Her Mother’s Hope

away and told him she would come down in a moment. Throwing on her clothes, she headed downstairs while still buttoning her shirtwaist. Men had come out into the hallway. She waved them back inside as she hurried down the second-floor hall to the Fourniers’ large bedroom. Herve had pulled a chair over to the side of the bed and held Solange’s hand. He still wore his nightclothes. Marta stood at the end of the bed, not sure what to do.

“Ah, Marta,” Solange said, but her relief was short-lived as pain made her gasp. Herve stood and started rattling off French again, pacing back and forth, raking his hands through his dark hair.

Marta gathered Herve’s clothes from the floor and dumped them in his lap. “Get dressed and go for the…” Marta searched for the French word for midwife. Solange had taught her. What was it? “Sage-femme! Maintenant, Herve. Vite. Vite! Don’t forget your shoes.”

Men talked in the corridor. Hoping they hadn’t delayed Herve, Marta stepped out. “Is anyone a doctor?” They looked at one another and shook their heads. “Then unless you want to help deliver a baby, go back to your rooms.” They disappeared like a thundering herd of mountain goats, doors closing quickly behind them.

Oh, God, what do I do now? Pretending calm she didn’t feel, Marta came back into the bedroom. Other than one afternoon lecture at the Haushaltungsschule Bern on assisting at a childbirthing, Marta knew nothing at all of such matters. But she supposed she could do better than a panic-stricken husband. “Everything will be fine, Solange. The midwife will be here soon.”

An hour later, the door slammed and feet pounded up the stairs. Herve spoke so rapidly, Marta couldn’t understand a word he said. She did understand the look on Solange’s face. “The midwife isn’t coming.”

“Herve says she is delivering someone else’s baby. Mon Dieu. What are we going to do?” She groaned, another contraction coming within a few short minutes of the last one. Herve looked wild-eyed. He moaned with his wife, looking from her to Marta. When he started talking again, Marta cut him off and told him to boil a big pot of water and bring clean towels and a knife. When he just stood there, gaping, Marta repeated her words with quiet authority. “Go, Herve! Everything will be all right.”

Solange began to sob and speak French as rapidly as her husband had. Marta took her hand. “German, Solange, or French more slowly.”

“Keep Herve out of here. He makes me nervous. He gets upset if I so much as cut myself, and this is-” Another contraction came and stopped her from saying more. “Do you know what to do?”

Marta didn’t want to lie and claim knowledge she didn’t have. “God made women to have babies, Solange, and He knows what He’s doing.” She put her hand on Solange’s damp brow. “You’re going to manage this as well as you do everything else, ma chere.”

Herve came up with a pile of towels. He disappeared again and returned with a bowl and steaming kettle. When he came to the bed, Solange raised her head. “Partez! Sortez!” Stricken, Herve went, closing the door quietly behind him.

Solange relaxed against the pillows Marta had put behind her, for a few minutes at least, until the next contraction took her breath away. Marta worked through the night, dabbing Solange’s forehead, holding her hand, speaking words of encouragement. Solange screamed when the baby pushed his way into the world, just as the sun peeked over the horizon. Marta tied two strings around the cord and cut it with shaking hands. Wrapping the wailing baby boy in a soft blanket, she placed him in Solange’s arms.

“He’s so beautiful.” Solange gazed raptly into her son’s face. She looked pale and drained, damp tendrils of dark hair framing her face. “Where is Herve?”

“Downstairs, I think, waiting to find out if you and the baby are well.”

She laughed. “Tell him he can come back now. I won’t bite him.”

The door opened and a heavyset, gray-haired woman came hurrying in. Her face looked weary with exhaustion.

“Madame DuBois!” Solange smiled. “He’s already come.”

“So I see.” The midwife removed her shawl and tossed it aside as she approached the bed. “Two babies in one night.” She drew down the blanket to look at the baby. “Herve is bringing warm water and salt. We must wash you both to prevent infection.” She drew blankets aside and encouraged Solange to nurse the baby. “It will bring the afterbirth.” She straightened and turned to Marta. “We must strip the soiled sheets and replace them.” Marta followed the woman’s quick instructions.

Herve came in with another pot of hot water and a bag of salt. “You have a son, Herve.” Tears of joy ran down Solange’s cheeks. The midwife told him to wash his hands before he touched either babe or mother. Herve sloshed water into a basin and scrubbed past his wrists, grabbing one of the towels. When he sat on the edge of the bed, Solange gasped. Herve dropped to his knees beside the bed, murmuring endearments as he kissed Solange and beheld his son.

Feeling useless, Marta gathered up the soiled sheets. “I should soak these right away.” No one noticed when she left. When she came downstairs, she found several men dressed for work sitting in the empty dining room. She had had no time to set out the usual breakfast buffet. “Musli this morning, gentlemen. And no lunch today. You’ll need to find a nice restaurant. We’ve had a busy night. The Fourniers have a healthy son. Everything will be back to normal tomorrow morning.”

The midwife came down to the kitchen. “Solange and the baby are sleeping. Herve fell asleep on the settee. You did well, mademoiselle. Solange speaks very highly of you.”

“Solange did all the work, Madame DuBois. All I did was dab her forehead, hold her hand… and pray.” Madame DuBois laughed with her. “You’ll need something to eat before you leave.” Marta prepared an omelette, fried bread, and hot chocolate. Madame DuBois left as soon as she finished breakfast, and Marta went upstairs to her attic room to rest for a few hours before starting preparations for dinner.

Unexpected emotion welled up inside Marta. She had never seen anything more beautiful than the way Solange and Herve looked at one another and at the perfect infant they had made together. Would a man ever look at her with such love? Would she ever have a child of her own? Perhaps her father was right: she had no beauty to offer and she lacked Mama’s gentle spirit. How many times had Papa said no man would look at her, and in truth, not one of the bachelors in the house had given her a second look, other than to ask for some needed service. “Mademoiselle, would you mind ironing my suit?” “How much to do my laundry, mademoiselle?” “More sausages, mademoiselle.”

Marta put her arm over her eyes and fought tears of longing and disappointment. She must concentrate on what she could have with hard work and perseverance, and she must not long for things beyond reach. Solange had her Herve. Rosie would have her Arik. Marta would have her freedom.

She could thank God she would never again live under her father’s roof. She would never again bear the bruises of a beating. She would never again sit in silence as a man told her she was ugly, ill-tempered, and selfish.

“Fly,” Mama said. “Be like an eagle.” In those words, Mama had acknowledged that Marta would not have the comfort of a loving husband or children of her own. “An eagle flies alone.”

As she fell asleep, Marta thought she heard a voice. “Mama?” She dreamed Mama flew above her, face radiant, arms spread like angel’s wings. Elise stood below, hands raised, snow swirling around her until she disappeared.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, Marta worked such long, hard hours she had no time to think about anything but what needed to be done. Herve hired another servant, Edmee, who took over the household chores. Marta prepared all the meals for the Fourniers and twelve boarders and looked after Solange during her first weeks of recuperation. Baby Jean proved demanding of his mother’s time. After the first few days, Herve slept in the parlor.

Herve came into the kitchen one afternoon. “Two letters, Marta!” He tossed them onto the worktable. “Ah, ragout de b?uf.” He lifted the lid from the bubbling beef stew and inhaled while Marta slid the bread from the oven and set it on the counter to cool. She picked up the two letters, one from Elise, another from Felda Braun.

Heart thumping with dread, Marta took a paring knife and sliced both open. She felt something inside Elise’s envelope and carefully opened the note. Folded inside were Mama’s gold earbobs.