Chapter 30

The rain was tapering off, but the streets were thick with icy mud. It was slow going. The Somerville house was located north of the route planned for the funeral procession, and the doctor’s house was even farther north. This meant that Tom was traveling against the crowd of people who were walking south to find a view along the route.

The procession had already begun its long crawl from Buckingham Palace to Saint Paul’s Cathedral. The beating of drums and the music of the death march was carried along on the biting wind, drawing late-arriving spectators to the sound. Tom’s cab kept pressing north. It was only as they drew near the doctor’s home that Tom allowed himself to even consider the possibility that Dr. Layton might not be there. He might be watching the procession or on his way to attend the service at Saint Paul’s.

Tom rang the bell for several minutes, growing more worried. At last an elderly lady who identified herself as the housekeeper answered the door and informed Tom that the doctor had gone out.

“Can you tell me where he is?” Tom asked anxiously. “It’s vital that I reach him right away.”

“He was invited to Lord Morrissey’s home in Pall Mall to watch the procession,” the housekeeper said. “His lordship’s home lies directly along the route.”

Tom thanked her and set off once again, praying with all his might as the cab headed south, directly into the fray. He kept repeating to himself a verse from Psalms: “Our help cometh from the Lord, who made heaven and earth…”

The traffic thickened, and finally the cab was forced to a halt. “I’m sorry, sir,” the cabbie told Tom. “We can’t go no further.”

Tom got out and paid the driver. He would have to go the rest of the way on foot.

The army regiments marched along Pall Mall, ten thousand strong and interspersed with the carriages of dignitaries. Tom could see no end to it in either direction. The streets were barricaded to hold back the people, who were everywhere—climbing lampposts and statues and any building that might offer a ledge or a foothold for a better view. But there were not the usual sounds one associates with such a crowd. Everyone was reverent and quiet. Tom asked a man if he knew which was Lord Morrissey’s house.

“Indeed I do,” the man said. He pointed straight ahead, past the crowds and the barricades and the never-ending stream of soldiers and royal carriages to a stately mansion on the opposite side of the avenue.

All of Tom’s prayers dissolved into the frigid air as he realized the impossibility of his situation. Dr. Layton may as well have been on the moon.

*

The room was stifling hot.

Margaret longed to throw open a window, if only for a moment, to clear her head. But that was impossible. She sat cradling Lizzie in her arms, trying to soothe her as she continued to moan in pain.

Tom had been gone for hours. Where was he? If the doctor was lost amid the teeming masses, how could Tom hope to find him? Margaret tried to clear her head of such dire thoughts. “Surely there is something we can do?” she asked Martha, who was just finishing the task of changing the bed linens out from underneath Lizzie.

Martha straightened and gave the soiled sheets to a maid, who took them away. Her brow creased as she studied Lizzie. “I do have a mind to try something. My grandmother always said the best thing to do was to get the lady up and walking.”

“Walking!” Margaret said in dismay. “Surely not. Look at her.”

“It does seem odd,” Martha agreed. “However, my grandmother swore by it.” She gently took hold of Lizzie’s arm. “Are you willing to try it, Lizzie?”

“But the doctor insisted she should not leave the bed,” Margaret argued. If something bad should happen… and if Tom should blame her…

Lizzie grimaced in pain from another contraction. Then she nodded her answer to Martha’s question. “I… don’t… believe… the doctor,” she rasped. “I want to move.”

They helped Lizzie rise slowly to her feet, carefully supporting her as she took one tentative step, and then another. Margaret was sure Lizzie was still in pain, but the satisfaction she was deriving from moving was evident on her face.

“That’s a girl,” Martha said soothingly. “Move just as much as your body tells you to.”

They continued like this for some time, stopping whenever Lizzie was overtaken with contractions, until at last she asked for the bed. She lay down gratefully, looking tired but marginally better.

