All day Lydia had longed to flee, but she had been trapped in the work kitchen filling the candle order for Saint-Benigne. She and Isabelle had not spoken. There was absolutely nothing to say. Any attempt Isabelle made at conversation, Lydia immediately shut down. Finally, Isabelle left her alone to make candles in solitude. As she worked her mind raced and her thoughts smashed into the the same wall. In a months time, this life she now led would be over. The shop would be sold and she would live in a little hut with the status of a servant. No one in her family had ever been a servant. At least not that she knew of. The people in her family were in trade, their own masters. If only she had been blessed with the guts to be a midwife like Aunt Rachel, but she had not. Instead she had been cursed with the ability to make candles. Life was a wretched thing!

When the last batch of candles was finished, Lydia packed them and cleaned up the work kitchen. Tomorrow morning she and Isabelle would deliver them. In the house kitchen, Isabelle was warming a stew. Lydia was not hungry. She told Isabelle, “I am going for a walk.”

Isabelle asked, “Are you sure? It will be dark soon. I do not think it is wise.”

“I am sure.” Lydia grabbed her shawl and headed out into the street. She did not want to go to the cathedral, though it would be safe there. The last person she wanted to talk to was God. Instead, she made her way to Le Raines, the stream where she had seen the blues bells on her birthday. Though it was only the beginning of August, her birthday seemed like it happened a long time ago. When she reached Le Raines the sound of flowing water embraced her. She knelt down beside the river and closed her eyes. Silently she asked, “Oh, Aunt Rachel what am I to do?”

There was no answer. She opened her eyes. The sun touched the distant horizon. The clouds became smears of orange and gold. If only she were a bird and could fly away. If she were a bird, she would be a sea gull, even though seagulls were scavengers and their voices were raucous. They were so gorgeous when they flew in the morning sun. The way they glided across the water had always mesmerized her. She longed to be by the shore again.

The shadows lengthened. The wind set the leaves to murmuring. A human voice, distant but distinct said, “Ah, look who has come to be beside the water. It be a might late for one such as you to be wanderin’ around alone.” Lydia turned to the voice. It was Bathsheba. It would not do to meet this old woman while kneeling. Lydia stood.

When Bathsheba reached her, she tilted her head to the side and asked, “You in some trouble?”

Without much conviction, Lydia said, “No.”

“A lie that is. So, the brewer has finally staked a claim. How long before yer kicked out on your arse?”

Was this woman clairvoyant or just observant? Lydia did not attempt another lie. “I will not be kicked out. Provisions are being made for me.”

“Ah but the provisions be not your pleasure. A servant, I wager. Will you like being a servant?”

Lydia jutted out her chin and said, “I will do what I must.”

“Will you now? Would that include weddin’ or beddin’ a man if need be?”

This question was pointed and irritating.

Bathsheba was not finished. “I heard tell that a lad, lookin’ much like yourself arrived at Na Simeon’s and disappeared like he was spirited away. Curious.” The old woman fixed her knowing eyes on Lydia.

What was this old woman up to? Lydia said, “If you will excuse me I best get back to the shop.”

A low rumbling laugh shook Bathsheba. “Aye, you best get back to the shop while there is still a shop to get back to.”

Swiftly, Lydia made her way to the street. Isabelle had been right to warn her. When she reached the shop, she cast a wary glance over her shoulder and went inside. Isabelle was at the shop counter working in the account book by candle light. She glanced up and said, "I left the stew pot ashes for you."

For the first time that day, Lydia was cordial. "Thank you."

Pleased that she had finally spoken to her, Isabelle smiled and said, "You are welcome."

Outside the shop, they heard a wagon stop. The next instant, a boot banged against the door. Lydia turned to open it. In the door way Tobias stood with Marguerite in his arms. He pushed passed Lydia. In a voice that trembled he said, "We were on our way to Mass and she went limp. When I looked down at her..." He did not finish his sentence.

By the blood soaking through Marguerite's dress, Lydia suspected she was having a miscarriage. Moder had had several. Isabelle nor Tobias knew what to do, but Lydia did. She said, “Isabelle put some heavy cloths on your bed. Tobias, this way.” Isabelle ran ahead scattering the cats as she went. In the bedroom she had put a heavy wool blanket on the bed. Gently, Tobias put Marguerite down. Lydia told him, “Go fetch Bathsheba. I just saw her by Le Raines, go down the first side street to your left. Hurry!”

Tobias fled. He was almost as pale as Marguerite. Lydia asked for the smelling salts. When she waved the bag under Marguerite’s nose. No reaction. Nothing. This was not good. Lydia told Isabelle, “We need to get her out of these sodden clothes. Help me.”

