Queen of Swords
Page 49
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She would go to the Disputed Territories, of course. The memories that came to Hannah were so strong that it was hard to push them aside. Another young woman, heavy with child, fleeing for her life.
Hannah said, “What about the baby?”
Maman Antoinette shook her head. “She would let it starve. If you can’t find a wet nurse, feed it goat’s milk from a rag. If it lives out the night.”
From the near cot, Helen’s voice came thin and high. “Let it go,” she said. “Let it go.” And then she groaned, a sound that came up from her belly.
Rachel said to Hannah, “I’ll take the baby to Jennet. Jennet will know what to do.”
Jennet had no idea what to do. She looked at the newborn, red of face and squalling, and she looked at Rachel.
“Even if you don’t want to keep him—”
“Keep him?”
“—you could nurse him. He’s so hungry, Jennet.”
He was hungry, no doubt. Jacinthe’s son was hungry, as Jennet’s son had once been hungry and needed nourishment. That this was also Honoré Poiterin’s child was something she must ignore for the moment. She sat down and held out her arms for the baby, who began to root against her breast even before she had uncovered it.
When the small red mouth snapped down on her nipple, she let out a sharp sound. Pain, and surrender. The round cheeks worked at her breast with such need, Jennet wondered if any woman in the world could refuse it.
Rachel said, “I’ll bring warm water and clean towels.”
Jennet should have stopped her. There were so many questions: How Jacinthe had come here, if she had run away, where she was now. Why she had not nursed him. If she was alive at all. But the simple fact of the child, the heat and damp weight of him, the dark eyelashes and feathering curls, those things were more powerful than any questions.
When his gulping slowed and then stopped, when he was asleep, Jennet used the tip of her finger to loosen the small mouth from her breast.
Rachel came back with a basin of water and a pile of clean linen. Together they washed him and tied a long strip of gauze around his belly to protect the umbilicus until it was ready to fall away. Jennet fashioned a clout out of linen and finally they wrapped and swaddled him. In an hour or two he would be hungry again, and the whole process must be reversed and repeated, and then again, and again, through the nights and days to come.
“Jacinthe?”
Rachel shook her head. “She repudiates him. And she’s—” The young woman hesitated, looking for a word.
“A runaway?”
“Out of her senses,” Rachel said. “And a runaway. But she will be all right. Clémentine’s people will see to it that she gets away.”
Jennet stroked the baby’s head with its fine black curls. He was very pale of complexion, his eyes the muddy color of all newborns.
“The sins of the fathers,” she murmured.
“What?” Rachel said, almost sharply. Jennet glanced at her.
“A Greek writer said it. The gods visit the sins of the fathers upon the children.”
“Not any God of mine,” said Rachel stiffly.
“Nor of mine,” said Jennet with a sigh. And then: “Tell Hannah I’ll be down to help as soon as I’ve got him settled.”
“You mean to keep him, then?”
“She saved my son’s life,” Jennet said. “She showed him kindness and love. I can do no less for her.”
Long after dark, Jennet returned to the Livingstons’ simply because there was no bed for her anywhere at the Savards’. In the clinic patients slept two to a cot, on pallets in the hall, on chairs. The Savards’ apartment was just as crowded, and the servants’ quarters.
There might be room in Ben Savard’s small apartment above the kitchen, but Jennet was not so tired that she would intrude there. Instead, two soldiers who were well enough to be sent back to their companies walked her to the rue de Conde, one carrying her basket and the other Jacinthe’s infant son. They were both militiamen from Tennessee, capable, quiet men and exceedingly shy. As she was too tired to try to draw them out, they made the trip in silence.
In her arms Nathaniel, sleeping, felt very heavy. He was a healthy child, well fed, round of limb and cheek, flushed with color. His personality was more pronounced every day, a cheerful boy who exchanged periods of contemplation for bursts of activity that ended in crowing laughter or tears of frustration. When Jennet came to take the boy from Clémentine, she found him in earnest study of a darning egg, entranced by its shape and smoothness. She knew without a doubt that, left to his own devices, her son would have tried to fit the whole thing into his mouth.
Jacinthe’s son was less than a day old, and there was nothing to read of his personality. If he was to stay with them—and Jennet could think of no alternative—she would watch his mind come alive to the world, and his spirit. He would grow to look like his mother, or his father. By that time, she told herself, she would love him for his own sake. That would make the difference. It must make the difference.
They would call him Adam, she decided, trudging along the street. It was a name that marked him as a man who would be the start of his own line. When he was old enough to ask about his people, she would tell him stories of Scotland and the Carrycks, of Dan’l Bonner, called Hawkeye for his skill with a rifle, whose adoptive father was Chingachgook. He would hear stories of Chingachgook, a Mahican sachem who had taken in a child who was not of his blood and raised him as a son.
