Chapter Thirteen #2
He moved forward with purpose, stepping past the girl and into the dark interior of the rickety building.
The halls were dark, the stairway tight, and the smell bad.
Though he’d seen poverty in Spain, London had built its own kind of hell.
He might have gotten lost. There were several rooms in this place, but he heard her call out as she knocked.
“It’s Betty,” she said clear as day. “The midwife.”
Midwife! Of all the ridiculous things. She was a gently bred woman, sheltered from birth.
Midwifery was a difficult and bloody proposition.
It was one thing to play with potions and unguents, but to pretend to a skill that she couldn’t possibly have was cruel.
Laboring women needed a skilled hand, and he would not allow her to mislead these people.
He rushed upstairs, not bothering to hide his footsteps. But what he saw when he got to the top of the landing made him stop and gape. Her, too, since she’d stopped dead as she inspected the interior.
A very pregnant woman lay gray and barely breathing on the bed.
A woman with dirty hands and a sour expression stood by the bed holding cupping implements as she steadily bled the lady’s arm.
A man, presumably the husband, stood shaking in the corner of the room.
And a child—a thin girl of no more than ten years—stood on the opposite side of the bed as assistant.
She held dirty rags and watched with a wide-eyed horror that Gabe felt echo through his own heart.
“Stop it!” Miss Caddick cried. “Stop that right now!”
“Git away you,” the sour woman said. “I know wot I’m about.” She was likely a real midwife and though he knew the sight of death, he was at least grateful that these poor people wouldn’t be subjected to—
“The hell you do!” Miss Caddick snapped. “Look at her! She’s too weak now!”
“She’s swoll,” the woman said back. “It’s ’er only hope.”
“Stop it, now!” Miss Caddick commanded, and everyone looked up in shock at the tone she used, himself included.
He’d heard the like from old sergeants and some of the women who followed the drum.
It was the sound of authority and supreme confidence in one’s own knowledge.
He knew it could be false confidence, but he responded as well as anyone to the tone.
The midwife frowned, then pulled off the cup, now more than half full of blood. “Was done anyway.”
“Yes, you are,” Miss Caddick snapped as she stomped into the room, supplanting the girl by the bedside.
She touched the pregnant woman’s cheek and neck, no doubt feeling for a pulse.
If there was one, it had to be barely noticeable.
“The babe’s not yet ready,” she said as she felt around the woman’s belly.
“Sir, what caused to you call a midwife?”
The man with hollowed eyes looked up. “She had a fit, she did. Fell down in the street. She’s me sister and, well, what with the belly and all, I carried her upstairs. But I didn’t know who to send fer.”
“He sent for me,” the midwife snapped. “And there’s no need for you ’ere. The Lord’ll take or not. It’s in His hands.”
“After you helped the devil with his work,” Miss Caddick muttered. Whether or not the others heard it made no difference. The woman on the bed began to gasp and choke, her body shuddering with another fit.
“That there!” the man gasped. “That’s wot ’appened.”
Miss Caddick had been opening her bag when it began and she quickly pulled out a thick bite stick, but it was too late. The woman’s mouth was clenched tight as she arched her back and began to thrash.
The girl jumped back with a gasp, her hands pressed to her mouth. The midwife too stepped away. “It’s the devil come t’ take wot’s his.”
“It’s no such thing,” Miss Caddick said as she pressed the woman’s shoulders down. “Help me!” she ordered. “Keep her from hurting herself.”
But sometimes even a commanding voice was not enough to overcome superstition. The other three in the room didn’t move. Which left it up to him.
Gabriel was across the room in a moment, using his strength to pin down the woman’s legs. It wasn’t as hard as he feared. Though she shook with strain, she hadn’t much power left in her. Her flesh compressed under his hands, the woman’s swollen calves stretched taut despite the bloodletting.
Miss Caddick looked up when he appeared, but she gave no reaction beyond a curt nod. He saw clarity in her eyes despite the way she’d wobbled not twenty minutes before. Indeed, every aspect of her person was crisp and clear, as if she’d done this a thousand times before.
Well, hell. She really was a midwife.
He rocked back a bit on his heels, his mind reeling.
She was a midwife, and he had no way to fit that into what he already knew about her.
It simply could not be possible that a girl of the ton could have the years of experience required to be so competent now.
And yet here she was, holding down the pregnant patient with the strength of a woman who had done it several times before.
