The Infamous Miss Ilsa

by Laine Ferndale

  Theo smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. “Of course.” He approached her bedside. “And the births I’ve attended have all ended well for mother and baby.” That part wasn’t technically a lie, since the only delivery he’d participated in was his own, and he’d lived to tell the tale. “Now, may I examine you?”

  She looked at Ilsa, who was standing beside the bed. Ilsa nodded. “Yes,” Mrs. Sterling said finally.

  “Excellent. I’m going to tell you exactly what I’m doing, and if at any time you need me to stop, you just say so. Ilsa will hold your hand in case you need something to squeeze.”

  Mrs. Sterling nodded.

  Theo pulled a chair up to the bed. After a few minutes of careful probing and palpating, the problem seemed clear. The baby was very close to being born, but the head was face up: not an ideal position. Worse, the placenta might have grown partially across its way as well. No wonder the poor thing was stuck.

  Though he tried to recall his textbooks, his brain instead reached for the voices of the women who had been employed as nurses throughout his childhood. They’d all been stout Irish or Scottish women with open, friendly faces, and they’d talked candidly to each other about births they’d just attended. Theo had drifted in and out of sleep to stories about who had bellowed like a heifer, who had wailed like a banshee, who had pulled through unexpectedly, who had called out for a former beau instead of the baby’s father, who had been beyond help. One phrase stood out to him now: Give me a sturdy stool and a good push, and I’ll give you a baby in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.

  “Very good. Mrs. Sterling, I know you’re tired. I believe you simply need a little help from gravity. Ilsa, can you fetch me a stool?” Ilsa nodded and hurried out of the room.

  “Have you experienced any bleeding at all in the past month or two?” he asked.

  “A little. Not enough to fuss about.”

  That could confirm the possibility of placental previa. He could only pray it was minor and that she wouldn’t haemorrhage. “You’re doing wonderfully,” Theo said.

  Another pain rolled over her, and she cried out.

  “It’s okay. Just take deep breaths. Every pain is another step closer to having this all done with.” She breathed. “There you go. Just think of all the many, many women who successfully gave birth for you to get here. Your mother, your grandmother, your great-great grandmother.”

  “My mother—died—in—childbirth,” Mrs. Sterling gasped between breaths.

  He winced. “And modern medicine has come so far since then.”

  Ilsa’s entrance offered him an easy out. She was quick, he would give her that. Mrs. Sterling’s pain passed, and she collapsed back against the pillows, panting.

  “Before your next pain comes, I’m going to move a few things around, and then Ilsa and I are going to help you lower down onto this stool. And Ilsa is going to sit on the bed behind you, and you just lean into her.”

  “I can’t,” protested Mrs. Sterling. He motioned to Ilsa, who began helping her swing her legs to the side of the bed.

  He stood over her and gave her what he hoped was his most doctoral look. “You very much can and you will. With a sturdy stool and a determined mother, I can get this baby out in the next few minutes.”

  That seemed to work. Together, Theo and Ilsa lowered Mrs. Sterling to the stool. Nothing seemed to faze Ilsa, not the vice grip Mrs. Sterling had on her hand, not the sight of blood, not the difficulty of moving a pregnant woman in labour.

  Soon, Ilsa was seated on the bed, steadying her friend between her knees. “That’s it,” she murmured. “You’re doing so well. Everything’s okay.”

  He knelt between his patient’s legs and adjusted her nightgown to provide at least the illusion of modesty. “When your next pain comes, you need to focus all your energy on pushing this baby out. Slow and steady, and don’t let up.” He stealthily reached down into his bag and removed the scalpel in case it was needed. No need to stress Mrs. Sterling’s frayed nerves by brandishing a knife around.

  As the next pain came, Mrs. Sterling arched her back into Ilsa.

  “Push,” he and Ilsa said in unison.

  The baby’s head crowned onto his waiting palm. “One more push,” he urged.

  Theo’s hands seemed to know what to do without his brain’s help. As the next contraction came, he gently twisted the baby’s tiny shoulders until it was delivered right side up. He wrapped it in a towel and began wiping gunk from its nose and mouth, then gave it a few taps on the back with the heel of his hand. It opened its eyes and gave a long, wavering cry. Mrs. Sterling and Ilsa both laughed with slightly manic relief. The baby was scrawny, but otherwise he seemed to be holding a completely healthy baby girl.

