“It’s not just numbers,” Rose said. “I like astronomy. It’s exciting. And it feels so…safe. Nothing else is about for millions of miles.”
But she hadn’t felt alone last night. Last night, when she’d taken his hand and kissed him, she had felt brave. Not afraid that the world would laugh at her, not with him at her side.
Patricia squeezed her hand again—but this time in a hard, lengthy clench. It was only because she stopped walking that Rose realized she didn’t intend it as a comforting gesture; she was having another contraction.
“Patricia,” Rose said, when she finally loosened her grip, “I really think we should send for Chillingsworth.”
Chapter Eight
ROSE HELD HER BREATH as Doctor Chillingsworth frowned. It had taken Josephs hours to find him; he’d been with another patient when Josephs had first set out. The doctor had come only reluctantly; he seemed tired now, his left eyelid drooping asymmetrically.
He’d turned the lights on full bore and felt Patricia’s belly with a clinical detachment.
“Thirty-seven weeks along,” he said with a shake of his head. “Thirty-seven weeks, if that. The baby’s not yet turned. There’s no dilation to speak of. Mrs. Wells, it is still not your time.”
At least he was actually addressing Patricia now. Not that he had any choice; Mr. Josephs had not come up to the bedroom.
“But I’m having contractions,” Patricia said. “Regular contractions, coming closer and closer together. The time between them has fallen from forty-five minutes last night to nineteen just now.”
Chillingsworth looked at Patricia. He let out a long, long sigh. “And yet you are…mistaken, I suppose I shall say charitably. There are a great many changes that occur in the human body during a period of gravidity. No doubt you are experiencing gas.”
“Gas.” Patricia sounded shocked. “No. It’s not gas.”
“Your husband is absent,” Chillingsworth said, “And no doubt you find yourself in want of attention. I have observed it all too often in women in your state. But you are worrying yourself needlessly and no doubt causing more harm than not. Rest assured that it is not your time. I do not need more dramatics from you.” He shook his head. “I’d have a little more patience with a new mother’s antics—but I was called here at eleven in the evening after an exceedingly taxing day. Please show some consideration for others, Mrs. Wells.”
He packed up his things. Patricia’s lips had thinned considerably; her hands clenched together. She didn’t speak a word, and Rose couldn’t blame her.
Dramatic? In want of attention? Her sister? There was not a chance in the world of it. Patricia had never done a thing to draw attention to herself.
Rose wanted to talk to the man sharply.
But Patricia simply said, “Yes, Doctor Chillingsworth. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”
If Patricia didn’t want to make a fuss, Rose wouldn’t make one for her. After all, wasn’t that the way of the world? Rose rarely made a fuss for herself; it was seeing the people she loved be treated unfairly that made her angry.
Rose sat with her sister long after Chillingsworth had left, holding Patricia’s hand, not saying a word, trying not to count the minutes that elapsed between squeezes.
She fell asleep in her clothes, trying to convince herself that the squeezes were not coming closer and closer together.
SHE WOKE IN THE DARK, disoriented and bewildered.
“Rose.” Patricia was shaking her. Her voice was a little ragged. “Rose, my water just broke.”
“Oh my God.” Rose came out of her confused dreams instantly. “Oh, God. I’ll wake Josephs. He can have Chillingsworth here in ten minutes.”
“Yes,” Patricia said. “Yes. I think that’s for the best now.”
Rose ran down stairs. She knocked sharply on the servants’ door and explained the situation. In no time, Josephs was stomping into his boots and setting off. Rose watched him go out the door into a wild flurry of snow.
A bell tower chimed twice in the darkness; Rose closed the door and ascended the stairs to her sister.
“He’ll be here soon,” she said. “Mrs. Josephs is fetching towels and putting water on to boil.”
She fumbled with a spill, igniting the rolled paper from the coals before lighting the lamp.
Patricia had her hands on her belly. “This is happening.” She gave Rose a wan smile. “This is actually happening. How…exciting.”
Exciting, Rose suspected, was not her first choice of word. Nor her second.
“Very exciting.”
Rose didn’t say the other thing on her mind—that at thirty-seven weeks, it was too soon. What happened would happen; if Patricia didn’t want to fret, Rose would keep her worries to herself. It would all be well. It would be. And Chillingsworth would be here soon.
“I wish Isaac were here,” Patricia said.
So did Rose, and not just because Patricia’s husband was a doctor.
“Don’t you worry,” Rose said. “I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. I promised.”
Five minutes passed, then ten. Patricia’s contractions were coming closer now—mere minutes apart, and from the strain on her face, they were getting worse. Fifteen minutes had elapsed since Josephs left, when a third contraction came. Patricia gritted her teeth; Rose held her shoulders. “Shh, shh,” she whispered. “It will all be well.”
But even after the contraction passed, Patricia remained as she had been, her teeth set, her breathing ragged.
“There, there,” Rose said soothingly. “You’re doing so well.”
Patricia’s hand slipped to her belly once more. “Rose?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve just thought of something.”
Rose set her hand on her sister’s shoulder. “What is it? I’ll make it better.”
Patricia let out a shaky breath. “The baby hasn’t turned yet.”
Rose stared at her sister in horror. For one moment, she couldn’t find any words of comfort at all. Every snatch of remembered conversation, every story she’d heard of what might happen in labor floated to mind.
She caught herself before she could recoil in horror. “You mustn’t worry,” she said. “Chillingsworth will be here soon. We live in modern times. There’s a great deal that can be done. I’m sure of it. Don’t you worry.”