She fell into a deep, deep sleep that night, as he slept fitfully in the heat, and she woke him at four in the morning, when the pains came. He dressed carefully, and called the maid to help her, and then he drove her to Neuilly, to the clinic they had chosen. She seemed to be in considerable pain by the time they left, and she said very little to him on the short drive in his Bentley. And then they took her away from him, and he waited nervously until noon, fearing that things might be going as badly as they had the first time. They had promised to give her gas this time, and they had assured her that everything would be easy and modern. As easy as it could be for a woman having a nine-pound baby. And finally, at one-thirty, the doctor came out to him, looking very neat and prim, and smiling broadly.

“You have a handsome son, Monsieur.”

“And my wife?” William asked worriedly.

“She worked hard,” the doctor looked serious for a moment, “but it went very well. We have given her a little something to sleep now. You may see her in a few moments.” And when he did, she was draped in white sheets, and very pale, and very groggy, and she seemed to have no idea where she was, or why she was there. She kept telling him that they had to go to the shop that afternoon, and not to forget to write to Phillip at Eton.

“I know, my darling … it’s all right.” He sat quietly next to her for hours, and about four-thirty, she stirred and looked at him, and glanced around the room in confusion. He moved closer to her again then, and kissed her cheek and told her about their baby. William still hadn’t seen him yet, but all the nurses said. He was lovely. He weighed nine pounds, fourteen ounces, almost as big as Phillip, and William could only imagine from the look of her that it hadn’t been easy.

“Where is he?” she asked, looking around the room.

“In the nursery, they’ll bring him in soon. They wanted you to sleep.” And then he kissed her again. “Was it awful?”

“It was strange …” She looked at him dreamily, holding his hand, and still trying to focus. “They kept giving me gas and it made me feel sick … but all it really did was make me woozy, it seemed like everything was very far away, and I still felt the pain, but I couldn’t tell them.”

“Maybe that’s why they like it.” But at least they were both safe, and nothing dreadful had happened.

“I liked it better when you did it,” she said sadly, this was all so odd, and so foreign, and so antiseptic, and they hadn’t even showed her the baby.

“Thank you I’m afraid I’m not much of a surgeon.”

But they brought the baby in to them then, and all the pain was suddenly forgotten. He was beautiful and round, he had dark hair and big blue eyes, and he looked just like William. And Sarah cried when she held him. He was so perfect, such a wonderful little boy. She had wanted a little girl, but she didn’t mind now that they had him. All that mattered was that he was there, and he was all right. They had decided to call him Julian, after a distant cousin of William’s. And she insisted on William as his middle name, which his father said was foolish, but he reluctantly agreed Sarah cried when they took him away again. She couldn’t understand why they had to do that. She had her own nurse and her own room. She even had her own sitting room and her own bathroom, but they said it wasn’t sanitary to leave him there for too long. He belonged in the nursery with sterile conditions. Sarah blew her nose and looked at William after Julian was gone, and the emotions of the day overwhelmed her. And he suddenly felt guilty for bringing her here, but he promised to take her home quickly.

He brought Phillip to see her the next day, and Emanuelle, who proclaimed Julian beautiful when she saw him through a window. They wouldn’t let the infants visit with guests, and Sarah hated the place more than ever. And Phillip stared at him through the glass and then shrugged and turned away, visibly unimpressed, as Sarah watched in disappointment. He looked angry about the baby, too, and he wasn’t very kind to his mother.

“Don’t you think he’s sweet?” Sarah asked hopefully.

“He’s all right. He’s awfully small,” Phillip said disparagingly. And his father laughed ruefully, knowing what Sarah had been through.

“Not to us, young man. Nine pounds, fourteen ounces is a monster!” But there was nothing else monstrous about him, whenever they brought him to Sarah to feed, she could see he had the sweetest disposition. And after he nursed, he would lie nestled next to her, and as though a bell had rung, a nurse arrived instantly to remove him from her.

By the eighth day, Sarah was waiting for William when he arrived with a fresh bouquet of flowers, and she was standing in her sitting room with her eyes blazing.

