Then I knew.
No. Not another baby. She was so weak. She couldn’t do it.
But Papà knew. Somehow my parents had realized she carried two children. No wonder she delivered early. Now Papà lent her his strength, supported her, held her hands against the bedpost, spoke encouraging words in her ear.
Who was I to declare Lady Juliet Montague could not bring forth another baby from her loins?
Returning my brother to Nurse, I said, “He’s tiny. Keep him near the hearth. Keep him warm. There’s more to be done.”
Nurse held him close to her bosom and hurried to do my command.
Returning to the bed, I bent to our purpose. “Mamma, you bring forth our newest sweetheart. Our bonus baby. You’ll push him out and the whole family will rejoice in him, kiss his sweet cheeks, and hold him . . . just hold him. Think how excited Cesario will be to know he has two brothers. Two! He’ll be such a good big brother.” I was sort of sobbing. Not that I meant to. What good did it do to be so emotional?
Mamma still screamed, the sound thinning as she tired, and I knew I had to go somewhere I hadn’t been since the day of my birth. I gathered air into my lungs and, with all compassion and gentleness, slid my hands into the birth canal.
The shriek Mamma gave made me understand that nothing could be gentle enough.
The baby was there, still in his sac, but wrongly placed, butt first. He had to be turned.
I knew how the method worked. I did. But I’d never performed such a service.
None of that mattered. Mamma needed me. The baby needed me. I had to make this birth happen, or mother and child could perish.
Papà stared at me, pleading, his mouth moving without sound. “Please, please, please.”
I could feel the weight of my siblings, kneeling in the chapel, begging God to deliver their mother from pain.
I wasn’t God. I couldn’t deliver her, but I could, perhaps, turn this baby and bring him into the world. As gently as I could, I rotated the baby, urging him, nudging him into the proper position.
How could I ignore Mamma’s screams?
Yet . . . how could I not do what must be done?
Papà nodded at me, encouraging me, begging me to help his Juliet.
Everything in her contracted and clamped down on my hands. “Try not to push, Mamma,” I begged. “Not yet.”
“Breathe,” Papà urged her. “Breathe.”
I breathed, too, waiting for the contraction to end, then began again. The sac was slippery and sagged as if ready to break, but I begged God to wait until my brother was head down, for that slippery fluid would ease the way. Then—oh, then! Mamma would be delivered of her labor and she could rest. With gentle touches, I urged the babe to bring himself around and out. Maybe I annoyed him. Maybe he’d needed guidance. But suddenly he punched at me and flipped.
I cupped his tiny skull in my palm, then released him and slid my hand down and out. “Push, Mamma! Push!”
The sac broke. The fluid eased his way, and my brother was born.
Twins. Twin boys. I had delivered them both. I heard Mamma laugh. I heard Papà praise her and me. I heard Nurse announce she would cut the cord, and when she shoved me to the side . . . I collapsed.
CHAPTER43
Landing on the floor brought me to consciousness, and reminded me of the injuries I’d forgotten in the excitement and the demands of tending to Mamma and the babes. Dimly I heard the tumult of crying infants, men’s voices, Mamma’s frantic worry, but in my mind, I knew all was well. I surrendered to my body’s demands for rest.
I woke in my own room, dawn’s first touch of sunlight on the wall, and through half-closed lids took inventory of my body.
My face throbbed. Towels had been stuffed under my nightgown, so I was bleeding and not at the right time of the month. I felt bruises on bruises. But all in all, considering what the previous day had been, I wasfine.
I’d wakened before dawn to the news that Nonna Ursula had been attacked.
I’d gone to Friar Laurence’s shop to prepare a healing poultice and had taken it to the palace.