Margaret sank into a chair. She watched as Martha ran her hand over Lizzie’s stomach, gently probing, looking worried. She dared not ask why Martha looked so troubled. If it was bad news, it would only raise Lizzie’s fears even more. Margaret thought her own fears couldn’t get any higher. She had never attended a birth, and Martha’s knowledge was primarily secondhand. Yet the lives of a mother and her baby might well rest in their hands. What if the baby arrived before the doctor did? What if there were complications? All sorts of gruesome scenarios suggested themselves. She gripped the chair and tried to keep from panicking. Now she understood why a person might wish to pray. Perhaps it was time she learned how.

*

Lizzie was on her hands and knees on the bed, breathing hard. Hours had passed, and still there had been no sign of Tom or the doctor. Martha had suggested Lizzie get into this position for reasons she would not explain, saying only, “I believe it will help.”

“We can’t possibly do this!” Margaret protested, watching in horror as Lizzie groaned, screaming outright whenever a labor pain hit her.

Martha gave Margaret a smile that was somewhere between grim and apologetic. “I’m afraid we don’t have a choice, ma’am.” She nodded toward Lizzie. “Will you give her some comfort?”

Margaret had slim comfort to provide. But she set her hands on Lizzie’s shoulders, trying to keep from mirroring the panic she saw on Lizzie’s face. “Take heart. Everything will be fine.” Unfortunately, she could not inject any certainty into her words.

“Help me,” Lizzie wheezed. She twisted in Margaret’s arms, and Margaret realized she was trying to return to a reclining position. She looked to Martha for approval, and the old servant gave a nod. As soon as Lizzie was on her back, she grabbed hold of Margaret’s hand, still gasping from her pains and the effort of moving. With her free hand she clutched at her belly. “Something is not right. I can feel it. Will you pray for me, Margaret?”

“Of course I will,” Margaret said. But as Lizzie continued to look at her expectantly, Margaret realized Lizzie wanted her to pray aloud. All morning Margaret had been sending up endless silent pleas to heaven: Dear Lord, this woman is too good to die. Please, help her. But those prayers would hardly reassure the patient. She inhaled and tried to speak, but could not find the words.

“Please,” Lizzie begged, dangerously close to blind panic. “Geoffrey said we must pray—”

“And so we shall.”

Geoffrey’s calm voice filled the room, cutting through the palpable distress. Instantly Lizzie tried to sit up, crying out his name in relief. Margaret stepped back as Geoffrey rushed to his wife’s side. “Oh, Geoffrey,” Lizzie sobbed, clutching his neck and crying into his shoulder. He held her gently, murmuring soothing words until her grip began to relax. “I’m here, my love. I’m here.”

No one was going to try to keep Geoffrey out of the room at this moment. Not even Martha. “Thank God you’re here, sir,” she said, her eyes shining with grateful tears.

“Is the baby coming, then?” Geoffrey asked. “Has someone gone for the doctor?”

“Tom went,” Margaret told him. “But it’s been ages. We’re afraid he’s caught in the crowds.”

“Something is wrong, Geoffrey,” Lizzie said, her panicked look returning. “The baby’s head is not—” She cut herself off with a cry as another labor pain struck.

Geoffrey’s face contorted in shock, even as he tried to comfort her. “Everything will be all right, my dearest,” he said when Lizzie’s pains had subsided. “At my little country parish I was called to many a home in times such as these, to offer prayer. I’ve seen that the Lord can and does work wonders.” He smoothed back the hair from her damp face. “We will pray, and all will be well. Are you ready?”

This last question was addressed not only to his wife, but also to all in the room. Martha nodded eagerly, and Margaret, with less certainty, did the same.

“Dear Lord, we place ourselves in your hands.” His head was bowed as he spoke with both solemnity and confidence. “You keep watch over the sparrows. You have numbered the very hairs of our heads. We place our trust in you. Keep watch over us, and most especially over my dear Lizzie and our child. You are love and you are light. Your will be done. Amen.”

It was not the kind of prayer Margaret was used to hearing from clergymen. There was simple dignity and unfeigned believing in those words. If any prayer were to reach God, Margaret thought, it would surely be that one.

“Amen,” she whispered, surprised to feel her own fears lighten. “Amen.”

*

Tom had the sense that crucial time was slipping away.

