“Then let’s pray it comes to fruition,” she said, eyeing me with sympathy.

April 30

I had expected the baby to have come by now, but Francesca says first babies are often late. She should know. She’s had six, and now has twelve grandchildren, so I feel I’m in good hands. Leo returned home a few days ago and came to see me. He brought me a present of oranges and lemons from the south.

“Things are getting serious,” he said. “I pray you can leave soon. British troops are on French soil, the French are making skirmishes over the border to Germany. It’s only a matter of time before the whole thing goes up.”

“I can’t go anywhere until this baby decides to come.” I patted my stomach.

“I don’t want you to go,” he said bluntly, “but I love you. I want you to be safe.”

It was the first time he had ever said he loved me. My heart soared, and I fell asleep that night feeling warm and reassured. Leo would make sure everything was all right.

May 3

I woke in the middle of the night with pains that took my breath away. I called to Francesca, who was sleeping in the armchair.

“Finally, it begins,” she said. She put a rubber sheet on my bed and went off to call the doctor. The pain intensified, making me cry out. Warm liquid was trickling between my legs. When Francesca returned, she took one look at me.

“Madonna,” she exclaimed. “The child is almost here. Let’s hope that fool of a doctor gets here in time. Otherwise.” She patted my arm. “Otherwise don’t worry, little one. I have assisted at births before. All will be well.” She went off to boil water and came back with a damp towel to put across my forehead.

After what seemed like hours, I was pushing. I couldn’t help myself. I was screaming. Crying out for Leo. Then there was a great rush of fluid, and Francesca leapt forward to grab the baby as it emerged.

“You are a lucky one,” she said. “to have such an easy labour the first time. And let’s take a look at what we have here.”

I watched her scoop up a red bundle into a towel. At that moment I saw a little fist come out, and the child gave a great wail. Francesca nodded.

“Good lungs,” she said. “A healthy boy.”

Leo will be pleased, I thought. The future Count Da Rossi. Francesca had taken the child over to the sink and was now cleaning him off. He bawled lustily all the time. Then she brought him back to me.

“Here. Meet your son,” she said and placed him in my arms. He stopped crying, and this little, perfectly formed person was staring up at me with dark, serious eyes, still trying to work out where he was.