Bringing To Birth

(one of Coquirie's travel-tales)

By and copyrighted solely to Susan C. Mitchell ©1997

I usually do more of herb-work and making charms than midwifing. It's hard to build up a reputation as a midwife when you never stay in your own home for more than a year. But from time to time, I have caught the odd baby -- usually in the wagons, when a birth comes on halfway between two villages, or sometimes when a village midwife was ill or two birthings came at once.

That's what happened some time ago, in a place I lived for a while. It was a city, not a village. I had been traveling with a family -- they'd found space for me in one of their wagons, in exchange for whatever help I could give them. So when they settled outside this city, which I won't name, I stayed there too for a time. One or two of the townsfolk heard, one way or another, that I was blessed with a gift of healing, and they started coming to me for remedies or charms.

Always the poor folk, never the well-to-do. I thought it was just another case the same when a woman hurried up to our camp one autumn morning. "Is it true that there's a midwife among you?" she said to Stavo as he hammered away on the pot he was mending.

I was close enough to hear. "I'm the healer," I said. "Is there some way I can help you?"

She nodded vigorously. She was young, dressed like a servant in one of the rich houses in the city. "Madame -- my mistress -- is having her baby," she said breathlessly. "The midwife she had arranged things with is away on the other side of town, and Old Grandmere died a month ago. We didn't know who else to get, but Cook said she'd heard there was an herb-wife with the Gypsies and she told me and I told Madame, and Madame said I should go and get you and Monsieur agreed. We're afraid it's sooner than it should be, and we don't want to wait for the midwife to get back. Can you come, lady? Please?"
I had to, of course. I couldn't leave a woman to labor alone, with no one to help her or sit with her -- and I admit, the thought of what "Monsieur" might pay me did pass through my mind. So, "Wait just a moment," I told the girl, and hurried to the tent I was sharing with Stavo's daughters.

It took me only a few heartbeats to gather what I would need. My bag, with my remedies in it. An extra bundle of raspberry leaves, and some columbine seed and birthwort in case she had a difficult time. My sharpest knife, and I took a moment to tie on my white linen coif -- it wouldn't do to look unprofessional, particularly if "Monsieur" was as well off as I hoped he was. The birthing chair, folded down so I could carry it, and a low leather-seated stool.

Laden with all this, I returned to where the girl still stood. "Carry these," I said, handing her the bag and the stool -- put together, they still wouldn't outweigh that danged high-backed chair. She shouldered the bag and tucked the stool under her arm, and, with me lugging the chair, we set out.

"How far into labor is your mistress?" I said as we walked. "How far apart were her pains -- five Paternosters, ten?"

"Oh, longer than that, lady. They might be ... hm, the time it takes to boil a pint of wine sauce down by a third."

Good. At least the baby wouldn't get there before I did. "Has her water broken?"

"I think so, lady."

"But you say the birth's come on too soon?"

"A couple of weeks, Madame thinks. That's why the midwife isn't there-- it wasn't supposed to happen yet!"

"And is she in good health otherwise?"

"Madame? Oh, yes, lady. She's very strong, and until today she walked in the garden every morning. She will be all right, won't she?"

I sighed. "I won't lie to you, girl -- an early birthing doesn't bode well for the child. But I see no reason your mistress shouldn't come through as well as any woman."

After that, we both saved our breath for walking. It was a good half hour before we reached the
house -- a big one, in a richer neighborhood than I'd visited before. She took me in the back door, and we hurried through the kitchens and to the staircase. A man stood at the foot of the stairs, and for a moment I thought I saw another figure, a woman, disappear up them.

"Monsieur," the servant girl said with a curtsey. "This is the midwife, Damoiselle -- I'm sorry, lady?"

"Coquirie, monsieur." I put down the chair and sketched a curtsey.

He was tall, with fair hair and startling blue eyes, and -- even to my sight -- extraordinarily handsome. But he scowled when he saw me. "A Gypsy?"

"Half Gypsy, monsieur. My mother was Breton. I learned midwifery from her, as she learned it from her own mother."

He eyed me for a long moment, and then nodded. "Go on up. Isabeau will show you the way. My next-door neighbor's wife is up there," he added. "My wife's best friend."

So that was the woman I'd seen hurrying up the stairs. Following the girl Isabeau, I hauled the chair up the stairs, down a corridor, and into a bedchamber.

I got a vague impression of hangings on the walls, and wide glass-paned windows. Three women were in here -- another servant, a finely dressed lady in blue, and a third woman I immediately recognized as my patient. She was sitting in a chair, her curling brown hair still pinned up.
That was all I could see from this distance.

