The pains began on the afternoon of the twelfth—the very same day that we were due to visit Ranelagh Gardens, and upon which Gertrude Mahon had proposed executing her plot. In those nine months, I had experienced so many strange sensations that at first I did not make much of the cramping along my back and middle. Had the feelings been accompanied by my usual sense of exhaustion, I might have begged to remain at home that night. Instead, I felt strangely bright and lively. My inexperience prevented me recognizing these to be the first twists and pangs of labour.
It was Mary, the housemaid, who first noticed that my face was drawn with discomfort as she assisted me into my lawn gown.
“ Do I pull you too tightly, miss?” she enquired.
“No, the baby kicks,” I explained, rubbing my protrusion. But Mary, who was one of seven children, knew more of birth than I. She
examined me sceptically as I moved slowly through the door of my dressing room and down the stairs to greet St. John.
It was not until the coach was halfway through Hyde Park that I began to contemplate the possibility that my pains might be of a more serious nature. Although the evening was a clear and mild one, I suddenly found myself growing unusually warm, and asked St. John to take down the window. This he did, and then began to eye me like a toad examining a gnat.
“Your face has gone quite red.”
“It is the heat,” I remarked, waving my fan before me.
“Why did you not request the window to be taken down earlier?”
“I did not suffer from the heat earlier,” I answered plainly. I could not comprehend the point of his enquiry and continued to gaze out at the dusk-lit landscape. “Madam!” he snapped just then. “Look at me when I address you.”
I turned my surprised gaze to him.
“To whom have you just sent a signal?”
“What?” I responded, with true confusion.
“Whom do you expect to see along this road? Some paramour of yours, I expect. You wish to signal to him that you are in my coach? Are you warning him to beware of me?”
“Why, that is quite absurd, sir,” I responded. “A more ridiculous thing could not have been invented.”
I shut my eyes and steadied my resolve, for I knew I was about to be subjected to another of St. John’s interrogations.
“Do not mock me, you little minx. You are plotting something. Have I interrupted some scheme of yours?”
“Sir,” I breathed, with more than a hint of exasperation, “I have been faithful to your affections and always showed you the utmost adoration and gratitude, and yet I am constantly subject to your suspicions. What more need I do to convince you that I am true, dear Jack?”
For once, my words seemed to silence him. He moved back against
the seat, slightly shamefaced, and said nothing more until our arrival at Ranelagh.
With some awkwardness, I was handed out of the coach and into a scene of lantern-lit trees and distant music. Jig dancers and fiddlers gathered not far from a line of coaches, while a group of roistering sedan chairmen drank and sang along to the tunes. It was only then, when my feet touched the ground, that I felt the full force of the pain upon me. My face twisted in distress and I drew a large breath of air. The pangs were now much sharper than they had been earlier in the day. It was at that instant that I knew for certain my labour had begun. All the colour ran from my face as I prayed the infant would do me the courtesy of waiting until I arrived home. Perhaps, perhaps, I began to reason with myself, perhaps I might will it away. Bravely, I continued beside St. John, slowly padding along, halting every so often to catch my breath. Truly, men can be such imbeciles. He had not even the sensibility to see how I suffered.
It was a great relief to me to come upon Mrs. Mahon and Lord Beauchamp, who was one of several gentlemen who financed her whims. She had also the infamous Lady Grosvenor in her company, along with Colonel Porter, the Countess’s
grand amour
. I do not know what she and the Bird of Paradise had devised between them, but upon greeting me, she gave me a strange, calculating smile.
Much to my annoyance, St. John insisted that we stroll along the hedge-framed avenues before taking some refreshment. Knowing that this would cause me no end of discomfort, I regarded him with a pleading, flushed face.
“Dear madam,” said he, shaking his head ever so slightly, “what objection have you to taking the air on such a fine evening as this? Certainly your condition might benefit from it.”
“Sir,” I began, “I fear I am so heavy upon my feet this evening—” I broke off with a wince.
It was then Mrs. Mahon bustled to my side and gently took my
arm. I wore a pained expression, which I believe she mistook as a show of my disapproval for her plan.
