“Is there a number?”
“Brown door,” was all she said and closed her door firmly.
Sam fully expected to have to knock on every door on the third floor, but once there, he found one painted brown door amidst a half dozen doors of various shades of grey.
“Right,” he said to himself under his breath, and strode the few steps to her door, where he rapped smartly.
A few seconds later the door opened. Sarah must have been expecting someone, for she said, “I’m so glad you—oh! Mr. James. I—what are you doing here?” Her expression, so open when she answered the door, shuttered as if someone had drawn a curtain across it.
Sam made to remove his hat and remembered he’d forgotten to put it on. “I, er, came to deliver the donation I promised. We somehow never completed the…transaction.”
“Oh,” she said, now seeming flustered. She tried to tidy her hair, but Sam found the escaping tendrils incredibly erotic, as if she’d just arisen from bed.
“Also I wanted to make sure that you were alright. You seemed upset the other day at the park…” his voice trailed off as he felt foolish for bringing it up. Of course she’d been upset and angry, any fool could have seen that. But he was desperately curious what had caused it. From the floor below he heard a rapid clomping sound but ignored it.
“Oh,” she said, biting her lower lip. He could tell when she decided to tell him and he leaned forward slightly. “I must apologize for my, well my extreme rudeness.”
“You needn’t apologize. You were clearly bothered by something. I should like to assist you if I may. If that man said or did anything—“
“No, it’s not that,” she interrupted. “That is to say, I was upset because of him but—“
“Who is he?” Sam hissed. “American though I may be, I do not suffer offense to any woman.”
A half smile tugged at her mouth but she shook her head. “He neither said nor did anything offensive. It was simply seeing him that—“
“Miss Sarah! Miss Sarah!” A young boy, perhaps eight or nine darted up the stairs. His face was dirty, his hair stuck out in all directions, and he was wearing mismatched shoes several sizes too large for him, no doubt the cause of the clomping sound Sam had been hearing.
“Thomas! What is it? What’s wrong?”
“It’s me mam! The babe is coming. She sent me to fetch Miss Eleanor.”
Sam glanced at Sarah and saw the color drain from her face. “Miss Eleanor is gone for a few days. You must fetch the midwife.”
“She’s nowhere to be found!”
“Then Dr. Kendall,” Sarah insisted.
The boy shook his head. “Mam don’t want ‘im. She wants Miss Eleanor. Ye must come, miss,” he said, grabbing Sarah’s hand.
She pulled back. “I can’t!” she whispered, and Sam put a hand out to catch her elbow, worried she might faint. Her eyes were huge, her pupils dilated. Her skin had a waxy sheen to it.
“Are you unwell?” he asked worriedly.
“I can’t do this!” she said, shaking her head repeatedly.
“Miss, please! Mam’s screaming her head off. I think something’s wrong. She ain’t never had pain like this before.”
Sarah turned anguished eyes to Sam.
“What can I do,” he asked.
She shook her head and closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, she looked resolved, if still pale. Turning, she crossed the small room to collect a battered leather case and her basket. She closed the door behind her and followed Thomas as he clattered down the stairs. Once outside, she turned to Sam.
“I must go.”
“I’m coming with you,” he said firmly.
“You needn’t—“
“I’m coming,” he repeated and saw some of the tightness leave her expression as she nodded.
He took the case and they raced down the street.
“I thought you were an accomplished healer,” he said when they waited for a dray cart to pass so they could cross the street.
“Eleanor,” she panted. “She always assists with the births.”
“But surely you—“ he paused as she turned terrified eyes to him. Clearly she had attended a birth that had gone wrong.
“All will be well,” he said, willing reassurance into his voice though he felt nearly as much trepidation as she was obviously experiencing.
She nodded shortly and they took off again, following young Thomas who, despite his flopping, oversized shoes, was remarkably fast. He turned into a narrow alley, across a refuse-filled courtyard, and through a battered door. A shallow flight of stairs led to a dark hallway and as they ran down it, they could hear the screams of a woman in pain.
Once in the room, Sam was buffeted by a wave of heat, humidity, and the heavy smell of blood.
