“And I plan to,” Emmy snapped back. She’d forgotten how annoyingly obtuse the old fart could be. “I will do what I can, but some things are just out of my hands. Unless you’ve another doctor on the line you can snatch up for us and bring back?”
Donell downed the rest of his Scotch in one swallow and returned to the sideboard to refill his cup with shaking hands. She’d never seen the old man fret so. He paced to the fireplace and back again, every nerve in his body fraught with tension any fool could see.
Scarlett was clearly no fool. “What is it, Donell?” she demanded, sharp enough to sense his distress even amidst her own worries.
Donell looked back at her, his usually mischievous countenance fallen into deep, haggard lines of genuine worry. “’Tis naught for ye to worry over, lass.”
“No, really, spill,” Scarlett commanded. Emmy had been wrong, there was nothing soft about Scarlett Thomas but her appearance. “I appreciate you feeling bad and all, but I seem to remember when you sent me back here we had a long talk about letting fate take its course. Do you remember?”
“Mostlyfate, ye said, if I remember correctly,” he countered.
“True enough,” she conceded. “But what is it about this particular moment that made you show back up? Why not when Aleizia’s youngest and Willem died from influenza after Christmas? Or when Aileen miscarried while she was ill?”
Donell flicked his fingers through the air as he tended to when he didn’t like a line of questioning and turned back to Emmy. “Ye maun save the child, lass.”
“I get that I must and I get that I want to, Donell, but if she’s too early, you’re going to need a doctor—”
“Ye’rea doctor.”
“A suitable one, Donell.” Her tone was ripe with exasperation. “Preemies have all sorts of issues we can’t predict and we certainly can’t care for here.”
“Is it premature?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“Ye’re the doctor,” he repeated.
“Yes, and what are you exactly?”
“We dinnae ha’ time for this, lass.”
“No, we don’t.” Emmy rubbed her face wearily.
Turning, she paced toward the fireplace, warmth building around her. The room was a massive one, impossible to fully heat even with the near bonfire burning there. The heavy tapestries on the walls and curtains covering the shuttered windows kept the worst of the winter cold out, but some filtered in nevertheless. Just as dread seeped into her.
She curled her fingers around the carved wooden back of the loveseat Scarlett had been sitting in. An overstuffed, upholstered piece atypical to this time. As she was. As Scarlett was for all her adaptation.
Scarlett. Scarlett Freaking Thomas. She left behind fame and fortune for this. For what? To lose her baby because Emmy lacked the skill to save them both? The thought chafed. There must be something more.
Emmy mentally scrambled for options, but there were few to be had. She had her medical bag, that was it. While well stocked with twenty-first century gadgets, nothing in it would do an ounce of good for a baby with underdeveloped lungs and a weak immune system.
Lifting her head, she found Donell wringing his wrinkled hands, staring at her.
“Tell me what we maun do, lass.”
“Assuming Scarlett is correct and she’s a month premature, I’d say what we need is a hospital.”
“Ha! Good luck with that,” Scarlett panted, a palm pressed lightly to her side. Emmy guessed a mild contraction was in the works.
Frowning, she hurried to Scarlett’s side and checked her pulse. “Slow, deep breaths. I know you’re afraid, but panicking won’t help.”
A huff of laughter accompanied Scarlett’s next panting breath. “Right back at you, sister.”
Scarlett
Scarlett doubted Emmy even realized how freaked out she appeared. All the competency that had charged their initial conversation had fled with the thought of a premature birth. Not the labor and delivery itself but the care of the infant. A shaft of sorrow tore through her. Emmy was right, they didn’t have the technology here.
“My baby’s going to die, isn’t it?”
