by Kris Tualla
“On the floor?” she teased, and bit his shoulder.
“You had no qualms about the floor night before last, as I recall.”
“Hmm.” Sydney hummed and curled around him. Her softness and warmth soothed his roiling insides and he dozed.
He felt much improved later, after both a light lunch of bread and a little cheese, and riding in the fresh air atop their carriage. The ride home to Cheltenham always lifted his spirits. And it had been a very successful trip, after all.
Vincent held the reins. Nicolas wanted him to learn to drive the team, and Vincent agreed. Mostly, Nicolas suspected, so he would not have to go on another horseback tour.
“I still cannot say enough about yesterday,” Vincent effused. “The way you handled the crowd was brilliant! Simply brilliant!”
“Thank you.”
“Did you see the look on Beckermann’s face when you stepped up?”
“I did.”
“I tell you what, you won votes! Yes, sir, you did!” Vincent bounced on the seat. “You might have sealed the election with that one appearance!”
Nicolas raised one brow. “So I might live the next month in peace at home?”
Vincent laughed. “Well, I would not go quite that far! People have short memories and they might think you’ve died!”
“I felt like it this morn, I can tell you,” Nicolas said. He ran his hand through his hair and rubbed his belly.
“Perhaps… less beer next time?” Vincent suggested, grinning at his employer.
“Less catfish.” Nicolas winked at him. “The beer was fine!”
April 29, 1822
Cheltenham
Nicolas opened the front door. Rickard stood on his front porch in the fading light; he looked horrible. “Rick? Come in man, what’s amiss?”
Sydney descended the stairs. “Rickard?”
His dull hazel eyes lifted to hers. “I need you, Sydney.”
“What is happening?” Sydney hurried down the last few steps and took his elbow. “Come in and tell us.”
Nicolas pressed a glass of brandy into his friend’s hand as he sank onto the settle. Rickard gulped it, and let his hand fall to his lap. Sydney took the empty glass before he dropped it. She was alarmed by his coloring; he was nearly gray.
“Rick?”
“She’s losing it.”
“Who?” Sydney pressed.
“Lily.” He seemed incapable of compiling sentences. Even one word required effort.
“Lily is losing the baby?” Sydney guessed.
He nodded.
“How long has she been having pains?”
“Yesterday.”
Sydney glanced in alarm at Nicolas. His eyes widened. “What time yesterday?” she asked evenly.
“Midday. Late morning, I believe.”
Sydney glanced at the tall clock. It was nearing seven; over thirty hours. “Is anyone with her?”
“Berta O’Shea,” Rickard moaned. “I begged her to call you instead. But she would not hear of it.”
Leif appeared in the doorway. “Anne says supper is ready.”
“Leif, will you tell Anne I need to go to a birth?”
“Should I get Taycie?” he asked, brightening at the possibility.
“No, it’s Lily. I shall go there.”
“Oh.” He slumped in disappointment. “Shall I tell Jack to saddle Sessa?”
“No, I’ll drive her,” Nicolas spoke up. “Ask him to harness the team.”
“What about supper?”
“Ask her to pack us some food. I’ll eat on the way.” Leif disappeared and Sydney turned to Rickard. “Have you eaten?”
He shook his head, no.
“How did you get here?”
“Horseback.”
“Then you stay and eat. Join us afterwards.” Sydney stood.
Rickard grabbed her hand. “She’ll fight you, Sydney. So will Berta.”
Sydney smiled in a way she hoped was reassuring. “I expect so.”
He gripped her hand harder. “I have lost one sister under that woman’s hand. I’ll not lose another!”
Sydney knelt in front of him. “I will do all that I can, Rickard. I promise. I have no desire to see Lily come to harm, no matter how she has behaved.”
Rickard swiped at his eyes. “God bless you, Sydney.”
Chapter Thirty One
April 29, 1822
Cheltenham
Bronnie met Sydney at the front door. Taycie was right behind her.
“Thank you for coming.” Bronnie embraced her.