Suddenly calm and focused, Sarah set her basket near the pallet on which the laboring mother lay. She took the woman’s hand in her own.
“It’s alright, Mrs. Sampson. I’m here to help you.”
“Miss Eleanor?” the woman said weakly, then moaned as another contraction hit. Sarah talked her through it, reminding her to breathe, praising her efforts.
“Miss Eleanor is away, dear, but I shall help you,” Sarah said with forced easiness. Sam could hear the strain in her voice but thankfully the laboring mother was in too much pain to notice.
She looked over her shoulder to Sam. “The case,” she said. He brought it immediately and she opened it, withdrawing a roll of wool felt in which a sharp knife, scissors, and needle and thread were wrapped.
“Fetch some water—we’ll need to boil it,” she instructed as he looked around for a vessel.
“Here, lad,” he said to Thomas, but the boy was frozen in place as another contraction pulled a wail from his mother. Sam grabbed the boy’s shoulder and gently shook him. “Thomas! We must help your mother.”
At those words, the boy’s attention snapped to Sam, who said, “We need a pot—a large one.”
The boy scrambled to find one. It wasn’t large and it was dented in several places, but it was clearly the best to be had.
“We need to fill it with water. Where’s the nearest well?”
“I’ll get it,” Thomas said.
“It will be too heavy, lad.”
The boy flinched as another moan tore from his mother’s throat.
“I can do it!” he insisted and Sam realized he needed to fetch the water, to leave the room and the terror of his mother in pain.
Sam nodded and watched the boy run out of the room. He turned and saw Sarah struggling to move Mrs. Sampson.
“What do you need? Let me help.”
“I need to sit her up a bit. It’s too hard for her to push lying flat on her back.”
Sam slid his arms under Mrs. Sampson and gently lifted her, but the movement brought on another contraction and he had to wait, bent over, while she dug her nails into his arm and groaned loudly.
“Will it be soon?” he asked, looking for something to prop behind the laboring woman. There was not so much as a spare blanket and so he sat on the bed and supported her against his chest.
Meanwhile Sarah had arranged the woman’s skirts above her knees. She bent to examine Mrs. Sampson, gently pressing on the woman’s distended belly as her other hand searched beneath the bunched skirts. After a few moments, she straightened abruptly, her eyes full of tears and terror.
“What is it?” he whispered.
She lowered a shaking hand and visibly forced her face to smooth. “It’s breach. The baby is backwards.”
“Is that bad?”
Her face crumpled and she nodded her head.
“Mrs. Sampson?” she called, dashing a hand roughly across her face to wipe away the tears. “Mrs. Sampson, you must listen to me. No, no, you mustn’t push!”
Sam had no idea how Sarah knew the woman was pushing, but Mrs. Sampson said, “I have to!”
“I know it feels that way, but you must wait as long as possible.
“
Why?” Sam asked, as Mrs. Sampson clenched his hand so tightly it went numb. “There, there,” he murmured to her. “You’re doing a wonderful job. That’s right, yank my damn hand off. There you go!”
He turned back to Sarah who was watching him with an absorbed expression on her face. “If she’s not fully ready, if the—“ she hesitated. “If the—if she’s not open enough,” she shook her head, looking at Mrs. Sampson, but the woman was lost in her own world. Nonetheless, Sam gently pressed her ear to his chest while covering the other with his hand.
“If it’s not open enough, the baby’s head could get stuck. Or the cord could wrap round its neck. Or—oh God, why can’t the midwife be here?”
“You can do this,” Sam said. Then more sharply, “Sarah! You can do this. I believe in you. And I’m right here with you.” He lifted his hand from Mrs. Sampson’s ear. “We’ll get through this together. The three of us.”
Sarah stared at him for a moment and then nodded, her expression hardening with resolve.
“We need to turn her over,” she instructed.
“On her stomach?” he asked, surprised.
“No. On her hands and knees. It…it may make the delivery easier.
He nodded and then said cheerfully to Mrs. Sampson, “Come on dear, let’s get you up.”
“What?” she mumbled, frowning.
