Chapter Seventeen
Colonel Brandon was growing increasingly worried regarding his wife's progressing roundness and her complete refusal to be confined. He had to admit to knowing little regarding such matters as all polite women were silent on birthing issues, and Beth had been cared for exclusively by the couple he placed her with. However, he had the word of Dr. Barnes that confinement was a necessary part of any birthing process, and it unsettled him that his wife had a blatantly opposing position than that of a long-trusted family physician.
"I can think of nothing more appalling than being shut up in a stuffy room for days on end with no sight of sunlight, nor trees, nor sky, nor anything that tempts the senses or cheers the spirit!" she declared with feeling. "How can something so dismal be a health benefit? It seems more prison than sickbed. And why should I be confined to a sickbed, even if it were so? I am not sick! I am with child! A child is not an illness to be vetted out."
"I confess, I do not understand the reason Dr. Barnes insists upon it myself, nor why it is the general procedure," Colonel Brandon admitted, "but as I am not a physician I think it best to abide by the orders of the medical professionals in such cases."
"Dr. Barnes may be a medical professional, but he is not a Marianne professional," she retorted. "He cannot know me better than I know myself. I informed him of how ill I became over the weeks I was shut up in my room, and he scoffed at me! He said the room must not have been dark enough, or the vapours strong enough, or the curtains thick enough. He wanted to worsen every deplorable thing about my condition! I cannot think that is wise." Her eyes narrowed, daring him to challenge these new offenses cast upon the doctor's character.
"Two weeks, Marianne," the Colonel sighed in surrender. "If I give you two more weeks of freedom, will you consent to your confinement?"
"I will consider it, depending on how much freedom you're offering," Marianne said with an arch of her brow. "May I play my new piece without interruption?"
His answer came somewhat delayed as he considered. "If you rest the moment you feel tired," he consented.
"May I take walks, even when it is a little chilly?" she tried.
His expression stated that he was about to refuse, but after another long pause and a deep frown at how thoroughly he was being bested at his own bargaining ploy, he said, "If you dress warmly and take an umbrella in case of rain."
"And may I entertain guests at the house?"
Such a request came as entirely unexpected to the Colonel, and his concerned tone turned to one of surprise. "What guests could you possibly desire to entertain?"
The eagerness in her voice matched that of the Colonel's surprise. "Elinor says there is a missionary from the Indies coming to see Edward. He and his friend returned to England only a fortnight ago, and they wish to stay at the parsonage." She gave him a knowing look, "You know the cottage is not very spacious for hosting additional guests, and we have rooms upon rooms to spare. It would be a great relief for Elinor if we asked them to stay here, instead."
"I have no objection to relieving your sister if it was not to shift burden onto yourself," he said cautiously. "But who is this missionary, and who is his friend that you should be so inclined to hospitality?"
"No one you would have heard of, I think," she shrugged carelessly. "Mr. Matthews is a young clergyman, and his friend is also newer to his profession. But as they come from doing a good work in the Indies, I thought that would allow you some manner of common ground. Am I not allowed to be charitable?" she asked, feigning insult. "May I not open our home to those who risk such oppressive climates and cultures to spread the Good Word to heathen nations? Colonel Brandon, you are most strange to question my motives," she teased.
"Very well," he said relenting, but jabbed a pointed finger in her direction, "Do not overburden yourself. Let Mrs. Pickard do the greater portion of the work. Only give minimal instructions through written menus and lists while she manages the rest."
"Even if I did over exert myself, it would be all set to rights in the end," she said blithely. "The missionary's friend is a doctor."
Colonel Brandon had no inkling of the significance of her statement until the day Mr. Matthews and his friend, Dr. McKay arrived.
Introductions were made less stilted and awkward as Edward and Elinor were there to receive their guests, though they welcomed them to Colonel Brandon's estate.
"Colonel Brandon, I believe you are familiar with Dr. McKay's charitable work among the working class mothers?" Edward said aside to him, though not so low that Marianne could not catch it.
"I confess I am not," the Colonel admitted.
"Oh. That is surprising. I would have thought Marianne eager to share with you Dr. McKay's discoveries. She and Elinor have spoken of nothing else these past weeks but his pamphlet that's been circulating around the village by the hands of Mrs. Hexom."
The Colonel furrowed his brow in contemplation. "What has Mrs. Hexom to do with Dr. McKay? I thought he was in the Indies until recently."
"Oh, he was. But Mrs. Hexom insists it was his research that decided her twins' safe delivery. It caused quite a stir among the womenfolk when she dismissed her regular physician and asked a local shepherd's wife with experience in midwifery to tend to her. Has Marianne told you none of this? I thought that the reason for their staying here instead of at the parsonage."
"My wife has told me no more than the names and occupations of the two gentlemen staying with us," he answered gruffly.
"Shall we take tea?" Marianne briskly interrupted. "We can speak of pamphlets and doctoring after everyone has rested and refreshed themselves."
