Claire hitched up her skirts, and ran after Dalhinge, whose long legs ate up the distance of the hallway. Her breath laboured as her corset restricted her intake, yet she forced herself to keep up with him. It must be an emergency if the normally staid Dalhinge rushed like that. Her lungs and legs started to burn. How big was this house? The peerage and their ridiculous old mansions. And still, she ran on. Dalhinge tugged open a door, and held it for her.
‘Through here,’ he said with ragged breaths. She could only nod, and continue to follow him along a much narrower hallway, and down an awkwardly small staircase, obviously designed for servants, not someone in an evening dress with full skirts. She grasped the handrail in one hand, and bunches of her silk skirts in the other hand, holding them out of the way of her feet. As she negotiated each narrow step, she heard a loud scream, and quickly picked her way down towards that noise. Someone really needed her help. Dalhinge held open a doorway, and she brushed past him to enter.
A labouring woman lay on the bed, drenched in sweat, with dark rings under her eyes. Claire stared around the room and quickly took in all the relevant details. The butler, Jackson, stood beside the bed, his huge hands gently cradling the woman’s head. Claire hauled in a breath, and another, until she had enough breath to speak.
‘No doctors,’ growled the butler.
‘Jackson. Your wife is in agony. She needs someone,’ said Dalhinge.
‘No. We will take our chances without any butcher.’ Claire ignored the slight to her profession—she’d heard it many times before after all—and closed her eyes for a second as her lungs burnt for air.
‘First, we need clean towels, and clean, hot water,’ she said, her voice ragged as she panted. ‘You—’ She pointed to Jackson. ‘You will take off your jacket and wash your hands and arms thoroughly with soap and hot water. If you intend to stay, you will be hygienic.’ No-one moved. ‘Go,’ she yelled at Dalhinge. ‘I won’t examine her until I am also clean.’ Dalhinge ran out of the room, just as another contraction hit the poor woman and she screamed in agony. The butler’s huge hands stroked his wife’s forehead. Claire waited until the contraction subsided.
‘What is her name?’ she asked.
‘Harriet,’ he said.
‘After Harriet Tubman?’ she asked.
‘You know our story?’ he said, his eyes wide.
‘Not much, but I do like to read about brave women, and Tubman certainly fits that bill,’ she said. He nodded slowly, and Claire hoped that the small connection, thanks only to her reading the news-sheets from her homeland of America, would allow him to let her help his wife. ‘Is this Harriet’s first child?’
‘Yes.’
‘The first is usually the hardest work. How long has Harriet been labouring?’
‘It came on slowly yesterday evening. It’s been getting rapidly worse in the last two hours,’ he said.
She rubbed her forehead. It was impossible to tell without an examination, but it sounded textbook so far. Certainly not the emergency that Dalhinge had described.
‘The pains. How far apart are they now?’ she asked.
‘Too often. I don’t know. This is too early, she shouldn’t have started for another few weeks,’ he said.
‘Estimating arrival dates is an inexact science,’ she said. The door opened again, but rather than the hot water she was expecting, Mr Howick entered. Her breath hitched, and her already too tight corset grew uncomfortable. ‘I don’t think poor Harriet requires a cast of thousands to watch this process,’ she said, using sarcasm as a weapon against his masculine presence in the small room.
‘My apologies. I just wanted to ensure that Jackson hadn’t frightened you away,’ he said.
She snorted. ‘Since you are here, there is one thing, no, two things, that I require. Jackson needs a watch to time the gap between pains,’ she said. Harriet started to moan, the noise ramping up into a scream.
Mr Howick’s eyes widened. ‘Is that normal?’ he said.
‘Yes. It’s going to get worse than this, but there are a few things I can do to help her, if Jackson allows.’ After several minutes the pain abated, Harriet closed her eyes and her head rolled backwards against Jackson’s hand.
