“What are you doing out of bed?” Nora asked. “It’s only been a week.”
Aunt Wilcox narrowed her eyes at Nora’s clinic apron, loosely tied to accommodate her thickening waist. “Long enough. You know as well as I do, there’s nothing the matter with me. Yes, I’m thin and easily tired, but I’m more likely to expire from boredom than anything else. If you’re fit to tend patients, then I—” She pinched her lips together. “There was an emergency at Whitecross Street Prison, and one of my friends—the president of our society—brought me this.” She gestured toward the moth-eaten bag. “I think you’ll agree this matter can’t wait for me to finish a languid convalescence.”
A sound emanated from the depths of the dirty carpet bag, and Nora jumped. Something living—certainly not a wombat. Nora threw a startled, questioning look at Aunt Wilcox before rushing forward and peering inside. It held an infant, wrapped in an expensive cashmere shawl. Nora lifted the undersizedbaby, cataloging the mustard-tinted skin, the tightly wound fists, and the crinkled skin around the eyes. Hours old, maybe.
Nora threw her eyes to the carpet bag once more. “Who—”
“Mrs. Sandish was doing a prison inspection when she found her. She was born yesterday afternoon, and her mother died in the night. Mrs. Sandish said the devils who run the place were waiting for someone from a workhouse to collect her. Apparently, no one could be bothered to rush her to a doctor.”
Blood loss, fever. Stroke. Nora knew the most likely culprits of death in childbirth. But a prison birth could mean the baby was diseased, syphilitic, blind…
“They left her in this bag for hours, Nora. If Mrs. Sandish hadn’t happened to be there today—”
“Has she eaten—” Nora pulled back the shawl—Aunt’s favorite—taking in the clumsily tied umbilical cord and the surrounding skin. Red and inflamed. The baby girl was pitifully small.
Less than one day and you’ve already known hunger, death, and imprisonment.
“This way.” Nora bolted down the stairs and laid the baby on the table as soon as they reached the exam room. This baby had the frail, deflated look of impending death.
“She won’t survive, will she?” Aunt’s hollow voice echoed with despondency—jarring to hear from such a domineering woman. “Mrs. Sandish lives close to me. She stopped to show me the poor child, and I convinced her to let me bring her to you right away instead of waiting for another doctor.”
“That was wise. There isn’t much time.” Nora retrieved her stethoscope. The child wiggled feebly as she listened,repositioning the instrument several times. The lungs were too small and new for her to be sure of what she heard. Possible pneumonia. She may have swallowed amniotic fluid. “Who attended the birth?” she asked, already dreading the answer.
Aunt shook her head, the disappointment too heavy for words. The life of a prisoner was worth very little. Less than the price of a doctor, certainly.
If only Nora had been called yesterday, the mother might still be here. “Has she been nursed at all?” she pressed.
Aunt Wilcox clenched her hands against her dark skirt. “We know nothing except what I told you.”
Then most likely no food at all. The mother surely died before her milk came in. Nora shuddered, imagining a dirty, hard floor covered in blood. “Ruth! I need you—as soon as you can!”
Ruth appeared half a minute later, her face morphing from mundane to shocked as she took in the pitiful sight.
“A orphan from the prison,” Nora explained, her courage lagging as she tried and failed to coax the baby’s eyes open. “What do you suggest?”
Ruth ran her fingers over the infant’s head, sounding the fontanel. “Keep her warm. Give her some sugar water until I get back. I’m getting Ellie this minute.” Ruth was gone before she finished her sentence, sending the instructions down the echoing hall.
Nora worked with a nearby wet nurse for such emergencies. Ellie Nugent had ten children and a healthy supply of milk and good humor. This child needed both after her deplorable start.
Nora unfolded portions of the blanket to reveal smallsections of the baby’s body while still keeping her warm. Her wrinkled foot didn’t respond when Nora brushed her finger from heel to toes. Only once did the baby crack open her yellow-tinged eyes, still stained with newborn blue.
“Jaundice and asthenia—”
“I don’t know what any of that means,” Aunt snapped.
“It means she’s weak and her organs aren’t working as well as we’d wish,” Nora explained. “But if she pulls through, it will be thanks to you and Mrs. Sandish.” Nora squeezed the tiny feet to stimulate blood flow. “I’d rather she be irritated and upset than groggy.” And then, realizing her opportunity: “I teach this to all my midwife students. You can do this while I get a warm blanket and a poultice. Just—gently. And you can put a nappy on her.” Nora grabbed a cloth and safety pins and dropped them on the table before hurrying to the dispensary.
The putrid smell of sweat and blood clung to the child. Nora hurriedly scraped together a paste of charcoal, lavender, and warm milk until it was the consistency of soft clay and wrapped it in cheesecloth. The charcoal would draw out the impurities and the lavender would soothe.
When she returned to Aunt Wilcox, Julia was standing at Ruth’s side, anxiously watching Ruth sponge the complaining child.
“I ran into the maid on the front steps. She told me about the baby.” Julia hadn’t removed her hat yet, and it shadowed her troubled eyes.
“She’s in the best hands now,” Nora reassured her, though she had to bite her tongue when she saw Aunt’s crookedly applied nappy.
Not the worst job I’ve seen.
“I sent the maid to get Mrs. Nugent.” Ruth gestured at the tiny girl. This was no simple case. “Did you start the sugar water?”