Together they tugged Marguerite’s bloody dress and underclothes off of her. Every thing was soaked in blood. Deep, rich, dark blood. Isabelle covered her with a wool blanket. Lydia listened to Marguerite’s heart. It was beating irregularly. Anger surged through Lydia. This was all part of the curse of Eve and it infuriated her. There was no way on God’s earth she was going to witness this woman die. Marguerite made a strange gulping sound in her throat. Her body went limp. Just as Lydia had seen her Aunt Rachel straddle Moder’s body and breathe air into her mouth, she did the same to Marguerite. In, out, in out. All the while she prayed. And then, Lydia felt it. The breathe of Marguerite filled her own mouth. Marguerite coughed and looked at Lydia’s face. Lydia implored, “Come on now, just keep breathing. One breath, one more breath and now another.”

Marguerite obeyed. With each breath she became a bit more alert. Finally the eyes staring up at Lydia’s face recognized her. Marguerite whispered, “I am loosing my baby.”

“Perhaps,” said Lydia. “Bathsheba is coming. She will know.” To Isabelle she said, “Heat some water and bring a cup of hot water and honey for her to drink. She needs liquid. She has lost an awful lot of blood.” Please God, do not let it be too much blood!

Frightened, Isabelle nodded and left the room. Lydia heard her put a kettle on to boil.

With wide eyes, Marguerite said, “Please hold my hand. I fear Death is in the room and do not want it to take me. Peronelle needs her mama.”

“Indeed she does.” Lydia took her hand and held it tight. “Stay focused on me. You are brave and strong. Breathe in, breathe out. Slow and steady.”

The bedroom door banged open and in limped Bathsheba. She glanced at Lydia and said, “Seems you learned a mite from your aunt.” To Marguerite she said, “Let me have a look.” She pulled back the cover and examined Marguerite.

For the first time in her life, Lydia did not close her eyes while a midwife tended to her patient. She asked Bathsheba, “Will you please tell me what you are doing, so I will know what to do if, when, I am faced with such a thing again?”

“Very well, I will.”

Though Lydia’s stomach began to protest at what she saw and heard, she refused to let it give way. More blood had spilled onto the wool blanket. There was just so much blood, hunks of it were like liver. Bathsheba took clean rags from her pack and showed Lydia how to place them and how to staunch the blood. Next, she gently felt the section where the baby had rested. When she did this she shook her head. Marguerite said, “Its gone."

“Aye, it is."

Marguerite did not cry. She gripped Lydia’s hand tighter. It seemed she was determined to hold on to this life.

As Bathsheba prepared herbs to ward off infection, she told Lydia the recipe. The words were familiar. Aunt Rachel had grown these herbs and administered them. Lydia realized she had absorbed more than she knew.

When Isabelle brought the cup of steaming water and honey, Bathsheba put the herbs into the cup. With eyes closed, her lips moved in prayer or perhaps she recited an incantation. She stirred the contents slowly. When she opened her eyes, she handed the cup to Lydia. “Give it to her slow. We dunna want her spewin it out.” To Marguerite she said, “This will ward off infection and ease pain.”

With hands that Lydia had to force to be steady, she placed the cup to Marguerite’s lips. Just a sip, just one. She tilted the cup back up. Sip, by sip, Marguerite drank the brew. Just before she had the last drop, she fell into natural sleep.

Bathsheba took the cup from Lydia and said, “You did fine girl. You did fine. I been worried about this pregnancy all along. My best herbs dunna make it hold.” Sadly, she shook her head. “I must go out and tell the husband this little wife is stayin’ put and the wee babe is lost.” She limped out of the room.

Exhausted, Lydia collapsed into the chair beside the bed. She watched the rise and fall of Marguerite’s breathing and she prayed, prayed so hard. Peronelle still needed her Mama.

There was a knock on the kitchen door. She heard someone enter and then Jon Paul asked, "Has something happened?"

Lydia heard Tobias speak, but it was so low she could not understand what he said. Jon Paul responded. "No worries. I will tend to the chores. In the morning I will bring Peronelle around."

Beside her, Marguerite stirred. She asked, "Is that Jon Paul?"

"Oui."

"Fetch him for me and Tobias, I need to speak to them."

Though Lydia thought it might be best if Marguerite conserved her strength she did not argue. Still blood spattered, Lydia knew she looked a fright. "I will be right back." Marguerite released her hand. Lydia took in a slow deep breath, crossed the room and opened the door. There in the wavering candle light stood Jon Paul. Everything in her wanted to run into his arms and sob. He took a step towards her. The distance between them was small. His presence pulled at her. She stopped where she was. "Marguerite would like to speak to the both of you." Tobias pushed passed her and ran into the room. Lydia turned and saw him sink down on his knees beside the bed. He took Marguerite's hand in both of his. The look on his face communicated all his worry and his love.

Lydia felt a hand on her shoulder. Softly Jon Paul said, "We will give them a moment before we go in." His hand steadied her. His strength flowed into her. Unable to speak, Lydia nodded. Of its own accord her hand reached up and grasped the hand on her shoulder.