“Get some masterwort from my valise and boil it in wine,” I said. “I’ve heard it sometimes works in difficult cases.”
Martha nodded, but before she had even left for the kitchen, a scream like none I’d ever heard tore through the room.
Chapter 21
Martha and I dashed to Grace’s bed. She lay on her side, knees clutched to her chest. When we turned her to her back, I felt that her skin had become as hot as a blacksmith’s forge.
I turned to one of the gossips. “Get some wine and a clean cloth,” I told her. “And hurry.”
Martha and I comforted Grace as best we could. Fearful of what I might find, I glanced under her blanket. I thanked the Lord that she’d not flooded. When Grace’s gossip returned with the wine and cloth, Martha and I bathed her in it, hoping to cool her fever. Grace lay back, her eyes closed, and mumbled to herself. Then she slept. I watched as her chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. The gossips seemed relieved, but I knew that Grace would remain in desperate danger until she delivered the afterbirth.
“I must talk to her husband,” I said.
“What will you say?” Martha asked.
“I’ll bring him the child and tell him the truth about Grace,” I replied. “If the mother’s life is in peril, you must tell her husband. If you promise that she will survive, and she does not, he will fault you for it.”
“I don’t envy you this task,” Martha said.
“It will be yours soon enough.”
I took the child in my arms and went in search of Matthew Thompson. I found him in the parlor, surrounded by his friends. His face was pale and drawn—he clearly realized that Grace’s labor was not going smoothly. He smiled when he saw the child in my arms, and took her from me.
“The child is well?” he asked.
“She is as healthy as any bairn I’ve delivered,” I replied.
“And Grace?” His voice cracked as he asked the question.
“There is danger,” I replied. “She has not delivered the after-burthen, and if she does not, she will die.”
Matthew nodded. Though death in travail was not common, we all had a friend, a neighbor, or a relative who had died while giving birth. “What can you do?”
“She is sleeping now, but there are medicines I will give her when she awakes. They may help.”
“Should I call for a wet nurse?” he asked. A tear ran down his cheek. “In case she…” His voice trailed off.
“It is probably for the best,” I said. “Even if I deliver the afterbirth, Grace will be weak, and the child will have to suck.” I gave him the names of a few women in Micklegate who might help and returned to Grace.
After she had slept for perhaps two hours, Grace’s eyes fluttered open and she looked about the room as if surprised to find herself there. I took her hand and was relived to find it cool. The fever had broken.
“How am I?” she asked. “I had such a grief, but I feel like it has passed.”
I watched her face as I placed my hand on her belly and pressed. She showed no hint of pain. “You may have delivered the after-burthen on your own,” I said. “Let me see.”
Sorrow welled up in my breast as soon as I lifted Grace’s blanket. She had delivered the afterbirth, but at the cost of her life. The bed was soaked with her blood. I lowered the blanket, thankful that nobody else had seen the harbinger of Grace’s death. There was nothing I or any man alive could have done to stop such a flux of blood. I took her hand again. It remained cool to the touch, but now the coolness bespoke not life, but death.
“Might I have another blanket?” Grace asked. “I am very cold.”
Perhaps it was that question that alerted the gossips to her condition, for with a fire blazing in the hearth, the room was more than warm enough. They laid another blanket on the bed and gathered around her. Susan Baird took her other hand.
I caught Martha’s eye. She nodded and slipped from the room. A few moments later, Matthew joined us and took my place by Grace’s side. Grace smiled up at him and caressed his face. The gesture was too much, and he began to sob. The women—all crying now—stepped away from the bed so Grace and Matthew could talk. They whispered to each other, sometimes laughing, sometimes crying. After a time, Grace slept. And then she died.
Matthew sent for the minister, and we prepared Grace’s body for burial. Thankfully, she would be buried in the church itself, for the frozen ground was so hard that it would have taken days to dig a grave in the churchyard.
The sun had set by the time Martha and I left the Thompsons’ house and began the journey home. To my dismay, the lantern Matthew had loaned us blew out in a gust of wind before we reached the end of the street. The moon passed in and out of sight as clouds whisked across the night sky. Every few steps we were plunged into darkness or bathed in a cold, lunar light. Martha and I leaned on each other, utterly exhausted in our minds and bodies. Perhaps it was our weariness, perhaps it was the wind, but neither of us heard the footsteps approaching from behind.