We have named this child – my
fourth – after me, and I pray that this precious daughter will fare better in
life than her two brothers and her sister, none of whom lived to see their
first birthday. Her birth was easy, and
she seems far livelier and more lusty than those who came before her. I worry that there is some weakness in our
family, for of all my parents’ thirteen children, only five daughters survived
into adulthood, and of our own offspring, many seem not to live long. Mary has lost but one of her brood, but two
of Dilly’s have died, and one of Harriet’s.
Pen remains staunch in her desire never to marry, and seems content
enough to live still at home – for I will always think of it as home, however
long I dwell in my Tom’s house – with our mother and father. I have teased her that she will die an old
maid, and she laughs at me, and says that she can think of worse fates. She is still young, of course, only
twenty-five, so hardly at her last prayers, and she has a warm and lively beauty
that draws men to her, but none, it seems, can match up to her exacting
standards.
I
sit now in the window seat, comfortably propped up with cushions, and gaze at
my daughter, and she, with intent eyes that seem already to be turning darker,
gazes back at me. I can see my Tom in
her light and gently curling hair, scant though it is as yet, and in the shape
of her brows. And that small, determined
mouth, I fear, is mine. She yawns, and
her small face creases up, and then she begins those small rooting movements
that mean she is hungry. Unlike my
previous babies, I have decided to feed her myself, though my mother strongly
disapproves, saying that women of high degree should not demean themselves
thus, and that it will spoil my figure.
Mary, however, has supported me in my determination, and so has Tom, and
now I revel in this warm, delicious closeness between myself and my daughter.
As
she suckles, my mind drifts back to my own childhood, those far-off, happy days
when I had no cares beyond the creation of my beloved casket. It sits on the table near me now, outside its
box, because I have something to put inside it, in the secret compartment where
I keep all my most precious treasures. I
have a lock of hair from my beloved only brother, and also wisps of hair much
finer, from my two sons and my daughter who died. A few moments ago I took out my beautiful
scissors, that I bought in London when I was a child, and so gently, carefully
snipped one of the curls from my babe’s head.
I had chosen a piece of fine shot silk for her, cut from one of my old
gowns which I had altered to make it more fashionable, and in a subtle shimmer
of green and blue. I laid the soft
strands of hair upon it, and on a little piece of paper I carefully inscribed
her name and the date of her birth: the second day of October, in the year of
Our Lord, 1695. Then I wrapped it up
with a silver lace, tied with a neat bow.
Like her dead sister, she carries my name, which was made for me when I
was born, and I hope will be passed to her daughter, and to hers after her,
just as I plan to pass my beloved casket to her and so on down my female line,
if God wills that my children live and prosper.
There
is a commotion below stairs, and I try not to start, for fear of upsetting the
baby, but she suckles on regardless, busily taking in nourishment. Soon I can hear voices, that of my Tom,
cheerful and full of happiness, and those, unmistakeably loud and lively, of
several of my sisters. The door to my
chamber opens, and there they all are, my husband young and tall in his
everyday suit of mulberry wool, for he has been going over the estate accounts
with his steward, and Harriet, Dilly and Pen, like a flock of bright birds in their
blue and gold and crimson riding habits with the trailing skirts looped over
their arms. My eldest sister Mary is not
with them, but I do not expect her to be, for scarcely three weeks ago she was
brought to bed of another son, Henry, her ninth child.
It
joys me to see them, for although I have made a friend of Tom’s sister Sarah,
she is three years younger than I am, and seems very much the girl still. Whereas my sisters and I, though we do not
always accord, are bound together by the ties of our blood and family, and by
our childhood and the sadness and griefs we all share. And though they once took delight in teasing
me, and making great play of the fact that I was the last and least, now I am
wed, with a home and a husband and a child, I am their equal at last, and if
anything it is Pen, still a spinster (but not a sad one as Dilly claims, in
jest so she says), who is the butt of their play, and who gives as good as she
gets.
“Oh,
look, Pen,” says Dilly now, coming closer to me. “It’s a baby!
Would you like one of those for your very own?”
My
daughter chooses this moment to withdraw her mouth and use it instead to cry
lustily at the interruption to our peace.
Tom, who I have noticed tends to be inflicted with embarrassment in such
exclusively female company, murmurs something about the accounts, and
withdraws. I hand the babe to Harriet,
who rocks her in her arms, making soft cooing noises, before passing her on to
Dilly. There is much discussion about
her hair, her plump and solid weight, and her likeness, or not, to either of
her parents and other members of the family.
“She
is one of us,” says Pen, who through much practice as an aunt can hold infants
as safely and securely as any of her sisters.
“I can see little sign of your Tom in her.”
“I
think she has a look of our mother,” Harriet says. “It is in the shape of her eyes, I
think. She is delightful,” she adds to
me, with a warm smile. “A thriving babe at
last! You must be so relieved.”
“I
am,” I say, and though I welcome my sister’s praise, I wish she would refrain
from counting my chickens. No life is
certain, and even the most healthy and sturdy children can succumb in a few
days to fever, or convulsions, or other misfortune.
“And
you have given her your name,” says Pen, kissing the child on her brow and
giving her back to me. “It does suit
her, for she is very like you.”
“You
are very brave, to feed her yourself,” Dilly comments, in her tactless
way. “I tried it with little Dilly, and
I found it hurt so much I could not endure it.”
“It
was a little painful to begin with,” I confess, bringing the babe to my breast
again. “But I soon grew used to it.”
“And
she is obviously thriving on it,” says Dilly.
“For my part, if I have any more children – and for myself, I think my brood
is quite enough – I fully intend to send them out to nurse, as I have done all
the others.”
That
does not surprise me, for although Dilly has five surviving offspring, two
girls and three boys, she sees little of them, preferring to leave them to the care
of nursemaids and tutors while she rides around the countryside in company with
her sisters and her husband, or plays at cards with friends and neighbours. Of all of us, she is the least maternal. In fact, knowing my sisters as I do, I feel
that it should have been Dilly who remained a spinster, and Pen, kind and
loving, who should know the joys of marriage and children. But I can never say so, even to my Tom, in
whom I have confided so much.
“I
see you still have your casket,” says Harriet, noticing it on the table. “It is such a beautiful piece of work – far
better than mine, I must allow. May I
look at the garden?”
“Of
course,” I say, liking that she has asked permission: Dilly would just have
thrown up the lid to examine it, whether I wanted her to or not.
My
sister examines the flowers, and the tiny unicorn, and the lady beside the
mirror pool. “I had forgotten how
exquisite it is. Will you pass it on to
your daughter? I will give mine to
Henrietta, as she is the elder, but she has no talent for the needle, and I
fear she will not appreciate it.”
“Oh,
I am sure she will,” I say, but without much hope, for Henrietta is a clumsy
girl who bids fair to becoming quite the hoyden, and would rather ride her pony
in all weathers than sit at home stitching.
And I wonder what my daughter will be like, when she grows. Will she take pleasure in the small details
of a woman’s life, embroidery and fashions and housewifely pursuits? Or will she, like young Henrietta, yearn for
livelier pastimes? Will she have sisters
with whom she can play and laugh and argue, as I do with mine? Or a beloved brother? I do not know, and of course her future – all
our futures – hides behind a veil of unknowing.
But I wish her joy, and long life, and happiness, and I will do
everything in my power to ensure that she achieves such riches.
