Andrew Lord of Despair(88)
***
When Astrid returned to her sister’s side, Gareth lay curled on the bed with his wife, his hands pressed against the small of Felicity’s back.
“Heathgate, what are you doing on that bed with my sister?”
“I am comforting my wife,” he observed, rolling over and sitting up.
“Here.” Astrid tossed him a thick towel. “Get that under your wife, then, and don’t wrestle her around in the process.”
Gareth looked puzzled. “What’s this for?”
“When my water breaks,” Felicity explained gently, “it could be untidy.”
“I knew that,” Gareth reminded himself, folding the towel several times. “Up you go.” Felicity struggled to comply and asked Gareth to arrange her pillows and then to fetch her a book from the library.
“Astrid,” Felicity began when Gareth had reluctantly left the room, “I suggest you get some rest. Dr. Mayhew won’t arrive until well after midnight, and Gareth is determined to keep me company. If this takes more than a few hours, somebody will have to spell Gareth with the bedside duties.”
“You want to be alone with your husband this evening,” Astrid concluded. “I think he would like that too, and I would not want the task of separating him from you. I will go, but I will sleep in my dress and expect to be wakened when the doctor gets here.”
And for all the prosaic, practical nature of their exchange, neither of them had raised the real issue: Dr. Mayhew might not be able to come, not with this snowstorm, and the village midwife might not be able to come either.
The next thing Astrid knew, Gareth was shaking her shoulder none too gently.
“For God’s sake, Astrid, wake up.”
If Gareth were in her bedroom in the dead of night, then matters were dire indeed.
“I’m awake,” Astrid muttered, sitting up. “Is the doctor here?” she asked, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.
“The damned doctor,” Gareth growled as he handed her a shawl, “is not coming. The roads are barely passable, and this storm has apparently provoked half of titled Society into whelping their little ladies and lordlings. Better yet, the damned midwife is apparently halfway to the South Downs, attending somebody or other’s ill-timed birth. Your sister needs you.”
“I’m on my way,” Astrid said, suppressing a shudder. She hurried from the room, Gareth following with his branch of candles. When she reached Felicity, her sister was in distress but hiding it as well as she could.
The room was hot and stuffy, Felicity’s forehead damp, and her hands clammy.
“Shall I open a window, Lissy?” Astrid asked in as normal a tone as she could muster.
“Please. And I need some water.”
“I’ll fetch it,” Gareth said, disappearing out the door.
“If he’d stood there two more seconds, I could have told him to bring a basin and towel,” Astrid muttered. “Let’s get you walking, shall we?”
“Yes. I’ve sweated all over the sheets, and I am sick of this bed, but, Astrid?”
“Yes?” Please no last wishes, not so soon. Not ever.
“Gareth is terrified. You must be patient with him.”
“I will be the soul of forbearance.” Provided Gareth was the soul of accommodation. “Now, are you having contractions?”
“They started around midnight, real contractions, not just twinges and grabs and pains, but my water still hasn’t broken.” Felicity paused beside the bed and drew in her breath on a hiss.
“How far apart are they?” Astrid asked, glancing at the mantel clock.
“Sometimes they are five minutes apart. Sometimes they pile up, one right after the other. This isn’t like having James or William, Astrid. It isn’t like them at all,” Felicity said, resuming a ponderous walk around the room.
“I suppose twins will be different,” Astrid observed, trying to mask a growing sense of distress. She’d attended a few births, and she’d read some treatises in preparation for the delivery of her baby, but compared to a doctor or midwife, she knew little.
And Gareth knew even less.
“I’m back,” Gareth said, “and I am not leaving this room for another fool’s errand, you two.”
“Fine, then you can walk with your wife while I change the bedsheets,” Astrid suggested. When she’d completed that task, Astrid tarried in the hallway, the load of sheets balled up before her. She’d been present at William’s birth, but so had Dr. Mayhew, and it hadn’t been snowing.
“I want my husband,” she informed the cold, dark corridor. She added the sheets to a growing pile of soiled linen, found a footman to deal with it, and sent up a prayer for her sister.