Struggling into the howling wind was pure torture. Pamela's forehead felt like beaten lead and her head ached interminably, despite the thick woolen scarf and warm hat she wore. And her mittens, though warm, were made for more casual use, not for wading about through snowstorms. They came only to her wrists, leaving her wrists red and raw and aching. Her thighs, too, ached from the exertion of having to lift her legs out of the deep snow. Just when Pamela thought the exposed skin of her face was going to freeze, they came to the bottom of a hill. At the top, upon the ridge, stood a cottage lighted from within by the yellow glow of oil lamps. They soon stumbled their way up the hill to the cottage, pulled open the door, went in, and shut the wind and snow outside.
Mr. Cross wasted no time leading Pamela to the loft where the pregnant girl lay. Pamela soon noticed, however, the moment she pulled off mitts, scarf, hat and coat, that the air within the cottage was scarcely warmer than without.
'For God's sake, Mr. Cross, build up the fire . . . it's freezing in here! And fill that large preserving kettle with water and boil it. No, that one, the big one by that pile of firewood. The tap's frozen? Then use snow! Don't you have any clean linen? Well . . . take what you've got, boil it on the stove and then hang it and dry it.'
'Now, Emma,' Pamela said, trying her best to sound brave and competent, 'you're obviously in labour, aren't you?'
The girl, who appeared about Pamela's age, was brown-haired, her complexion pale and puffy-looking. She was weeping and looked terrified. 'I'm going to die, aren't I?'
'What? Don't be ridiculous! Now, tell me, Emma, are you in labour? And how far into your pregnancy are you? And don't fib to me about it! Your dad's outside with Theo filling pots and kettles with snow; neither of them can hear. Emma, this is very important: how many months along are you?'
'Uh! It's nine! It's nine months! But don't tell my father! Please! He'll kill me!'
'If he tries anything of the sort, then I'll beat him within an inch of his life,' Pamela said, trying to sound as though she meant it. After checking the girl's belly, what she discovered almost made her balk. Pausing to take a deep breath, carefully schooling her features to conceal her own anxiety, she said, 'Okay, Emma, your baby's not in the right position to be born. That means I'm going to have to reach inside you and turn the baby so that it can come out. This is going to hurt like hell, but I want you to be very brave, and bite down on this.' She rolled up a facecloth and stuck it in the girl's mouth. 'Now, you can scream all you like, but don't worry about it too much. You're not going to die. It's only pain. In a few hours the pain will be nothing more than a memory, and you'll have a brand-new life to look after.'