‘Here. Jackson, have my watch. Dr Carlingford says you need it, and I trust her in this area,’ said Howick. Claire’s mouth dropped open at the easy praise, and she had to force herself to keep her focus on her patient. Mr Howick unclipped his watch and handed it to Jackson. ‘You said you required two things?’ he asked. She turned towards him only to see his dark eyes staring at her. She hesitated. Her request was purely practical, a simple matter to allow her to breathe, as well as to preserve the expensive gown she wore, but the thought of Mr Howick assisting her made her already rapid breath shallow, and her skin hot. She cleared her throat. Harriet must come first, modesty could wait, and she simply couldn’t work in this voluminous gown with its tight lacing. She tugged off her gloves, and hung them over the back of a chair at the edge of the room. Her fingers trembled, stumbling as she started to undo the buttons down the front of her bodice.
‘Excuse me,’ said Mr Howick, his voice raspy.
‘I cannot work in an evening gown. Don’t panic. With the multitude of petticoats underneath, I will be modest enough for this purpose,’ she said, as she continued to unbutton. She tugged off the bodice, pulling her arms out, and hung it over the same chair as her gloves. She let out a shaky breath, as she stood there in her corset with a simple linen cover. Modesty shouldn’t matter when she had a patient in need of her help.
‘If you could untie that large ribbon,’ she said. Mr Howick came close enough that she could feel his breath warm on the back of her neck, but his fingers didn’t touch her as he helped untie the large train that created most of the volume in her outfit. He stepped away, taking his breath with him, and she freed the long ribbon from around her waist to allow the overskirt and attached train to fall free. She stepped forward.
‘Is that all?’ asked Jackson. His voice punched the tension between her and Mr Howick.
‘Ahh, just the trickiest part to go,’ she said. She’d mostly recovered from her sprint down the hall, but her breath was still shallow and her voice tight. She had to loosen this corset, the tight lacing for dinner wasn’t going to allow her to help Harriet when she most needed it. The thought of Mr Howick’s hands on her lower back as he loosened her lacing, made her face heat. She glanced at Jackson, grateful to have other people present.
‘I will need more movement. If you could just loosen my corset lacing … I mean, there is no need to undo it completely.’ Her face burnt bright hot.
‘I can call for a maid, if you prefer,’ said Mr Howick. She didn’t get to answer as another labour pain hit Harriet, and her screams filled the room. The door opened again, and three maids entered carrying buckets of steaming hot water.
‘Here you are, Miss. Where do you want them?’
‘Just there will be fine. Out of the way of the door, and away from the bed.’
‘I will leave you,’ said Mr Howick with a nod. Claire barely gave him a glance as she focused on her work, giving orders to the maids. One of them loosened her laces, just the perfect amount, while she scrubbed her arms. She stepped forward to examine Harriet.
‘Jackson, your jacket. Please remove it, and scrub your hands and arms, as I have just done.’ She dampened a towel, and washed down Harriet’s face. ‘And you there, please get some heated bricks, and some willow bark tea. Does this household have any chloroform, by chance?’ One of the maids rushed out, while another offered to wash Harriet. ‘No. I must insist that only those who have been properly scrubbed touch Mrs Jackson. The latest research shows that cleanliness reduces childbed fever.’
‘Perhaps the maids can leave now,’ said Jackson, still wearing his liveried jacket.
‘Yes.’ She would prefer one of them to stay, for her sake, but soon Mr Howick would leave, and Jackson wouldn’t be employed in the revered job of butler if he wasn’t trustworthy. She would have to take the chance.
‘The less people, the better for Harriet. Off you go now,’ she said.
The door creaked shut, and Jackson removed his jacket. He pushed up his shirt sleeves to reveal strong forearms with deep scarring across the muscles. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to undress in front of the curious maids. Claire continued to wash the old sweat off Harriet’s body, slowly peeling off her clothes as she went. She palpated her stomach, feeling for the baby’s body, and breathed out tensely between her teeth as she discovered too many limbs. One head was in position, but she couldn’t find the other. She hoped that it was behind the other twin. If only there was some way to better see what was happening inside. She stripped back the bedclothes and washed Harriet’s legs as another contraction hit her hard.
‘Roll her onto her side, and place a hot towel on her lower back. The heat should help ease some of the pain,’ she told Jackson.
