Talk Sweetly to Me (13 page)

“No,” Josephs said shortly. “He’s in. He’s just not coming.”

Rose felt all her hope slowly drain from her.

Patricia pressed her hand. “What does that mean?”

Josephs shook his head. The thing he didn’t say—well, Rose could hear it echoing all too well. Chillingsworth referring to her sister as “dramatic,” saying that she was “mistaken” and thinking himself charitable for not calling her an outright liar.

Rose stood. “There’s a misunderstanding,” she said tightly. “A mistake. He just needs someone to explain what is happening to him.” That had to be it. “We didn’t tell Josephs your water broke. No doubt once he hears that, he’ll be right over.”

“No, Miss,” Josephs started to say. “I told him—”

Rose held up a hand, stopping those words. She couldn’t accept them. She’d promised Patricia that she would take care of her; she couldn’t let her down. Not now. “I’m going,” she said. “I’ll get him. I’ll be right back, Patricia. Right back. Mr. Josephs, have your wife come up and sit with my sister. You’ll need to come with me.”

It was a good thing Rose had fallen asleep in her clothing. She had only to find stockings and boots—no point doing them up all the way—and slip into her coat. She was winding a scarf about her neck when Mr. Josephs came down to her.

“Miss,” he said in a low voice. “Perhaps you need to hear…”

“Don’t say it.” She couldn’t hear it.

“Mrs. Walton, the midwife—she
is
out. That’s why I was so long returning. I was checking on her. I can find someone else, but the next nearest physician is miles away, and in this snow…”

“Do
not
say it,” Rose warned. “If the next nearest physician is miles away, then we will simply have to get Chillingsworth.” She thought of her sister’s face twisting in fear. Of her sister trying to be brave as she told her the baby hadn’t turned. “We will
have
to get him.”

The snow was falling in earnest; Rose could scarcely see more than two houses down. The street lamps were like dull white globes of light, scarcely illuminating their way. Three steps in the snow—now three inches deep—made Rose realize she should have taken the time to lace her boots. Snow slipped in, cold and wet, packing itself against her stockings with every step. But she didn’t dare stop. She counted time not in minutes, but in the length of time between Patricia’s contractions. She could almost feel the squeeze of her sister’s hand in hers as she hurried down the street.

It took two contractions to arrive at Chillingsworth’s home. She rapped smartly on the door. In her mind’s eye, she could see her sister smiling gamely, trying to put a good face on things.

No,
Rose told herself. It was going to be all right. She would make it all right.

The door finally opened. Chillingsworth’s eyes fell on Rose; in the flickering light of the streetlamp outside, she could see his nostrils flare.

“Please,” Rose said. “My sister’s water broke. The baby is coming now. It hasn’t turned—”

“Of course it hasn’t turned,” the doctor said in a cold voice. “It’s not her time yet.”

“No, it is. It is absolutely her time. She’s laboring now, Doctor Chillingsworth, truly laboring. There can be no question—”

“And how many births have you presided over?”

“None, but—”

“Did you
see
her water break?”

“No, but our woman was cleaning—”

“Miss Sweetly, I spent ten years at a naval post in the West Indies. While I was there, I saw a hundred women like your sister, and let me tell you, a more dramatic set of lying malingerers I have never observed. I have gone to your sister twice in the last twenty-four hours. I will not rouse myself for her again.”

“But—”

“I shall wait on Mrs. Wells at seven in the morning, which is far earlier than she deserves. No sooner. Tell your sister to stop with her hysterics and behave with some decency.”

Rose was too shocked to speak.

“And for God’s sake, if you bother me again tonight, I’ll not come in the morning, either.”

“Doctor Chillingsworth. Please.”

He shut the door in her face.

“I tried to tell you, Miss.” Beside her, Josephs sounded apologetic. “I did.”

He had, and she hadn’t wanted to listen. She hadn’t
dared
to listen, because there was no one else to be found at this time of night but this man.

