Eight Weeks ~ by Jen
The trees were blossoming gently in the April sunlight. Emma Knightley sat on a bench in the garden with tiny George on her lap. His little eyes looked wonderingly at the tender blossoms and his mouth formed a coo. Emma smiled and hugged him closely. “I can scarce believe he is two months old already!” she thought. The past two months had gone by in a blur.
Little George Knightley III was born on February 14. His coming threw the Woodhouse family into a tizzy; Isabella insisted on coming from
There was, however, a matter in which Mr. Knightley could not help his wife. It had long been the tradition of the Knightley women to nurse their own babes and Emma wished to follow this custom. Isabella had done it with all five of her children and was convinced it had brought her closer to them as well as improved their health. Emma’s close friend, Harriet Martin, had recently had a daughter and nursed her.
Emma, however, had a very difficult time with the process. Poor little George grew steadily thinner and fussier, and Isabella gave many suggestions as to what had worked for her, but none were effective. Mr. Perry could not advise her on any methods that might help. A midwife who lived about twenty miles from Hartfield was called in to aid Emma.
“You aren’ producin’ enou’ milk,” she told Emma after working with her for a week. Isabella, standing behind the woman, gave Emma a sad smile and shook her head. “You’ll have to fine a wennurse.”
Isabella looked confused. “A what?”
“A wennurse,” the woman repeated, motioning to her bosom. “To suckle the babe for Mrs. Knightley.”
Emma fell back on the pillows. She was exhausted. Her labor had lasted nearly twenty-seven hours and once she delivered George, all her hours were filled with nursing. Nursing makes the body feel tired and thirsty, so when she did not have little George at the breast, she was sleeping, eating, or drinking.
“Oh, Emma,” Isabella said, kneeling by her bedside, “I wish I could do it. If only I had nursed little Emma longer, perhaps my milk would still be available.” Isabella had weaned her daughter Emma the year before. “Nor do I know anyone suitable.”
The woman shook her head. “Moy eldest daughter is wi’ chil’ e’en now, or I’d be urgin’ her on ye. I’ll look aroun’ for someone suitable for ye, but righ’ now I don’ know of anyone.”
They thanked the woman for all her efforts and Isabella helped her gather her belongings. “Don’t worry, Emma. I’ll post a letter right now to Mrs. Ferley, our housekeeper, and ask her to apply to an agency for you. I am sure a position in your household would be most desireable.”
“An agency?” asked Emma.
“Yes, it’s very popular in Ton these days. I’m sure we’ll have a wet nurse here at Hartfield within three days.” As she spoke, she retrieved writing materials and sat at the desk.
Their luck was not that good. As it turned out, a fever was spreading through
Emma continued her efforts, although her milk supply never seemed to increase. To supplement the baby’s needs, they fed him cow’s milk from a spoon. A servant showed Emma how she put a crust of bread inside a rag, dipped it in milk, and let the baby suck on it. That helped him a little.
Little George did not starve, however. The day after the midwife left, Mr. and Mrs. Elton dropped by the house. Mr. Elton engaged Mr. Knightley in a discussion in the drawing room about his son’s christening, and
“Oh! Look at the little darling! His hair is just little peach fuzz, is it not?”
Isabella petted George’s head. “None of my babies had much hair, either. I gather thick hair does not run in the Knightley family.”
Emma’s eyes swam with tears. She wanted to say some very cutting words to Mrs. Elton, but she had not the energy.
“Mrs. Elton, Mrs. Knightley has been nursing the baby, but is having a rather difficult time of it,” Isabella informed her.
“Have you not arranged for a wet nurse?” inquired Mrs. Elton.
“No, we did not think we would need one,” said Isabella. “We have just now realized that we do, and it seems that no one in the area is available.”
“Well, how fortunate my gift will be, then! I have brought just the thing.” Out of her reticule she pulled a small, silver sauce boat. “I love this style of pap boat. The handle is very easy to hold and the hole on the end is perfect for a little mouth.”
Emma grimaced. Her father would, no doubt, be happy to feed his grandson pap, as it was essentially the same recipe as his gruel. However, Emma had heard stories of babies’ health declining as a result of the thin, pasty mixture of flour and water. She did not want to risk it but felt desperate to help her little son.
Serle, Hartfield’s cook, was called upon to make pap for little George. The Eltons’ cook shared how she added butter and chicken broth, and after a few days the Knightleys really did see an improvement in their baby’s appearance and demeanor.
After George had been eating pap for eight days, Harriet Martin came to see them. She brought her five-month-old daughter,
“My dear Mrs. Martin! How lovely to see you! You look well,” Emma greeted her as Harriet swooped over to Emma’s chair to shake her hand.
“Hello, dear Miss Wood… I mean, Mrs. Knightley,” said Harriet breathlessly. “Is it not strange how I can not drive that from my tongue? I still want to call you Miss Woodhouse. Well, here is little
“What a precious baby!” exclaimed Emma.
“Oh, those cheeks,” said Isabella, pinching one lightly. The baby squealed in delight at the touch.
“She is a happy girl,” said Harriet shyly. She set the girl on the rug, and to their surprise, the baby stayed sitting upright. They remarked on how strong she was, and for a minute chatted about all the new things she was learning to do.
Isabella changed the subject presently. “Mrs. Martin, we are interested in finding a wet nurse for little George. Do you know anyone? We have looked high and low and advertised in local papers, but have not found any suitable ladies.”
Harriet thought a minute. “I believe Robert’s cousin had a baby last year. She lives in Faversham, over in
“Of course, we will arrange for her to be brought here, and she shall have no expense,” said Emma eagerly. “I shall send a servant with the invitation now if you know the direction.”
