May 13th, 1940, Henford-on-Bagley, England
Eleora went into labor three days after Germany invaded France. It was early morning, before the sun had risen, and Byron had only been home for two days. He had not been there during the births of their two other children, but with the midwife occupied with another birth in the village, they were on their own, ironic for a duke and duchess.
He walked her around the room, speaking of nothing as to distract the pain and the constant thought of war. She was in her bedroom in labor, and all she could think about was her brother and his three children. Marie-Louise’s bat mitzvah was supposed to be next month, Victor had been practicing piano non-stop in the hopes of getting into a music conservatory, and little Samuel was to be three in August. She rarely prayed outside of religious holidays and services, but now she prayed almost daily that France would beat Germany of the country, and Albert and his family would be safe.
Of her three pregnancies, this labor was the hardest and longest. She’d woken up Amalia and Miranda with her labored pains and cries. Eleora just wanted the baby out of her, the joy of having a newborn no longer an interest.
Byron gripped her hand tightly as she laid on his side of the bed, and he stroked her gently, promising it would be over soon and the midwife would be there in twenty minutes or so.
“This is our last child,” she heaved.
He nodded. “That’s fine with me. We just have to finish it, and it’ll be over, and we’ll have a son or daughter.”
“Oh, it’s a boy,” she grumbled. “Only boys give this much trouble.”
Byron laughed, and it was almost reassuring.
The midwife had arrived when Byron had said, and Eleora gave birth to a son shortly after. They named him Christopher Elior. Byron called him Kit. He’d left two weeks after the birth, and Eleora was alone with the baby and girls. She didn’t want to be. With her previous two children, it had been love and connection at first sight, but this one? She could barely hold him for more than an hour before a sense of guilt filled her consciousness, and she put him back in the crib at the end of the bed. It didn’t help Kit had been born with a full head of black hair—he looked like old photos of Albert when he had been a baby. Like Albert’s black-haired children. And they were all she could think about.