It was not until after supper, and the gentlemen had all adjourned to the study with their drinks and conversation that the Colonel was enlightened on the matter.
Edward had asked after their work abroad, and while Mr. Matthews was encouraged by the spiritual progress, the doctor had a less optimistic view of their cultural practices. He had a great deal to say regarding the correlation between the ignorance of scriptural matters and that of health concerns, citing the ancient customs of the Israelites and their preservation from disease that plagued the nations surrounding them.
Trying to bring the conversation back to a general topic for discussion, Mr. Matthews summarised. "We've witnessed hard things, even in our short work we've begun, and it stands to reason that a lack of understanding in one aspect leads to confusion in all other areas of life."
"Precisely what I'm getting at," said Dr. McKay, not willing to let the matter drop.
"Yes, well I'm sure these gentlemen have heard enough about the appalling lack of cleanliness amongst the heathen tribes," Matthews countered.
"Not any more gruesome or heathenish than your English birthing practices," the doctor muttered, making no qualms about pronouncing the word 'English' with as much Scottish gusto as he could manage.
"McKay here has some newfangled notions about midwifery," Mr. Matthews explained to Edward and the Colonel, the latter whose interest was piqued at the doctor's sudden vehemence, feeling an unravelling of the mysteries surrounding him in his impassioned declarations.
"There is nothing natural about the way expectant mothers are confined for weeks or months on end, in stifling chambers, with no natural light or circulating air," he complained in his deep rumble. "You might as well toss them into prison and expect a happy outcome."
His words echoed Marianne's complaints in almost every particular, that it became clear from whose research she'd been influenced by.
"And this tradition of a wet nurse!" he went on, "To separate an infant from its mother in the most vulnerable stage of its growth, to be suckled by a stranger for the sake of gentility! You know what we think of the sheep who don't take their wee lambs to nurse, eh? Why do we encourage human mothers to do it?"
Mr. Matthews loudly cleared his throat. "No one can accuse you of being too genteel, John."
"You agree with me!" he cried.
"I do, for I've seen the evidence firsthand. There are certainly greater mortality rates in the babes born to wealthy mothers who are made to observe all the recommended days of lying-in. Compared to the healthier and stronger children of the working middle class who cannot afford confinement or a wet nurse, but are not so low as to be deprived of their daily bread and a clean environment. It is not only a sedentary and flagrant lifestyle that endangers the infant, nor the aloof parenting that seeks no more than the securing of an heir, but the very practices of the well-paid physicians that foolishly place the lives of their newborn patients and their mothers in great jeopardy."
"Ah," Edward murmured thoughtfully, "I had always wondered why it seemed the wealthy had fewer children. I assumed it was a strange trick of Providence, or the sheer will of the working man to have more descendants to assist in his labours."
"Or pure ignorance in how those bairns come about," Dr. McKay scoffed.
"Thoughtful in speech as always, John," chastised Mr. Matthews.
"What?" the doctor growled, crossing his arms defensively. "There are no ladies present to blush or swoon at my words. I haven't said a single vulgarity outright this whole evening!"
"No, but surely it hasn't escaped your attention that the good Colonel's wife, whose hospitality we currently impose upon is with child? Do you mean to insult him with your coarse turn of phrase?"
Whether he did or not, Dr. McKay addressed Colonel Brandon without the slightest sense of shame, "Do you intend to confine your wife? She looked rather healthy at supper. Best keep it that way if you care for her at all, and have none of this shutting-in hogwash. I've had a pamphlet printed, explaining my research and justification for my position. Maybe no one reads it now, but I'll track one down for you if you'd like."
"I care for my wife a great deal," the Colonel answered darkly, none too happy to have his affections questioned so by a young guest. "And I confess the time of her confinement has been a matter to cause some disagreement between us. But I must ask you this," he glowered seriously, "If the current procedures of our family doctors are inherently wrong, why do they persist? If—as you say—all these things are the cause of illness and death for both wife and infant, why are such practices promoted rather than altered or done away with entirely?"
Dr. McKay brightened at once, sat up straighter, and removed his boots from the settee. His eyes looked nearly wild with eagerness, almost as if waiting for this very question all the while. "Because," he pronounced, elongating the last syllable for emphasis, "the English people are too stubborn to change. They will not alter customs that have been in place for centuries, regardless of the morally abhorrent state of things, or the danger of increased mortality rates as consequence. They continue to abide by outdated and dangerous practices, because what they do is what has always been done, and no one is willing to reform."
"It is not only the British," Mr. Matthews reprimanded his heated colleague, "You forget how backwards the Indians were when we first ministered to them."
"Yes, but it was even more shocking to discover how little we've come as a civilised nation in comparison. Birthing practices here are hardly any better than there, and the heathens were willing to change the moment you showed them a better way! Is there an English man or woman in all this blessed country who would similarly react?"
