The Lioness of Morocco(17)

“These contractions are preparation for the birth. They are stretching your body for your child’s head to pass,” Nadira explained. She had not left her mistress’s side.

“Are you a midwife?” Sara Willshire, also riding at Sibylla’s side, was astonished.

Nadira shook her head. “I am not an expert, but I have assisted with many births. My mistress need not be afraid.”

“If nothing happens to her or the child, I’ll give you an extra month’s salary,” said Benjamin. He felt uncomfortable not only because he had no idea how to console his wife, but also because he himself was terrified for her and for his unborn child. Not knowing what else to do, he repeatedly admonished the stretcher bearers to be careful and alerted them to every stone on the path.

Rouston had not stayed with them. No sooner had Sibylla been safely placed on the stretcher than he galloped off to the caravanserai to make arrangements for the birth. Nadira had told him they would require a quiet room, boiled water, clean towels, and thread, plus torches and candles for light.

When the exhausted bearers came staggering through the arched gate four hours later, Rouston ran to greet them. “I have readied a room in a remote corner. Madame Hopkins can be taken there immediately.”

Benjamin lifted Sibylla from the stretcher. Her eyes were closed and her forehead covered in sweat.

“How are you?”

“Afraid,” she whispered without opening her eyes.

So am I, he thought. But he tried his best to sound confident. “Women have children every day. My mother had five!”

She smiled faintly. “I hope not to have to endure this pain five times.”



“I can hear the heartbeat,” Nadira said. “It’s strong and regular.”

Sibylla was lying in a tiny room on a thin mattress. The thick, windowless mud walls kept out the heat of the day. Nadira had lit two torches and placed them in sconces on the wall. Then she had squatted next to Sibylla, lifted her kaftan, and placed one ear just above the navel on the bulging belly. Now she lifted her head.

“Your child is strong, my lady. If you permit, I am going to feel its position.”

Sibylla nodded. She had neither doctor nor midwife to assist her, but Nadira seemed more experienced than she’d let on. Sara Willshire’s presence consoled her as well. The consul’s wife was kneeling next to her and tirelessly shooing away mosquitoes. Ten minutes before, when a rush of bloody water had come from between her legs, Sibylla had been convinced there was something wrong with the child.

But Sara had soothed her. “That’s only your bag of waters breaking. That always happens before the child is pushed out of the mother’s body.”

But for the time being, there was no sign of that. In fact, the contractions had stopped. But even that was normal, Sara had assured her. She urged Sibylla to use this respite to gather her strength.

Nadira’s hands were palpating her mistress’s belly inch by inch. Finally, she explained, “The child is lying the wrong way around, my lady. His head is up top and his backside at the bottom. But don’t worry,” she added quickly, seeing Sibylla’s frightened expression. “For the mother, it is almost the same.” She hesitated. “Though it might take a little longer and hurt more.”

Sibylla nodded bravely. “So long as you are here to help me. They all come out eventually, don’t they?”

“Is your mistress in danger?” Sara asked.

Nadira shook her head. She did not tell the ladies that a breech birth was more likely to endanger the life of the child. If the umbilical cord were to be compressed and the child deprived of the mother’s blood supply, it might die. But Nadira was going to do everything to prevent that from happening.

“Ahhh!” Sibylla groaned and jolted upright.

Sara took a firm hold of her friend’s hand.



Benjamin anxiously paced the courtyard of the caravanserai. He kept looking up at the closed door behind which his wife had disappeared several hours earlier. The eastern sky announced the night’s end. The refreshing cool air would soon be simmering in the first rays of sunshine. The doves on the roof of the inn greeted the morning with soft coos. The travelers too were slowly awakening. Several Arabs had rolled out small prayer rugs in one corner of the courtyard and said their morning prayers in the direction of Mecca.

The camel drivers were seeing to the needs of their animals. Small flames were flickering in several hearths. The scent of mint and freshly baked bread wafted over to Benjamin. He had not eaten since noon the day before, but he did not feel hungry.

“Still no news?” Rouston appeared next to him.

