Free A Mansion and its Murder by Robert Barnard

I think I have hinted that my grandmother was much the more intelligent of the two. I suspect she adopted the policy of many women married to stupid (or limited would be a fairer estimate) men, and let him have his head in public, hoping to influence him privately, if only in small ways. In the matter of the approaching birth he had his own way entirely, and if the ironic eye might have said he made a great fool of himself, such an eye (and there were not many at Blakemere, apart perhaps from my grandmother, and Uncle Frank) would have made sure his perceptions never were given verbal expression.
    Uncle Frank was summoned home by telegram one week before the birth. They should have known him better. Nothing had actually happened, and he knew perfectly well when the baby was expected. He ignored the summons and came down three days later. I saw him greet his wife in Grandmama’s sitting room: he could have been an atheist in court kissing the Bible. His jokes about her size were brushed aside, as all jokes were by Mary. She told him the opinions of the doctors, which interested him, then outlined her plans for the future of their son, which interested him not at all. Uncle Frank intended to make all the important decisions about the boy’s future himself. And if I knew Uncle Frank, there would be no element of predestination in the plans – no sense that thechild was born for one fate and one fate alone. He thought of himself as a free spirit, and his son would be the same.
    The labour began two days late. Mary, I was told, had been very impatient with the delay, as if a tradesman had not turned up on time for an appointment. The birth was to take place not in her own bedroom, but in one of the largest bedchambers in the body of the house. Grandpapa had not actually asked the Home Secretary to witness the birth, but if he had thought he would come, he would have done so. I need hardly say I was kept well away from the centre of so much drama and expectation.
    ‘What happens when a baby is born?’ I asked Miss Roxby, though, as I say, I doubted she knew much more than me.
    ‘It is a time of great pain and suffering for the mother,’ she said. ‘Great joy eventually, too, of course.’
    This last was definitely an afterthought, and one reluctantly brought out. I perceived I was not going to get anything but generalities.
    ‘And how long does it take?’
    ‘It can be quite short, and it can be horribly long.’ Again, she seemed to speak with intense feeling.
    ‘It doesn’t sound as if you ever want to have a baby.’
    ‘I don’t. I had an elder sister die in childbirth. There are ways of avoiding it.’
    It had never occurred to me that childbirth was unavoidable, so I said rather priggishly, ‘It’s a good job some people want to have babies, or what would become of the Country?’
    ‘There will always be plenty of women who find their vocation in having babies and bringing up children,’ said Edith Roxby.
    I thought of Beatrice, and nodded.
    I became less sure that I was one of them when the labour started.
    I was, as I say, well away from the bedroom in question, and was denied my usual freedom to roam. However, I registered the beginning of the birth (the phrase I used to myself) by the sounds of servants scuttling around, and by a series of subtle changes in the routines of the house. That was not long after breakfast. I said nothing to Miss Roxby, but bent low over my schoolbooks. For some reason my cheeks were burning. When the usual time came for a break in lessons, Edith led me down an obscure back staircase and stayed with me as we roamed well away from the house, talking of all sorts of miscellaneousmatters that were not really what was on our minds. The servant who brought us our dinner (our main meal was served at about two, this being thought healthy for a child) was flurried, and whispered to Miss Roxby. When she had gone, my governess told me that the birth was difficult and protracted, but it