This man who had spent ten years in the West Indies. Who had called Patricia dramatic, had accused her of falsifying her condition simply because she craved attention.

I saw a hundred women like your sister,
he had said. For weeks she’d listened to Chillingsworth talk. For weeks, she had wanted to believe that when he said
women like your sister
he had meant women who were pregnant with their first child. But he hadn’t qualified his comments with a statement about pregnant women. He’d talked about working in the West Indies.

A more dramatic set of lying malingers I have never observed.

It was a punch to the stomach. Rose inhaled. The cold air felt like a knife in her lungs. But she didn’t have time to weep over it or to gnash her teeth at the unfairness. She didn’t have time to rail at life’s injustices.

In the back of her mind, she was still counting contractions—and she knew now that they were coming even closer.

“Josephs.” She was proud of herself; her voice was steady. “Find someone. Anyone. Please. I’m…”

She paused. Odd, how times like this made everything clear. There was no room for worry or second-guessing, no space for wounded pride any longer. There was nothing but her sister.

“I’m going to find someone who will help,” she said.

Chapter Nine

S
OMEONE WAS POUNDING
on Stephen’s door.

It was his first coherent thought upon waking—that hard, repeated tattoo beating in time with an urgency he did not understand, but felt instinctively in his blood.

He came out of bed, put on trousers and a loose shirt, and slipped downstairs.

He opened the door onto a white flurry of snow—and in dark counterpoint, with the streetlight behind her making a golden halo about her, Rose Sweetly. She had a cloak pulled about her, but her teeth were chattering noisily.

“Rose?” He had to be dreaming, but from experience, his dreams of her had never had her so bundled up.

“Stephen.” She sounded almost frantic. “I don’t know what to do. Patricia is in labor—her water broke—the baby’s coming and it’s still breech—”

“I’ll go fetch someone.”

“No.” She turned her head away and swiped at her eyes. “Mrs. Walton is out on another call, and Doctor Chillingsworth is…not available. Josephs is off in search of someone farther afield, but there is no time. The baby is coming
now,
and I don’t know what to do.”

He’d never seen her so upset. Little crystals of ice clung to her eyelashes, to the corners of her eye. Frozen tears, he realized. Her lips quivered.

“Right,” he heard himself say. “My father was a stable master. I’ve birthed dozens of horses, one of them breech. It’s not the same thing—”

But she was on the verge of a panic, and she needed him.

“—but I’m happy to come,” he finished. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be all right.”

“That’s what I kept telling Patricia.” Her teeth chattered. “And it just keeps getting worse and worse instead.”

“Well, you’re going to have to keep telling your sister that,” he said. “That’s your job now, Rose. You keep telling her that—and we’ll make sure it’s true. Come along.”

He found a pair of shoes in the hall.

“You’re coming like that?”

“No point wasting time. You’re only two houses down, after all.”

Rose nodded. It was cold outside—cold enough for the wind to cut right through the linen of his shirt, cold enough to drive the last remnants of his weariness from him. He followed her to her home. When she fumbled with her key, he took it from her numb fingers, unlocking the door.

“Rose,” he said as she took off her cloak in the hallway. “The most important thing is that you must not let her panic. You’re her sister. It doesn’t matter if there’s reason for her to be frightened; we must do our best not to scare her. You’re in command. I’m just here to make jokes. Understand?”

She paused looking up at him.

He set a finger on her chin. His hands were cold, but her skin was colder. No knowing how long she’d been outside looking for someone. Her lips parted; for a second, she looked up at him as if expecting a kiss. For a second, he wanted to give her one.

Instead, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and very gently wiped the ice crystals from her lashes.

“There,” he said quietly. “That’s better. You can do this.”

She drew in a shuddering breath. He reached out and took her hand in his. Her fingers were deathly cold; he rubbed them between his palms.

“Come,” she said. “Let’s go.”

As she ascended the stairs, her chin came up. Her jaw squared; he could see her gathering determination with every step.

