“Lovely day!” she said cheerfully as she spotted me trying to creep back inside.

“Yes, glorious weather,” I enthused, concealing the baby inside my coat. “I’ll have to get my hat!” I disappeared in, grabbed my hat, and knew there was nothing else for it, I was going to have to stuff the baby into my black bag, and hope he didn’t jolt around too much.

I emptied the contents, and the crumbs at the bottom, put the baby inside, trying to balance the bottle against his mouth, and crept out once again. The women were thick in discussion, and I decided to make a dash for it across the green.

“Hello there, Miss Paltry,” Mrs. Tilling hollered as I made a dash for the lane. “You should have been with us today for the meeting.”

“We were just saying how uplifting it was,” added Mrs. Quail, her round face puce with pleasure.

“Oh, how marvelous,” I said, keeping a distance. A crowd had gathered outside the shop, all in green uniforms like pecking budgies, and I was stuck listening to their nonsense for a few minutes. It was ridiculous. How a bunch of women can honestly believe that a cake sale and some raggedy sewing can win a war, I have no idea.

“Lady Worthing was there,” Mrs. B. preened. “We have been so fortunate to have her as our benefactor.”

The baby boy in the black bag began sniveling, quietly at first, and then louder, and I knew I had to leave. Now.

“Must dash,” I said, making off.

“What was that noise?” Mrs. Tilling said with a start, looking around the green.

“Oh, the ducks are such a menace at this time of year,” I said cheerily. “They keep me up half the night with their mating rituals,” I added with some quick thinking.

“Oh,” she said primly. I’m sure she’d consider any allusions to reproduction inherently coarse.

Only then a distinct baby’s cry came from my black bag, and she glared at it, her mouth open to speak, yet unable to decide what to say.

I strode off faster than a hen escaping the pot, petrified the woman would start asking questions. But as I rushed up the lane, with the boy’s vocal cords reaching a fine volume, I knew that I could corroborate any questioning with a half-truth of sorts. I would say that the baby in my bag had been Mrs. Winthrop’s son, who I had whisked to my house for resuscitation. On returning him to his mother, I felt it best to keep him hidden so that she could see him first, before the village folk. Yes, it was perfect.

No one would suspect a thing.

When I reached Chilbury Manor, I took the baby out before knocking at the side door—it wouldn’t be considered proper for a midwife to be going around with newborns in bags.

The door was promptly opened by Kitty of all people, the little evacuee brat hanging around in the background.

“Where have you been?” she demanded in a way that made me wonder if she knew somehow. Could she have intuitively guessed the whole thing? Did she understand her father well enough, and me sufficiently, to fathom the entire scheme? Her big eyes glanced from me to the baby to the black bag, and back again, the scowl stiff on her face like I’d ruined her life.

I shook my head briefly to remember the right storyline. “The baby is alive!”

“Why did it take so long?” she muttered, leading me through the grand entrance and up the marble staircase to the long gallery. “What could you possibly have been doing?”

“It took as long as it did,” I said crossly. I wasn’t so scared of Kitty, you see. I was in her father’s employ, after all. He would get her to shut up if need be. So perhaps I wasn’t as cautious as I could have been. I might have made a big error there. Kitty is close as clams with the Tilling woman.

Mrs. Winthrop was still in bed, sniveling in her usual way, when I handed her the whimpering baby boy with his dark fluff of hair. The perfect family.

“Dear, dear little boy,” she crooned, bringing him to her chest. “How can I ever repay you for saving his life, Miss Paltry?”

“The Brigadier will pay what’s due,” I said with the best smile I could muster. I could hear Kitty sniff moodily beside me, the nosy evacuee girl watching with a keen interest. “What are you going to call him?”

“His name will be Lawrence Edmund,” she smiled. “Edmund after our dear lost son.” That set her off weeping again.

I didn’t want to mess it up now, the end so clearly in sight, so I checked the afterbirth and waited patient like I was the Queen herself, and when it had calmed down, I promised to visit in the morning and backed out of the room.

Nipping down the back stairs and into the kitchen, I was heading for the door—for freedom!—when who should turn up but Elsie.

“I know your game,” she sneered.

There was no one around, so I took her by the scruff of her maid’s uniform and pulled her close. “You’d better not breathe a word or you’ll be found in Bullsend Brook before you know it.”

I let go, and she fell back onto the floor. Trembling she was, so I think I did a worthy job. Threatening has always been a skill of mine.

Stepping over her, giving a small kick for good measure, I headed for the door, and with a sharp tug of the handle, I was out in the open at long ruddy last. Skipping for joy down the drive, one hand carrying my now-empty black bag, the other waving around wildly like a jubilant cowboy.