"Madame?" Isabeau said. "This is the midwife, Damoiselle Coquirie."

The woman in blue -- Madame Next-Door, I thought -- turned, eyeing me closely. She was fair-haired, slender, fragile-looking. "You're a Gypsy," she said.

_Thank you for telling me that, madame, I would never have known it otherwise._ "Yes, madame. But my mother was Breton, and I come from four generations of midwives."

"Let her come in, Colombe," Madame of the house said wearily. Her friend hesitated, and then moved aside.

I leaned the chair against the wall and approached my patient, dropping her a curtsey. "Madame."

She shook her head, chuckling tiredly. "For heaven's sake. You are going to get to know me far too intimately to stand on ceremony now."

I couldn't help smiling at that. "That I am, Madame."

She was young, within a year or two of my own twenty-four years, I guessed. Her hair was coming out of its pins. Standing, I estimated that she would be a handsbreadth shorter than I was. Slightly on the plump side, even aside from the swelling of her belly under her skirts.

She gasped. "Oh, my -- here's another one -- "

Sometimes you can stop an early labor with wine or strong drink, but I could tell from the strength of this pain -- from her tense face, and the way she clutched at my hands -- that it was too late for that. I wrapped my hands around hers. She gripped mine hard, her eyes closing against the pain, but she didn't try to bear down. Smart woman. I held her hand for the long moments until the labor pain subsided. Her hand was small, round, like a little girl's, but surprisingly strong, with clean short nails and one or two burn scars from cooking. The side of her index finger was rough, as if from a lot of sewing. _Baby clothes_, I thought.

Finally she let out a long breath and slumped back against her chair. "Colombe," she said, without opening her eyes, "why don't you go downstairs and -- keep Charles company for a while?"

"Oh, no, dear Therese," the fair woman said. "Charles will be fine, and I'd much rather stay with you. After all, we're friends, aren't we?"

I was between them, and I saw the brief expression that passed across Madame my patient's face. Friends or no, she did *not* want this woman in here, not now. "It's going to take quite some time, Madame," I said over my shoulder. "Perhaps you should go and tend to your family, and tell them you won't be back for a while."

"That's all right," she said quickly. "My husband is away from the city, and I have no children."

I thought quickly. "No children? Then you mustn't be here, Madame. It's very bad luck for a woman who's never had a child to be in a room where a birth is going on, especially if she and the birthing woman are friends."

She laughed uncertainly. "That's just silly superstition!"

"Oh, no, Madame," I lied fluently. "I've seen it. When I had my own first child, my best friend was in the room with me. A year later, when she had her own, she felt all her own pain and the pains I'd felt as well. You'd better go down, Madame, and don't come up until I call you or send someone."

"Well, if you really -- Therese, do you believe this?"

"She's the midwife, she should know," my patient said. "Go on down, Colombe. You know I would never wish any pain on you."

The neighbor came and kissed her forehead. "Very well. But if you need anything, anything at all, you will send someone, won't you?"

"Of course I will. Now go down and comfort Charles."

We waited as the light footsteps receded down the corridor. "Thank you," Madame said, still without opening her eyes.

"You're welcome, Madame. Sometimes, no matter how much you care for someone, there's a particular moment when you don't want her around."

Her mouth tightened, but she didn't answer. I turned to the servants. "Do you have everything ready?"

There was a fireplace in this room, kettles of water already heating. A coopered wooden tub lay next to the hearth. Folded linen cloths on a table, and a pile of clean rags; and in a basket beside the door, a bundle of moist ones. A cradle sat next to the bed, with neat stacks of baby clothes and swaddlings in it.

Isabeau and the other servant were trying to figure out how to put my birthing-chair together. "Plenty of time for that," I said. "Help me to get your mistress ready. And send someone to unlock every door in the house."
Isabeau hurried out of the room. With the help of the other servant -- whose name, I learned, was Bedarde -- I got Madame to her feet and assisted her out of her clothing. I was relieved to note that her bones were straight, her limbs straight and strong -- she'd never had rickets.
I can think of few things worse than trying to deliver a woman whose hips are crippled from rickets. We dressed her in a light woolen shift -- she was lucky to have one with the neck gathered to a band, rather than on a cord that tied. I unpinned her hair and combed it out, falling halfway down her back.

And then we walked.