He had been able to push his way through the crowd and reach the barriers, and he stood, squeezed in shoulder to shoulder with hundreds of other spectators, watching the endless line of soldiers parade past. Lizzie’s screams still rang in his ears, the memory of them louder than the drums and the funeral dirge. Crossing that street was going to be nigh on impossible. And yet he knew he had to try.

The elaborately designed funeral car that held the duke’s remains was now coming into view. It was enormous, being more than twenty feet long and made from wrought iron, wood, and steel. Twelve great black draft horses with black ostrich-plumed headdresses drew it slowly forward. As it reached the place where Tom was standing, the men around Tom removed their hats.

In desperation, Tom prayed. He took a deep breath, allowing the weight to drop off as he pictured placing the burden on God. All around him, he heard nothing but the drums and the marching and the sound of his own heart.

And then, the marching stopped.

Tom opened his eyes. The entire procession had come to a halt. In a moment, Tom saw why. The funeral car was stuck in the mud. There were gasps of surprise all around. “Getting it unstuck won’t be easy,” said a man next to Tom. “I read in the paper that it weighs over ten tons.”

The soldiers nearest to the funeral car broke ranks and began to line up around it, preparing to push it out of the mud. Then Tom saw his opportunity. While the men were scrambling, he vaulted up and over the barrier and into the group of soldiers. A few tried to stop him, but most were more concerned with the wagon than with him. Swiftly he moved through their ranks and over to the other side of the street. Taken by surprise to see Tom dashing toward them, the spectators parted as he jumped over the barrier.

He had made it.

*

The delivery was imminent; Margaret could sense it. Yet Lizzie continued to push and strain to no avail.

“Push, Lizzie! Push!” Martha coaxed, again and again.

Margaret looked on from the corner, feeling powerless and yet desperate to find some way to be of use.

After another futile attempt, Lizzie sagged back onto the bed, defeated. “I… can’t…” she croaked, “… no air… can’t breathe…” She was drenched in sweat, as was everyone in the room. No wonder the poor woman couldn’t breathe, Margaret thought—the room was stifling. Unable to bear it any longer, she turned and threw open the window, fairly gasping as a gust of icy wind rushed past her. She waited to hear protests at her actions, but none came. She turned to see Lizzie breathing in deep gulps, a thin smile on her face. The shock had invigorated her.

A powerful realization came to Margaret just then, hitting her with more force than the fresh air. All of her worries about Tom or Moreton Hall or anything else were insignificant compared with her responsibility to help this woman bring a child safely into the world. For once, Margaret would expend all the force of her stubborn will toward a truly selfless act. Never before had she felt such unbounded joy. She rushed to Lizzie’s side. “You can do this, Lizzie,” she proclaimed. “You’re almost there. I know it.”

Lizzie sat up, energized by the absolute conviction in Margaret’s words. Another contraction seized her, and she met it with renewed determination.

“That’s it!” Martha cried. “Again… Bear down as hard as you can!”

Two housemaids came into the room, carrying the hot water and extra towels that Martha had requested. “Oh, my gracious,” one of them exclaimed as they set down their items. “The baby’s coming! I can see it!”

“Aahhh!” Lizzie moaned again, her face bright red as she pushed with all her might.

“It’s the head!” Martha shouted, her voice exultant. “The baby has turned. Praise be to God.”

Upon hearing these words, Lizzie pushed again, crying out—no longer in agony, but in triumph.

*

Tom heard Lizzie’s long, loud cry the moment he and the doctor burst into the house. And then there was silence. As he and Dr. Layton raced up the stairs, Tom prayed fervently that they were not too late. They turned into the hallway just in time to see Geoffrey throwing open the door to Lizzie’s room. And then a new sound filled the air.

It was the sound of a baby crying.

Tom followed Geoffrey and the doctor into the room. He could not remain outside. He had to know what was going on. For propriety’s sake, he tried to keep his gaze averted, looking only at Lizzie’s face. Her damp hair was plastered to her head, and her cheeks were flushed. Margaret sat next to her. Tom’s heart leaped for joy as he took in the sight of the two women he loved most in the whole world, tears streaming down their elated faces.

Martha held up the tiny, crying child for all to see. “It’s a boy!” she announced. “A fine, lusty boy.”