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“I need three basins of hot water,” Simon snapped to a hovering servant, propping several pillows behind the lady, and easing her into a sitting position. “Clean towels and linens and carbolic soap immediately!”
“Yes, Doctor!”
The maid hurried away with Mrs. Denniston accompanying her to assist.
Simon glanced up, his face a mask of fierce concentration. “Lady Miranda?” he asked sharply. “Is something wrong?”
“No…I…. The coachman has gone to the village for more help?”
He nodded. "There is a midwife there with whom I work closely, he has gone to fetch her.” He shifted back to the lady and murmured, “Come now, Sarah, all will be well. I’ll ensure it. The child is ready to come into this world.”
“I’m afraid, Doctor, she gasped,” tears streaming down her face. “I fear something is wrong. No pain should be this great.” Then deep wrenching sobs tore from the woman.
A sinking sensation entered Miranda’s stomach. Was the woman dying? Miranda’s heart pounded a fierce rhythm, and she wanted to run away, but she kept herself rooted. "Is there anything I can do to help, Simon?”
Her voice trembled.
“This is no place for you, but thank you for the offer.”
Relief scythed through her heart and she made to turn away. Shame also rushed in, for it was evident he needed assistance with most of his servants out on their half day. Her sensibilities felt shattered, and she could not explain why she felt so frightened. The poor woman must be suffering from such palpitations. Squaring her shoulders, and praying for courage, she skirted around the bed, careful only to look at the lady’s face. She pushed one of the wingback chairs close to the bedside, sat, and reached for the lady's hand. This much closer to the lady, she noted the air smelled thick with sweat and blood.
Simon glanced up, paused momentarily in surprise, before giving her a quick, pleased smile. Then he went back to peering under the woman’s skirt. Mortification flushed through Miranda, and she felt the writhing lady possibly endured a similar embarrassment.
“What is your name?” she asked soothingly.
"Sarah, milady," she gasped, gripping onto Miranda's hand with surprising strength. The lady wailed, her body contorting.
Miranda felt faint. Surely this could not be what all women suffered to bring a child into this world? She murmured soothing words and stroked the damp hair from her head. “What will you name your child?”
“Victoria, milady, for our queen.”
“It is a girl then?”
An unexpected smile lit her face. "I do hope so, milady."
“Please, you may call me Mira…or Miranda if you prefer.”
“Thank you—” she broke off on a sharp scream.
Miranda kept her eyes glued to the lady's face, not daring to look anywhere else. The maid and Mrs. Denniston returned with jugs of water and towels, and Simon moved away to scrub his hands quite roughly with the block of carbolic soap.
“Ughhhh,” Sarah whimpered.
“Hush now, it shall soon be over,” Miranda murmured, praying that was true.
Sweat ran in rivulets down her hairline, and her face was a grimace of agony. At that moment a contraction seized Sarah’s body, and she crushed Miranda’s hand. But she bore it, gritting her teeth at times through the pain, other moments murmuring soothing nonsense, and patting Sarah’s forehead with a fresh, damp towel.
Simon guided Sarah with calming words and, at times, sharp instructions on when to push, and when to breathe. It felt like it went on forever, and even Miranda started to sweat, for the tendrils of her hair clung damply to her cheeks and nape. Sarah’s screams and low, guttural moans caused panic to coil around Miranda’s lungs, tightening until she could not breathe.
Finally, a sharp cry echoed through the room, and Miranda glanced down and gulped. The tiniest, reddest human she had ever seen with white and red bits all about thrashed around in the doctor’s hands. Dr. Astor was doing a great job of cleaning away the mess with a soft wet, warm towel. Then he bundled the baby in an even softer blanket and handed the baby over to the now joyously weeping mother.
Miranda felt fit for Bedlam, she was uncertain how Sarah could now be laughing as if she held the greatest happiness in the world in the cradle of her arms. Emotions clogged Miranda’s throat, and her heart pounded a fierce beat she did not understand. Standing on legs which felt weakened, she hurried from the room unable to speak. She had been in the room where a lady had given birth. Who among her friends would have thought her capable of such feats?
She felt Dr. Astor’s piercing stare as his gaze followed her, she broke into a run, skidding to a frantic halt to wrench the door open, and then closing it gently behind her. Leaning against it, she closed her eyes tightly. “Oh God, I must tell Pippa,” she gasped. “In truth, I must warn every friend of mine.”
Miranda hurried into the smaller parlor, grateful to see it was empty, desperate to compose herself and try to understand the emotions tearing through her. The pianoforte beckoned, and she went over and lifted the well-polished lid. She allowed her fingers to dance over the keys, creating soft chiming music. The sound of it grounded her, and she lightly played, allowing the keys and the music to be her center.
The door swung open, and she whirled around. “Dr. Astor!”
