Suddenly the room was too hot. She tugged at the buttons near her collar.
“That’s too many compliments,” she told him, glancing toward the window once more. “And far too generous ones at that.”
“Think of them as truths.” His lips tipped in a vague hint of a smile. “I’m in awe of you,” he added, reaching out and tucking a wavy lock that had become loose from its holdings behind her ear.
“Lopez told me to tell you the coach is ready,” Fannie said, skipping into the room and glancing between them.
“Thank you.” Rebecca stepped backward, smoothing the cloak over her gown.
“Is there going to be a lot of blood?” Fannie asked, moving between the two, holding Rose in her arms.
“Usually not. Especially as this is not a first baby, and it’s less likely for the mother to tear,” she explained. “Though there are other ways bleeding can happen. None of them are particularly good and some quite dangerous, which is why I must work with care.”
“Is anyone going to die?” the girl asked, swishing a little from side to side as the cat glared.
Rebecca swallowed as several unpleasant memories rose in her mind. No, she could do this. This was who she was. She’d been away too long, and she was ready to retake her role. People needed her, and she needed this. No matter what.
She turned back to the girl. “I hope not. But I’ll tell you when I return.”
“Good,” Fannie said with rather resolute satisfaction. “Tell me everything,” she demanded. “Especially if the baby dies. Or takes a piss on you.”
“Fannie,” Roger admonished with such a look of horror and disgust on his face that Rebecca had to laugh again.
“I’ll most certainly tell you if the latter occurs, as it wouldn’t be the first time.” She gave Fannie a nod and turned back to Roger. “Risk of the trade,” she told him with a small wink.
“Good that brave people like you can do it, instead of those with sensitive stomachs like me,” he said, smiling at her. Her breath caught in her throat as he reached out and lifted her hood over her hair.
Roger suppressed a yawn. Rebecca did not return from her first call for almost thirty-six hours, after which she slept like the dead for another five, only to be called out yet again, for practically the entire day. How one person could accommodate such a schedule without succumbing to exhaustion or starvation, he had no idea.
While he certainly admired her dedication to her patients, she still had responsibilities to herself and her person. She was going to become ill if she continued to work like this. Hopefully this was an aberration due to circumstances, not a regular occurrence.
Or her mother and servants were more persuasive than he had been regarding her physical well-being. According to Marguarite, she’d barely eaten any of the trays she’d been brought. Further, she’d been so sleepy that the housekeeper had taken to sitting in the room while Rebecca bathed, forcing her to converse, for fear the woman might fall asleep and drown herself.
A disturbing image, one that left him scowling Thursday morning, even though he had been assured the woman was safely in bed and in no danger of imminent death.
“Why is it blue here, Papa?” Michael asked, pointing first at Roger’s face between bites of sponge cake, then touching the area beneath his own eyes with his rather sticky fingers. The small boy rocked back and force in his seat, staring at him before taking a sip of what was allegedly tea but was mostly sugar and milk.
“Those mean he needs more sleep,” Fannie explained to her brother with the sort of authority only a nine-year-old speaking to a five-year-old could possess.
“I’m all right,” he said, stifling a yawn. “I’m just tired of the snow.”
“It has been a while since we’ve left the house for anything but to visit Uncle David and Aunt Nina.” There was longing in Michael’s voice. He took another bite. “Why does Miss Adler get to leave, and we don’t?” he asked, as if the concept had just occurred to him.
“Because she’s helping people,” Fannie explained. She turned toward Roger. “The lady last night almost died,” she reported.
Roger glanced at this daughter. “How do you know that?”
“I asked,” Fannie said with a shrug. “I waited up for her to return.” She picked at the chiffon ruffles that fell from the neckline of her gown. “You fell asleep,” she practically accused, then turned to Michael, excitement now in her voice. “There was a lot of blood, especially because she had to cut the mother open to get the baby out.”
“Cut her open?” his son asked, his mouth hanging impolitely wide as he stared at his sister. Roger cleared his throat. The boy thankfully swallowed before leaning closer to Fannie.
“Only from here until here.” She demonstrated with a finger on her own body. “She said it still requires a great deal of stitches. She places them inside and out.” Her face flushed with excitement. “She said she’d show me with embroidery thread. Do you know that’s how she practices?”
“I did not,” Roger said, taking a sip of his chocolate, the gentle burn of the slightly bitter, rich liquid sliding down his throat. He glanced back at Fannie, who was now tugging at one of her neatly crafted curls, a frown turning down her lips. But instead of her usual expression of displeasure, this one suggested disquietude. Roger scooted forward in his chair. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” his daughter said, but she sighed again, clear worry on her small face.
Roger’s heart began to beat a touch faster. “Fannie?” he asked, bending closer to the child, working to keep his own voice calm so as not to frighten her.
