“Oh—you’re awake,” she said, relief and surprise heard in her voice. “I’m sure you’re hungry—I was planning to wake you if you were still sleeping.” She set the tray gently across Claire’s lap. “Sorry, there’s no legs on these trays.”
Claire stared down at a plate of cheese in uneven cubes and lumps, a crust of bread, and a cup of golden liquid that looked suspiciously like beer. A strange offering for someone sick, she thought, but said nothing. “Thank you,” she murmured automatically.
She was starving, she’d realized that almost the moment she’d woken, but hunger wasn’t the only reason she reached for the bread. She needed something in her stomach, something solid, something to strengthen and steady her, before she could begin to ask for help about what had happened and was happening.
She had just taken a bite when the door opened again, and another person stepped into the room. This time, a young girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen. She was dressed as strangely as the one named Ivy, both of them wearing floor-length dresses that looked very...simple. Maybe historic, Claire couldn’t decide. The young girl said nothing and sent only a fleeting glance to Claire before stooped at the fireplace, appearing to stoke the fire.
It wasn’t until later that Claire realized how unfazed she’d been by this at the time, these two females dressed in plain wool gowns, the younger one in an apron, something that bothered her more, being as it seemed it could have been straight out of a museum exhibit.
Then another woman entered, this one older, maybe in her fifties. Claire had an immediate impression of a brisk, sharp-eyed hawk. She marched directly to Claire and touched her forehead, and then her cheek before giving a satisfied click of her tongue.
“Aye, the fire’s gone from her,” she said, aiming her remarks at Ivy. “Keep her drinking, even if she grumbles,” she went on as if Claire weren’t sitting there, awake and alert. “She’ll be weak as a newborn lamb for a time yet. Nae meat, nae heavy stew. Just this, bread and soft cheese. ’Twill serve her better till her strength returns.” Her gaze flicked over Claire before returning to Ivy again, seeming to consider something before saying, “Ye’ve done well, mistress. Few watch as constant as ye have.”
Claire blinked, mildly confused.Mistress?
The older woman and the teen girl left one after another then and Ivy came to sit down in a chair next to the bed. Claire asked, “Why—who was that?”
“The midwife, Ruth,” she answered evenly. “Kind of the local doctor since we’re... pretty far out in the middle of nowhere.”
Claire didn’t even know where to begin, what to ask first or next.
“Are you a nurse?” she wondered next.
“Me?” Ivy laughed, thumping her chest. “Oh, God, no. I’m just a—” She faltered, then forced a wry smile. “I’m just me. Ivy Mitchell.”
“I’m Claire, by the way,” she thought to say.
Ivy’s face lit. “Hi, Claire. It’s nice to meet you.”
Claire studied her, and her very rounded belly, recalling the way she’d shifted on her feet while she’d been standing. “How far along are you?”
Ivy’s hazel eyes brightened. “Almost eight months now.”
“Your first?”
Ivy nodded. “Do you have children?”
“No. Not... yet.” The words caught in Claire’s throat, sounding thinner than she meant them to. She’d accepted some time ago that there likely wouldn’t be children with Jason, that kids were the last thing their marriage needed. She would return home and file for divorce, she was certain. And then what? She’d have to start over—untangle herself from Jason, grieve the wreckage, meet someone new, test whether he was worth the risk, build trust all over again. Only after all that could she even think of children. It felt impossibly far away, maybe out of reach altogether. The thought saddened her.
She pushed away the melancholy evoked, needing to concentrate on the strange here and now.
Ivy chattered idly for a while, seeming nervous, until Claire was forced to interrupt her, asking her where the bathroom was.To Claire’s horror, Ivy winced a bit and bent at the side of the bed, withdrawing a bed pan from underneath.
Claire could only stare at what looked actually more like an historic chamber pot and not a medical bed pan. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I were,” Ivy muttered, retreating to the door. “But you’ll get used to it. Sort of.”
Claire closed her eyes, every nerve stretched thin, and then moved the tray off her lap and gingerly got to her feet, at least gratified that she was stronger than she might have imagined, though obviously not one-hundred percent, not even close.
And then, very quickly, Claire found herself sympathizing in a way she never had before with every patient she’d ever slid a bedpan beneath. The awkwardness, the indignity—she understood it now all too well.
By the time Ivy returned, Claire had returned to the bed, but she was wrung out again—so much so that she couldn’t raise an argument when Ivy made to leave, even as questions burned inside her.
“Okay, Claire. I think that might be enough for one day,” Ivy said, possibly sensing her exhaustion. “Finish that”—she pointed to a murky potion at the bedside—“and then get some rest. I’m right next door if you need me. Don’t be afraid to shout.”
Claire murmured thanks, though unease gnawed at her.
“I bet when you wake tomorrow,” Ivy said then, “you’ll feel better, and even stronger.”