His face crunched as his wife screamed in agony.
‘That does help,’ whispered Harriet, her first words since Claire had arrived in the room, as Jackson complied with Claire’s order. ‘Maybe not every doctor is bad,’ said Harriet with a small smile, before she drifted back into a doze.
‘Harriet.’ Claire used her sternest voice to wake the young mother-to-be. ‘I know you are tired, and you’ve been working hard, but you are nearly there. I need you to focus now.’ Harriet’s eyes flickered open. ‘I’m just going to wash my hands again, and then I’m going to examine you. Jackson, either stay by her head, or if you want to oversee my examination, you will need to wash.’ She hoped that giving him these options would ease his issues with doctors. And if he’d only ever met old doctors, or the many young egotistical men who she’d studied with, then his reticence wasn’t much of a surprise. Jackson glanced at Harriet with a question in his eyes, so Claire turned away to re-wash herself. It was probably an overreaction, all this washing, but she’d seen the worst of childbed fever and wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
‘Why do you want me to wash?’ asked Jackson.
‘Twenty years ago, research by Lister and his wife suggested that washing reduced the risk of infection in surgery,’ she said.
‘What type of research?’ Jackson’s tense voice came out sharp and tight.
‘I’m not sure exactly, but since his wife did most of the work, I would guess it wouldn’t be harmful. They did publish a case where they helped a boy with a broken leg, and had no infection after surgery,’ she said.
Jackson’s eyebrows knitted together, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Harriet screamed in agony and they both turned to her. Jackson pressed a hot towel to her back, while Claire focused on her work.
‘The baby is crowning. Push now, Harriet. Push.’ Harriet’s screams deepened into a long growl as she pushed and worked. ‘Again. Yes, that’s it.’ Sweat beaded on Claire’s forehead as she monitored Harriet, and encouraged her through the next phase.
‘I need to visit the necessary,’ murmured Harriet.
‘Good. Just push again,’ said Claire. With a long, bone-deep yell, Harriet gave one final push, and the baby’s head slid out into Claire’s hands. She gently helped the baby arrive, with the help of Harriet pushing, and gave the cord a tug. It didn’t budge, and she couldn’t see any evidence that the second baby was in position. She sucked in a shaky deep breath, and placed the first baby on Harriet’s chest.
‘Congratulations. However, the work isn’t done yet,’ she said. She palpated Harriet’s stomach, and eased out a sigh when she felt the second baby ease into the correct position. So far, so good.
‘What is happening? It feels like I need to push again,’ said Harriet. Her quiet voice was weak with exhaustion. Jackson kissed her forehead, while Claire forced her face into an encouraging smile. She paused, and felt their eyes on her, while she stared at Harriet’s stomach.
‘There is another baby,’ she said, unable to think of a better way to deliver such news. She bent down to break the waters for the second baby, and with a huge effort, Harriet delivered the second healthy baby only a few breaths after the first. Claire’s legs wobbled with relief as she cradled the newborn. Twins so often went wrong, especially in a first time mother, that the wave of thankfulness almost consumed her. She passed the baby to Jackson, and grasped the bedsheets for balance.
‘One more push, Harriet,’ she said, while tugging on the two cords. The placentas slid out with her help, and covered the bed in blood. Birth was such a messy business, it was amazing that humans ever managed to survive the process of reproduction.
‘Twins,’ Jackson breathed out, the sole word infused with awe. Claire forced herself to concentrate on her work, and not let all the emotion in the room settle on her. Later, she could enjoy this, when she knew that Harriet would survive. There was still much work to do to ensure that. She grabbed towels, and started to clean Harriet. Fresh blood leaked out, but the colour was good, and the flow not too dreadful.
‘Jackson, could you place the babies with Harriet, and pull the bell? I require a few additional supplies,’ she said. Harriet would need a few stitches, and she wanted to ensure the whole region stayed hygienic to give her the best chance of healing.