“Yes, yes. I fancy a dance and you shall be my partner.”
Mrs. Sampson’s eyes opened and she stared at Sam as if he’d gone mad. “Who are you?”
“I’m your dance partner, don’t you know. Now let’s roll you over.”
“I can’t—“ She hissed a sharp inhale. “I can’t dance, you fool.”
“Fool? Did you hear that, Sarah? Mrs. Sampson called me a fool. Very well, then well shall simply turn you over.”
Mrs. Sampson shook her head no, but with Sarah’s gentle instructions and Sam’s insistent tugs, they got Mrs. Sampson situated on her hands and knees. Sarah sat beside her on the bed and checked her progress. Mrs. Sampson yelled again, but Sam thought it sounded less pathetic this time and more determined.
“The baby! I see it. Gently now, Mrs. Sampson. I know you want to push, but wait as long as you can.”
“Easy…for you…to say,” the woman grunted and Sam patted her back consolingly.
He watched Sarah’s face, intent with concentration as she tried to guide the baby out. Sweat streamed down her face in the sweltering room. He fumbled in his pocket and withdrew a handkerchief, reaching over the laboring mother to mop Sarah’s brow.
“Thank you,” she said without looking up. “Here it comes, Mrs. Sampson! Almost—wait! No wait! Don’t push!”
But Mrs. Sampson was past hearing. Sam felt the tension in her body as he helped support her.
Sarah’s hands were full of slippery baby and she struggled to hold it with one hand while she did something he couldn’t see with the other.
“Please,” she mumbled. “Oh ple—oh no.”
Sam craned his neck to see Sarah holding the baby, its eyes scrunched tight. It had a bluish cast to its complexion and Sarah kept whispering, “Oh please, oh please,” as she unwound the cord from its neck.
“My baby?” Mrs. Sampson asked wearily.
“Yes, yes, dear. You did splendidly,” Sam said, helping the woman on her side.
Sarah briskly rubbed the baby’s back and then delivered a dull smack with the heel of her hand and then another.
A moment of tense silence was followed by the shrill wail of the child.
Sarah released a gasping sob, which she quickly bit off, and began wiping the baby down and tying off the cord, while Sam helped Mrs. Sampson to a more comfortable position.
By the time he’d settled her, smoothing her skirts down and fetching her a cup of water, Sarah had swaddled the baby and was laying it in Mrs. Sampson’s arms.
“It’s a girl, Mrs. Sampson. A healthy girl.”
Mrs. Sampson nodded, her eyes closing as she instinctively cradled the baby.
“Where is Thomas with the water?” Sarah wondered as she returned to the bed to deliver the afterbirth.
“I’ll find out,” Sam said. He stepped outside the door and nearly tripped over the boy, who was huddled on the floor, the full pot of water next to him.
Sam quickly delivered the water to Sarah and returned to Thomas.
“Is she dead? Is mam dead?”
“What? No!” Sam said, crouching down beside the boy. “She’s fine. And you have a baby sister.”
“A sister?” Thomas said, looking less than pleased.
Sam smothered a laugh and laid a consoling hand on the boy’s bony back. Feeling the knobs of his spine, Sam frowned. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins.
“Thomas, I need you to do something for me. I need you to take this money and fetch some food. Your mother will be hungry after working so hard and I’m sure you could do with a good meal, eh?”
“Gor blimey!” The boy said, staring at the money in his small, grubby hands.
“Run along now. Your mother will be wanting supper.”
“Yes, sir,” Thomas said, tugging on his forelock before running off.
Back in the small set of rooms, he found Sarah tidying up, wrapping the bloodied linens in a bundle to be washed. She took the water from him and began sponging off the baby and Mrs. Sampson. She wrapped the tiny girl in a length of linen and settled her again in the mother’s arms where she began nursing enthusiastically.
Sam helped straighten the room and after Sarah brought the new mother a cup of medicinal tea, he urged her to step outside for a bit of fresh air.
He turned to her once they were in the hallway. Sarah looked like a violin string stretched to its limit, on the verge of breaking. Her dazed gaze aimlessly surveyed the landing before coming to rest on his face. They stared at one another for an infinite moment and Sam fancied he could hear when her violin string snapped. Her face crumpled and her body slowly collapsed as great wracking sobs shook her.
