As a physician, she understood that dreams were a fabrication of the unconscious mind. Nothing more and nothing less. Certainly they were not harbingers of fate, as some presumed, or proclamations of doom, as others believed. The mystical arts had never held any appeal to her. Not when science could be practically applied to explain every natural phenomenon. Yet in spite of that—in spite of what commonsense dictated—Abigail could not readily dismiss the notion that her nightmare had been trying to tell hersomething.
She just didn’t know what it was.
Nor did she know where her clothes were.
“Stephen?”
“Hmm?” he replied, seemingly distracted by a small constellation of freckles on her shoulder.
“Should we—should we not get dressed?” she asked, her voice weakened by the intimate brush of his mouth on her bare skin as he kissed his way to her neck.
“Why? Do you have a busy itinerary? Because I don’t.”
“Not this minute, but—”
“You look tired, Abigail.” He nuzzled behind her ear. “You should rest. In fact, you should probably spend the entire day in bed.”
“I . . . I was up late,” she acknowledged when his hand slipped beneath the coverlet to cup her breast. “But this . . . this . . . oh . . .oh. . .would hardly constitute resting.”
“Call it whatever you’d like.” Morning stubble scraped across her collarbone as his mouth began to work its way down her body. “I’m going to call it—”
Bang.
Bang.
BANG.
Three loud knocks in quick succession had Stephen glaring at the door with murderous intent while Abigail dove under the blankets.
“This better be important!” he barked, wrapping a protective arm around her middle as he pulled her in snug against his side. “A bloody matter of life or death.”
The door cracked open.
“My lord, I apologize profusely for the disturbance.” It was Mrs. Robbins, the housekeeper. “Itisa matter of greatimportance. And I also apologize in advance for such an intrusive query, but, well, is Lady Lancaster here?”
Abigail popped her head out of the coverlet. “I am.”
“Oh, thank heavens,” said Mrs. Robbins with visible relief. “Lady Lancaster, you’re needed in the drawing room. It’s the Duchess of Southwick. She has begun to labor.”
Chapter Sixteen
In all ofAbigail’s time spent at Columbia College, she had never, not once, been offered any instruction on labor and birth. When she had asked why such an intricate and often fatal process was not taught, she was told, a bit snidely, that women were designed to give birth and it was the work of a midwife, not a doctor, to ensure they did it properly. After all, livestock did not ordinarily require assistance or intervention when birthing. Why should women? Furthermore, why should a lecture or, even worse, an entire class be wasted on a female concern?
As a result, Abigail had taken it upon herself to learn as much as she could with what limited resources (both time and written material) she had. Upon first arriving in London, while establishing herself as a physician, she had apprenticed first with a midwife and then a veterinarian, the latter of whom had revealed, with a weary sort of smile, that livestock very muchdidrequire assistance with birthing, and had gone on to show her the various ways in which he provided such assistance.
She had learned to palpate a cow, turn a stuck piglet, and had even assisted in a caesarean section performed on a goat whose frame was much too tiny to naturally deliver the triplets she was carrying.
While her work on actual human patients was far more limited given that women were not accustomed to reaching out to doctors for help, she had overseen three successful labors.
Mara’s would be her fourth.
“Put the mattress there, by the fire,” she instructed two servants as they entered the drawing room carrying a large canvas sack stuffed with horsehair and cotton. Since the duchess’s water had broken, her labor had progressed swiftly, making it unsafe for her to climb the stairs to her bedchamber. After a brief minute of panic, led largely by the duke who had since been banished to pace in the front hall, Abigail had calmly suggested that if Mara could not get to her bedchamber, then they should bring her bedchamber to her. “We want the baby to be warm when it is born and there is a slight draft in the room. Mrs. Robbins, do you have the linens I requested? Excellent. Jack, place the bucket of ice chips by the top of the mattress. Lady Kentwood—”
“Kitty,” Mara’s sister interrupted. “This is no time for formalities.”
“Very well. Kitty, please help Mara over here. Steady. That’s it.” For the duchess, whose countenance was already slick with perspiration and eyes were wide with a combination of pain and excitement, Abigail adopted a softer, calmer tone. “I want you to lay on your back and I’m going to place these pillows on either side of your hips to tilt your pelvis into a more comfortable position. Your contractions are less than three minutes apart. We haven’t long until labor begins.”
“Until itbegins?” Mara cried as she positioned herself on the mattress. “It’s already been going on for two hours!”
