Chapter 12 The Princess and the Physician #2
I swallow. “Bleeding a pregnant or laboring woman weakens her. There may be rare circumstances where physicians of this time believe it useful, but as a routine practice, I would avoid it. Especially if she is already exhausted.”
The florid physician bursts out, “Bloodletting reduces dangerous fullness and inflammation. It is established treatment.”
“It is established,” I say. “That does not make it harmless.”
“You would discard centuries of medical wisdom?”
“I would ask whether the mother lived.”
Another silence.
This one has teeth.
Thornbury’s voice drops. “You speak as if physicians wish women dead.”
“No,” I say, and this matters, so I force myself to be careful. “I speak as if good intentions do not protect patients from bad methods.”
Prince Leopold lifts his gaze fully to me then. He has been quiet so long I nearly forgot his attention. It is not a soft face, his, but something in it eases.
Charlotte turns slightly toward him. Their eyes meet. Whatever passes between them is private and wordless.
Then she looks back at me. “If the labor is long?”
My future knowledge pulses behind my ribs.
Long labor. Exhaustion. A dead child. A mother who seems to rally and then fails. The history is not a chart in front of me; it is fragments remembered from a documentary.
I am not a surgeon with a hospital and blood bank. I am a displaced medical student in silk gloves trying to smuggle antisepsis into a palace.
“Then someone must admit it is long,” I say.
“Not wait because waiting preserves pride. Monitor the mother’s strength.
Her pulse. Her bleeding. The child’s position as best one can.
Keep her nourished with broth, water, wine if needed for strength.
If the child does not descend, intervention may be necessary sooner rather than later. ”
“Intervention,” Thornbury repeats. “What intervention, precisely?”
I know what he wants. A confession. Something grotesque he can hold up and say, See? Witchcraft. But the tools here are limited and brutal. Forceps exist. Manual maneuvers exist. So does death.
“That depends on presentation and progress,” I say. “It must be decided by those present with the mother’s safety foremost, not by a schedule and not by reputation.”
Charlotte studies me as if she can hear what I am not saying.
Maybe she can.
“Would you attend me?” she asks.
The question drops like a chandelier.
The physicians erupt.
“Your Royal Highness—”
“Impossible—”
“Improper in the extreme—”
“This woman is not recognized by any college—”
Charlotte’s expression turns cold. “I did not ask whether the College recognizes her. I asked whether she would attend me.”
The noise dies.
My heartbeat is everywhere. If I say yes, I step into history’s machinery. If I say no, I leave her to it.
There is no neutral choice. Every fever patient in Whitechapel, every woman who has slipped through Ashbourne House’s servants’ entrance, every hand I have forced into soap and hot water—each one has already been an alteration.
People are not exhibits. They are breathing in front of me.
“If Your Royal Highness wishes it,” I say, “and if I am permitted, I will attend.”
Thornbury’s face hardens into something beyond anger.
Charlotte nods once, decisive. “Then I wish it.”
The silver-haired physician bows stiffly. “Your Royal Highness may invite any companion she finds comforting. But medical decisions must remain with qualified men.”
“Qualified men have had the floor for centuries,” Charlotte says. “I am not reassured by duration.”
The florid physician tries another tactic. “The Prince Regent must be consulted.”
Charlotte’s mouth flattens. “My father enjoys being consulted after he has already decided a thing. I inherited the habit.”
Thornbury bows, but his eyes stay on me. “Then let it be noted that I consider this a grave mistake.”
“Noted,” Charlotte says. “You may put it beside your earlier objections. They shall keep one another company.”
I should not enjoy this. I enjoy it very much.
The consultation becomes more formal after that, the men attempting to reclaim the room with humors, constitutions, inflammation, nervous excitability, and calm.
I answer only when Charlotte asks me directly.
Pulse. Strength. Cleanliness. Air. Rest. Warmth.
Observation. No germs. No sepsis. No modern obstetric acronyms that would make everyone reach for smelling salts.
But Charlotte listens. She hears the shape beneath my words.
When at last the physicians are dismissed, Thornbury lingers by the door.
“Miss Hartford,” he says, low enough that only I and perhaps Beatrice can hear. “You mistake novelty for wisdom.”
I meet his eyes. “And you mistake tradition for proof.”
His mouth tightens. “You are climbing above yourself.”
“I keep being invited.”
Then he bows to the princess and leaves.
The room feels cleaner without him, which is not medically rigorous but emotionally undeniable.
Charlotte sinks into a chair with a sigh she would probably not permit in front of a larger audience. Prince Leopold is at her side at once, his hand hovering until she nods. Then he takes hers.
She looks down at her belly. “Do you believe I shall die?”
The air leaves the room. Beatrice inhales sharply by the door. Prince Leopold goes utterly still.
There are questions women ask because everyone has spent months lying to them with gentle faces.
I kneel before her chair because sitting suddenly feels wrong.
“I believe you are at risk,” I say softly. “As every woman is at risk in childbirth. I also believe there are things that can reduce that risk.”
Charlotte watches me. “That is not the same as saying I shall live.”
“No.”
Her fingers tighten around Leopold’s.