The Midnight Rose (23 page)

It took a number of pushes—with Selina squeezing my hand so tightly that I felt the bones might be crushed to powder—before the baby’s head shot out. Then I helped the rest of its tiny, perfect form to slither out of its mother.

“Is the baby all right, Anahita?” Selina asked, trying to raise her head to look down but failing.

“Oh, oh!” Tilly clapped her hands to her face as the baby lay squawking between Selina’s legs. “It’s a little girl! Congratulations, Lady Selina!”

I picked up the baby and put it immediately in Selina’s arms. At that moment, the door opened and the doctor arrived.

“Well, well,” he said as he walked to the bottom of the bed and gazed at mother and child, calm now with exhaustion and triumph. The doctor opened his medical box and took out an instrument with which to cut the cord. He glanced at me and gave me a gruff smile. “Shall I take over from here?”

“Of course.” Knowing I was no longer needed or wanted, I moved to leave the room. But Selina immediately threw out a hand toward me. “Thank you, Anni, you were wonderful.”

Next morning, as I went down for breakfast in the kitchen—so exhausted that I’d failed to get up for my morning ride with Donald—I was treated to a heroine’s welcome.

“You saved her life! Well, that’s what Lady Selina says, anyway,” said Tilly. “Miss Anni was amazing,” she announced to the kitchen. “She knew exactly what to do and calmed her down no end. I hope that old battle-axe upstairs is grateful to you, Miss Anni. Can you believe, she went nowhere near her poor daughter while she was in all that agony? And then I heard her telling the doctor on the landing afterward that Lady Selina was fortunate it had been a straightforward birth. All I can
say is, she should thank her lucky stars you were here and knew what to do.”

Later on that day, I was invited upstairs by Selina to view the baby. Selina was lying contentedly with her daughter nestled in her arms. She gave me a glowing smile as I walked in.

“Hello, Anni. Come and see my adorable, perfect baby.” She patted the space on the bed next to her and I sat down on it tentatively.

“Oh, she is beautiful!” I said as I reached out a finger to stroke the baby’s velvety skin. “What have you named her?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t have much of a choice in that one. She’s called Eleanor, after her father’s mother. She’s an absolute peach, don’t you think? Would you like to hold her, Anni?”

“I would love to,” I said, and she passed the baby into my arms.

“I just want to say, dear Anni, that you were a wonder last night. I told all my family this morning that I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t been here. Thank you, from both of us.”

“Not at all.” I smiled at her. “It was my honor to be part of the miracle of new life.”

“Yes, I only wish this little one’s father was here to see his daughter. We’ve sent a telegram to France, of course, but Lord knows when he’ll get the message.”

Suddenly, the faint sounds began in my ears and my heart felt laden with blackness. I knew then that this baby would never see her father. Shakily, I forced a smile back onto my face. “He’ll be here soon enough,” I lied.

“I can only pray that he will be. Now, Princess Indira tells me you’re leaving tomorrow to return to school?”

“Yes.”

“It’s such a shame, Anni. I wish you could take care of us both, rather than that ancient nursemaid whom Mother has employed. I find your way so much more comforting. Promise you’ll return soon?”

“Yes,” I said, handing the baby back to her.

“Good-bye, then, Anni, and thank you again.”

“Good-bye. And good luck with your beautiful little one.”

As I stood up and walked toward the door, Selina said, “Are you really only fourteen, Anni? I can hardly believe it. Last night, it felt as though I was with a woman at least three times your age and experience.”

“Yes, I am.” I gave her a small smile of farewell and left the room.

We were to leave for school at eleven the following morning, which gave me time to go out for my last ride with Donald. He, of course, had heard the story of my helping his niece into the world.

As we sat in our usual spot by the brook, he asked me how I’d known what to do.

“It’s really very simple,” I explained. “You must always follow nature. Your sister’s body knew everything, I just tried to help her trust it.”

I could see there was new respect for me in Donald’s eyes today. “My goodness, if only more of the world would think like that. My father had huge respect for nature. You’re awfully wise, Anahita, for one so young.”