She entered the room to the left of the small hallway.

“Patricia,” she announced. “I’ve returned.”

Stephen followed behind her. The room was warm and comfortable. A fire crackled on the hearth. Mrs. Wells was in bed, her head turned to the side. An older woman sat in a chair next to the bed, watching over her.

He’d only ever seen Mrs. Wells properly attired. Now she was in a loose-fitting gown. Her dark hair was held back by a kerchief. She took one long look at Stephen. “He’s not a doctor,” she said in a low tone.

“No,” Rose said firmly. “Chillingsworth…was otherwise detained. Patricia, you know Mr. Shaughnessy.”

“Mrs. Wells.” Stephen nodded at her.

“Stephen Shaughnessy.” A smile played along her lips. “Actual Man. My. I feel better already.”

“Mr. Shaughnessy has presided over many births,” Rose said in a commanding voice. “He’ll make sure all goes well.”

Stephen was not so sure about that, but he tried to look…well, competent.

Mrs. Wells raised an eyebrow at him. “Mr. Shaughnessy. I knew you were an Actual Man, but I had not thought you so…prolific.”

“Not my children,” he said.

“Oh.” She contemplated this. “Not human, either, then, I take it.”

“Horses.”

“Well, then.” Mrs. Wells swallowed. “Do we try to turn the baby?”

He regarded her thoughtfully. “I don’t think we can,” he said. “At this point in labor? I’m not sure it’s possible, and if it is, none of us know how to do it.”

“If there are any minor complications,” Rose said, “Mr. Shaughnessy will see to it.”

“And if there are major ones?” He could hear the strain in Mrs. Wells’s voice.

“Then the birth will take a little longer,” Rose said matter-of-factly, “and by the time greater expertise is needed, Josephs will have returned with another doctor.”

“Yes,” Stephen said. “So you’re in good hands. The best hands, Mrs. Wells. Your body knows what to do; it is doing it as we speak. Don’t fight it; do what your body tells you.”

“But the baby is coming breech.”

“Hundreds of babies are born breech every day,” Stephen said. “Hundreds of babies the world over—many of them without complications or further incidents. It’ll be a little harder on you, but you can manage.”

It wasn’t fast. Rose draped a sheet over her sister for modesty’s sake as the contractions came closer and closer. Mrs. Wells began to cry out with every passing wave; when she tried to choke back her moans, Rose encouraged her.

“Yell if you must,” Rose said. “You’re letting the world know the baby is coming.”

Stephen didn’t know when he became the one to hold Mrs. Wells’s hand. He didn’t even know when the room began to lighten from the burnished gold illumination cast by the lamp to the pale gray of dawn. The hours blurred together.

“There you are,” Rose said. “The feet are coming. Oh, Patricia. They’re the most darling feet.”

Mrs. Wells made a noise that might, under other circumstances have been a laugh.

“You’re almost there,” Stephen said. “You have it, Mrs. Wells.”

She gritted her teeth again and let out another cry.

“Patricia, he’s a boy.”

“There you are,” Stephen said. “All your friends will be jealous—they had to birth their babies all the way before they knew the sex. Here you are, beating them out.”

Mrs. Wells did laugh at that. “Yes,” she said with a shake of her head. “Surely they will all be jealous of my thirty-some hours of labor.”

Another push; her hands dug into his arm, hard—but nothing. When her contraction subsided, she gritted her teeth.

“Next one,” he told her.

But it wasn’t—not that one, nor the one after that. Out the window, the sun had come out. The snow had stopped falling; a little light played on tree branches laden with a heavy white blanket.

Another push came, and it, too, was futile. Mrs. Well’s face glistened with sweat; her teeth gritted in determination.

“Rose.” Stephen gestured. She looked up.

“You need to lend your sister a hand on the next push.”

“What—how—should I pull?” She looked dubious.

“No. Have Mrs. Josephs take your place. Come here.”