Across the room and back, and then across the room and back. Door to window to door. Back and forth, across the room and back. Tierce rang, and we walked, window to door to window. Then Sext, the noon-bell. Madame called for a meal to be brought in for Bedarde and Isabeau and me, and I persuaded her to take a little stewed fruit, telling her she would need her strength. I made a tisane -- the mixture I make for all pregnant women, raspberry leaves, millefolium, and cinnamon -- and sweetened it with honey, and made her drink it. And we walked. Down the corridor, with Isabeau running ahead to make sure no menservants were about, and back to the bedchamber. And across to the window and back, and across and back.

I had had the window opened an inch or two, despite the autumn chill outside, both for fresh air and because nothing must be closed or fastened where a woman is lying in. It was a little after None, with the sun sinking in the west, when she stopped beside the window, to breathe her way through another pain.

As it subsided, she leaned against the window. I had my arm around her waist, so I felt rather than saw her catching her breath. I glanced at her in concern ... and then followed her gaze.

This window looked down onto the garden at the back of the house. There were two people down there. Even from this distance, I could recognize Monsieur of the house by his bright hair; and Madame Next-Door, slim and frail in her blue gown.

They were in each other's arms.

Madame my patient closed her hand around mine, her body stiffening against a hurt that I knew was not a labor pain. A single tear ran down her cheek. She said nothing, and neither did I.

After a moment, she turned away, and we began walking again.

Across and back. Across and back. Madame was stumbling with exhaustion now, but she stubbornly kept on, and I found myself admiring her.

An hour or so before night, I sent Isabeau for candles. "I want a good supply in this room, candles and candlesticks," I told her. "We can wait by the light of two or three, but when the time comes I want plenty of light."

She scurried off, and I sent Bedarde for some wine and a mortar and pestle. I lowered Madame into a chair, for a few minutes' rest.

We were alone. "Madame," I said, hesitating, "isn't there someone you want us to send for? A friend, a relative? You should have friends or sisters with you now, not just servants and a hired midwife."

She shook her head. "No one. My mother is dead, I have no sisters. I have only one friend in this city, and she -- " She broke off, her mouth twisting as if at some bitter taste.

Only one friend. And Monsieur had said that Madame from next door was his wife's "best friend." I turned away. I did not want this woman to see how much I pitied her.

I did not want to pity her.

Bedarde returned with a jug of wine and a glass, and the little stone mortar. I ground up some columbine seeds, mixed them with the wine and made Madame drink that. Then I helped her to her feet again, and with Bedarde on her left and me on her right, we walked.

Walked and walked and walked, as the sun set and candles were lighted, as Vespers and then Compline rang. Even as tired as she was, and with her pains growing closer together, Madame bethought herself to send Isabeau down to bring us more to eat -- a tray of bread and cheese. I tried to persuade her to eat something, but she would have none of it; she eyed the tray scornfully, muttering about how if she was away from the kitchens a single day, there was nothing in the house that was fit to eat. I'd been brewing the raspberry-leaf mixture all day, though, and she had drunk of it steadily. I hoped the honey in it would give her some nourishment.

"Lady?" Isabeau said to me. "Monsieur is downstairs, he told me to say he'd like to speak with you when it's possible."

"Very well." I let her take my place at Madame's side. "Keep walking, and shout down the stairs if there's any change at all." I straightened my skirts, tucked up the loose end of my coif, and hurried down the stairs.

Monsieur was waiting at the foot of the staircase, looking genuinely anxious. "Damoiselle sage-femme? Is everything all right?"

_So concerned, so anxious._ "Everything's fine, Monsieur. Madame's coming along nicely. We just need to be patient, that's all."

"Is it supposed to take this long?"

I nodded. "This is perfectly normal, Monsieur, particularly with a first birthing. I've been told that the English word for a midwife means `one who waits with a woman,' because that's what midwifing mostly consists of -- waiting."

"Can I -- see her?"

I hesitated. He was her husband, and -- presumably -- the baby's father; he had the right. But if Madame had wanted her friend out of the room this morning, she might be even less eager to see her husband tonight. "I think not, Monsieur. It's not seemly, and it's an ill omen for a man to see his wife at such a time."

One advantage of being a midwife is that people tend to accept your word on many things. "If you say so," he said, his shoulders slumping with -- disappointment? relief? "Please call me if -- anything happens, won't you?"

"Of course, Monsieur. Your pardon, sir? I don't want to leave Madame for too long." I curtseyed and hurried up the stairs.

Madame was gasping when I entered the room, leaning heavily on Bedarde's arm. "Damoiselle? I ... don't think I can walk any longer right now."

