“Sometimes, yes,” he grumbled. “I’d rather cut a man’s hand off than listen to a woman suffer like that. I haven’t the spinefor it.”
Nora laughed as Daniel began working to open the second crate. “Are you saying it’s best left to women—like the midwives?” she asked with a wicked grin.
Daniel paused and looked at her, face alert. She’d meant only to continue the banter.
“Good Lord, yes. Please let the women do it,” Harry said, tugging at his collar. “You won’t find me signing that blasted petition. The less births I attend, the better for all of us.” He stepped away from the model and began riffling through the rest of the crate.
Horace grunted. “Let’s see the rest.” In the past, he’d have grabbed the wrapped packages himself, but he still didn’t trust his weaker left arm. They arranged the smaller wrapped goods on the table and each began unwrapping. It was better than Christmas Eve.
“It’s a boy,” Harry announced, holding up a delicately sculpted five-month-old fetus, displayed in situ, in an appropriately sized womb. “He’s got some growing to do yet.”
Nora’s ceramic child was a girl. Full term, the eyes pressed and swollen with meticulous wrinkles in the skin, presenting headfirst—but she’d ordered models with various breech presentations as well.
“Mine’s only three months along,” Daniel said, holding a tiny baby in one hand. “Not even big enough for the mother to feel yet.”
Nora squirmed inwardly. She hadn’t confided Horace’s and Mrs. Phipps’s suspicions to him. Her courses hadn’t come, so each passing day suggested they were right. But she’d beenirregular before…
She shook her head. No point in saying anything until certain.
“Take a look at this one,” Horace said.
He held up a red silk womb, sewn with a placenta that unbuttoned, per Nora’s instructions, as well as a long, ropelike umbilical cord. He whistled low. “How much did this all cost me?”
Nora shook her head. “Don’t ask. Less than your conservatory.”
Daniel continued his inspection of the sculpted child he’d unwrapped, its head obscenely big compared to the tadpole-like legs. “Are you going to sign the petition, Horace?”
Horace looked up from the quilted placenta. “Not a chance. It’s too broad. Yes, there are some women calling themselves midwives who should be hung for the damage they do, but you can say the same for several medical students. Some doctors, too.”
“It’s a farce,” Nora stated. “Adams is just using it to get back at me for writing up Mrs. Roland’s case. For being right when he was wrong.” Now that he’d so obviously targeted her with his petition, if she spread stories about his mistakes, other doctors might think she was making it up out of sheer pettiness.
“Did Adams talk to you?” Daniel studied her too intensely.
Nora bit her lip. “I went to check on Mrs. Roland. Adams was there. Said I couldn’t see her unless I signed his petition. I didn’t like his tone.”
“Did he threaten you?” Daniel demanded with a worried frown. “He’s gathered over a hundred signatures now.”
So many?“Well, he’s not getting mine.”
“Did you read the entire petition?” Daniel pressed on. “It said only that we need safe standards.”
Nora’s nose wrinkled. “But it’s using those standards to push midwives out of practice.”
Daniel sighed. “You’ve only been practicing a few months. It doesn’t seem the time to incite the entire college of doctors against you.”
“You know I’ve been practicing far longer than that. I’m not worried,” Nora said, but this wasn’t strictly true. Adams’s animosity did concern her, just not enough to back down. What worried her more was Daniel’s troubled expression.
“There’s a letter with this one.” Harry cleared his throat theatrically and held up a folded paper and a model of a six-month fetus, its head nearly proportional but its body too small to survive an early birth.
Recognizing Harry’s cue, Nora dropped the discussion and lifted the letter instead, the envelope made of heavy, expensive stationery. “Magdalena,” she said without needing to look at the name. She opened it quickly, eyes greedy for the Italian words she hadn’t seen in so long.
Her smile broadened as she skimmed past the news of the Grand Hospital of Life and Death, where she’d worked with her mentor and the nuns. She’d savor it later, when the three men weren’t watching her every expression. She turned to the second page, dropping her eyes to the last paragraph.
“She says she personally inspected every model and made corrections before they fired them in the kiln. She says the fat baby looks just like her Humberto.” Nora smiled, knowing the jokes meant nothing to the others. Humberto had been borntwo weeks late and, according to Magdalena, had quite overstayed his welcome.
“You must tell her we approve,” Horace said, tracing his finger along one of the smaller fetuses. “I’ve never seen a model like it.”
Nora’s eyes misted and she stopped scanning the lines, slowing to read each exquisite word in Magdalena’s unhurried script.