Hannah said, “What about the baby?”
Maman Antoinette shook her head. “She would let it starve. If you can’t find a wet nurse, feed it goat’s milk from a rag. If it lives out the night.”
From the near cot, Helen’s voice came thin and high. “Let it go,” she said. “Let it go.” And then she groaned, a sound that came up from her belly.
Rachel said to Hannah, “I’ll take the baby to Jennet. Jennet will know what to do.”
Jennet had no idea what to do. She looked at the newborn, red of face and squalling, and she looked at Rachel.
“Even if you don’t want to keep him—”
“Keep him?”
“—you could nurse him. He’s so hungry, Jennet.”
He was hungry, no doubt. Jacinthe’s son was hungry, as Jennet’s son had once been hungry and needed nourishment. That this was also Honoré Poiterin’s child was something she must ignore for the moment. She sat down and held out her arms for the baby, who began to root against her breast even before she had uncovered it.
When the small red mouth snapped down on her nipple, she let out a sharp sound. Pain, and surrender. The round cheeks worked at her breast with such need, Jennet wondered if any woman in the world could refuse it.
Rachel said, “I’ll bring warm water and clean towels.”
Jennet should have stopped her. There were so many questions: How Jacinthe had come here, if she had run away, where she was now. Why she had not nursed him. If she was alive at all. But the simple fact of the child, the heat and damp weight of him, the dark eyelashes and feathering curls, those things were more powerful than any questions.
When his gulping slowed and then stopped, when he was asleep, Jennet used the tip of her finger to loosen the small mouth from her breast.
Rachel came back with a basin of water and a pile of clean linen. Together they washed him and tied a long strip of gauze around his belly to protect the umbilicus until it was ready to fall away. Jennet fashioned a clout out of linen and finally they wrapped and swaddled him. In an hour or two he would be hungry again, and the whole process must be reversed and repeated, and then again, and again, through the nights and days to come.
“Jacinthe?”
Rachel shook her head. “She repudiates him. And she’s—” The young woman hesitated, looking for a word.
“A runaway?”
“Out of her senses,” Rachel said. “And a runaway. But she will be all right. Clémentine’s people will see to it that she gets away.”
Jennet stroked the baby’s head with its fine black curls. He was very pale of complexion, his eyes the muddy color of all newborns.
“The sins of the fathers,” she murmured.
“What?” Rachel said, almost sharply. Jennet glanced at her.
“A Greek writer said it. The gods visit the sins of the fathers upon the children.”
“Not any God of mine,” said Rachel stiffly.
“Nor of mine,” said Jennet with a sigh. And then: “Tell Hannah I’ll be down to help as soon as I’ve got him settled.”
“You mean to keep him, then?”
“She saved my son’s life,” Jennet said. “She showed him kindness and love. I can do no less for her.”
Long after dark, Jennet returned to the Livingstons’ simply because there was no bed for her anywhere at the Savards’. In the clinic patients slept two to a cot, on pallets in the hall, on chairs. The Savards’ apartment was just as crowded, and the servants’ quarters.
There might be room in Ben Savard’s small apartment above the kitchen, but Jennet was not so tired that she would intrude there. Instead, two soldiers who were well enough to be sent back to their companies walked her to the rue de Conde, one carrying her basket and the other Jacinthe’s infant son. They were both militiamen from Tennessee, capable, quiet men and exceedingly shy. As she was too tired to try to draw them out, they made the trip in silence.
In her arms Nathaniel, sleeping, felt very heavy. He was a healthy child, well fed, round of limb and cheek, flushed with color. His personality was more pronounced every day, a cheerful boy who exchanged periods of contemplation for bursts of activity that ended in crowing laughter or tears of frustration. When Jennet came to take the boy from Clémentine, she found him in earnest study of a darning egg, entranced by its shape and smoothness. She knew without a doubt that, left to his own devices, her son would have tried to fit the whole thing into his mouth.
Jacinthe’s son was less than a day old, and there was nothing to read of his personality. If he was to stay with them—and Jennet could think of no alternative—she would watch his mind come alive to the world, and his spirit. He would grow to look like his mother, or his father. By that time, she told herself, she would love him for his own sake. That would make the difference. It must make the difference.
They would call him Adam, she decided, trudging along the street. It was a name that marked him as a man who would be the start of his own line. When he was old enough to ask about his people, she would tell him stories of Scotland and the Carrycks, of Dan’l Bonner, called Hawkeye for his skill with a rifle, whose adoptive father was Chingachgook. He would hear stories of Chingachgook, a Mahican sachem who had taken in a child who was not of his blood and raised him as a son.
