Spirit of Lost Angels by Liza Perrat Page B

the air. ‘Our daughter is wasting away! You must feed her, Victoire.’
    ‘What if the agent comes?’ I said, thinking of the people who came to check the wet-nurses were not giving the babies animal milk, or water thickened with mouldy bread. ‘You know if they find my own child at my breast we’ll lose the money, and you will be fined by the courts as much as you could earn in twenty days at harvest time.’
    The next day I found Madeleine listless, and whimpering.
    ‘Perhaps it is this cold weather?’ Armand said. ‘Or some other infant sickness. God only knows there are many. We must pray for her health, Victoire.’
    By evening Madeleine’s forehead burned, as I pressed it against my cheek. As I’d seen Maman do, I laid cool cloths over her hot, limp body. I crooned and whispered into her ear, and smoothed the dark hair from her flushed face, willing the fever to break. Her heat persisted though, and Madeleine made no sounds, apart from her raspy breathing.
    ‘The child is very ill,’ Armand said. ‘We must call Père Joffroy.’
    ‘No, Armand! She will recover … she cannot die.’
    But the priest came with his white cloth and candles, and solemnly performed the Last Rites.
    ‘Thank the Lord she is baptised,’ Armand said. ‘Madeleine’s soul will pray for our family, from heaven. Don’t be sad, Victoire. You are young, not yet nineteen. God will bless us with many more babies.’
    Sad? I could barely speak, could hardly breathe, the grief — the guilt — drowning me like an overflowed well. I could not understand this resignation my husband seemed to have acquired, over dying babies. Was it because he’d already buried four infants, or simply that, unlike a father, a mother remains forever bound to the child she has carried; as if the umbilical cord had never been severed?
    ‘If we were wealthy she would not be ill,’ I said, ‘and Rubie would not be gone from me. Isn’t it so unjust the babies of the rich live and the poor children perish? How can you simply accept that? Don’t you see it is all wrong, Armand?’
    ‘That may be the case, but I don’t know what we can do about these things, except to rejoice in what we have; in the living,’ he said. ‘Don’t feed your sadness on ghosts, Victoire, they will only haunt you until la mélancolie strikes you down.’
    I sat by Madeleine’s crib through the night, listening to her quick, shallow breaths. I kept reaching across and touching her all over to gauge the extent of the heat in her body. I patted her with the cool cloth, and, my eyelids, heavy, I sank into the chair beside her crib and fell into a restless sleep.
    In my dream, I saw Armand’s farm, but it was more than a simple farm. It was a grand inn, nestled just off the main road, above the woods. I watched bedraggled travellers approach its charmingly crooked thatched roof and moss-coated stone walls. As dusk fell upon their coaches and their horses slackened with thirst, I saw them smile at the golden glow of lamps from the many tiny windows, thinking they’d come upon an enchanted paradise.
    The church bell striking five startled me from sleep. I felt an odd sickness rising from my belly, and I lurched from the chair. I steadied myself with a hand on Madeleine’s crib and leaned over my sleeping daughter. Madeleine was white and quite still.
    No, no! A foul-tasting liquid shot into my throat, and my head spun so much I thought I would pass out.
    ‘Madeleine!’ I touched the ivory-pale cheek, dreading the cold touch of marble.
    Nothing. Then she blinked, her eyes flickering open. I picked her up. She was cooler to touch. The fever had broken. I wept into her soft skin, and latched her onto my breast.
    ‘ Dieu merci . Thank you for this miracle.’
    Madeleine was still drinking thirstily when Armand came into the room.
    ‘Victoire, wha — ’
    ‘Armand, it’s all right, we’ll no longer need those wet-nurse sous , the health of our child is far more