Harriet did not, but as Mr. Martin was downstairs visiting Mr. Knightley, they sent the servant to have him write it down for them. The invitation was sent with a pithy explanation of the Knightleys’ situation and everyone in the room looked most pleased.
Just then Mrs. Weston and her little one-year-old Anna were shown into the room. “Well, this is quite a party!” said Emma. “Bonnie, please go fetch some tea. We’ll have it early today on account of our friends.”
Mrs. Weston kissed Emma’s cheek. She stroked little George’s face and said, “My dear Emma, motherhood suits you well.” She looked at Harriet. “You as well, Mrs. Martin! And you’ve brought
“Yes, we are,” replied Harriet.
Mrs. Weston pulled a small package out of her bag. “I have brought little George a present,” she said. It was a round pot with a short, straight spout and a rag tied at the end. “This is a bubby pot,” explained Mrs. Weston. “The baby sucks the milk out of this spout.”
“That’s wonderful, Mrs. Weston! Thank you,” Emma said. “We now have two pap boats and a bubby pot. Ford told Mr. Knightley that the potter had finished a duck-shaped boat for us.”
“That should tide you over nicely until the wet nurse can get here,” Isabella remarked.
“Yes, hopefully Laetitia can come, and quite quickly,” Emma said.
As it turned out, Laetitia was able to come as soon as she received the invitation. Her husband’s farm had suffered blight last harvest, and they had had a poor winter. Since Laetitia was nursing the baby, her husband had seen that she always had plenty to eat, but this meant that he had to go without. Now that planting time was upon them, Laetitia worried that her husband may not have the strength to sow the seeds as he needed to. Her getting away and earning money would give the family a chance to get back on their feet.
The Knightleys sent a wagon for her and her things straight away. The journey would take three days, they planned.
The night before her arrival, Mr. Woodhouse asked which room the young lady would be occupying.
“The servant quarter next to my own, Papa,” Emma replied. “I hope it is ample space for her and her baby.”
“Her what?” asked Mr. Woodhouse. “Oh no, Emma – you can’t mean – there is to be another child in the house?”
“Yes, Mr. Woodhouse,” replied Mr. Knightley. “That is why she is able to nurse George – she is going to wean her own son as she lives with us, but she must bring him here. Surely that can not offend you, sir,” he said, as Mr. Woodhouse looked agitated.
“No, certainly; I am not offended.” Mr. Woodhouse took a deep breath. “But… two babies here at once! The eldest a child, probably able to run about, always making noise and being underfoot! Bringing disease and infection indoors, and probably carrying belongings where they do not belong and hiding them.”
“Very well, sir,” Mr. Knightley replied. “We will go to Donwell.” Emma recognized an irritated look in her husband’s expression. “I would hate for you to be so inconvenienced by the needs of your grandson.” Emma could hardly believe her husband spoke this way to her father – Mr. Knightley, who had always insisted upon the utmost respect for other people!
Mr. Woodhouse looked confused. “I do not wish you to go away,” he said, “but if you can not think of another way…” After this, he merely stared into the fire and ate small bites of gruel.
Mr. and Mrs. Knightley took their son and servants to Donwell Abbey. Laetitia came to them while they were in the moving process, so getting her set up was simple.
Emma liked her immediately. She was a stout woman with curly brown hair and a contagious laugh. As she had always been either the daughter or wife of a middle-class farmer, she did not treat Emma like a superior, and she had none of the subservient manners of a servant. Emma was so grateful to her for the job she was doing that she did not mind a bit. Laetitia was a friend rather than an employee.
Her son, Philip, was quite a character. At ten months of age the tot was already toddling about, trying to reach any and everything colorful or shiny. They quickly learned to place anything up high that they did not want in Philip’s mouth. Emma arranged for Mrs. Ford, the shopkeeper’s wife, to come show them patterns and materials to decorate a nursery for Philip and George, when he was ready.
Once her mind was eased regarding George’s feeding and health, Emma was able to relax and enjoy her baby more. It seemed that every day he learned to do something new: smile, giggle, turn his head when he heard his father’s voice. She even found the time to get out of the house to visit the Westons, Bates, and Martins.
Even her father seemed to have changed this past month. He decided that he loved seeing his grandson every day. As he had missed watching Isabella’s babies grow, he could not bear to miss any of George’s development, so he had James driving him to Donwell more often than James had ever driven him anywhere.
As Emma sat on the bench on the warm April afternoon, her husband came walking toward her.
“Mr. Knightley, do you know what? Little George is no longer a newborn infant. He is two months old already!”
“I know, my love,” he said, bussing her on the cheek.
“It’s just amazing. I was so worried that he wouldn’t survive this long. I was worried that… well, that I was not a good mother because I couldn’t nurse him.”
“Emma, no. It was not your fault,” he replied.
“I know,” she said quickly. “I have to remind myself every day that I did not purposely withhold milk. I wonder if there were anything I could have done differently that would have helped. But my concern for little George soon surpassed my feelings of doubt. I do not know what I would have done if not for Laetitia.”
Mr. Knightley sat and put his arm around his wife’s shoulders, tickling his son’s chin and cheeks as he did. “I confess, I had my concerns as well,” he said. “But he has made it this far. We have made it this far.” He nuzzled her neck and rested his head on top of hers. “I’m so glad you’re mine,” he whispered.
Emma kissed his cheek and her baby’s cheek. “I’m glad, too,” she whispered back.
~The End~
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