From Fitzroy's Private Diary (Extract 71)

Hope was born on the 11th November 1918 at 4.30pm. Her mother had a terrible time of it. We were at White Orchards. The flood had ensured that neither the London man I had secretly sent for, nor Doctor Butcher, the local physician, could get to her. Fortunately, Merry was there, and while her nursing training had centred around treating the wounded, she had skills that would prove to be of use.

Bertram was not a lot of help. He refused to enter the birthing chamber to keep his wife company and to help keep her calm. He even had palpitations when it was suggested and had to go and rest in the library. I do sometimes forget that Bertram is a product of his age; a well-informed gentleman and a liberal when it comes to the rights of women but, at heart, a solid Edwardian gentleman who will have no truck with women’s ‘matters’.

I have always tried to not only move with the times, but to be ahead of them – or, at least, not bound by unreasonable strictures. I did not feel confident, or competent, but after the warning Madam Arcana had given Euphemia, I had taken steps to expand my knowledge of first aid in the field into the realm of childbirth. I had even managed to witness two first-hand, with help of some assets, by posing as a junior doctor. I am sorry to say both episodes made me feel quite queasy, hence my decision to send for a London specialist behind the Staplefords’ backs.

Euphemia had been of the opinion that her mother had given birth twice, without difficulty, and without a doctor, and as long as she kept her chin up, all would be fine. Neither she nor anyone else could have foreseen the storm that cut us off.

To be scrupulously fair, Bertram did offer to ride off and fetch Dr Butcher ‘Come hell or high water’, as he put it, but Euphemia begged us not to let him go. She felt it was far too dangerous and his heart too weak. I cannot remember being in a worse position. She made it clear she would fret with worry if he went, and she would not hear of my going either. In fact, when Bertram had his little episode, Euphemia clung to my hand and asked me to stay with her instead. I had never seen her so distressed, and I had no damn idea what I should do. Should I, against her wishes, rip myself from her side to go and fetch Doctor Butcher? Merry told me she believed Euphemia’s time was very near. Even if I could have done so, it seemed that I had left it too late. The baby, unusually in a first birth, was coming early, and quickly.

However, one look at Euphemia’s face told me something was wrong. I did not have the knowledge to know what exactly, and neither did Merry. The pregnancy had gone along nicely up to this point, despite Euphemia’s activities, and she was an extremely fit and healthy young woman, but nature is capricious and unfair.

I made my decision to stay and told Euphemia. She clung to my hand so tightly I was reminded how my fingers had become so mangled in the first place. I teased her about that and won a small smile. She has never been afraid of pain, but I saw fear in her eyes that dark afternoon. I do not recall myself ever being as frightened before, or since. I did my best to hide it, but Euphemia knows me all too well. We ended up consoling each other, and that raised a smile in us both.

I sat beside her, allowing Merry to do the actual work of helping her give birth. Thank God for Merry. It must have been all the harder for her after what happened to her own daughter. What I could do was confirm details that Merry, in the heat of the situation, hesitated about, causing her to doubt herself.

Hope arrived into the world with a cry so loud that it must have caused the birds miles away to flutter off in fright. Euphemia gave a small triumphal smile and closed her eyes. Merry quickly wrapped the baby and gave it to me to hold. I took it, puzzled. I assumed the worst was over, but Merry’s face showed a different picture. ‘Euphemia’s bleeding badly,’ she whispered. ‘If I don’t manage to stop it, she will die. Talk to her. Tell her about her baby and the future. Make her want to live.’

I honestly don’t know how I managed to get any words out. I have no idea what I said. Merry was working frantically with towels and other things. I didn’t pay much attention. This was well beyond my knowledge. I could only hope that Merry’s short time working with soldiers who had come directly from the front had taught her how to stop haemorrhaging.

Euphemia did respond to my words. She opened her eyes and looked sleepily at the baby, but she was talking nonsense, telling me how proud I must be and how we would raise her together. I feared she could no longer recognise that I wasn’t Bertram and that she was slipping away from us. I looked up at Merry. Her face was white, and her lips were pursed together. She gave a slight shake of her head but kept trying to staunch the flow even though tears were coursing down her cheeks.

I felt death hovering over us; that final implacable enemy that no mortal man can defeat. I held Hope tightly against me and, for the first time in a long time, prayed. Internally I was offering God all sorts of bargains if only he would only save her. I knew a plea from me alone would not be enough. I am one such that even the most benevolent god would not ordinarily grant a favour.

In the end it was Bertram, against all expectations, who was the hero. Left alone in the library, he had girded his loins and, without us knowing, had gone out into the foulest of weather and managed, God only knows how, to bring back Doctor Butcher.

The doctor burst into the room, covered in rain and mud, and took over from Merry who was, by then, sobbing. I remained by Euphemia’s side. Bertram, I found out later, had stayed by the brandy, but then, in his mind, now that a doctor was here, his wife would be fine.

He was right, and yet he wasn’t. Not entirely. Doctor Butcher had saved Euphemia and earned the undying gratitude of all of us. However, Euphemia had not only a lot of blood, but there had been other complications that meant the doctor thought it quite unlikely she would ever be able to conceive again.

It took Euphemia a long time to recover. Bertram relapsed, but not critically. I stayed at White Orchards for as long as I felt Euphemia wanted, or rather needed, me there. With her recovery, the signing of the Armistice, and Euphemia’s decision to call the child Hope, for once I gave myself licence to believe the world could become a better place.

As Hope grew, more and more she came to resemble her mother, inheriting her timeless beauty. Fortunately, of Bertram’s less than admirable features, there was no trace.