The Apothecary's Daughter (47 page)

‘Another month.’

‘Henry’s child. You call baby Henry, too?’

‘Maybe. Or perhaps Harry. And Cornelius for my father.’

‘Not William?’

‘No,’ said Susannah shortly. ‘Of course not.’

Phoebe looked at her sideways. ‘But you love the doctor.’

Susannah didn’t answer, desolation sweeping over her again.

‘He a good man.’

‘But weak,’ said Susannah. ‘As you should know.’ She stood up and walked to the window, stretching out the ache in her lower
back. The sun was setting over the river, brushing the water with highlights of molten gold. She watched a boat sailing into
the sunset and longed to be on it, with the wind in her hair. ‘I’m so tired of being shut up in here,’ she said. ‘I want to
be outside, somewhere away from the city where the air is clean and cool.’

On the bed Joseph stirred and coughed and Phoebe wiped the sweat off his face, singing to him all the while until he fell
asleep again.

Since Joseph was on his way to recovery, Susannah retreated to Peg’s old room to sleep. Exhausted by the afternoon heat, she
rested on the thin straw mattress, turning from side to side seeking a comfortable position. Her back ached and the skin on
her belly itched until she thought she’d go mad. The baby, as if sensing his mother’s irritable mood, kicked her sharply under
the diaphragm.

Giving up the idea of sleep, Susannah sat up and lowered her legs over the side of the bed. As she did so she heard a distinct
‘pop’ and felt a warm liquid gush from between her thighs. She stared in horror at the floor as a puddle formed around her
feet.

‘Phoebe!’ she called, her voice thin with fear.

Phoebe came, terror written on her face. ‘You sick?’

‘No. It’s not the pestilence. My waters have broken.’

‘The baby is coming?’

‘It can’t! Not till next month.’ But then a pain blossomed deep in her pelvis and Susannah gripped the edge of the bed in
terror. ‘It’s too early. I can’t have the baby now! Besides, I shall need Goody Joan.’

‘Midwife can’t come now.’

‘Then I can’t have the baby!’

Phoebe smiled. ‘Baby don’t wait for no midwife.’

‘But …’

‘Don’t you worry! I birth many babies.’

Susannah nodded, fear spiralling up and threatening to choke her. ‘What must I do?’ she asked.

‘Plenty of time. First baby take long time.’

‘How long?’ How would she manage without Goody Joan to help her? Would she die a painful death? What if the baby was feet
first? What would become of her son, here in a plague house, if she died?’

‘Missus?’

‘Yes, Phoebe?’

‘I take care of you. Rest now, ready for birthing dat baby. Come, sit with us!’ She held out her hand and, slowly, Susannah
reached out and took it.

They sat at Joseph’s bedside and Phoebe told stories of her childhood while Joseph dozed, awoke and dozed again.

Susannah’s hands twisted in her lap as she fought down her dread of the impending birth and felt the ache in her pelvis grow
and fade, grow and fade. Anger gripped her. Where was her mother now, at this of all times, when she most needed her? But
then her sense of abandonment was overtaken by shame as she relived the horror of her mother’s death. A nightmare vision rose
up before her of Dr Ogilby’s monstrous shadow thrown up onto the walls as he performed his atrocities upon her mother’s helpless
form. Her breath began to quicken in panic and she stood up and stumbled over to the window.

She leaned out over the sill as far as she could, gulping in the overheated air, tasting the dust and the stale exhaled breath
of a thousand citizens mixed with the stench of the river mud at low tide. The sun was beginning to lower itself behind the
cathedral, leaching the colour out of the city. The night would come soon and drop its blanket of stifling darkness over them
all and, perhaps, by the morning … Pressing her knuckles to her mouth, she wondered if she would ever see the sun rise again.

Forcing herself to breathe steadily, she glanced back at Joseph on the bed, his mother stroking his forehead as she told him
her stories. The sound of Phoebe’s voice was hypnotic and Susannah began to listen to the words, visualising the warm wind
in her hair and the sand between her toes as she listened to the stories of a carefree young Henry, Phoebe and Erasmus running
into the sea to bathe, playing hide and seek amongst the sugar cane and stealing shoo fly pie from under the cook’s nose.

After a while Susannah began to feel less agitated and she returned to sit beside Joseph’s bed. She had no choice now but
to
trust in Phoebe’s knowledge. The pains were becoming stronger. Each time she was gripped, she squirmed and rocked in her chair,
watching with amazement how her belly pushed forward as it hardened.

‘Missus?’

‘Yes, Joseph?’

‘You sick? You been eating sugar plums?’

‘No. Not one.’

‘Your belly hurting.
Sure
you haven’t eaten too many sugar plums?’

‘None, I promise you.’

‘Missus is goin’ have a baby,’ said Phoebe.

‘Oh!’ Joseph’s eyes widened. ‘When?’

‘Soon. Time you went to sleep now. Maybe in the morning the baby is here.’ She sang to Joseph until his eyes drooped and finally
closed. Then she pulled Susannah to her feet. ‘We walk.’

‘Walk?’

‘Come! Make it easy for you.’ She guided Susannah back to Peg’s room.

Arm in arm they walked round and round the small room, resting only when Susannah had a pain. The pains became stronger and
more regular and every time her rising terror threatened to overwhelm her, Phoebe massaged her back or sang to her until it
had passed.

After a few hours Susannah was drooping with exhaustion but her panic had abated under Phoebe’s calm care. ‘I think I must
rest a little,’ she said.

‘That’s good,’ said Phoebe. ‘You sleep and I tell Missus Agnes ’bout the baby.’

Susannah lifted the lid of her apothecary’s box and took out a small bottle. ‘I will take a spoonful of syrup of poppies,’
she said, ‘to help me rest.’

