‘It’s starting again,’ she says.
‘What do you mean?’ Mary asks, with her slightly imperious air.
‘She’s starting again,’ the midwife repeats. ‘There’s another one coming.’ She pats Agnes’s leg. ‘You’re having twins, my girl.’
Agnes takes this news in silence. She lies back in the bed, clutching her son, exhausted, grey-faced, her limbs slack, her head bowed. The only sign of the pains is a whitening of her face, a pursing of her lips. She allows them to take the baby and to tuck it into the cradle by the fire.
Mary and the midwife stand on either side of the bed. Agnes stares up at them, her eyes wide and glassy, her face ghastly white. She raises a finger and points, first at Mary, then at the midwife.
‘Two of you,’ she rasps out.
‘What did she say?’ the midwife says to Mary.
Mary shakes her head. ‘I’m not sure.’ Then she addresses the girl: ‘Agnes, come to the stool. It is ready. It is here. We shall help you. The time has come.’
Agnes is gripped by a pain, her body twisting first one way, then the next. Her fingers snatch at the sheet, pulling it from the mattress, and she presses it to her mouth. The cry that escapes her is ragged and muffled.
‘Two of you,’ she mutters again. ‘Always thought it would be my children, standing at the bed, but it turns out that it was you.’
‘What was that?’ the midwife says, disappearing once again under the hem of Agnes’s shift.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Mary says, more brightly than she feels.
‘She’s raving,’ the midwife says, with a shrug. ‘Doesn’t know where she is. It takes some like that. Well,’ she says, hauling herself upright again, ‘this baby is coming, so we need to get her up off that bed.’
Between them, gripping her under each arm, they get Agnes up. She permits them to lead her out of bed to the stool and she slumps down on it without a murmur. Mary stands behind Agnes, propping up her limp form.
After a while, Agnes begins to speak, if the sounds and disjointed words could be called that. ‘I should never . . .’ she mutters, and her voice is no more than a whisper, gulping for air ‘。 . . I should never . . . I got it wrong . . . He’s not here . . . I cannot—’
‘You can,’ the midwife says, from her position on the floor. ‘And you will.’
‘I cannot . . .’ Agnes grips Mary’s arm, her face wet, her eyes wide, glittering, unseeing, willing her to understand ‘。 . . you see, my mother died . . . and . . . and I sent him away . . . I cannot—’
‘You—’ the midwife begins, but Mary interrupts her.
‘Hold your tongue,’ she snaps. ‘Attend to your work.’ She cups her hand around Agnes’s bloodless face. ‘What is it?’ she whispers.
Agnes looks at her and her flecked eyes are pleading, scared. Mary has never seen this look on her face before.
‘The thing is . . .’ she whispers ‘。 . . it was me . . . I sent him away . . . and then my mother died.’
‘I know she did,’ Mary says, moved. ‘You won’t, though. I am sure of it. You are strong.’
‘She . . . she was strong.’
Mary grips her hand. ‘You will be fine, you’ll see.’
‘But the problem . . .’ Agnes says ‘。 . . is that . . . I should never . . . I should never have . . .’
‘What? What should you never have done?’
‘I should never have sent him . . . to . . . to London . . . It was wrong . . . I should—’
‘It wasn’t you,’ Mary says soothingly. ‘It was John.’
Agnes’s head, lolling on its neck, snaps round to face her. ‘It was me,’ she mutters, teeth clenched.
‘It was John,’ Mary insists.
Agnes shakes her head. ‘I shan’t make it through,’ she gasps. She grips Mary by the hand, her fingers pressing painful spots into the flesh. ‘Will you take care of them? You and Eliza. Will you?’
‘Take care of who?’
‘The children. Will you?’
‘Of course, but—’
‘Don’t let my stepmother take them.’
‘Certainly not. I would never—’
‘Not Joan. Anyone but Joan. Promise me.’ Her expression is maddened, drained, her fingers clamped into Mary’s hand. ‘Promise me you’ll look after them.’
‘I promise,’ Mary says, frowning, staring into the face of her daughter-in-law. What has she seen? What does she know? Mary is chilled, discomforted, her skin crawling with horror. She refuses, for the main part, to believe what people say about Agnes, that she can see people’s futures, she can read their palms, or whatever it is she does. But now, for the first time, she has a sense of what people mean. Agnes is of another world. She does not quite belong here. The thought, however, of Agnes dying, in front of her, fills her with despair. She cannot let that happen. What would she say to her son?