  Theo looked up. Ilsa was staring at him with wide eyes, waiting for him to say something. For a moment, the room hung in stillness: Ilsa’s blue eyes, her pink cheeks, the baby wailing and squirming in his arms. He had done it. He had known what to do. He had done it exactly right.

  “Is he okay?” Mrs. Sterling asked.

  Theo retrieved two clamps from his bag, then cut the cord with the scalpel. “She’s perfect.”

  “It’s a girl!” Ilsa exclaimed.

  “Oh, my God. A girl.” Mrs. Sterling breathed. “A girl.”

  “We’re not out of the woods yet. Ilsa, will you keep our new arrival company?”

  She took the baby over to the gently steaming washbasin on the other side of the room and began wrapping her in a towel. Theo devoted his entire attention to delivering the afterbirth, which arrived broken. While he made sure that all the pieces were there, Ilsa came over to reunite mother and baby. After a few tense moments, he let out a relieved breath. There was, thank God, nothing left behind and no indications of haemorrhaging. “Congratulations, Mrs. Sterling,” he announced with a wide smile. “My work here is done.”

  The newest mother in Fraser Springs gave a hoarse little chuckle. “Please, call me Jo. I think we know each other well enough by now.”

  As he washed his hands, he looked over to see Ilsa kneeling next to the bed, cooing to the swaddled baby girl cradled in her friend’s arms. Ilsa’s hair glowed like a halo in the lamplight. He felt a rush of pride: she had proven herself more capable and empathetic than many of the nurses he’d worked with. Perhaps being a practicing physician wouldn’t be so bad if he had someone like Ilsa at his side. No, not like Ilsa. He could do anything, as long as he had Ilsa with him.

  She raised her head and smiled at him.

  “Good work, Dr. Whitacre,” she said quietly. From her, the words meant more than any diploma he could ever earn.

  • • •

  Ilsa got Jo cleaned up and back into bed. She took care of the bedding and towels, and sent Annie to retrieve Owen from Doc Stryker’s. Soon, Jo’s bedroom was filled with the proud father and most of the girls, all of them babbling over the new arrival. Little Sarah was a beautiful baby, with alert eyes and a miniature tuft of dark hair.

  None of them had a clue that the room had been nightmarish just an hour ago. The entire time, she’d wanted to run away screaming. The blood, the crying, even the horrible handwashing routine. Thank God she wasn’t a nurse. She’d barely managed to keep from vomiting when she’d seen Theo piecing together the afterbirth like a jigsaw puzzle. She would take bunions and achy backs any day.

  Theo knocked politely against the frame of the wide-open door—he’d gone downstairs to finish cleaning his knives and whatnots in the kitchen—and was greeted with a chorus of thanks and hand-shaking. “I’m just here to say good night. If it’s all right, I’ll drop by in the morning to check on you, Jo.”

  “Of course. Thank you again, Doctor.”

  A grin broke through Theo’s professionalism. “It was my pleasure. You did all the hard work. I just managed to avoid dropping her.”

  Owen and Jo both chuckled feebly at the joke; Jo could barely keep her eyes open, and Owen wobbled with relief and Doc’s best whiskey.

  “I’
ll show you out,” Ilsa said.

  They walked down the stairs in silence. She was suddenly aware of how heavily he was leaning on the bannister—he must have left his cane downstairs. He had handled everything so assertively that she had totally forgotten about his limitations. Well, it had been a stressful time. Emotions were running high, and tonight hadn’t been about Theo or her. Thank God he had been there and had known what to do. She didn’t want to think of what might have happened if she’d listened to Dr. Greyson.

  The baby was here. Jo was okay. It was all okay.

  “Do you mind if I wash up a little better before I leave?” Theo asked. “It might start a bit of a panic if I wander back into the lobby in this state.”

  “Absolutely.” Ilsa freshened the hot water in the basin and found him a comb and more clean towels. One of the benefits of living in a bathhouse: an endless supply of towels.

