She was made to lie on the bed. The sheets were folded back. A basin was brought, and towels warmed by the fire.
Jane clenched the coverlet as the next contraction tore through her. “I can’t—” she gasped. “I can’t do this.”
“You can,” said Charlotte firmly, from the chair beside the bed. She looked perfectly composed except for the white knuckles of her hands, clutched together in her lap.
Jane shook her head, tears streaking her temples. “I wish my mother were here. My family.”
There was a silence. Then Charlotte leaned in slightly, her tone light. “I’ll try not to take offense. I thought I was your family now.”
Jane let out a ragged laugh—half sob, half breath.
Charlotte smiled. “If I ever entertained a thought of marriage before today, you’ve thoroughly dissuaded me.”
“Good,” Jane managed. “Because I don’t think I’ll be doing this again.”
The midwife tsked. “You’ll say that now. Give it a year and a strong cradle.”
Another contraction came—longer, sharper—and Jane cried out. Her hands reached blindly for something, anything. Charlotte caught them and held tight.
“You’re doing well,” said the doctor, voice calm. “But the child’s big and turned oddly. It will take time. And strength.”
The time blurred. The pain came in waves. Sometimes Jane screamed. Sometimes she was silent, lips pressed bloodless. She saw the candle gutters, the doctor’s frown, the blur of Charlotte’s face. Once she muttered, “I can’t... I don’t want to die,” and Charlotte wiped her brow, whispering, “You won’t. You’re too stubborn.”
Finally, after what felt like a thousand years, the midwife cried out, “Here it comes. One more.”
Jane screamed as if her body were being torn in two—and then it was over. The room filled with the shrill, astonishing sound of a baby’s cry.
“A boy,” the midwife announced. “And strong-lunged, God help us.”
The doctor caught him. The midwife took him quickly to clean and wrap him in cloth. Jane could see only a blur of white hair, a flailing arm, meaty purpled limbs kicking furiously against the air. She slumped back, weeping in relief, one hand limp on the coverlet.
Then came the bleeding. The doctor stiffened. “Get more cloth. Quickly.”
Charlotte turned—and froze. One of the towels was already soaked through. Another followed. The linen bedsheets were blooming crimson beneath Jane’s hips.
Charlotte paled. “What’s wrong?”
“She’s losing more blood than she should.”
For one terrifying moment, Charlotte could not move. The child was still crying, a shrill and living sound—but Jane was so still.
“Here,” she said at last, her voice rough with command as she reached out to the midwife. Her hands weren’t steady. “She needs to see him.”
“She needs to rest,” the midwife murmured.
“She needs her child.”
The doctor hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Briefly. But stay close.”
Jane stirred faintly as the soft weight was placed beside her. Her head lolled sideways, eyes barely open. He smelled faintly metallic and raw, like life just beginning.
“There,” Charlotte whispered, almost choking on the word. “You did it.”
The baby wailed, as if to prove his presence. His skin was still blotched and red, his long arms and legs splayed stiffly. He looked angry at the world, nose squashed, fists flailing.
Charlotte gave a wet, exhausted laugh. “He looks very odd, Jane. Truly unfortunate. I expect he’ll only get offers because he’s to inherit a dukedom.”
Jane did not answer at first. Then—barely audible, a rasping murmur—she said, “I doubt he’ll be ugly… if he takes after his father.”