It didn’t take long for the fit to stop. The woman eased, the shaking stopped, and her breath escaped in a low exhale that he’d heard too many times on dying men.
“That’s better,” Miss Caddick said as if she were talking to a sensate woman. “What’s her name, sir?”
No one answered, least of all the man in the corner who had folded in on himself.
“Sir!”
“It’s Winnie Cook, mum,” the girl said, proving that even little girls could have better presence of mind than grown men.
Miss Caddick pressed her hand low on Winnie’s belly. “She’s contracting. Has that been going on long?”
“Every four minutes, mum. But they ain’t strong enough.”
“And it’s too soon,” Miss Caddick said.
“Aye,” the midwife said, her expression grim as she turned to the man. “They’re gone, then. It’ll take a day, mebbe. I’m right sorry, I am.” She held out her hand for her payment. “You can call me if she lives fer longer, but I’d get the priest if I were you.”
“Wot?” the man said, his swollen eyes on his sister. “Yer leavin’?”
“There’s more babies in London. I can’t wait fer every one.”
“But the baby’s in there. It’s still got to come out, yes?”
The little girl stepped forward and touched the man’s hand. “No, sir. It can’t come out. It’s too little and has no lungs.”
“Wot?”
Damn it, the man simply couldn’t understand.
His sister and the babe were gone. It was just a matter of time.
The only one who seemed to be fighting for their lives was Miss Caddick.
She had settled on the bed and was filling a stopper with milk she pulled from a bottle.
She carefully turned Winnie’s mouth her way and gently dripped some into the woman’s slack mouth, then she stroked the woman’s neck.
“That’s the way, Winnie,” she cooed. “See if you can take a little in.”
Did it get in? Did she swallow? It was hard to see, especially when the other midwife sighed.
“Waste of good milk,” she said. “An’ it makes the end drag on longer.”
Gabe knew what she was saying. A slow death was no mercy, but Miss Caddick would not be stopped.
“It’s my milk to waste,” she said in a hard tone. Then she looked at the brother. “I’ll stay and fight for her, sir. I’ll stay until God comes, one way or the other.”
The woman snorted. “Suit yerself.” Then she turned to the man. “I’ll need my payment. I know it’s hard, sir, but Oi did what Oi could.”
The brother was in no shape to respond. Neither was he likely to have much coin. “How much?” Gabe asked the little girl.
“A quid.”
A quid to kill the man’s sister with bloodletting. What a crazy thing. He pulled out a coin, but before he could press it into the girl’s hand, Miss Caddick snatched it out of his palm.
“What’s your name?” she asked the child.
“Polta.”
“Do you know who I am, Polta?”
“You’re the rich un Betty. They call you the death-wife.”
Miss Caddick winced at that. “That’s because they only call me on the hard cases. But I’ve saved plenty.”
“’Ey now,” the midwife said, her tone growing suspicious. “Don’t be talking to me girl.”
“You’re a kind one, Polta, with a steady head. I could use one like you.” She held out the coin and Polta took it with a canny look.
“Me, miss?”
“Do you know how to find me?”
“You truck with them whores. Down by the Rose Garden.”
“I do. But there’s no difference between women at this time, is there? Queen or whore, they all need a steady hand, yes?” She held the girl’s gaze. “And kindness, yes?”
“Yes, mum.”
“Then you think on it.” She looked at the midwife. It seemed for a moment as if she would say something, but she didn’t. Her lips pressed tight, and then she turned back to the patient. “Maybe a little more milk now, yes?”
The woman was unconscious. There would be no more yeses out of her ever. Meanwhile, Miss Caddick pressed a hand back to the belly.
“You rest a bit, Winne,” she continued. “I’m right here with the milk when you’re ready.”
The midwife said nothing except to cluck at Polta. The child scrambled after her mistress, though her eyes lingered on Miss Caddick. Everyone’s did, his included, as she sat at the edge of the pallet.
The midwife left with Polta trailing after her.
The brother remained where he was, staring at the bed, and Gabe did the same.
This was not a place for a man. No birthing chamber was.
Though, he supposed, there wasn’t going to be a birth, so he might as well remain.
And he certainly wasn’t going to abandon Miss Caddick now.
He waited beside her, and he passed the long hours by adjusting his thoughts. He’d believed Miss Caddick was a pampered debutant, a woman who played with potions and unguents. And now he saw she was also an accomplished midwife.
How in the hell did his mother and the Rose Garden fit into all that?