The Paleys (1921-1927) - An Alternate Romanov Story

Birth

Irina

It was difficult for Irina to explain. Maybe it was because she was still under the effect of the chloroform or the fact that she had endured the most excruciating pain in her life, and she was still trying to make sense of it, wondering if she would ever feel the same again after this. She couldn't explain why she didn't feel happy, why she couldn't stop the tears from running down her face.

Thankfully, everyone around her mistook them for tears of joy, which spared her the awkwardness of admitting that she felt utterly hollow. How had women endured this for centuries and still described it as fulfilling? Despite all the preparation and help around her, Irina now understood with brutal clarity that there was nothing graceful or uplifting about labour—at least not for her. It had been harsh, raw, and unrelenting. The only comfort she could cling to was that it had happened here, in her childhood bedroom, surrounded by her family. She shuddered to imagine how terrifying it would have been at Ai-Todor, far from everything familiar.

"You did so well, my love. I'm so proud of you."

Feodor's voice reached her as though from a distance. He knelt beside her, holding her hand and gently stroking her damp hair. Her breath was still uneven, her heart pounding, but his presence brought her back to reality, even if she couldn't help but resent him a little. After all, he had played his part in bringing her to this moment. And why was he proud? She hadn't done anything extraordinary. Once she had a baby inside her, what choice had she but to endure this? She had simply let her body do what it was built to do.

"It's a boy!" The midwife announced proudly from somewhere within the room.

Feodor immediately let go of her hand and went over to her to hold the small bundle that had been taken from Irina to be washed and clothed. She felt someone holding her other hand, and when she looked up, she found Natalia. The look her sister gave her let her know that she understood. Natalia didn't offer platitudes or force smiles. Instead, her expression told Irina she understood—her pain, her tears, and the weight of it all. She understood that her tears were not happiness and that her pain was real. It was such a simple gesture, but it was enough for Irina to take a deep breath and, in that single moment, forget about all the differences and resentments that had been keeping them apart since Natalia had been so brutal about her pregnancy.

"Would you like to hold him?" Feodor asked next to her.

Irina looked up at the small bundle her husband was holding. He was doing it with such natural confidence that Irina couldn't help but admire him despite it all. Because he had so many younger brothers, Feodor was probably more skilled at dealing with small babies than she was. She hesitated, wondering if she would know how to hold the baby properly, but Feodor didn't wait for an answer and placed him in her arms.

The people gathered in the room were describing the baby's size and strength, saying that he already looked more like a three-month-old than a newborn. However, to Irina, he looked like the smallest, most fragile creature she had ever held in her arms. He had a mass of blond curls, and his eyes were closed, but he opened them as soon as he was placed in her lap. They were gray, like Feodor's, but the nurse said the colour often changed.

Irina looked at him as if he were a stranger, but the baby returned her gaze with the calm and wisdom of someone who knew exactly who she was. Slowly, faintly, something warmer than the fear and exhaustion of labour began to rise within her. Then, the baby started to cry—a very low grunt, but still enough to make Irina wonder if she had done something wrong.

"No, not at all," the midwife was telling her. "It seems that this big boy is hungry. Are you going to feed him yourself, or should I call the wet nurse?"

They had hired a wet nurse months in advance. She was a very competent woman who had been recommended by Feodor's sister and who had travelled with them from the Crimea to Paris, just in case. The midwife had informed her that she was in the next room and that she could call her, but Irina found herself shaking her head.

"I think... I think I'd like to try and do it myself," she muttered, not entirely sure of what she was supposed to do.

She could feel Feodor tensing slightly next to her. They had agreed beforehand that they would have a wet nurse, but now Irina simply couldn't bring herself to do it. She wasn't ready for this; she was terrified about making any wrong move that might hurt the baby, but this was her son. It still felt strange to even think about it, but it was true. This was her son, and she decided at that moment that nothing would be better for him than having his mother feed him.

"Alright, then," the midwife said as if it were no big deal. I want everyone but the father to leave the room."

She was a short woman who spoke in a high-pitched voice, but no one, except Irina's mother for a moment, dared question her order.

Irina held the baby close, following the midwife's guidance, and soon he began to feed. The sensation was odd but peaceful, far more calming than she had expected. The fear that had gripped her heart softened, and for the first time since her labour pains had started, the experience felt distant.

Feodor stayed next to her throughout the process, stroking her hair with one hand while brushing his fingers over the baby's cheeks. He didn't look upset that she had suddenly changed her mind, which also helped calm her nerves. With her son nestled against her, both mother and child drifted into a much-needed, restorative sleep.