A couple of hours later, Claire sunk into a large armchair in a spare room nearby. A gas lamp lit the room with soft light, enough to take the edge of the dark night in an unknown place, but not strong enough that she wouldn’t snooze. The babies, both perfectly formed boys, had demonstrated their excellent lungs, then enjoyed their first feed. They’d been washed, and wrapped up warm by one of the maids, while Claire had finished stitching Harriet. The soiled bedsheets had been changed by the efficient staff. Harriet slept while Jackson watched over the twins, and Claire had left the happy parents alone with their new babies. She let her head loll back on the chair as her own exhaustion hit. Her first successful twin delivery, and thankfully, a textbook case. She tucked her feet up underneath her petticoats, and tried to find a comfortable spot to snooze on this chair. The shuffle of feet ebbed into her sleep, and she eased one eye open. Mr Howick stood in the room, handsome as ever, with his hands clasped behind his back, and his eyes watching her without his glasses to provide some sort of barrier. His gaze slid to her throat, where her pulse flickered. She groaned under her breath as warmth chased away her sleep, and she pulled herself up to sit straight in the chair.
‘Thank you for your assistance,’ said Mr Howick, his deep voice rumbling over her skin. ‘Everyone in the house appreciates it. Lady Dalhinge, my mother, is due home tomorrow, and she will be very glad that someone competent was here to help Mrs Jackson.’
‘It’s nothing. I have the training, and I’m here,’ she said.
‘Being a doctor suits you,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Mr Howick. When you get an outcome like this, it’s worth more than all the bad days,’ she said.
‘I don’t believe we need to be so formal with each other. Please call me Ravi,’ he said. His name rolled off his tongue and surrounded her, warm like the blanket she wished she could curl under.
‘Ravi?’ She repeated it as a question, purely so she could taste his name on her tongue.
‘Yes, it’s my preferred name. I would be honoured if you use it.’ He shifted from one foot to the other.
‘Ravi. I give you leave to call me Claire,’ she said.
‘Claire.’ He said her name with an awe, as if she’d gifted him something precious. It pushed away the last vestige of her exhaustion, and she leaned towards him.
‘Hold on. You said your preferred name. What exactly do you mean?’ she said.
He grinned. ‘You know what they say about curiosity.’ She grinned back at him, waiting for him to answer her question. ‘Fine. My name is James Ravichandran Howick. James for my grandfather, Ravichandran means sun and moon. My mother chose a name which symbolised hope and consistency. Every day the sun will rise, and people can believe in new beginnings.’ He waggled his head, a movement that allowed her to see the fun-loving youth he would have been, before the world seeped in. Suddenly it didn’t matter that it was nearing morning, and she’d spent all night at work.
‘Oh, that’s fabulous. I’m plain Claire Rachel. My brothers each got amazing old-fashioned names, Wilberforce, Bartholomew and Theophilus. And before you ask, none of them are family names, just Mother’s preference. I suppose she didn’t want to waste interesting names on a girl.’
‘But you said you had only one brother?’
‘The twins, Tolly and Theo, died when they were just five. Just after we arrived in England. It was the measles.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Thank you. It was a long time ago now.’
‘Is that why you became a doctor?’ he asked.
She rubbed her tired eyes, staring blankly at him. It was part of the reason, but she didn’t want to discuss that with anyone just now.
‘I’m tired. Good night.’ She dragged her exhausted body to a standing position, her feet heavy.
‘Come on, Claire,’ he said. He held out his hand for her. ‘Walk with me.’ She managed a slow nod, and reached for his hand. He slid one arm around her waist, and with the other, he tucked her head against his chest. She fit just perfectly. Her body wanted to wrap him around her. She jerked upright. No-one valued the risks she would face as highly as she did. She couldn’t let herself be comforted by him.
‘I can walk myself from here. Thank you,’ she said.
‘You are exhausted. Please let me help. Besides, anyone who treats our unusual household with such care and empathy deserves the same treatment in kind,’ he said.
‘You help me only from obligation?’ she said. He obviously didn’t feel anything like she did. She was right—all the risk was hers. If she let herself feel, she’d lose everything. She squared her shoulders and forced her tired feet to pound down the hallway, away from him and towards her bed. She’d rather sleep than give in to him.