"Then don't." I hurried to her side and helped Bedarde lower her into the chair. "Rest, for a while at least."

"What did Charles want?"

"He seems very concerned for your welfare, Madame. He was worried that things were taking too long, but I told him everything was coming along just fine." Again I hesitated. "He asked if he could come and see you. I told him it wouldn't be good."

She glanced at the servants, standing together beside the fire, and then leaned back and closed her eyes. I saw her lips shaping a silent "Thank you."

I nodded and touched her hand. Aloud I said to Bedarde and Isabeau, "Can one of you help me to put my chair together?"

The childbed chair is cleverly made to fold down, into a bundle as high as my shoulder and about three handspans wide, but little more than a handsbreadth deep. Opened up and fitted together, it looks much like a common high-backed wooden chair, save for two half-moon-shaped cutouts. One is at the top of the backrest, and makes a neckrest for the patient to lean back into. The other, of course, is at the front edge of the seat. We set it up near to the fire, beside the table, with my little stool before it, and the wooden tub close by.

I touched my patient's shoulder. "Madame? Do you think you could walk some more?"

"I can try." She winced as I helped her up. "I think I'm getting labor pains in my feet."

I chuckled, respecting this woman more and more. "Somehow no one ever tells women about those, Madame, but the real reason a woman doesn't leave her house for a month after lying in is because she doesn't want to stand up."

She put her head close to mine, with the hint of a mischievous smile. "Damoiselle, I don't think it's because of my *feet* that I won't want to stand up."

Walk and walk, and rest, and walk. It grew late. Madame sent Isabeau off to bed, and Bedarde dozed beside the fire. Sometimes during the rest periods, I found myself nodding off until Madame clutched at my hand in the next pain. I think she might have even dozed off herself, once or twice, for a moment. Or we would talk, in half whispers, as Bedarde snored.

"Have you ever borne a child, Damoiselle?"

"Yes, Madame. I lost one child five months along, and I've borne one daughter."

"So you know what this is like."

"Yes."

"How old is your little girl? Does she travel with you?"

I hesitated. It's bad to speak of such things in a room of birth, but somehow I felt I owed this woman honesty. "She's dead, Madame. She was killed by a runaway horse when she was four years old." I made a quick warding sign, so that death spoken of would not enter, and closed my eyes against the old grief. "She would be six now. Almost seven."

Madame laid her hand over mine. It's the midwife who's supposed to comfort the patient, not the other way around. "What was her name?"

"Jonette."

We were both silent for a moment. Then Madame's breathing quickened with another pain.

Walk, rest, walk. Cup after cup of raspberry-leaf tisane. More columbine seeds in wine. The rests were longer than the walks, now, and the pains were drawing closer together.

Finally: "Bedarde!" I called urgently, lowering Madame into the birthing chair. "It's time!"

She roused herself, blinking dazedly. "Time for what?"

"It's *time*! Splash water on your face. Light some candles, and then go and wake Isabeau, we'll need her help. Hurry up, woman!" Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Bedarde lit a handful of candles and hurried out of the room.

Madame hadn't cried out at all before this, but now she was biting her lips, gasping with pain. "Not much longer now, Madame," I said as encouragingly as I could. "You're doing just fine. Hold my hands--that's right. No, don't hold your breath, do just as you have all along. Your breath is the child's, you mustn't keep it from him. Breathe quickly, in and out, in and out ... "
When her breathing steadied, I sponged her sweaty face with a cool cloth. "Don't fear, Madame. The little one can sense your fear, and it makes him fear to come into the world. Be calm and brave, and it will be over soon."

She closed her eyes. "I can't see why he should be eager to enter the world. What has he to look forward to?"

"A mother who cares for him. Bedarde, there you are. Come here and hold Madame's hands."

At my orders, Isabeau filled the wooden tub with water, just a little above blood heat. It would cool a bit. We laid out the cloths, and hung a shirt and napkin and swaddling band by the fire to warm. I washed my knife in distilled spirit and laid it on the table, with a length of cord.

Things moved quickly then, after the long hours of waiting. The air filled with the smells of sweat and blood. Madame cried out, to the Virgin, to her own mother, and then in no words at all, the heart-deep groans I have heard so many times. The sound of one soul tearing itself free from another. I knelt before her, the stool I'd brought forgotten.
"I can see the little head. You're doing just fine, Madame, just fine. Don't bear down just yet, pull on Isabeau's hands instead -- wait for it, wait,
wait -- now! Bear down! You're doing wonderfully, Madame, just fine, push, push, yes, good, push, *now* -- " and the tiny womanchild slid, blue-white and bloody, into my hands.