“Sometimes,” I said as I dug the heel of my boot into the solid, parched ground, “I think it’s as much a curse as a blessing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, to have a mind that wishes to make sense of the world.” I looked at him. “For most women, to be pretty and to have many new dresses is enough to satisfy them.”

“Well, I can’t help you with the dresses,” he chuckled, “but I can tell you that you are pretty. Very pretty indeed. Now, we’d better head for home.”

As we walked back to the house from the stables, Donald said suddenly, “I shall miss our morning rides together.”

“Me too,” I said, meaning it with all my heart.

He leaned toward me and kissed me gently on the cheek. “Good-bye, Anni, come back soon to visit us. You’re a very special young lady, and it’s been a pleasure knowing you.”

My heart sang with joy all the way back to school in Eastbourne. Even Indira’s chatter about how much she was looking forward to seeing Celestria and the rest of the girls, and the thought of being incarcerated and lonely once more, could not pull my spirits down.

For I had met someone who liked me simply for myself. We were friends, that was all. Or at least, I tried my best to make myself believe that, but the memory of his lips on my cheek told a different story to my heart.

O
ver the following two years, the war in Europe raged on and Indira and I were unable to return to India. I remained at school for the holidays, while Indira went to stay with her various friends. I didn’t mind, as many of the girls were in the same boat, including my friend Charlotte. I used the time to study for my upcoming matriculation.

Indira and I celebrated turning sixteen with a low-key event at school, based around cakes which tasted like rock due to the powdered egg. Indira fell in and out with her friends and turned to me for sympathy if one of them had said something particularly nasty. I’d finally accepted her seesaw approach to our friendship, knowing that when her confidence waned, she would be back to me, needing comfort.

However much it hurt, I told myself that my position in her life was providing me with the education my father had always wished for me to have. I was one of the brightest in my class, or, at least, the most dedicated and hardworking pupil, and the teachers began to talk to me about university. Of course, this was an impossibility, but it was heartwarming to know they thought so highly of me.

Christmas of 1916 was spent at Astbury—I remember it as a somber affair. As I had known she would be, Selina had been notified that her husband had been killed in France back in October. A household in mourning was not a place to expect celebration.

Selina looked thin and pale in her black widow’s weeds. She managed a smile when she saw me.

“Hello, my dearest Anni, how cheery to see your bright face back here at Astbury.”

The following afternoon, she sought me out and asked me to accompany her on a walk.

“I was so sad to hear of your husband’s death, Lady Selina,” I said
as we walked through the frost-laden garden. A heavy mist had descended and the frail winter’s sun seemed to be retreating in front of night’s rapid advance.

“Thank you,” Selina said. “At present, I’m struggling to make sense of it all. Hugo was so young, Anni, with his whole life ahead of him. And now”—she paused—“he’s gone. Mother insists that I should find comfort in God and prayer, as she does. But if I’m truthful, I’m just repeating hollow words that have no meaning. I can’t bring myself to go to the chapel. Is it dreadful to admit that now, when I need it most, my faith seems to have left me?”

“No, of course not. Sometimes it’s impossible to understand why loved ones are taken from us,” I said in agreement. “But while the gods took, they also gave. You have your beautiful daughter, and she carries part of Hugo in her.”

“Yes, and I thank God—or the gods, if you prefer—for her,” Selina acknowledged quietly. “But would it also be dreadful to admit that Hugo’s death has left me a widow at twenty-two, living back at home, with only my mother as a companion and little chance of escape in the future?”

“Lady Selina, there will be another chance of happiness in front of you, I promise,” I said, my instincts suddenly alert. It wasn’t the appropriate time to tell her about a new love waiting for her just around the corner, but I knew with every bone in my body that it was true.

“Do you really think so, Anni?”

“Yes, I do. And remember, it isn’t necessary to pray in a church every day. We are all part of God. There is a little of him inside each of us.
He
will hear you, wherever you are.”