Colonel Brandon did not appreciate the ironic way the doctor had pronounced the phrase, "blessed country," and he scowled menacingly at him but was deflected by a good natured grin in return.
Ever the peacemaker, Mr. Matthews stepped into the verbal fray, intent on making the unpleasant tension dissipate between his friend and his host. "Are you shocked by our modern ideas, Colonel Brandon?"
"Not at all," the Colonel replied. "It has only occurred to me why my wife was so insistent you stay here for the entirety of your visit to the Ferrars's."
"That is a welcome surprise to us," Mr. Matthews said cheerily. "Our youth and strident messages don't sit well with most elegant ladies. I am happy to know of one good lady at least, who does not scorn us without just cause. Though I daresay, it's a good thing she hadn't met my associate—and friend," he added hastily, catching the questioning expression directed at him from McKay, "before deciding to host us."
"Have you had a very bad time of it in England?" Edward questioned. "I should think you glad to be on familiar soil, amongst people who speak a language and culture you've shared since childhood."
"Not so bad as all that," he admitted. "Both countries present their own challenges and flaws. There is a great need for ministers everywhere, and doctors, too. Not one country is perfect."
"I should think England the closest, though," Colonel Brandon said with a wry smile, and finished off his port.
Dr. McKay was good enough not to contest it, though he sorely wished to. Instead, he grumbled something about keeping still for the sake of his English mother, tipped back his own glass, and emptied its contents.
"Speaking of English mothers, we should return to the ladies," Edward uttered. "But you are welcome to my pulpit to rally support in both prayers and proselytes," he invited Mr. Matthews, who thanked him most profusely as they passed into the drawing room where the two sisters were waiting for the return of husbands and guests.
Though Colonel Brandon was prepared to be embarrassed by the subject of proper birthing measures and his apparent wrongness in trusting Dr. Barnes regarding them, such intimate discussions were not raised by Dr. McKay, who in the presence of the ladies exhibited a vast contradiction to his personality while alone with the men folk. He was all decorum and consideration, never speaking too loudly, or on any subject that might upset the more delicate sensibilities of the female persuasion. His voice was deep and robust as ever, his eyes fiery and dark as his hair and sideburns, but when coupled with the thoughtfulness he evidently was capable of when in mixed company, he proved quite a charming guest, despite the questionable accent.
If the Colonel feared Marianne's revival of the subject, his fears went unfounded, as she allowed Elinor to feel as if the two gentlemen were hers and Edward's guests, and made no mention of advancements in medical theory, or the miserable practice of confinement.
The nearest brush he had with the topic reviving was when Marianne was asked to play, and she said it would only be a short piece as longer, more complex sonatas made her poor husband nervous for her. To which the Colonel graciously stated that he was certain Dr. McKay would have no scruples against declaring her choice of entertainment unsafe for either her or anyone else present, were it to prove so.
They spoke of it more freely in their shared chamber, when at last all guests had retired for the night, and both the Colonel and his wife were dressed in bedclothes and ready to follow suit and sleep.
"Mrs. Brandon," he began, indicating by his address that there was something intentionally playful in his speech, "You would have been most diverted to know what Dr. McKay has to say on the subject of confinement."
"Oh?" she smiled prettily, barely looking up from her book of sonnets she kept at the bedside table, and the Colonel found it a great struggle to continue with as much levity as he'd begun.
Rather than spare himself the temptation, Colonel Brandon climbed into bed beside his wife and loomed rather impressively over her, close enough to catch the scent of her fragrance as he said, "There's no need to feign surprise. I'm well aware of how you and Elinor conjured up this visit on the premise of Edward and Mr. Matthews to share fellowship and flock. It seems you are to have an extension on your two weeks of freedom, my dear."
"Am I?" she asked, surprised by how weakly pronounced it was as she considered this her triumph. The sudden lack of space between them overwhelmed her and she attempted to set the book aside without appearing too eager to have the remaining space filled.
"Yes," he whispered, and the port wine he enjoyed before bed carried over on his breath, making her thrill strangely. Or perhaps it was the meaningful gleam in his eyes that affected her so.
It was a rare moment when Marianne experienced such feelings that she could find no words to properly express them, but now was such a time, and she could offer no better sign of her gratitude than to lean forward and close the gap between them in order to kiss her husband properly.
Author's Notes:
Oh, yes. All my research on Regency methods of confinement and childbirth was quite horrifying. If we all thought the bleeding out of a fever was bad as shown in the film, what I learned about the norms for prenatal and postnatal care in that time period was even worse. It's a wonder any mothers survived, and Marianne being so weak of constitution to begin with... Well, this was my attempt to give Marianne the safest birth possible whilst reconciling it with the ignorant medical practices of the time period she lived in. I really hope it doesn't read like a convenient throw in, but I had a hard time believing she'd survive childbirth under the usual conditions, and you know how I hate to write tragedies!