiny fists from the confines of her blankets, she began to reach up, turning her head and nuzzling it against Elsie's bosom with a peculiar but graceful sway.
"I— I don't know why — she keeps doing that," Elsie stammered, looking at Isobel helplessly. She almost allowed herself an ever-so slightly bemused laugh, but when she saw how Isobel's face fell, how her eyes welled up with unshed tears, she pressed her lips tightly together and let her gaze fall away.
"She's — rooting," Isobel said, waiting for Elsie to lift her gaze.
"I don't—" but then, it struck her.
Oh God.
She wants to nurse.
"Lady Mary has already called for a wet nurse, though it is en vogue for women to supplement with evaporated milk, which we can get you from the village. It's easy to store and prepare, is relatively inexpensive—" Isobel said, the words tumbling from her mouth as though they were a salve.
"I didn't even think—" Elsie said quietly, blinking tears from her eyes.
"The baby will be perfectly fine until the nurse arrives," Isobel said, reaching over and settling her hand on Elsie's forearm, "She's still nourished from the womb, no harm will come to her. Just keep her warm, keep her calm and safe — that's the nurturing she needs now."
Elsie nodded, looking helplessly at the baby, who looked up at her expectantly, her mouth a slack O.
"If you stroke her cheek —" Isobel said, scooting over slightly so that she could demonstrate, "Or offer her your little finger — like this — she'll latch."
Elsie lifted a shaking hand from under the swaddling, resting her pinky on the baby's petal-soft lips. As if instructed by some unseen force, the baby immediately took her finger into her mouth and suckled happily. It was surely not what she wanted, but for the moment, she seemed pleased enough to offer Elsie a contented coo in return.
At the sound, Elsie did hum a small laugh, marveling in a way it rose up through grief and fear; the night had been so many things — everything. A beginning and an end.
The end she could not change, but the beginning, perhaps, she could.
iii.
When the sun had risen, the day arrived in earnest, Elsie and the baby moved from the guest bedroom to the master bedroom so that those who had come from the village could begin their work. Isobel had helped her settle into her bed, comfortably propped up with pillows, blankets, and a slightly opened window. The entire house felt stuffy, a pervasive scent filling each room — and though it brought about a chill, she felt that the need to cleanse the air was well worth wrapping the baby in an extra blanket and throwing a shawl around her shoulders.
She let her head rest against the headboard, watching a bird in the willow tree outside their window hopping along a branch. In the spring, she had loved to watch them build their nests, fussing with twigs and grass — and then, one day, she would wake to the sound of chirping baby birds breaking through their delicate little eggshells.
The baby in her arms chirped a bit, too, and she let her head loll away from the window so she could look down at her. She'd mostly slept, but when she was awake, she wanted nothing more than to suckle at Elsie's finger — a pathetic substitute for being nursed by her mother, nourished and satiated, but at least, Elsie thought as she popped her finger into the baby's mouth, she was calm.
"I've brought some tea,"
She looked up to see Charles hovering in the doorway. He'd been trying to keep order since people began to come from the abbey, from the village, and she'd heard him bustling about, barking orders — but had not clapped eyes on him in several hours. She was relieved to see him now, to be alone with him. Or, at least, if not alone (as she was reminded by the cooing babe in her arms) in the absence of others who could speak and interrupt what needed to be conveyed between them through silence and touch.
"Thank you," Elsie said, watching as he crossed the room, setting the tea tray down atop her dresser. He hesitated, his fingers flexing nervously at his sides, as he tried to decide where he should sit.
"Come here," Elsie said, wiggling her toes under the blankets to capture his attention and direct him toward her, permission he sought in the form of the only motion she could make in her current position.
He nodded, lowering himself onto the bed, resting his hand upon her upper thigh atop the blankets. She was surprised, and relieved, when he cocked his head slightly to one side and looked at the baby, the smallest smile twitching at his lips.
"She is beautiful," he said, as though he'd expected her to be as maladroit and blotchy as a newborn calf. Elsie sighed, taking her eyes from the baby's face, but continuing to forfeit her finger.
"Anna liked the name Jo," Elsie said softly, "And I think that's what we'll call her — but, Jo-Anna — for her brave mum."
"That's a most suitable name," Charles said, "And it does suit her; Little Jo."
As if she too agreed, Jo sighed happily in Elsie's arms, beginning to drift into sleep again.
"Mrs. Crawley wanted me to ask if you if — if you would like to have a moment alone with Anna before they — before —" he swallowed, lowering his gaze.
Elsie paused, her chest tightening, "I think I would," she said, "Shall I go now?"
He nodded, "The men from the village — they've come with a car. But you . . .if you go, they'll give you a moment."
"You'll look after Jo, then?" Elsie said, making to pass the baby off to him.
"Do you think I can?" he said, almost pained by his own concern of inadequacy.
"Charles, I think you must — we must," Elsie said, lowering the bundle into his arms. She sat back, admiring him a moment. Oh, how different it things might have been; and here, a sight she never thought she'd see, somehow just as she imagined it would have been. His hair was grayer, his eyes a bit more heavy — but there he was, curled protectively around the sweet bairn that they were given to love. No matter how it came to be, that was the truth of it; one way or another, God had entrusted a life to them.
Seeming to be momentarily overwhelmed by the sentiment himself, Charles glanced up at her, an endearing nervous look about him. She leaned over, careful not to startle Jo who had fallen into a peaceful slumber, and kissed him tenderly. She pulled back just enough to press her forehead against his, and they sighed in tandem.
Outside, the wind picked up and fallen leaves rustled in the yard, the sound and scent of death hanging around them — but she didn't feel it. His love for her encircled them both, debarring them from decay. It only lasted a moment, but it was enough to strengthen her. As she rose from the bed, letting her hand linger on his shoulder as she passed by him to leave the room, she moved with the knowledge that even as she walked into death's room in their house, she would come back again to his love, and it would be the cornerstone of the backbone she would assemble for herself.
