Jackson hurried up the stairs and said a silent prayer as he entered the bedroom. “Amanda,” he said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I’m back, and the doctor is on his way.”
She stirred but didn’t wake.
He touched the back of his hand to her forehead. It had cooled. That offered some reassurance, but now she looked as though drawing each breath was an effort. Fear still had its icy claws sunk deep in Jackson’s chest.
He stood when he heard Noah open the front door and met the doctor at the top of the stairs. “My wife was sleeping when I got here, so I didn’t wake her. The fever’s gone.”
Dr. Babcock carried his bag into the room and set it on the table by the bed. “Open the curtains,” he said as he lit the lamp. “I need more light.”
Jackson pushed them as wide as they would go then stood in the corner and entrusted Amanda to the care of another.
“Mrs. Maguire,” the doctor said. He got no response and patted her shoulder. “Mrs. Maguire. It’s Dr. Babcock. I’m going to examine you.”
Amanda’s eyes fluttered open. She mumbled the word doctor then appeared to drift back to sleep.
Babcock listened to her chest with a stethoscope. Then he set it aside and began looking Amanda over, pulling down her lower eyelids and her lip. “Has she injured herself or complained of bleeding?”
“No.”
“When was her last monthly flow?”
“Uh,” Jackson replied, searching his memory. “About two weeks ago.”
The doctor turned back the covers and pressed on Amanda’s abdomen, causing her to whimper in pain. “Has there been any vomiting?”
“No.”
He examined each of Amanda’s limbs all the way down to her fingers and toes, then rolled her to her side and pressed his hand to the bedding beneath her. “When was the last time she passed water?”
“I’m not sure.” He’d left in such a rush he’d relieved himself out by the barn. Jackson peered into the chamber pot. It was bone-dry. “Late yesterday afternoon, I think.”
“Has she had anything to drink?”
“Not since supper. Should I give her some water?”
“You can spoon small amounts into her mouth from time to time.” He blew out the lamp and returned his stethoscope to his bag. “I sent word to Celia before I left town and asked her to pay you a visit.”
“That’s much appreciated.” The laundress could look after the children and keep them occupied. “Do you know what’s wrong with my wife?”
“Her skin is pale, but I don’t see any sign of anemia, and a complication of pregnancy is highly unlikely. Taking all her symptoms into account, I believe a purulence of some sort ruptured... probably her appendix. I’ll give you some tincture of opium for her pain and leave instructions for dosing it.”
“I’m grateful, but how do we make her well?”
“The common practice is to prescribe rest and wait it out.”
“That’s all?”
“You fought in the war. I don’t have to tell you that surgery brings dangers of its own.”
Jackson sighed and nodded in agreement.
“A doctor in London was cutting the organ out,” Babcock went on, the lines around his eyes softening some, “but he lost nearly as many patients as would have died without treatment. Another fella back east had better luck leaving the organ where it was and merely draining the pus, but–”
“Could you do that?”
“I’m afraid not. One can’t drain an organ that’s no longer intact.” He gave Jackson a long, assessing look then gestured at the door, moving their conversation out into the hall. “I’d perform surgery right here if I thought it would save your wife. But the truth is, whether it’s her appendix or not, she’s beyond help.”
Jackson’s stomach dropped—he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Her condition improved when I gave her the tonic. Isn’t theresomethingwe can do?”