“I would have come sooner, if I had known,” Sydney said.
“She wouldn’t let us summon you, Sydney!” Bronnie led her toward the stairs. “Rickard finally put his foot down. He shouted at Lily that he was going to get you and he didn’t care what she said!”
“When did her pains begin?”
“Late yesterday morning. And her water broke last night, perhaps around midnight.”
“How far along is she?” Sydney knew Bronnie would know better than Rickard.
“She says less than six months.” Bronnie gave Sydney a look. “She claims Nicolas is the father, remember, and she only came here in October.”
Nicolas burst through the front door. He looked at the women on the stairs. “What shall I do?”
“Wait here for Rickard,” Sydney suggested.
“Where is Sir Ezra?”
“Here.” The older man strolled out of the dining room holding a cup and saucer. “Good evening, Mister Hansen, Mistress Hansen.”
“Sir Ezra.” Nicolas dipped his chin.
Ezra waved one hand toward the dining room. “Would you care for coffee?”
“Go ahead, Nicolas,” Sydney interjected. “I’m going up.”
Nicolas nodded. Sydney and Taycie followed Bronnie up the stairs.
“She’s in this room.” Bronnie rested her hand on the doorknob. “And I am going in with you.”
“So am I, ma’am,” Taycie ventured.
Sydney looked at both of them. “Two of my declared enemies are behind this door,” she warned. “The situation will be ugly at best, or futile at worst.”
Bronnie exchanged a look with the slave girl. “We are prepared.”
Taycie nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Sydney pulled a deep breath, held it and let it out in a whoosh. “My God be with us,” she prayed. And she opened the door. She was not prepared for what she found.
The stench reached her first.
Body odor, urine, feces. And something of decay. Sydney swallowed deliberately as bile crept up her gullet. Before she did anything else, she crossed to one of the huge windows and opened the sash. Bronnie and Taycie opened the other two.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Lily croaked.
“Rickard came for me,” Sydney answered.
“Well, now you can get out! I don’t want you near me!” Lily struggled to sit up, and failed.
Sydney tried not to let her shock show. Lily was so pale she had a blue tint to her skin. Her light auburn hair was matted and unkempt. Even her eyes looked a paler blue.
“Are you bleeding?” was Sydney’s first question.
“She is not!” Berta O’Shea stepped between Sydney and the bed.
“How long have you been here?” Sydney asked her.
“Since early this morning.”
Sydney looked past her to the angry young woman in the bed. “Her waters broke at midnight. Why has the child not delivered?”
“Her pains are unproductive.” Berta glared at Sydney. “Do you believe you can do something about that?” she challenged.
Sydney shifted her gaze back to the midwife. “Yes.”
“Cast another one of your spells?” Berta sneered.
Sydney ignored the slight; there was no point in arguing. She stepped past Berta and approached Lily. Her voice was intentionally kind. “Lily, may I please examine you?”
“Get… the hell… out,” she gasped.
> “Please, Lily? I may be able to ease your suffering,” Sydney said calmly.
“I hate you,” Lily moaned.
“I know you do. But that’s not important right now. What matters is getting you safely through the miscarriage.”
Lily winced. “Berta is taking care of me.”
Sydney did not look at the other midwife. “Rickard is worried about you, Lily.”
“He shouldn’t be.” She gasped. “Oh!”
“Are you having a pain?”
“Yes!” Lily cried. “Oh, God, it hurts!”
Sydney laid her hands on Lily’s belly.
“Don’t touch me!” Lily screamed.
Sydney ignored her. She massaged Lily’s taught abdomen and spoke soothingly. “Relax, Lily. Breathe in. Push your belly against my hand.”
“It hurts…”
“I know, Lily. Try to push against my hand.”
“I don’t want you here,” Lily sobbed.
Sydney didn’t say anything. She continued to run her hands over Lily’s stomach. When the pain ended, Sydney felt for the child without asking permission. What she found puzzled her.
“When did you conceive, Lily?” she asked.
