~~~
Sam’s secretary tossed a journal on the desk in front of him, interrupting his review of an experiment. He glanced at it, then up at MacDonald.
“You’ll want to see the letter on page six, sir,” MacDonald informed him, turning to leave again. “And the chairman of the Albright group is expecting your call.”
Sam groaned. Colin Riley had begun a prolific campaign of letter writing to several newspapers and science journals, berating industry for hiring “charlatans” and “yes-men” to invent or test new products. So far, he stopped just short of libel, managing not to actually mention the telephone company, or Sam, by name.
But it was clear enough who he was after, hence, the phone call to the Albright chairman. Sam would have to call him and explain away Riley’s latest diatribe.
He thought Riley’s campaign was childish and useless, but it did serve to upset Lord Dunmore, who was concerned that if the king heard degrading rumors, he might rescind Dunmore’s appointment. Or that investors, such as the Albright chairman, would back out of funding them. So Dunmore had been keeping Sam on a tighter leash, administratively. He wanted documentation to prove he’d kept control, if it were ever needed.
Sam had always kept thorough records, and he met with Dunmore to go step-by-step over the procedures he had set up. Dunmore was impressed, muttering several times that “Riley won’t be able to get through this.” He didn’t know, of course, that Sam was thorough because he wanted a record left for future scientists. He didn’t notice that Sam was handpicking his team using criteria beyond what was needed in communications, nor that Sam was grooming them to carry on a vision. The scientists themselves didn’t know this, yet.
They had already taken several steps toward Sam’s goal. The hot water heater that Dunmore had sold for an obscene amount of money had been a practical application of the team’s research into recycling steam escaping from factories. He’d simply encouraged them to think of a way to capture and re-use the steam for energy. Not even Sam had been thinking of hot water heaters for homes. One of his young recruits had done that. Sam reminded Dunmore often that by allowing his team freedom to explore, he was enriching himself, and providing a better standard of living for everyone.
~~~
Casey felt a little thrill when she began to suspect she was pregnant. It happened almost immediately. By the middle of October she was certain enough to tell Tom.
They sat on the divan in their bedroom. He just looked at her, the corners of his mouth turned up a bit, and he didn’t move at all. He held her hand, watching her in silence, until she bit her lip in concern. He shook his head, his smile abashed. “I’ve never felt this before,” he said, squeezing her hand, then placing his hand over his heart. His voice was husky. “I love you so much, Casey. You…” he paused, and motioned downward to encompass her whole body. “Everything in my life, in my heart, is in you. You have no idea the power you have over me.”
She had no words for that, so she just slipped her arms around him and rested against him.
~~~
Even after four months of marriage, Casey still felt awkward around her mother-in-law, although she was quite fond of her. They had begun weekly knitting lessons at Ardara House, and on a cold December morning, Casey sat in front of the fire, holding her hands up for Mrs. Andrews to roll the yarn around. Outside, rain was falling, but the sitting room was warm, with winter decorations on the mantle and hot cocoa laid out on a silver tray next to the divan. Casey thought it all very Courier & Ives, and although she had no patience with knitting, she did enjoy these cozy mornings. But today, she couldn’t relax. “Mother, may I ask you a personal question?”
“Of course, dear. With the caveat that I may not want to answer it.” Mrs. Andrews smiled gently to show she was teasing, and continued to put the yarn in its place.
“Will you tell me about your childbirth experiences?” Casey asked the question in one big rush, afraid to bring the subject up but too concerned to ignore it. Tom had told her that traditionally, no one must be told about a pregnancy for at least three months and then, only those closest to the couple. They had just recently let his parents know, although Casey had told Sam right away, since the rules didn’t apply to him. But now that her mother-in-law knew, Casey was desperate for answers about childbirth in this era.
“I don’t know how most women handle it. Do they use a doctor or a midwife? Do they have the baby at home or a hospital?” She paused to take a breath and then waited as Mrs. Andrews put the yarn down and stared with tight lips at Casey, her expression shocked and unhappy. Casey cringed inwardly. Was this a taboo subject?
After a moment, Mrs. Andrews’ expression softened and she shook her head. “You poor child. You really have missed out on so much by not having sisters, or your mother around. Normally, it would be she who would tell you about this. But Casey, you don’t need to worry about it yet. You have several months before your child comes.”
Casey bit her lip, staring at the yarn on her hands, then shook her head. “But I will worry about it. I need to be prepared. The more I know, the easier I’ll feel.”
An eyebrow went up and contributed to the doubtful look on Mrs. Andrews’ face. “Not all knowledge is helpful. However, I do understand what you mean.” She picked up the yarn again. “Now I had all my children at home, of course, but my youngest is twenty-one years old. Since that time, I believe more doctors have begun to handle deliveries.” She looked uncomfortable, but continued. “I don’t know that I approve of that, but one mustn’t block progress, I suppose. Still, I would never recommend that an upper-class woman use a hospital. Jessie and Nina had their babies at home, although they were attended by a doctor, as that is considered much safer than a midwife.”
