Talk Sweetly to Me (Brothers Sinister #4.5)(32)

“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.”

She stood.

“Set your hand here.” He gestured to her abdomen. “Feel—you should be able to find the baby’s head. A nice round lump. Yes?”

She nodded.

“Good. Then as soon as her next contraction comes, push. Start off gently; push harder and harder as she does, too.”

“But—”

Stephen took hold of her free hand. “You can do it, Rose.”

It came in the next moment. Mrs. Wells gritted her teeth and let out a moan. Rose squared her jaw and pushed. And then—just a moment later—they heard a low wail.