Phoebe helped her into bed and left a candle burning. ‘Call me and I will come.’ She smoothed her hand over Susannah’s forehead
and down over her eyes. ‘Sleep now.’

The syrup of poppies, combined with Susannah’s exhaustion, had already begun to take effect and her eyelids were as heavy
as stones when there was a movement of air beside her; her eyes flickered open in sudden alarm. The candle guttered on the
washstand as Phoebe looked in at her from in the doorway but then the poppy syrup claimed her again and she drifted away into
a slumber full of uneasy dreams.

She was on a small boat in a high sea. It had no sail and no oars and Susannah clutched at the sides as it bobbed about on
the water. A wave was approaching fast, a great wall of green water racing towards her. She opened her mouth to scream but
there was no sound. The wave snatched the boat and it climbed up on the swell, higher and higher, while the pain in her belly
rose to a peak. She hung motionless at the crest of the wave for a few moments and then tipped over the edge and plunged down
into the deep, dark depths below. Black water seethed and slapped at the sides of the boat and she tightened her hold until
another wave gathered in the void. She opened her mouth to scream.

Water splashed onto her face and, gasping, she shook her head.

‘Missus?’

She blinked her eyes open. The candle had burned down in its socket and she could see the window as a square of grey light
in the darkness.

‘You dreamin’, missus.’ Phoebe wiped her face.

There was a terrible pain deep in her belly. ‘I hurt,’ Susannah croaked. Her mouth was dry from the poppy syrup.

‘Nothing good come without pain.’

The agony continued, each contraction coming faster now, barely leaving Susannah time to catch her breath before the next
one. Accepting the pain rather than fighting against it made it a little easier, she found.

Suddenly there was a great downward pressure within her and she heard herself groan. The sound of it took her straight back
to her mother’s labours and she rolled her head from side to side on the pillow to shake the memory away.

Phoebe lifted Susannah’s nightshift and parted her legs but by now Susannah was beyond embarrassment. Someone grunted and
she was mildly surprised to realise that it was herself.

Then, as the pressure eased, she began to panic again. ‘Phoebe, I can’t do this!’ She gripped Phoebe’s wrist as if it were
a lifeline. ‘I don’t want to die! I’ve changed my mind. Make it stop!’

Phoebe smiled and smoothed the damp curls off Susannah’s forehead. ‘Nothing stop baby now. Come, sing with me!’ She began
to croon one of her strange songs, full of pain and yearning. Susannah tried to pick out the words and understood something
about picking up the burden and pulling hard on the rope. She joined in a little with the chorus to distract herself from
the shaking which chattered her teeth together.

Then, with a dreadful inevitability, the terrible pressure within her began again. She took a deep breath and did what her
body told her to do.

‘Soon, now,’ said Phoebe.

The iron band round her belly eased and she closed her eyes, gathering strength. Then it began again.

‘Push down!’ urged Phoebe.

Susannah took a deep breath and pushed.

‘Again!’

She felt as if she was splitting apart but the downward force only became stronger and she groaned as she felt Phoebe’s fingers
pressing against her private parts.

‘One more,’ said Phoebe.

‘I can’t; I’m too tired!’

‘Push!’

Susannah gathered all her forces and pushed.

Something moved within her and Susannah screamed, as much in surprise as in pain.

‘Again!’

‘Aaagh!’ There was a sudden slither of warm wetness between her thighs. The pressure had gone. Susannah pushed herself up
on her elbows.

Phoebe bent over the baby, who lay limp and unmoving on the bloodstained sheets. It was a strange mauvey-grey colour.

‘Shouldn’t he cry?’ said Susannah, waiting.

Curiosity suddenly gave way to blinding panic. ‘Phoebe?’ She watched Phoebe hurriedly put a finger in the baby’s mouth and
clear it of fluid then pick the infant up by its ankles and smack its bottom.

Silence.

‘My baby!’ cried Susannah. ‘Please, Phoebe, do something!’

Snatching up the basin of water from the bedside, Phoebe dashed it over the babe.

It gave a gasp and then began a reedy wail.

Susannah let out her breath on a shuddering sob and stretched out her arms.

Phoebe wrapped the baby, screaming now, in a cloth and handed it to Susannah.

‘Shush, shush, my sweeting!’ She covered the angry infant in kisses mingled with tears, rocking it in her arms until it quietened.
‘I nearly lost you, my precious. I nearly lost you!’

Phoebe sat down on the edge of the bed beside her, with her hands shaking violently in her lap.

Susannah leaned against her and then, slowly, she pulled aside the baby’s wrappings. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s a girl!’

The baby peered back at her through eyelashes spiky with damp, her eyes dark blue and knowing.

Susannah could only stare back in wonder, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Later that day Susannah sat up in bed, nursing the baby.

Phoebe helped her at first, pinching her nipple and pushing it into the baby’s mouth until she sucked.

‘It hurts,’ said Susannah, curling up her toes.

‘Not for long,’ said Phoebe, sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘And it stop the bleeding.’ Smiling, she stroked the baby’s forehead.
‘She small but strong.’

The baby fed well, her tiny hand clutching at Susannah’s breast. Every now and again she stopped sucking to open her eyes.

‘Her eyes are so very blue!’ exclaimed Susannah. ‘They remind me so much of my mother. I shall name my baby Elizabeth, in
her memory. But I will call her Beth.’

During the weeks of Susannah’s lying-in she was able, for the most part, to distance herself from the outside world and spent
long hours simply looking at her baby, studying each tiny finger and examining every pore and crease of her soft skin. Beth
was small, since she had arrived sooner than expected, but she was bright-eyed and lusty. In spite of her growing love for
Beth, Susannah suffered an everpresent ache below her breastbone because her father was unable to share in her joy. And she
missed William, wondering if she could ever repair the damage between them.