  “Thank you again,” she said. “I’m glad you were here.”

  Theo looked up at her: that studious glance, that slight smile. “I’m glad I was here too,” he said. “And thank you. You were an outstanding assistant.”

  Ilsa smiled. “We were a good team.”

  “We were,” he said, beaming. “If I didn’t think half of Fraser Springs would question my motivations, I’d try to poach you to come work for me.”

  “You couldn’t afford me.” Because I wouldn’t do that again for a million dollars, she added silently.

  “Probably not. Well. I’d better go. Paperwork awaits.” He picked up his cane from where it had been leaning, forgotten, against the doorway. “Until tomorrow. In the meantime, see if you can get Jo some iron-fortified biscuits and some mutton tea. And if you can find a dark beer, so much the better. It helps with milk production. Only dark beer, though. Not ale.” He was babbling now. It was adorable.

  “I will,” she said.

  “If she develops a fever or starts bleeding heavily, come and get me right away. Doesn’t matter the time. If you have any questions, any at all, it’s better to ask. Just come and get me.”

  “I will.”

  On his way out the door, he leaned in and brushed his lips against her ear. “And I hope very much to see you again on Sunday,” he whispered.

  She flushed. “I wouldn’t miss it,” she whispered back. Part of her wanted to tug him into the pantry, but she could hear Annie and Jean chattering right outside the kitchen. There was risk, and then there was foolish risk. She would see him soon enough.

  After he left, Ilsa busied herself by preparing the tea for Jo. She arranged iron biscuits on a tray, strained the tea, and put it in their prettiest teacup. The towels and bedding would have to be boiled and bleached. The dough for tomorrow’s bread hadn’t even been started; they were behind on that, not that anyone would blame them. Did they have enough towels left for tomorrow’s clients? She would check. With Nils gone earlier than she’d expected, their woodpile was low. Perhaps they could borrow some from Doc Stryker to tide them over until morning. She would have to be up at dawn to get it all ready.

  When she carried the tray up to Jo, Owen was standing over Jo with his hand on her shoulder, staring reverently at her and their child. Jo, pale and half asleep, smiled up at him. Ilsa’s heart clenched in her chest at the perfect scene of domestic bliss. She felt like she was stepping into one of the maudlin paintings that Mrs. McSheen insisted on hanging in the Anglican fellowship hall.

  “Doctor’s orders,” Ilsa said. “Mutton tea and biscuits.”

  Jo wrinkled her nose at the brew, but carefully passed Sarah to Owen and took the cup anyway. “Your doctor seems nice.”

  “He’s not my doctor.”

  Jo smiled. “You seem quite fond of one another, though.” Still meddling, even when she’d just given birth an hour ago.

  Ilsa breezed past the topic with a smile. “I’m glad it all worked out. He said some dark beer would help you get your strength, so I’m going to pop over to Doc’s. I’ll be back soon. I’ll get Annie to start the bread and Jean to make us some more salve for the morning.”

  “You’re working too hard,” Owen said,

  “Bah. I’d make you do all of it if you weren’t foxed. Jo, when I come back I’ll braid your hair. You look a mess.”

  Midnight came before Ilsa had a chance to pause for a breath of fresh air. She lingered by the kitchen garden, inhaling the spice of fallen leaves, woodsmoke, and the ever-present mineral tang of the hot springs. The wind was sharp this time of year, but she barely felt the cold. She kept thinking about Theo’s hands around hers, his whisper against her ear. It was like being sixteen again: wonderful, and annoying.

  She had been so afraid for Jo, and then Theo had stepped in and taken care of everything. He would likely make some asinine comment the very next time she saw him, and she knew that he would be out of her life again sooner rather than later, but for now? All she could think about was his broad shoulders, the gentle, reassuring confidence with which he’d delivered Jo’s baby, and the way his lips felt against hers. And for now, that was all lovely. The disappointments of real life would be here soon enough—she would enjoy a little fantasy while she could.