Silence, except for Madame's exhausted breathing.

I swear by all the Gods that are, I did everything I could. I slapped its buttocks, its feet, I splashed it with cold water, I breathed into its mouth, I prayed. We all prayed. I may have wept, and I know that Bedarde did, although Madame did not. But there was nothing to be done. It was born too soon, too small and weak, and it never drew a breath of its own.

Finally, after many minutes, I knew that I could do no more. I cut the navel string and wrapped the tiny, perfectly formed body in a square of linen, handing it to Isabeau. Madame gasped at the final unexpected pain, there was a little gush of blood, and the afterbirth slid out. I checked to be certain it had come away entire, and dropped it into a basin, to be buried later in the garden.

We bathed Madame, put a clean shift on her and pinned a clout in place, and helped her into bed. She had not spoken since the birth. Bedarde piled the soaked and bloody rags in the basket. We cleaned the stains from the floor and from the birthing chair, and pushed the chair into a corner. Bedarde came and took the dead baby from Isabeau, cradling it in her arms.

Then I went downstairs.

Monsieur was waiting at the foot of the stairs. It was dark down here, with only one or two candles lighted. "Well?" he demanded. "How is Therese? And the child?"

"Madame is fine, Monsieur. But the baby -- I'm sorry, sir. I did everything I -- "

He shoved me out of the way and raced up the stairs. I followed him as quickly as I could. When I came into the room, he was kneeling beside the bed, at Madame's side, holding the baby in his hands. "Therese," he whispered.

She was sitting half upright, leaning against a pile of pillows. She reached out and took the baby from him. "Maybe it's -- better so," she murmured. "A girl -- "

"What happened?" he demanded, his voice suddenly loud in the quiet room. "Your own midwife never said there was any danger! *What happened*?"

"It was too soon, Monsieur," I said. "The child was too small -- "

"And there was no true midwife here," he said, rising to his feet, turning to face me. "No decent Frenchwoman, only a damned Gypsy sorceress! What did you do, woman? Did you steal my child's life, to get its soul for your heathen -- "

"*Charles*!" I was astounded at the strength in Madame's voice. She was actually outshouting him. "Be silent! Damoiselle Coquirie did all she could to save our child. I saw. Bedarde and Isabeau saw. She probably saved my life, she did what she could to save our daughter, and I will hear no word against her!"

His expression changed in an instant. "Of course, you're right, Therese," he murmured soothingly. "Be still, my darling. Don't exhaust yourself. Your pardon, Damoiselle, I didn't
mean --"

"I quite understand, Monsieur," I said, keeping my face still and my voice calm. "You're upset. I'm very sorry for your loss."

Madame was sitting upright now, bent over the tiny still bundle in her arms. Monsieur sat on the bed beside her, putting an arm around her shoulders. "Don't cry, my love," he beseeched her. "It's sad, of course, but you can have another baby -- "

Madame was not crying. But her sigh sounded as if it came up from her very bones. "I'm tired, Charles," she murmured.

I put on my best professional demeanor. "Madame needs to rest, Monsieur. And you should see if you can't sleep for a while as well."

He patted his wife's hair and rose. "As you say, Damoiselle. And then in the morning, I'll have to go and speak to a priest, and -- "

He broke off. I knew what he would need to do in the morning. Call for the coffin-maker.

He turned towards the door. Madame's voice stopped him just in the doorway. "Charles? In the morning ... you'll tell Colombe, won't you? I don't think I want to see her for a while."

His expression was unreadable. "Of course I will, darling."

He left. With a few murmured words, I thanked Bedarde and Isabeau and sent them to their beds. "I'll stay with Madame," I promised. "You two should go and sleep -- I'll be able to rest later."

Finally, we were alone. Madame had settled back against her pillows, still cradling her dead child. Her face was turned towards the ceiling, her eyes closed, her brow slightly furrowed as if in thought.

"Why should he call a priest?" she said, after a time. "If what they say is true, my child's soul is burning in Hell right now. For the sin of being born, or dying too quickly. Or having the wrong parents -- "

I sat on the bed beside her. "I don't believe there's such a place as Hell, Madame. My people's souls journey to the moon when we die. And even if there is a Hell, I don't think any God could send an innocent child there."