“Thank you, dear Anni.” Selina laid a gloved hand on mine as we walked back toward the hall, ready to escape the cold.

•  •  •

There were no morning rides that Christmas. Donald, having been called up for military service some weeks before, was training somewhere with his battalion.

One frosty December morning, as I took my breakfast in the kitchen, I was handed a letter addressed to me. Surprised, I opened it and began to read.

Chelsea Barracks

London

19 December 1916

Dearest Anahita,

I do hope you don’t mind me writing to you. I could think of no one else whom I could trust with my innermost thoughts. My training (or the few weeks of marching around and around and learning how to shoot a rifle) is completed and I’m about to be shipped off tomorrow to some unknown destination, which all us fellows suspect is France. I have, of course, written a formal letter to my mother and my sister, letting them know of my imminent departure, and have sounded as I must—brave and strong.

Even though all the chaps I’m with are gung-ho about the jolly time we will all have in the trenches, I know we’re all ignoring the fact that many of us won’t return. So, as I write this to you tonight, only hours before I leave, I want you to know, Anni, that I don’t want to die just yet. Or live, as so many poor souls are having to, maimed for life.

Forgive me, I’ve never written a letter like this one before. But I know from what the servants say about you, and from our own private moments together, that perhaps you have certain powers. If you do, please, Anni, send whatever you can to protect me. If you tell me I will be all right, I know I will be. You are my talisman.

Could you write back to me at the address above? I would very much like to hear from you. I hope you don’t think that I’m less of a man, or a coward, for writing this. But I keep thinking back to those glorious sunny mornings when we lay by the brook together and all was peaceful. Perhaps I am being selfish, but I want to have more days like that.

I trust you to keep the contents of this letter private.

I hope you are well, and please pray for me.

Yours affectionately,

Donald Astbury

I read and reread Donald’s letter many times. Then I walked out into the gardens, away from the house. If Donald was to leave this earth soon, I knew I would feel it and hear it.

And . . . I felt nothing. A clear, pure nothing.

My heart lifted with joy, for now I knew he would survive his ordeal and return home, unharmed.

Therefore, I was able with complete faith to write the letter I would have penned whether I’d sensed bad news or not.

Astbury Hall

Devon

30 December 1916

Dear Donald,

Thank you for your letter.

Please do not be afraid. I’m absolutely sure you won’t be taken from this earth just yet. I hope I will see you soon, when you return from France.

Best regards,

Anahita Chavan

Even Indira’s friends did not arrive to visit her at Astbury over the Christmas break. Petrol rationing prohibited long journeys from the southern counties where most of them lived. Given the dark mood in the upstairs drawing room, on New Year’s Eve, Indira resorted to joining me below stairs with the servants. There was a piano, on which Mrs. Thomas bashed out some old English tunes. Without a doubt, as 1916 turned to 1917, it was the cheeriest place in the hall to be.

One night, just after New Year, there was a knock on my attic door.

“Come in.”

Indira appeared, her eyes red from weeping, and held out her arms to me. Reluctant to get out of bed—there were no fires lit on my attic floor—I wound the covers around me, stood up and went to her.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Oh, Anni, I’m so homesick for Ma and Pa . . . and India. I hate it here. It’s no fun and so cold. Really, I feel just as much of an orphan as you do!”

“I’m sure the war will be over soon and you will be able to see your family,” I said, comforting her calmly.

“And—oh, Anni, I’ve realized I’ve been so mean to you, ignoring you, and”—Indira gesticulated—“making you sleep in this freezing-cold attic without saying anything to Lady Astbury. Listen”—she shivered suddenly—“come downstairs with me and sleep in my bed. There’s a fire at least, and we can talk.”

I acquiesced to her wishes, as I always did, and once we were wrapped in blankets in front of the fire in her bedroom, she stared into it and sighed. “You know, I’m dreaming of the palace every night. I never used to appreciate it. Or you,” she added. “I know I’ve been a cruel friend, and I’m probably a bad person. Can you forgive me, Anni?”

“Of course I can forgive you.” I smiled at her.