“Dear little
chaton
, why are you forever crossing me? I ask for white and you insist on black. I wish to go right and you beg that we move left.” His sentiments were threaded with anger. St. John tightened his lips, deliberating over his next words. A vague, cruel smile then moved across his mouth. “A thought has plagued me greatly,” he began. “It has played heavily upon my mind since the day you first appeared in my parlour. At the time, I was so overcome by your resemblance to my Kitty that I did not permit myself to pursue the question, but now, after I have seen the deceitfulness of my friends, I am filled with doubt once more.” St. John inhaled deeply. “Why did you introduce yourself to me as Miss Lightfoot and not Miss Ingerton, which surely was your given name?”
I confess, his enquiry knocked me utterly speechless. I had not expected such a vicious attack to be launched upon me—and here, in such a public space as this! To make matters worse, I was so inexperienced in the art of lying that I had never once considered this hole in my story. I had no explanation prepared. I could think of nothing to say. The man had caught me out entirely. Let this be a lesson to any who set out to deceive: think through your narrative, tie it as tightly as a sail, or it will eventually take you off course.
I felt Gertrude Mahon’s fingers tighten upon my arm, as if she too had been startled by this question. I stared at St. John in horror, my mouth agape.
“As our friend Mrs. Mahon will affirm, whores change their names as frequently as they change their chemises. They often wear the surname of their current keeper—why, you could be known as Miss St. John, should you ever choose to return to the streets…” said he, raising his eyebrow provocatively. “But you were not a whore when you came to me, Hetty, were you? You were a virgin, and you stained my sheets—or so it appeared. So why, dear creature, why would you choose the name Lightfoot over the distinguished title of Ingerton?”
Now the Bird of Paradise was also staring at me, wishing to know the answer and wondering what I might say. I felt the dread, the panic growing in my breast, my hands beginning to tremble, when all at once I was felled by a great swell of pain.
“Oh!” I cried out, wrapping my hands around my belly. Indeed, the cramp along my back was so violent that it brought tears to my eyes. “Oh!” I moaned again. “Sir!”
“Dear God, man!” Mrs. Mahon shot at him. “See how your jealousy has disquieted her! Will she have no peace till you have caused her to miscarry? And this the child you have crowed about to all of London? For shame!” My friend placed her arm about me and kissed my cheek. “With your leave, sir, I shall take this injured creature to where she may recover, unharmed.”
St. John had not been expecting such a chastisement, and as we pulled away from him, Lady Grosvenor quickly took up his arm, which I believe had been their plan all along.
By the time Mrs. Mahon directed me down a narrow avenue of cherry trees, I was fairly panting.
“How clever you are, Henrietta!” she squealed, taking both my hands in hers. My face was flushed red. “I could not have contrived it better myself.”
I nodded, forcing a smile upon my face.
“But tell me, dear,
who
is the father of your child, for it cannot be St. John, can it?” she asked, her eyes wide with the thrill of intrigue.
I could not respond. Indeed I would not respond, no matter how great the pain I was forced to suffer. Such a revelation would be the end of me. I drew in a long breath.
“There has been no one but St. John.” I attempted to hold her gaze, but failed as another ache rippled through me.
“Henrietta? Are you quite all right?”
“No.” I moved my head. “I fear I am not.”
“But surely, the child cannot be coming now…” She drew back to
study me, her expression growing ever more suspicious. “Are you quite certain?”
“I believe so, the pains have been quite severe for these past hours.”
“Little Miss Lightfoot,” said she with a wry smile. There was more than an ounce of admiration in her tone. “Do not fret, my dear, I shall not reveal the truth.” Her arm was now about my back, her other hand clasping mine as she whispered into my ear. “Now tell me, who is the father? Certainly not Barrymore…?”
Just then I was subject to one of nature’s great humiliations. When a woman begins her labour she relinquishes all control of her faculties. It is the child, the homunculus inside of her, who determines the workings of her body; from that moment she is merely the carriage, and the infant the driver. I was to learn this quite suddenly when, without warning, a sudden gush of water flowed from between my legs. It came with such force that it drenched my blue embroidered slippers, and even, I blush to say, splashed the hem of Mrs. Mahon’s skirts!