“If you don’t get me out of here in the next hour, I’m going to take Julian and walk out of here in my nightgown. I feel perfectly well, I’m not ill. And they won’t let me get near my baby.”

“All right, darling,” William said, knowing this would come, “tomorrow, I promise.” And the next day, he took them both back to the apartment, and two days later they all went back to the château, as Sarah held Julian in her arms, and he slept happily in the warmth of his mother.

By her birthday, in August, Sarah was her old self again, thin and well and strong, and enchanted with her new baby. They had closed the shop for the month, Emanuelle was on a yacht in the South of France, and Sarah didn’t even have to think of business. And in September when Phillip went back to school, they went to Paris for a few days, and Sarah took the baby with her. He went everywhere with them and sometimes he slept peacefully in a little basket in her office.

“He’s such a good little boy,” everyone commented about him, he was always smiling and laughing and cooing, and on Christmas eve, he was sitting up and the whole world was in love with him. The whole world except Phillip. He looked angry each time he saw him. And he always had something disagreeable to say about him. It cut Sarah to the quick, she had been so hopeful that he would come to like him. But the brotherly affection she had hoped would come never had, and he remained distant and unpleasant.

“He’s just jealous,” William said, accepting what was, as he always did, unlike Sarah, who railed over what wasn’t. “That’s the way it is.”

“But it’s not fair. He’s such a sweet baby, he doesn’t deserve that. Everyone loves him, except Phillip.”

“If only one person dislikes him for the rest of his life, he’ll be a very, very lucky man,” William said realistically.

“But not if that one person is his brother.”

“Sometimes that’s the way life is. No one ever said brothers had to be friends. Look at Cain and Abel.”

“I don’t understand it. He was crazy about Lizzie.” She sighed. “And Jane and I adored each other when we were young.” And they still did, although she never saw her. Jane had remarried after the war, and moved to Chicago, and then Los Angeles, and they never came to Europe, and Sarah never went to the States, let alone California. It was hard to believe Jane was married now, to someone Sarah didn’t even know. It was just one of those things. As close as they had been, they had drifted apart. But she still loved her, and they wrote each other frequently, and Sarah always urged her to come to Europe.

But no matter what his parents thought of it, Phillip never warmed up to his baby brother. And when Sarah had tried to talk to him about it, he brushed her off, until she pressed him, and then he exploded at her. “Look, I don’t need another baby in my life. I’ve already had one.” It was as though he couldn’t try again, couldn’t open himself up to the risk and the loss and the caring. He had loved Lizzie, maybe too much, and he had lost her. And he had decided, as a result, never to love Julian. It was a sad thing for both children.

William and Sarah had taken Julian to meet his only grandmother, at Whitfield, shortly after he was born, and now they were together at Christmas. And the dowager duchess was enchanted with him. She said she had never seen a happier baby. He just seemed to radiate sunshine, and he made everyone laugh and smile who watched him.

It was a particularly nice Christmas at Whitfield that year, with all of them there. William’s mother was ninety-six now, and in a wheelchair, but always in remarkable spirits. She was the ultimate good sport, the kindest woman Sarah had ever known, and she still doted on William. He brought her a beautiful diamond bracelet that year, and she murmured that she was far too old for such a lovely thing, but it was obvious that she loved it and she never took it off the whole time they were there. And when they left after the New Year, she held William tightly to her and told him what a good son he had always been, he had always, always made her happy.

“Why do you suppose she said that?” William asked, with tears in his eyes as they left. “She’s always been so incredibly good to me,” he said, turning away, embarrassed to have Sarah see him cry, but his mother had really touched him. She had kissed Julian’s chubby little cheek as well, and Sarah, and thanked her for all the lovely presents from Paris. And two weeks later, she died quietly in her sleep, gone to meet her husband and her Maker, after a lifetime of happiness at Whitfield.

William was very shaken by her loss, but even he had to admit that she had had a good life, held a very long one. She would have been ninety-seven that year, and she had enjoyed good health all her life. There was much to be thankful for, as they all stood at the cemetery at Whitfield. King George and Queen Elizabeth came, her surviving relatives and friends, and all those who knew her.