In the previous post, I wrote about Archie and Mary’s wedding. Several months into their marriage, Mary became pregnant. This story starts there and explores childbirth in Scotland in the 1820s.
Archie looked at Mary and asked, “How are you feeling?”
“I’m feeling okay, but I am nervous. I’m due in six months and the delivery is often on my mind. If this baby is a boy, what do you think we should name him?”
“I’d like to name him John. After all, it is tradition to name the first son after his father’s father. What if our baby’s a girl—what shall we name her?”
“You know, I’ve been thinking about this a lot. I feel the social pressure to name our baby after my mom, but feel more compelled to name our daughter after my sister, Kate. I admire her so much, and plan to have her here as one of my gossips at my delivery.”
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The word gossip comes from the Old English word godsibb, from the roots God (God) + sibb (relative). Hence the word godparent. The term originated from the custom of women gathering around an expectant relative or friend. When delivery drew near, so did the woman’s gossips, and they chatted about pregnancy, childrearing and daily life. They naturally talked about their husbands, and the discourse was not always kind, so the word acquired a negative connotation—meaning idle or unkind prattle—and the meaning remains to this day.
Now back to the story. We’ll fast-forward to Tuesday, February 20, 1821.
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Six months later, Mary felt as big as a house. As much as she wanted to be delivered of this baby, she also knew the perils of childbirth. Perils or not, the labour pains began. Mary’s gossips gathered in her bedroom while Archie was exiled to the kitchen. This was his first child, but he knew the drill, for he had witnessed his dad pace the floor when Archie’s six younger siblings were born.
This time Archie was seeing the ritual from the viewpoint of a father. From the kitchen, he could hear his mother-in-law recount some of her eleven deliveries, and his sister-in-law Kate's dream of emigrating to Upper Canada. In spite of the chatter, seriousness filled the air as Mary’s labour pains intensified.
Kate opened the bedroom door and said, “Archie, go fetch the midwife.”
Archie left the house and returned, accompanied by the village midwife. She strode through the kitchen, and the women made way as she entered the bedroom. Their chatter quieted as the midwife got to work. Mary’s moans increased and she gasped for air between contractions. Her groans reached a crescendo, until a small cry was heard. A new life entered the world, accompanied by the women’s laughter of relief.
Kate opened the door and said, “Archie, you have a daughter! Come in and meet her.”
Archie approached the bed. He touched Mary’s hand and stroked the babe’s cheek. “Hello, wee one.”
His eyes twinkling, he turned to Mary and said, “It’s time to eat that second tier of wedding cake!”
Mary smiled at his humour, but was in no mood for cake. She was exhausted and still in danger. Would she be spared from childbed fever? Only the next 24 hours would tell.
We do not know every detail about Kate Darroch’s birth, but we do know the following:
Archie and Mary’s first child was born on February 20, 1821. Mary’s sister, Kate Milloy, had not yet left for Upper Canada, so she likely attended the birth of her niece.
Kate Milloy’s official name was Catherine, but her family called her Kate. Archie and Mary also called their daughter Catherine, and also knew her as Kate. This strengthens the presumption that Mary and her sister were very close, especially since Mary went against the Scottish tradition of naming the first daughter after the maternal grandmother.
Maternal deaths per 1000 births in England and Wales from 1850-1970.[1]
In the 1800s, the maternal death rate was hundreds of times higher than it is today. In 2020, Great Britain's maternal mortality ratio was 7 deaths per 100,000 births, about one one-thousandth of the peaks in the above graph.
Today, the word delivery refers to delivering the baby into the world. Back then, it referred to ‘The safe deliverance and preservation from the great dangers of childbirth.’ [2] The time and location of the graph are not an exact fit for Mary’s situation, but close enough to show why she might have felt anxious. She was at risk of becoming infected with “childbed fever” (puerperal sepsis or postpartum metritis), which often led to a painful death within ten days.
Until the twentieth century, childbirth was the leading cause of death among women of child-bearing age. The advent of institutionalized healthcare caused maternal mortality rates to worsen before they got better. Germ theory was unknown and doctors unwittingly spread disease throughout a hospital. They would go from an autopsy or a patient who was ill with an infection and, without washing their hands or changing their smock, deliver a baby. The direct contact would often infect the mother. Fortunately for Mary and Archie, the tiny village of Clachan had no hospital, so they had an inherent advantage due to their rural location in Argyll.
If Mary did catch childbed fever, it was not fatal. If it were, I would not be here to tell the tale and many of you would not be here to read it, for I descend from their next child, John (as do many of you). The next post will tell of John Darroch's birth story.
Author's Notes:
[1] Geoffrey Chamberlain, “British maternal mortality in the 19th and early 20th centuries,” Journal of the Royal Society of Medicine, (Nov. 2006), (https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC1633559/)
[2] The Scottish Book of Common Prayer (1929), "The Thanksgiving of Women After Child-Birth" (http://justus.anglican.org/resources/bcp/Scotland/Churching_of_Women_Scot.htm) retrieved 29 November 2021.