She tilted her head and considered her youngest daughter-in-law. “As to my own experiences, I will only tell you, Casey, that childbirth is absolutely the hardest thing you will ever do. It is painful, as the good book tells us, and also humiliating. You just need to remember that this is the lot of women, and most get through it just fine. At the end, you have a precious little baby in your arms. That is worth all of it.”
Casey swallowed, eyes still on the yarn. Then, taking a deep breath, she looked up at Mrs. Andrews and gave her a small smile. “Thank you. I really am looking forward to that part!”
Chapter 27
January–April 1908
"I'd like to see some colorful perennials along this border," said a soft, whispery voice. Casey, engrossed in the garden design Mrs. Herceforth had presented to the Horticultural Society, looked up to see who had spoken. Lady Talbot was a tiny woman with a candy-sweet disposition. Casey could take her only in small doses, but she knew the woman meant well.
Lady Talbot was moving her finger along the border in question, which Mrs. Herceforth had so far left blank. Casey agreed that color would be nice, but her brows crinkled in puzzlement when the finger stopped moving before reaching the end of the design area. She put her own finger on the spot.
"Don't you want to continue it?"
Lady Talbot shook her head sadly. "I'm afraid, dear, that this part of the design will have to be discarded." Seeing that Casey did not understand, although Mrs. Herceforth was nodding in agreement, Lady Talbot offered an explanation. "It's been declared a Catholic area, dear. Quite recently, you see. We can't plant there."
Casey rolled her eyes, unable to hide her annoyance. "Why not? Why is it we have no gardens planned for those areas?"
"Now Mrs. Andrews, you know the reason." The speaker was Mike Sloan, who to Casey's extreme displeasure, had joined the society, solely for his own political purposes. Or, she thought with bitter rancor, to torture me. He wasn't interested in joining before.
"Remind me, Mr. Sloan." She found it so hard to be polite to him.
He was always willing to repeat his beliefs. "We keep to our own areas. If they want gardens, they can make their own."
She tightened her lips in an effort to not yell at h
im. She counted to three, then spoke. "That's all you do, you know. Prevent us from building gardens. Why did you even join the society? You don't care about gardens."
"Aye, that's true," he admitted without shame. “Before, I had no problem just reminding the society, once in a while, to do the right thing for the loyal Protestants of Belfast. But since you joined,” he gave her a little bow, as if to a worthy adversary, “I felt it was necessary to step up my efforts. I know how subtle ye can be.”
A few of the others shifted uncomfortably and Mrs. Herceforth broke in. “For now, I suggest we plan the gardens we know we can finish. That will be a difficult enough job.” She patted Casey’s hand. “The rest will come in its own time.”
The others all agreed and quickly brought the discussion back to the plan. Casey watched and didn’t offer any other suggestions.
~~~
The Horticultural Society had a large wall map of the Belfast area hanging in the office. Push pins marked areas of planned and actual gardens as Casey stood gazing at the map in early February. A red line demarcated the Catholic areas, which were bereft of pins. She could see places where natural progressions for the landscaping were cut off because they would have gone into those zones. This is ridiculous, she told herself, and I’m going to do something about it.
So a few days later, she and Penny made their way to a bookseller who had maps. She purchased her own map of Belfast and brought it back to Dunallon, setting it up in a corner of the library. When she had time to spare, she worked on her plans, extrapolating from the plans put forth by the Society. Tom and Sam knew she was doing it. Both agreed that in the case of nature and landscaping, it was best to look at Belfast as a whole, rather than a series of disjointed neighborhoods. Tom cautioned her often to keep in mind that she could not just ignore the politics and she promised him she wouldn’t.
~~~
For a while, she had other things to worry about, especially her desperate wish that her mother could be with her at this time. Her mother, the former hippie, liberal and practical about all things related to sex. Her mother, the obstetrician, who had talked all the time about how to handle a pregnancy and prepare for childbirth. Casey could hear her lecture, as she railed about patients who thought the only thing they had to do to have a baby was screw somebody. “It’s a marathon. If you were going to run a marathon in nine months, you would start preparing. You would eat right, you would exercise, you would train, and you would find out all you needed to know about your body and what happens to it when running. You wouldn’t just ignore it until you were dropped off at the starting line.”
Theresa Wilson specialized in helping women deliver babies without drugs, in comfortable environments. She volunteered with shelters for the homeless and domestic violence victims. She took cases pro bono and passed out birth control and condoms like they were candy. Casey’s upbringing could not have been further from the uptight and oppressive Edwardian society in which she found herself. A society on the edge—still believing that pregnancy should not be mentioned in mixed company, but willing to let male medical doctors take control of deliveries. Casey had no doubt that the current practices of those doctors would horrify her mother.
“It turns out,” she told Tom as they walked through the neighborhood one evening, “that prenatal care is still a pipe dream at this time.”
They walked whenever they could, if Tom did not have to work late. Despite the immodesty of her condition, Tom basked with pride when people passed them, seeing him with his beautiful wife who was carrying his child.
Now, however, he screwed up his face in an effort to put sense to her words. “Pipe dream?”
“You know.” She gestured, drawing something in the air. “As in smoking opium or something. The hallucinations you get from that are pipe dreams.”
He laughed. “What a vivid description! But how is prenatal care a pipe dream?”