He had her in his arms in an instant, holding her against him as he pulled the door closed behind her. Gathering her more tightly against him, he kissed her hair and her brow in between whispered reassurances and endearments. He stroked her back soothingly, feeling each of her sobs as if it were a lash on his heart. He squeezed his eyes tight and held her for all he was worth.
When he felt her finally stir, he dipped his head to her ear and murmured, “Let me take you home.”
She nodded but paused one step toward the stairs. “My basket,” she said.
“I’ll fetch it,” he assured her, returning shortly with both basket and medical case.
“Wait,” she said as they were about to exit the building. “Someone must stay with Mrs. Sampson. There,” she said, gesturing to a door. Sam pounded on it until a woman answered.
“Mrs. Sampson has just delivered her baby and requires your assistance,” he said, shoving the last of his coins at the open-mouthed woman.
“What’s wrong with Miss Sarah?” she asked.
“She’s not feeling well. Now will you see to Mrs. Sampson?”
“Of course,” the woman replied. She glanced at the money in her hand. “You needn’t pay me to help her. She’s my friend,” she said, trying to hand the coins back to him.
He shook his head. “Keep it. There may be supplies the babe needs.”
The woman nodded and headed up the stairs.
Sam guided Sarah outside and down the street. He hoped he remembered the way back through the maze of streets and alleyways, for Sarah was lost in her own world, heartbroken sobs escaping her from time to time. They were only a few blocks away from her building when she stumbled. Handing her the basket and leather case, he caught her and swept her up into his arms.
“No,” she protested. “I’m too heavy.”
He chuckled and ignored her, striding faster down the street. “I have boots that weigh more than you. Hush, now.”
He wondered what exper
ience in Sarah’s past had brought this despair on. The birth was challenging, but she’d clearly known what to do and in the end, both mother and baby were fine.
Perhaps too often in The Mint, babies and mothers were not fine and Sarah was just experiencing the relief of avoiding such a situation. Perhaps, he thought, carrying her up the stairs to her rooms, but he didn’t think so. There was something deeper here, he was sure of it.
He set her down gently and opened the door. He wondered if it was pointless to lock homes in Southwark or if Sarah had just forgotten in the rush to leave.
She moved woodenly into the room, glancing at the meager furnishings as if seeing them for the first time. Finally, her gaze fell on him and the distance in her eyes focused, the lines of her face conversely softening.
“I cannot thank you enough for your help today,” she said hoarsely. “I—I could not have done it without your support.”
“I’m sure you would have managed just fine,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “But I’m glad I was here for you.”
She nodded distractedly, her gaze never leaving his.
“Are you alright?” he asked, his palm moving to cup her cheek. She closed her eyes and rested her head in his hand.
“No,” she said shakily. “But I will be.” She opened her eyes and smiled at him.
“What—“ He paused, not wanting to cause her more grief, but suddenly desperate to know what was hidden in her heart. “What happened to you? Before today, I mean.”
She continued to stare at him and he wasn’t sure how, but he could tell the moment she decided to tell him.
“Won’t you sit?” she said, gesturing to one of two straight-backed chairs.
“I don’t suppose you have any of that medicinal whiskey about?”
She shook her head. “I used the last of it two days ago on a patient.”
“Might one of your neighbors—”
“Wait!” She knelt on the floor and pulled a trunk from beneath her bed. Rummaging through the few items of clothing, she said, “There’s medicinal liquor, Mr. James, and then there’s emergency liquor.” She held up a half-full bottle of brandy, a wobbly but triumphant smile on her face.
Her eyes were red and puffy, her hair bedraggled, and there were smears of blood on her dress. But at that moment, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen and he knew, without a thunderclap or earthquake, he knew that he loved her. She was strong, smart—incredibly smart—witty, independent, and by God, she set his blood on fire with her dark hair and eyes and her lush mouth and that long, elegant neck that begged for him to nibble it.
Lady Disdain Page 13
