Chapter Twelve #4
As everyone scurried to obey, Abigail unfolded the sheet and handed one corner to Mrs. Robbins and another to a short, wide-eyed maid wearing a white mob cap.
“Please hold this above the duchess’s belly to grant her some privacy while I examine her.
Mara, can you raise your knees for me and spread them—yes, just like that.
” She picked up the scissors. “I’m going to have to remove some of your undergarments. ”
“Do whatever you need.”
Working efficiently and precisely, Abigail cut away several layers of muslin before proceeding with her examination. Once she was satisfied with her findings, she draped Mara’s skirts back over her legs and motioned that the duchess could return to a more comfortable position.
“What is it?” Ambrose asked. He’d sat down as she’d suggested, and by the way he had his head thrown back and his eyes closed, it hadn’t been a moment too soon. “How is the baby?”
“From what I can tell, the baby is perfectly fine. Healthy and content to remain where he or she is for now.”
“I’m not—I’m not in labor? Oh, it’s happening again!” Mara’s countenance contorted as she leaned upward and grasped her stomach. Ambrose grunted in commiseration and promptly keeled sideways out of his chair, hitting the floor with a muffled thump.
“Ambrose?” Mara said shrilly. “Ambrose!”
Blinking, Abigail went to the duke and checked his pulse as well. “He is fine. Smelling salts will revive him promptly, although might I suggest letting him sleep until your false contractions have ceased.”
“False—false contractions?”
“Studies have been largely inconclusive—when they’ve been conducted at all. I doubt it will surprise you to learn that very little medical research is devoted toward female ailments, but from my own personal observations of both cows and humans—”
“Cows?”
“I believe the body begins to engage in feigned labor several days to weeks before the actual labor commences as a means to prepare itself. The contractions should soon cease.”
Mara’s hands fell away from her belly. “Then this wasn’t real? But it hurt!”
“Childbirth is exceedingly painful,” Abigail said solemnly.
The duchess grimaced. “Dr. Chadwick, has anyone ever told you that your bedside manner could use some improvement?”
“Yes, on several occasions. Have you been drinking the ginger-and-red-raspberry tea I made for you?”
“Every morning.”
“Best make it every morning and night until you go into real labor.” She hesitated. “How far is Southwick Castle from here?”
“It’s all the way up in Derbyshire, so another full day’s travel. Why do you ask?”
“Because I do not advise it. Traveling so far, that is.”
“But you said it would be fine!”
“That was before your false contractions. The roads are hard and bumpy. If you were to run into a delay, you might be faced with having your baby at an inn, or even in the carriage.”
“In the carriage?” Mara’s turned as pale as her husband. “No, absolutely not. I’m dreading having this child in a big soft bed surrounded by servants, let alone on a bench out in the middle of nowhere. Should we return to London, then?”
“Even that could carry risks. If the weather turned, or an axle cracked—”
“You’ve convinced me,” Mara interrupted, patting her stomach. “We’ll stay here. You are my doctor, after all. And before your husband whisked you away without consulting me, which was utterly thoughtless of him, by the way, you were going to attend the birth.”
While it made perfect logical sense to Abigail, she wasn’t sure what Stephen’s feelings would be on the matter.
He’d given her three weeks. Would he take them back if her days became consumed by caring for a patient?
Would three turn into six? Six into nine?
Having reached such a tenuous peace between the two of them, she was dubious about doing anything to disrupt it.
But she could hardly demand that Mara and Ambrose leave.
Not when she herself had advised against travel, and Summerwind House had plenty of extra rooms.
“What the devil is happening in here?” As if summoned from the depths of Abigail’s thoughts, Stephen emerged in the doorway holding a cat carrier in either hand, balancing a hissing Susan on his shoulder, and wearing what could only be described as a peevish expression.
“Susan,” Abigail cried, and with an agitated mreow the cat sprang onto the floor and bounded over to her mistress who immediately scooped her up and burrowed her nose in Susan’s soft fur. “Oh, how I’ve missed you.”
“I take it you are the Earl of Lancaster?” Mara queried with as much dignity as a woman stuck on a sofa in her ninth month of pregnancy was capable of.
“I am. Might I ask who you are and what you’re doing in my parlor?” Setting Ferdinand and Cleo’s carriers down, Stephen glanced at the Duke of Southwick sprawled lifeless on the floor. His brow furrowed. “Is he dead?”
“Sleeping. It is fascinating to finally make your acquaintance.” With the help of Mrs. Robbins, Mara struggled into a sitting position and put on her most practiced pleasant smile. “I am the Duchess of Southwick . . . your new houseguest.”