We both looked down at the damp ground beneath our feet. I was more mortified than words could express, but my companion rang out with laughter.
“Madam,” she exclaimed, “I do believe you are in need of a midwife!”
With the assistance of Mrs. Mahon, I was taken from Ranelagh to a clapboard house just beyond its gates. It was a rambling old place, which looked to me quite disreputable, part inn and part lodging house, set far back from the road. It was the sort of establishment of which, until recently, I had no knowledge. The Venetians have a particular name for such places:
casini
, rooms to which couples might retreat for assignations; and in my day, houses such as this were to be found at the outskirts of most parks and pleasure gardens.
The proprietress, a Mrs. Perrot, was an acquaintance of Mrs. Mahon’s, and upon seeing my condition, she calmly wiped her hands upon her apron and called for one of her maids to fetch the midwife. The other servants were then sent into a flurry, directed to bring the bedding, fresh water and rags. With the aid of both women, I was taken up the stair to a whitewashed room, where sat a large wooden-framed bed, a small table and two spindly chairs. Two candles and a lamp had been lit, which cast no more than a thin light around the space. I confess, upon seeing that place, I was filled with an indescribable terror, as if some voice had whispered inside my head that this cell was to be my death chamber.
Gertrude Mahon held my hand as we watched the servants lay Mrs. Perrot’s stained linens and wadding upon the mattress.
“You are not the first to be brought to bed in my house,” stated the proprietress as she examined the bed. “But I shall charge you a shilling
for the rooms on this floor which cannot be filled on account of your screaming,” she added coldly.
Once the bed was made up, I was stripped down to my chemise, which was already soiled with sweat and all manner of unpleasant fluids. Had the pains not been coming with such intensity, I might have felt a good deal bashful about this, but at that moment I was so stricken with discomfort and dread that I was well beyond regard for polite manners.
I do not mean to frighten those among my readers who have no knowledge of the childbed, the spinsters and young brides, nor do I wish to be indelicate, but birth is a most horrifying experience at the best of times. I was by no means prepared for it. The filth of childbearing is beyond all reckoning: the vomiting, the purging of my waters and my bowels, oh and, dear God, at the end, the blood, how it poured forth from me, sinking deeply into the lumps of wadding upon the bed. The acrid stench of the lying-in chamber is disgusting, to be sure.
I lay upon my back, shuddering with agony for what felt like an eternity. The pains came, one wave breaking upon the other, each seemingly greater than the last.
“Where is my midwife?” I begged Gertrude Mahon, who had hold of my hand.
She stroked the hair from my brow and then began to blot it. “She is not far, I should think. Not long now.”
I moaned and then began to quake.
“I fear it will come without her…” My voice was strained and harsh. “Oh Lord, save me!” I cried out.
“Hetty, hush, child, hush.” She spoke in soft, calming tones. “Nature will take her course.”
Heavens, I was grateful for her devotion to me that night. The feel of her gentle touch turned my frightened tears into ones of sadness. I wished at that moment that I might tell her of Allenham. My heart ached to confess what lay within it. Instead I shut my eyes and sobbed, allowing myself to remember his bright face, the squared features, the
strong chin and clear eyes of shining blue. Did he know where I was? That I lay here, perhaps breathing my last so I might bear his child? “Where are you?” I asked, again and again, which only caused my tears to flow more copiously. At last, fearing that I should utter his name, I bit down heavily upon my lip.
The night was passing and neither the midwife nor the child had yet appeared. Still, my birth pangs continued, brutally, racking my back as if they might break it. I had been bearing down for hours, just as Mrs. Mahon had instructed, attempting with great fury to push the infant from me, but to no avail. It remained stuck fast. I was growing weary, shivering with distress while sweating from the heat.
“I shall die…” I groaned to Mrs. Mahon. “I shall die here…”
Just then there was a great commotion in the corridor and the midwife came through the door. She, a tall, manly woman, entered with a young girl apprentice, who looked on the scene with mild horror. The room was so gloomily lit that, although they brought with them a lantern, my tired eyes could scarcely make them out.