was off, promising to be back within the hour.
Three hours later Alex was torn between worrying for Joan and for Matthew. What if he’d been ambushed, thrown in a ditch? The probable explanation was that the nearest midwife had been called away, so Matthew had had to ride for Cumnock. But still…
She gave her sister-in-law a concerned look. Should things be this slow? Joan was the colour of overcooked mutton, a pasty grey, and her stomach clenched and unclenched in short spasms that seemed painful but inefficient.
“We walk, Mrs Melville,” she said when Joan tried to sit down. “We have to shake this baby into place.”
“Into place?” Joan gasped. “It can’t be more into place. Let me tell you, Simon Melville will never, ever, touch me there again.”
“Pfft! All women say that.”
It was well past midnight by the time Matthew returned with Mrs Wilson, who swept the room with a sharp eye, closed the window and ordered Joan to keep on walking.
“I just can’t, I’m too tired.”
“You’ll be far more tired before you’re done,” the midwife said cheerily, “but then you can lie down, aye? Not before.” Alex muffled a laugh at the glare Joan sent Mrs Wilson’s way.
Between them, Alex and Mrs Wilson kept Joan on her feet well into dawn, but somewhere around there she paled even more, and then the waters broke, drenching Joan’s long shift. Alex stared at the pinkish hue that coloured the linen and looked at Mrs Wilson. A quick shake of the head and a slight frown told Alex to shut up.
By noon Joan was lying lifeless in the bed, too weak to remain upright on the birthing stool. The midwife looked flustered, her brows frozen into a concerned frown.
“She’s fully open,” she whispered to Alex. “But she has no strength left and the babe needs her to help.” She shook her head at the continued leaking blood. “I fear the afterbirth is letting go, and if it does, God help both mother and child.”
“What can we do? There must be something we can do!” Alex stroked her sister-in-law’s cheek.
“Get her upright,” the midwife said. “Can you hold her, do you think?”
Joan protested, swatting at Alex, and once she was on the stool she began to scream, saying that it hurt and she wanted to go home, she didn’t want to do this anymore.
“You should have thought of that before,” Mrs Wilson snorted, crouching down while she gestured for Alex to straighten Joan up as much as she could. Alex held her braced against the backrest of the stool, the midwife leaned in between her legs, and at the next contraction slipped a finger round the cervix, making Joan scream even more.
“It’s coming,” the midwife said, holding up her bloodied fingers to Alex.
“Right, you,” Alex said to Joan. “We have to get the baby out of you. Now. So at the next contraction you’re going to push as hard as you can, and we’ll push with you. Call for Sarah,” Alex said to Mrs Wilson, “she can help as well.”
It was a race against the clock, with Alex holding and shushing while the midwife and Sarah pushed and heaved at the womb, stimulating more contractions. Finally something changed; the midwife urged Joan to push once more and the floor was filled with blood, blood splattered all over Joan’s legs, and the baby slid out, still and pale with the umbilical cord wrapped twice around its neck. Joan swayed on the stool, gawked at her child and slumped back, unconscious.
“Do something!” Alex looked at the midwife in panic. “Do something before she dies!” The baby was bundled into Sarah’s arms and with concerted efforts Mrs Wilson and Alex half dragged, half lifted Joan to lie flat on the floor.
“There,” the midwife said an hour or so later. She wiped at her face, leaving a garish streak of blood across her cheek.
“Will she be alright?” Joan looked like a waif, a white blob against the white sheets.
The midwife looked away. She had spent more than an hour stitching Joan’s
Three hours later Alex was torn between worrying for Joan and for Matthew. What if he’d been ambushed, thrown in a ditch? The probable explanation was that the nearest midwife had been called away, so Matthew had had to ride for Cumnock. But still…
She gave her sister-in-law a concerned look. Should things be this slow? Joan was the colour of overcooked mutton, a pasty grey, and her stomach clenched and unclenched in short spasms that seemed painful but inefficient.
“We walk, Mrs Melville,” she said when Joan tried to sit down. “We have to shake this baby into place.”
“Into place?” Joan gasped. “It can’t be more into place. Let me tell you, Simon Melville will never, ever, touch me there again.”
“Pfft! All women say that.”
It was well past midnight by the time Matthew returned with Mrs Wilson, who swept the room with a sharp eye, closed the window and ordered Joan to keep on walking.
“I just can’t, I’m too tired.”
“You’ll be far more tired before you’re done,” the midwife said cheerily, “but then you can lie down, aye? Not before.” Alex muffled a laugh at the glare Joan sent Mrs Wilson’s way.
Between them, Alex and Mrs Wilson kept Joan on her feet well into dawn, but somewhere around there she paled even more, and then the waters broke, drenching Joan’s long shift. Alex stared at the pinkish hue that coloured the linen and looked at Mrs Wilson. A quick shake of the head and a slight frown told Alex to shut up.
By noon Joan was lying lifeless in the bed, too weak to remain upright on the birthing stool. The midwife looked flustered, her brows frozen into a concerned frown.
“She’s fully open,” she whispered to Alex. “But she has no strength left and the babe needs her to help.” She shook her head at the continued leaking blood. “I fear the afterbirth is letting go, and if it does, God help both mother and child.”
“What can we do? There must be something we can do!” Alex stroked her sister-in-law’s cheek.
“Get her upright,” the midwife said. “Can you hold her, do you think?”
Joan protested, swatting at Alex, and once she was on the stool she began to scream, saying that it hurt and she wanted to go home, she didn’t want to do this anymore.
“You should have thought of that before,” Mrs Wilson snorted, crouching down while she gestured for Alex to straighten Joan up as much as she could. Alex held her braced against the backrest of the stool, the midwife leaned in between her legs, and at the next contraction slipped a finger round the cervix, making Joan scream even more.
“It’s coming,” the midwife said, holding up her bloodied fingers to Alex.
“Right, you,” Alex said to Joan. “We have to get the baby out of you. Now. So at the next contraction you’re going to push as hard as you can, and we’ll push with you. Call for Sarah,” Alex said to Mrs Wilson, “she can help as well.”
It was a race against the clock, with Alex holding and shushing while the midwife and Sarah pushed and heaved at the womb, stimulating more contractions. Finally something changed; the midwife urged Joan to push once more and the floor was filled with blood, blood splattered all over Joan’s legs, and the baby slid out, still and pale with the umbilical cord wrapped twice around its neck. Joan swayed on the stool, gawked at her child and slumped back, unconscious.
“Do something!” Alex looked at the midwife in panic. “Do something before she dies!” The baby was bundled into Sarah’s arms and with concerted efforts Mrs Wilson and Alex half dragged, half lifted Joan to lie flat on the floor.
“There,” the midwife said an hour or so later. She wiped at her face, leaving a garish streak of blood across her cheek.
“Will she be alright?” Joan looked like a waif, a white blob against the white sheets.
The midwife looked away. She had spent more than an hour stitching Joan’s
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