“I don’t know. October.” Lily slumped against her pillow, eyes closed.
“Are you quite certain?” Sydney probed her abdomen again. “May I examine you inside?”
“Berta already has,” Lily protested.
“For myself. So that she and I may consult on how best to end your discomfort,” Sydney suggested.
“No. I want you to go away…”
“Don’t you want this to be over with?” Sydney suggested, still massaging Lily’s belly.
Lily pressed her lips into a line. She closed her eyes.
“It has been too long already, Lily.”
She nodded, ever so slightly.
“You must be frightened. And exhausted, are you not?”
Lily whimpered, “Oh God, yes.”
“I’m here to help you. Do you understand?” Sydney looked to Taycie. The girl knew from experience what she wanted, and handed her the bottle of oil from the leather bag. Sydney poured some on her fingers. Taycie pulled the sheet back.
“Lily?” Sydney slid her hand between Lily’s legs. “I am going to put some oil on you. It will help your skin to stretch.”
Bronnie watched, her fascination clear, while Sydney pressed her fingers against Lily’s cunnus and rubbed the oil on her. Lily relaxed a little. Sydney continued her exam, one hand on Lily’s belly, one hand inside her. Lily groaned at the intrusion, but did not push Sydney away.
Sydney frowned.
She looked at Bronnie, Taycie, and finally Berta.
“You have examined her?” she asked Berta.
Berta considered her warily. “Yes…”
“What is your conclusion?”
Berta stiffened. “Concerning what?”
Sydney did not look at Lily and dropped her voice. “The age of the child.”
Berta O’Shea clenched her jaw and shook her head.
“Or…” Sydney paused and looked to Bronnie, then back to Berta. “The condition of her womb?”
Berta looked truly frightened, then. “Nothing is wrong with her womb!”
“I disagree,” Sydney whispered. She pulled her hand away and wiped it on a towel. She brushed Lily’s hair out of her face. “I am finished, Lily. Relax, now.”
“Leave me be, witch,” Lily protested weakly.
“Sydney?” Bronnie moved to her side.
Sydney didn’t answer Bronnie. She had seen this in Norway, twice, while she apprenticed as a midwife there. There was only one explanation for what she found.
Sydney leaned over Lily and whispered in her ear. “How many?”
“How many what?” Lily groused.
“You know what I am asking, Lily.”
She sniffed. “None of your damn business.”
“Now is not the time to be coy, Lily,” Sydney warned. “How many?”
Lily opened her eyes, then, and turned to face Sydney. Her countenance shifted slowly from disdain to fear. “Why are you asking me that?”
“How many, Lily?” Sydney pressed. “Tell me the truth.”
Lily stared at her, considering, her pale blue eyes dilated with pain and dread. “Four,” she finally answered. “No, five.”
Sydney leaned back. Her gaze shifted meaningfully to Berta O’Shea and back to Lily. She lifted one brow.
“Three of them.” Lily answered the silent question. She fumbled for Sydney’s hand and demanded, “What of it?”
Sydney bent over her again. “You are badly scarred, Lily. That’s why the baby doesn’t come out.”
“So I am not miscarrying?” she gasped, not understanding.
“Not… exactly.”
Lily’s eyes widened. “Am I going to die?”
Sydney sucked a breath, considering her next words carefully. “Lily, is there anything else you want to confess?”
Confusion, and then realization, flooded her expression.
“Oh, God,” she whimpered. “Oh, God.”
“This would be a good time,” Sydney urged.
One tear rolled down Lily’s pale cheek. She drew a shuddering breath and closed her eyes. Her features pinched and quivered.
“It… it was never Nick.”
She whispered the words so softly that, even leaning close as she was, Sydney could barely hear them.
“But not because I didn’t try. I pushed him hard. He proved to be… immovable.”
Sydney felt suddenly light-headed. Black pinpoints crowded her vision. She sank to her knees.
The next thing she was aware of was Taycie pushing her head to the floor. Bronnie tilted a bowl under her mouth. She vomited her dinner, undigested. Bronnie wiped her mouth with a wet cloth.
