Standing on the threshold of his daughter’s lying-in chamber, Baxter gave Hettie’s hand a final squeeze; his gaze said more eloquently than words just how much this small act meant to him, and she wished she could explain just how much it meant that he had asked.
“Should you require anything, simply ask, Hettie.”
With a nod, she turned away, leaving him to wait with the others in the library, and steeled herself as she strode through the sitting room door. Sweltering heat enveloped her, making sweat bead at her temples as the raging fire pumped into the room. But at least it provided some light, allowing her to navigate the dark space, for they hadn’t seen fit to light many candles.
When a lady was at her most vulnerable and facing uncertainty and pain, the least a prospective mother could ask for was a comfortable and familiar room in which to face the ordeal. Unfortunately, they were sequestered to a lying-in chamber instead. On the practical side, converting a sitting room or drawing room into one made perfect sense, as bedchambers were smaller and the ordeal was bound to ruin one’s mattress.
In this case, the family had ordained the second floor sitting room for Mrs. Callaghan’s use, with the adjacent library dedicated as the waiting room for the rest of her family. Situated to one side of the lying-in room sat the birthing cot with the usual selection of armchairs and sofas cleared away to give room for the mother-to-be and her assistants.
Mrs. Callaghan lay on the makeshift bed, spread across the narrow cot that was perfectly suited for the birth yet looked far too uncomfortable for all the work leading to that moment. Thankfully, plenty of pillows and blankets were provided, but Mrs. Callaghan had kicked much of the bedding to the floor as she lay on her side, panting.
And alone. Her attendants were too occupied with each other to tend to their patient. The midwife stood apart from the lady, wringing her hands as Mrs. Camilla Baxter directed the woman about her work. The midwife’s gaze met Hettie’s when she entered, and the woman gave a visible sigh of relief, though Mrs. Baxter was too occupied to notice the newcomer.
Turning away from the midwife, Mrs. Baxter moved to Mrs. Callaghan’s side and took a seat, patting her on the hand. “With my first, I was in labor for two days, but you are progressing far quicker than I did. Isn’t that lucky for you?”
Hettie clamped her mouth shut, for the first words to spring to mind were not of the charitable variety, but she strode to the window and tugged back the curtains, opening the pane to let in some air. Though it was far too frigid to leave it open for long, the sharp breeze cleared much of the stagnant air.
Turning to the midwife, Hettie motioned toward the door. “Would you fetch a maid to see to the fire? And bring in some candles. We need to see.” And in a lower voice she added, “Allow me to manage Mrs. Baxter.”
The midwife didn’t require a second prompting, immediately scurrying from the room to do as bidden.
“Shut that window!” said Mrs. Baxter, turning from her sister-in-law’s bedside. “Do you want her to catch her death?” Upon seeing who the audacious intruder was, the lady gaped. “What are you doing here?”
Mrs. Callaghan attempted to speak, but a pain took hold of her, and she became focused on more important matters. Mrs. Baxter turned back to her sister-in-law, but her attention was still fixed on Hettie.
Ignoring the question posed, Hettie turned to the first of her concerns as she came to Mrs. Callaghan’s bedside. “She is liable to suffocate if we do not get some fresh air immediately.”
“What do you think you are doing?” asked Mrs. Baxter, rising to her feet. “I have things well in hand. You do not belong here, Miss Stillwell.”
The hard words and tone sent a spike of anger through her heart, though she tamped it down; Mrs. Callaghan didn’t need Hettie’s pride making matters worse.
“I can see you have been hard at work,” replied Hettie, forcing herself not to huff at that statement. Though it was true enough in essence, the “work” did not concern the comfort of her sister-in-law as much as it was to stoke Mrs. Baxter’s ego.
Mrs. Callaghan opened her mouth, but Hettie spoke faster. “I wish to be of service. I know you are trying your best, Mrs. Baxter, but surely another set of hands is useful.”
“I do not wish for assistance if it will be the death of her,” said Mrs. Baxter, moving toward the window. “The room must be dark and hot, else mother and baby are at risk. It is terrible enough that Charity hasn’t bothered to find a proper physician, but that midwife is inept. She’s continually attempting to chill poor Charity to the bone when hot and dark worked wonders for my mother and was insisted upon by her and my physician. I have five healthy children to show for it, so clearly, their advice is best.”
Hettie drew in a deep breath, searching for the proper words to sway the lady without causing more megrims for Mrs. Callaghan. For all that people claimed medicine to be a science, it seemed odd that the opinions differed so greatly about the “proper” order of things. What was considered the peak of treatments one decade ago was now the greatest harm one could do, and never was that made more clear than seeing people bicker over childbirth.
It was little wonder that Mrs. Baxter believed as she did, for “hot and dark” was the prevailing belief of her mother’s generation, but more and more were rejecting that tradition. Mrs. Baxter’s physician had been either a quack or a coward, unwilling to stand strong against the domineering Mrs. Camilla Baxter and her likely equally quelling mother.
As it had done no harm in the many births Hettie had attended, she saw no evil in having the room a comfortable temperature, and logic demanded that Mrs. Callaghan’s assistants—be they physicians, midwives, or her father’s sweetheart—see properly.
The trouble was how to manage Mrs. Baxter without causing more trouble for everyone, including herself and Baxter. Except for Mrs. Callaghan, Hettie’s standing amongst his children was poor, to say the least, and she needed to tread carefully.
Mrs. Callaghan moved as though to speak again, but Hettie held up a staying hand.
“I am beyond pleased that hot and dark worked so well for you and your children,” said Hettie, resisting the urge to slap Mrs. Baxter’s hands away as she worked to close the window sash. “But there are bigger concerns afoot. When I arrived, I overheard the housekeeper and cook discussing the food to be sent up for Mrs. Callaghan. Likely some mulled wine and a bit of beef to keep up her strength.”
Mrs. Baxter whirled around, gaping at her. “Ridiculous!”
“Perhaps you’d best advise them on a proper meal.” Then, waving at the window, Hettie added, “I can manage while you are gone.”
Crossing her arms, Mrs. Baxter scoffed. “I am no servant, Miss Stillwell. Go yourself—you are not wanted here.”
Hettie paused, allowing that brief respite to help curb her tongue. She wouldn’t let herself be goaded into an argument. It would not help anyone involved. No matter how much she longed to let her frustrations loose on Mrs. Baxter.
Quickly thinking through possibilities, she nodded and strode toward the door. Affecting her sweetest tone, she said, “I will ask them to send up a pot of strong tea and some cakes. That always lifts one’s spirits.”