Benjamin shook his head. “I can’t imagine why it should take this long.”

“Yes, well, we men expect quite a lot from women, don’t we?” Rouston remarked. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulled out a flat silver flask, and handed it to Benjamin. “You look like you could use some.”

Benjamin looked at him with some uncertainty at first, but then accepted the flask and took a long draft. “Oh yes. That is good.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Even if I do prefer whisky to cognac.” He was about to return the flask to the Frenchman when Rouston said, “Finish it, Hopkins.”

Benjamin was more than happy to comply. “Do you have a family, Rouston?”

The Frenchman shook his head and grinned. “Not that I know of.”

“A bachelor, I see. Well, I have done well for myself by giving up bachelorhood. All sorts of opportunities have become available to me since I married a shipping company, so to speak.” Benjamin giggled, the alcohol and anxiety loosening his tongue.

As muffled screams reached the courtyard, his demeanor changed. “Though I must confess I am quite concerned,” he muttered. “Because, you know, the child is very early. I told my wife not to undertake this journey, but she can be stubborn.”

Rouston nodded silently. He liked independent women. They had a certain pride and confidence that he found attractive. He thought of Idri, the Chiadma woman with whom he had shared his life for two years. They had met during a moussem, a festival in the mountains, during which the whole tribe was gathered. There was much celebration, music, and dancing. Idri was a pretty widow with coal black eyes, breasts like ripe apples, and swaying hips. According to Berber custom, widows and divorced women determined for themselves who their next husbands would be, and how long they would be permitted to stay, for divorces were as simple as marriages. André and Idri had sealed their union   before the qaid of their tribe as well as five male and five female witnesses. Afterward, André had paraded his wife on a donkey across the festival square.

He jumped at the earsplitting scream above him. The men looked at each other, wide-eyed. Then they heard the soft bawling of a newborn.

“My child,” Benjamin whispered. “It’s here!”

The door to Sibylla’s room was flung open and Sara Willshire appeared.

“Mr. Hopkins, come and welcome your son!”





Chapter Nine

Mogador, December 1839

“Tom! Give it! Mummy!”

Sibylla sighed, laid the letter she had just opened on the table, and went to the gallery to find out what was happening. “What’s the matter now? Tom, are you teasing your little brother again?”

Three-year-old Thomas looked innocently at his mother. His two-year-old brother, John, stood beside him, wailing miserably.

“I want!” He pointed accusingly at Tom, who was holding the morsel out of his little brother’s reach.

Sibylla had to suppress a smile. The two looked so adorable in their little kaftans over their long pants, especially Johnny, who had not yet lost his baby fat. Everything about him was chubby and soft, and his tearstained eyes looked so pitiful. Like his brother, he had light blond curls and deep blue eyes. Tom was taller and slimmer, with delicate features that made him appear older than his three years.

John was only fifteen months younger than his brother. Sibylla had told Benjamin she wanted another child, and was delighted when, shortly after Thomas’s birth, she found herself pregnant again. The baby had turned out to be a boy and, when she held the rosy little creature in her arms for the first time, she completely forgot that she had wished for a girl.

“Tom, did you take your brother’s pastry?” Sibylla asked.

“No, Mummy!” Tom shook his head vehemently. “It’s mine. He dropped his in the water and Daddy’s carps ate it!”

“Is that right, Johnny?” Sibylla looked into the pond in which the fat gold-colored carp, Benjamin’s pride and joy, were lazily swimming their rounds.

The little boy nodded through his tears. Eating was one of his favorite activities, and the sweet gazelle’s horns filled with almond paste, which Nadira had given the children, were one of his favorites.

“How many times have I told you to sit and eat your food in peace, John? If you do that, you won’t drop anything,” Sibylla admonished her younger son.

“Hungry,” Johnny replied plaintively.

“You’ll have to wait until lunchtime, darling. Run along and play now!”

The little boy made a face as though he was about to start crying again.

“Here.” Tom broke the remainder of his horn in two and gave a piece to his brother, who immediately stuffed it into his mouth.