There was another silence. "Do you know what I thought, when I first knew I was pregnant?" she said. "I thought, `Now he'll have to leave her, and return to me.' I thought that having a child would be the saving of our marriage. That's a terrible burden to put on a baby, isn't it?" Her mouth twisted bitterly. "And it wouldn't even have worked. Even while I was up here, laboring to give birth to our child, he was down in the garden dallying with -- " She broke off, with a strangled sob, clutching the little bundle to her breast. "And now I have nothing. No husband, no child. The semblance of a marriage, that I'll be trapped in for the rest of my life -- trapped -- oh, little one, maybe this is better for you, better than being trapped in what a woman's life is. Oh, God, my baby -- "

I would never have thought she still possessed the strength to go on weeping as long as she did. I held her, remembering how after my Jonette died, I thought there would never be anything in the world for me but tears.

But they ended at last. Hers ended too, the storm of weeping finally past, leaving the curious stillness that I remembered as well. She released the child into my hands. Carefully I put it into the cradle.

I wiped Madame's face with a damp cloth and tucked the covers around her. Her face was quiet now, but still not at peace. "Damoiselle?" she said. "When you lost your child, did your husband comfort you by telling you it was no loss, since you could bear another?"

"No," I said. "It wasn't the same, since she was a big girl, four years old. But he wept along with me."

"Is he waiting for you? Where do you live?"

I thought about it. "I suppose he is waiting for me, in a sense. I travel, and now I'm living outside the city, but my man lives in Paris. I return to him, and then leave again -- he always says, `Coquirie's feet won't let her stay in one place too long.'"

Her eyes flew open. "Your husband lets you do that?"

"He's not exactly my husband, Madame. We've been ... close, since we were little more than children. But there's no vow binding us. When we're together, we're together; and when we're not, there is no vow to be broken."

She sighed, and her eyes settled shut again. "To be free ... " she murmured.

I tucked the bedclothes closer around her, and then sat in the chair and watched her.

Around dawn, a servant I hadn't seen before brought in some bread and wine. A few hours later, Madame's regular midwife finally arrived. She looked at the child, and woke Madame up long enough to examine her, and agreed that there was nothing more I could have done. I had a packet of sage leaves in my bag; I left it with the midwife, to make a tisane to stop Madame's milk flow. Monsieur gave me my pay, and I gave part of it to Madame, to divide between Bedarde and Isabeau.

"Thank you," Madame said before I left. "You've been ... a great comfort to me."

"I'll pray for you," I said.

I didn't see her again after that, nor did I expect to. A few weeks later, Stavo and his family moved on, and I went with them.

A year or so later, I spoke a friend of mine who'd passed through that city lately. She told me that Madame's marriage had ended, and told me how: in scandal and tragedy, and murder. An adulterous couple; the adulteress's husband, learning of the affair, poisoning his wife and her lover, and hanging for it; the adulterer's wife -- Madame my patient -- despondent with grief and loss, throwing herself into the river.

That was many years ago, but it still troubles me. Every time I think of her, I wonder: what more could I have said to her, to convince her that a woman can live free, can make whatever she will of her life -- that a woman's life doesn't have to be a trap?

"You've been a great comfort to me," she said. But whatever comfort I gave her, it wasn't enough. I will always wonder -- what more could I have done?
 
 

Afterword

We authors are a possessive lot. While I've enjoyed seeing Therese make the occasional cameo appearance in other writers' fanfic, I never thought I'd want anyone else to write a story where she was a central character. When Susan showed me the tale you've just read, however, I was so impressed, I had to say yes to it. Is this a "true" incident from Therese's biography? Even I'm not sure, although it certainly could have happened. Either way, it is a splendid and moving piece of story-telling, and she has done Therese proud. Many thanks, Susan, for sharing it.

Karen (CSG#5/CHM#3)

Author's Note:

First, a disclaimer: I am not a doctor, midwife, or professional herbalist. None of the information in this story is to be taken as medical advice. B-) Now, with that out of the way:

I owe a very great debt of gratitude to Karen (CSG#5, CHM#3), for creating such a wonderful character in Therese -- a character so beautifully portrayed that I can see and hear her, not only when I read, but when I *write*; a character so vivid in my mind that I could not resist writing about her.

"Bringing to Birth" sprang into my mind almost entire; I wrote it in four days. I admit, I felt some trepidation about showing it to Karen: I was worried she'd be unhappy with the way I treated her character.

I'm very glad that she's pleased, and *deeply* honored by her permission to use Therese in this story. Thank you, Karen.