  Chapter 12

  The satchel had been a mistake. Theo knew it the moment he set out along the boardwalk. He’d begged it off the porter; apparently the St. Alice Hotel provided guided nature picnics in the summer. But the two enamel cups tied on the side of the canvas bag clanged like a tinker’s pack, drawing stares from the townspeople as he walked. So much for keeping a low profile; he might as well have worn a sandwich board advertising his intention to go looking for those water samples he’d been forbidden from collecting.

  He met Ilsa on the outskirts of town, where even the gravelled path that led back to the boardwalk disappeared. “Setting off for the territories?” she asked, grinning at him.

  He grimaced. “I may have overprepared. In case we end up lost.” In truth, his experience with hiking was limited to being pushed in a wheelchair through Stanley Park while a nurse prattled on about how the fresh air would do him good in all sorts of ways. He wasn’t going to turn down a chance for an excursion in the real outdoors, even if his leg made him pay for every step. Plus, how often did he get to enjoy a picnic lunch with a beautiful lady? He’d had to use all his limited charm to secure said picnic lunch from the cook.

  Ilsa laughed. “If we get lost going up the side of a hill and back, we deserve to have bears eat us.”

  After weeks of frosty weather the sun had reappeared, coaxing the pine scent out of the trees. Even in his coat felt too warm. Ilsa was right: the path was only gently inclined and clearly marked by little stone cairns. The hike was more like a leisurely stroll.

  “Well, thank you for taking time to be my courageous mountain guide. I imagine the Sterlings’ new arrival has you very busy.”

  Ilsa sighed. “I forgot how much babies cry and how much laundry they make. Poor Jo. It’s been a bother.”

  “I’m sure she’s grateful for your help.”

  Ilsa kicked at a large pebble on the path. “She is. With her out of commission, I’m the only one who can whip those girls into action. They have the attention span of squirrels.” He smiled at the adorable way she pronounced “squirrel.” Her cheeks were pink from the walk, and her bright blue scarf set off her eyes.

  They heard the stream before they saw it. “Is this the place?” he asked.

  She nodded. “We should be close. Anywhere around here.”

  “People walk this far every day to get water?”

  “Not many people draw from this stream that I know of. And those that do usually pump from farther down than this.”

  “Why not just use the water from the hot springs?”

  “Because nobody drinks the hot springs water.”

  Theo knelt down, using his cane for stability. He dipped the test tube into the water. “Why not?”

  Ilsa shrugged. “No one ever has. Why bother with something that tastes like vinegar when there are so many
streams around?”

  Perhaps the so-called “vitality water” the hotel was bottling for its guests was making people sick. That would explain why only people at the St. Alice fell ill. He tucked the sample into his satchel, and they continued trudging uphill to the next stream. Theo wasn’t sure whether it was Ilsa’s long-ago treatments or the pleasure of her company, but his leg barely bothered him at all.

  “So what’s your plan, once you have this water business sorted out?” she asked.

  She asked the question lightly, but there was a note of real curiosity. His first instinct was to laugh the question off. “If I get caught with these samples, I won’t be staying a week.” He glanced away, up into the trees. Two little grey birds were squabbling over a pinecone, and the canopy echoed with their dispute. If he couldn’t even tell Ilsa, how would ever be able to talk to anyone else about his ambitions? “There’s a university in Paris that’s developed a model to track measles outbreaks before they become deadly, and another in Göttingen doing some groundbreaking work with milk-borne scarlet fever. I had interviews arranged, even a fellowship offer from Dr. DuBois in Paris.”

  “So what happened?”

  “It depended on . . . a lot of factors.”

  “Factors like your parents?”

  Of course. Ilsa knew what he was up against better than perhaps anyone else in the world. “Yes. Exactly. It’s maddening. If I wanted to sail across the Atlantic and spend a year sitting in cafes all day and getting drunk all night, Father would pay my way in a heartbeat. But if I want to go to continue my education?” The words poured out of him; he probably sounded like a whiny child, but he couldn’t stop himself. “The chances of my going to Europe are more or less nil. Apparently, a man of my standing exists to sit on advisory boards and host charity balls, not muck around with sick people and diseases.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she agreed.

  “I worked so hard to get out of that bed and then to make it through my degree. I assumed that they’d be pleased to have a son who’s something besides an invalid. But I honestly think they preferred me when I was helpless.”