Free Kitty Bennet's Diary (Pride and Prejudice Chronicles) by Anna Elliott Page A

or bounce the bed and do Jane some further injury.  So I held her just within reach of her mother, and Jane held Amelia’s hand while I swayed with her back and forth.
    And Amelia kept on screaming.  More loudly still.  Apparently being in reach of her mother while yet not able to actually crawl into Jane’s lap was even worse.
    Jane was in little better case; she looked as though she were about to burst into tears.  And she kept biting her lip and gasping with fresh pains.
    I would have believed the sudden knock on the bedroom door an answer to prayer, if I thought that God or whatever Fates were governing the night owed me any favours.
    Still holding Amelia, I crossed and opened it—hoping for Georgiana, who would be able at least to take Amelia into the next room for me.  It was Mr. Dalton who stood in the hall, though.  He looked slightly startled by the combination of myself—probably looking half-wild—and a screaming, red-faced Amelia.  But he recovered himself and said—well, half-shouted, rather, over Amelia’s screams—“Miss Bennet.  I came to see whether I might be of any further—”
    I did not give him time to finish.  “Here.”  I dumped Amelia unceremoniously into his arms.  “Will you take her into the dressing room, please?  I have to see to my sister.”
    Which was not precisely kind to Mr. Dalton.  But my insides felt all tangled up tight with a fear that refused to be shaken off: that Jane was going to die tonight—and it would be in some way my fault, because I had not been able to make Amelia stop crying.
    Mr. Dalton did not—amazingly, really—seem so very much discomposed to find himself in sudden possession of a two-year-old in the throes of a magnificent tantrum.  He hefted Amelia easily into his arms—managing to avoid her flailing fists and feet—and carried her into the dressing room, closing the door behind them.  Which did at least muffle Amelia’s screams.
    I went back to Jane.  Mr. Foster had at least told me what signs I ought to watch out for—an increase in the frequency of the pains.  A discharge of fluid or blood.  I checked Jane, but saw no sign of either of those.  So I took her hand and said, “Do you want me to write to Charles for you?  I am certain Edward and Georgiana would see the message delivered with all speed—”
    “No!”  Jane’s face looked waxy pale and beaded with sweat.  Her fingers clenched involuntarily around mine.  But she said, between pauses for breath,  “No, do not trouble yourself.  I am certain everything will be perfectly … fine.”
    “But Jane, just in case the child is born early, do you not want Charles—” 
    “I said no, Kitty!”  It was the sharpest tone I had ever heard from Jane in my life.  I looked at her in astonishment.  But since the subject only seemed to be upsetting her more, I said, “Well, close your eyes then and try to relax.  Here, if you give me my hand back, I can rub your shoulders for you.”
    I tried to study Jane’s face as she exhaled a deep breath and nodded, but I could not guess what the trouble between her and Charles might be.  I should have said that it would be impossible to quarrel with either of them, and still more impossible for two such sweet-tempered people to quarrel with each other.  Jane turned over onto her side—awkwardly, with the bulk of the child.  I rubbed her shoulders and stroked her hair, hoping that the pains might slacken off if I could somehow lull her into sleep. 
    She did start to relax.  I was watching the clock on the mantelpiece—counting off each tick of the second hand that passed.  And a full twenty minutes passed without Jane gasping or biting her lip with the onset of a pain.  Her eyes began to droop closed, and I started to hum—an old lullaby I can remember Jane herself singing to me when I was small.  Our mother was never exactly the sort for singing cradle songs by our bedsides; any lullabies Lydia and I did get were