“It doesn’t really exist. At least, not in any real form, yet.”
“Oh. How so?”
“I saw a doctor today.” Casey stopped walking and looked at Tom, only her face visible under the layers of winter protection. “I liked him well enough and I’ll probably stick with him.”
Tom felt a wave of relief; he’d been worried she’d try to do without anyone at all. “That’s wonderful, sweetheart! What did he say?”
She shrugged. “The usual. The baby is fine…” she paused and rubbed her stomach, her voice softening slightly. Tom’s heart beat a little faster just watching her.
“…and,” she continued with a sigh, “I shouldn’t worry my little head about anything. He’ll give me ether and make sure I don’t suffer at all.” Her laugh was bitter, and Tom rubbed her arms.
“But you don’t want ether. Did you tell him that?” He was confused and worried. Her moods really did change quickly these days and he didn’t think she was as logical about things as she used to be.
“Of course I told him.” She resumed walking and Tom followed.
“And?”
“And he listened. He actually talked to me about it for a few minutes, instead of just patting me on the head and sending me away. He’s willing to let me try it my way as long as he can have his equipment nearby. I’m afraid I lied to him a little.”
“Lied to him? About what?”
“When I’ve talked to other doctors, I’d tell them my mother was a doctor, to help them see that I might know what I’m talking about. That she told me about this stuff.”
Tom nodded. He knew this much.
“It never seemed to do any good,” she said, her voice shaking a little. “They suggested she wasn’t properly trained or wasn’t able to be objective about birth, since she was a woman. So this time, I told him my father was the doctor. Immediate respect!”
Tom pulled her into a hug. “I am amazed sometimes, at how obtuse men can be. There’s no wonder so many women are protesting in the streets.”
“Tom, I’ll need you to help.” Her voice was muffled in his coat and he lifted her chin with a finger.
“Help how, dear? What do you mean?”
“I told him I don’t want drugs and I certainly don’t want him using forceps unless I agree to it. He has to really convince me it’s necessary and not just convenient for him. And he was willing to go along with it, but I could see he was unhappy about it.”
“What can I do?”
“Stick up for me, if he wants to force the issue. Especially when I’m in labor. I want to concentrate on having the baby, not arguing with my doctor.”
He felt sick with dread at her words. “I will always stick up for you, Casey. But if you’re suffering, or the baby is in danger, how will I know what’s the right thing to do? That’s why we have a doctor.”
“Just make him explain it.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I’ve told you how dangerous the drugs can be and about the damage forceps can cause. Even your own mother knows of babies permanently disfigured by them.”
She stood straighter, determined. “I’m going to do everything I can to do this right, Tom. But in the end, none of us knows how it will go, and I know that things can go wrong. That’s why I’m using a doctor. But help me have a chance, first.”
He nodded. Then he just held her.
~~~
Sam worried about her, too, and mentioned his concern to Mrs. Pennyworth. The two of them had gradually established a habit of sharing a spot of brandy or tea in her basement apartment after the other servants were dismissed for the night. She was a sensible woman and had no objections to an occasional nip, although she had been uncertain about the propriety of imbibing with her mistress’ guardian. But Casey seemed quietly pleased about the growing relationship. Sam suspected she was also amused. She wasn’t above teasing him occasionally.
“”Tis not unusual for a young girl to be frightened at this time,” Mrs. Pennyworth said with a thoughtful air. I imagine she really misses her mother, too.”
Sam nodded. “I know she does. I’m sure th
is is an experience she had always planned on sharing with her.” He stood to crank the gramophone, wincing at the sound of the music. I really need to work on that, he thought as he sat back down. “What about you, Gladys? Do you have any advice for her?”
She had expressive eyebrows and they registered severe disapproval at his question, but she answered. “I don’t, really.”
“No children?” Sam asked, somewhat carelessly.
Her lips tightened. “One. Stillborn, you see. I thought it best to not mention it to the mistress.”
Sam touched her hair gently, flushing with regret. “That’s probably wise. I’m sorry, Gladys. It must have been a difficult time.”
Her expression softened. “Ach, you’re a sweet man, Sam Altair. It’s kind of you to care.” She shook her head a little. “It was twenty-five years ago and I’ve learned to move on. It’s for the best, perhaps, since Mr. Pennyworth never did get a feel for work.” Her eyes crinkled in amusement and Sam moved a little closer to kiss her.
~~~
A March rain pounded the house as Sam finished a sketch in his journal one cold night. He gazed critically at it for a moment before putting the pencil down. The electric lights Tom had installed flickered occasionally, but managed to stay lit. He glanced over at Tom, who sat by the library fire reading through his copy of Maeterlinck's "The Life of the Bee." He didn't realize he'd sighed until Tom looked up, finger marking his place in the book.
"Problem?" Tom seemed to bask like a proud Irish chieftain: his home was warm and secure, filled with industrious servants and artful treasures, his wife was pregnant and well-cared for, his land was ready for planting.
The household was settling down for the evening. Casey, whose back ached constantly in her last months of pregnancy, had decided a bath might help. Tom and Sam had retreated to the library, with drinks of choice and the chance to work on reading or writing.
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