“Sydney? Can you hear me?” Bronnie’s voice sounded far away.
“Yes.” Sydney tried to sit up.
“Rest a minute,” Bronnie urged.
Sydney laid back on the floor of Lily’s bedroom. Lily’s confession and the knowledge of what she discovered pressed against her chest and made it hard for her to breathe. She wanted to scream, to hit something, to run away. She wanted to pull Rickard into her arms and hold him close and protect him. She wanted to be anywhere but here.
Her head cleared and she looked up at Bronnie and Taycie; twin expressions of concern hovered over her. “I’m alright,” she whispered. “Help me up.”
“Slowly!” Bronnie insisted. They pulled her to a sitting position.
“I need to talk to Sir Ezra and Rickard,” Sydney said. “And it would be best if you, Bronnie, and Nicolas were there as well.”
Taycie stared at her with wide green eyes.
Sydney looked apologetic. “I’ll explain it to you after that, Taycie.” The slave nodded her understanding.
“The news is bad, isn’t it?” Bronnie said softly. She glanced at the bed where Lily moaned through another pain. Sydney didn’t answer her.
Rickard and Bronnie, Nicolas and Sydney, and Sir Ezra gathered in the drawing room. Bronnie served tea, Rickard served brandy. Everyone settled and turned their attention to Sydney. She gripped her cup to keep her hands from shaking.
“I examined Lily,” she began. “And I made some very disturbing discoveries.”
All eyes were fixed on Sydney. No one spoke.
Sydney drew a deep breath. “The first thing is that the child is much larger than a six-month babe would be.”
“What?” Rickard frowned. “What does that mean?”
“That means that I believe Lily to be much closer to full term than she says.”
“How much closer?” Sir Ezra asked.
Sydney faced the older man. “I would guess that she is in her eighth month at the least.”
“That means the child might live?” he pressed.
Sydney nodded slightly. “That means it’s not a miscarriage. It’s an early bi
rth.”
Rickard asked, “That is good news, is it not?”
“It is to me!” Nicolas blurted. “If you are correct, Sydney, it means she conceived two months or more before arriving here. I could no longer be accused of fathering her child.”
Sydney nodded, her expression not conveying hope, however. “That’s true, Nicolas. That accusation would be proved impossible.”
“What is the other discovery?” Rickard asked. He did not smile.
Sydney stared into her tea cup. She watched the brown liquid ripple, shaken by her nerves. There was nothing to do but say it.
“Lily has had abortions.”
“Abortions?” Rickard cried. “More than one?”
Sydney nodded. She could not make the words come.
“How do you know?” he demand angrily.
Sydney looked at him, her heart heavy with his pain. “She told me. Upstairs. Just now.”
“How many, Sydney?” Bronnie asked, gripping Rickard’s hand and pulling it into her lap.
“Five of them.”
“What?” Rickard jumped to his feet. His chair tumbled backward and hit the wall. “When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where? In Raliegh?”
“It began in Cheltenham. Berta O’Shea performed three of them.”
Nicolas leapt in front of Rickard and grabbed his arms, preventing the man from bolting up the stairs and killing the midwife on the spot. Rickard tried to jerk out of his grasp, but Nicolas held him close.
“Let me go!” he screamed, berserk with rage.
“Easy, brother!” Nicolas urged. Though Rickard had the advantage of uncontrolled anger, Nicolas had the advantage of weight and height. “Murder will not help your cause.”
Rickard fought a minute more before he stopped struggling and sagged in Nicolas’s grasp. His shoulders began to shake. Nicolas lowered him onto the settle next to his wife. Bronnie pulled him to her.
“Do the abortions have anything to do with her difficulty now?” Sir Ezra asked, his voice oddly calm.
“Yes, Sir. They do.” Sydney blushed at having to explain this in mixed company. “The opening to her womb is scarred. It’s not stretching.”
Bronnie looked at her, eyes wide. “Not at all?”
