“What are you thinking? You shouldn’t be walking about,” she said, nudging her way between Hettie and her sister-in-law. Then, giving the former a hard look, she asked, “Are you trying to kill her and the baby?”
Charity stiffened, her brows furrowing at the words no mother wished to hear inside that birthing sanctuary.
“She needed to move around a bit. There is nothing wrong with that,” said Hettie.
Mrs. Baxter looked about as though seeking support, but upon finding only Mrs. Johnson, she shook her head and started leading Charity back to the bed. “Once the ordeal has begun, a lady ought not to move. She ought to have removed to the lying-in bed weeks ago, in fact. Movement isn’t good for the baby. Do you want to do him harm, jostling him about like that?”
“I wish to stand, Camilla—” began Charity, but her objections were quickly waved away as Mrs. Baxter babbled more dire predictions if the young lady did not follow her instructions.
As Hettie could only cause more contention by holding onto Charity, she released her and allowed Mrs. Baxter to take the lady back to bed. It was clear enough why the expectant mother desired assistance through her ordeal, and the more time Hettie spent with the ladies, the more evident it was that a battle was to come.
Like a foot soldier on the line, staring off at the enemy from across the field of battle, Hettie sensed the impending doom of what that might bring. Her standing with the family wasn’t even tenuous; Mrs. Baxter and his sons had made their feelings clear on the matter, and no doubt his other daughters would write to voice their concerns as well once the news spread through the family. If one wished to ingratiate oneself, one did not do so by causing a fuss.
Drawing in a deep breath, Hettie considered her options. How could she assist and advocate on Charity’s behalf without antagonizing Mrs. Baxter further? As far as she could see, there was only one option—another distraction.
“Mrs. Baxter,” said Hettie with a bright smile. “How fortuitous that you have come.”
Both mother and midwife looked at her with raised brows, but as Mrs. Baxter’s attention had turned to Hettie, the lady couldn’t see their surprise.
“There is a tisane that is exceptionally helpful during the ordeal, and I think it might be just the thing. My niece’s physician recommended it during her lying-in,” said Hettie whilst sending out a petition for forgiveness for the small falsehood.
Mrs. Baxter waved a vague hand toward the door. “Then go fetch it.”
“But I cannot. That is the trouble,” said Hettie with a frown, quickly piecing together what to say as the words tumbled forth. “It is only efficacious if made by a mother, and as you well know, I have no children.”
“Then send the midwife,” replied Mrs. Baxter before turning her attention back to Charity whilst rattling off various instructions for the poor mother-to-be in a manner that hadn’t even a passing nod at calm or comfort.
“One of the great dangers during the ordeal is how the mother’s humors are so dramatically imbalanced, and good health can only be maintained if we maintain balance,” added Hettie, grasping at words before she truly knew what she was saying. “The ingredients are all perfectly chosen to do so, and its potency is increased when the ingredients are collected and brewed by a mother or sister—someone close to the mother-to-be who has gone through the ordeal herself and has a fine balance of humors.”
Hettie paused long enough to consider the logic of that statement; she knew little about medicine and possessed only a passing understanding of what humors were other than the fact that physicians insisted they required balancing. Yet, her assertion seemed sound enough.
“You are quite healthy and robust, and as you mentioned, you have delivered five healthy children without problem, which is quite the feat,” continued Hettie. “Surely, the best one to brew the tisane would be you.”
Mrs. Baxter paused in her fluffing of Charity’s pillows, a furrow in her brow. “You say your niece’s physician recommended it?”
Sending out a silent prayer for forgiveness, Hettie nodded. “He studied in Edinburgh, under some of the greatest physicians the university has ever produced, and she did as he prescribed and delivered a healthy baby boy without a single complication.”
No one in the room moved. The other ladies held their breath as Mrs. Baxter considered it, whilst Charity and Mrs. Johnson’s gazes bounced between the two, though Hettie’s full attention was fixed on Mrs. Baxter.
“I suppose it couldn’t hurt. As long as it isn’t a strong brew—”
“Not at all,” said Hettie, holding up her hands. “The tisane itself is brewed for quite some time, making it quite potent, but it is to be administered more like a draft—taken in spoonfuls.”
Mrs. Baxter glanced down at her patient. “I do not think I should leave her for long. She cannot do without me.”
“But if it will help me and my child, I can manage,” said Charity, reaching for her sister-in-law’s hand. “Please, Camilla.”
Placing her other hand on her hips, Mrs. Baxter turned a gimlet eye on the midwife and interloper. “Keep that window closed, and I will send a maid to stoke the fire. And ensure that Mrs. Callaghan doesn’t stir a toe out of bed.”
All three women held their breaths as they nodded and waited. Mrs. Baxter departed long enough to fetch paper and pencil from the others next door and returned with it at the ready for Hettie’s instructions. As she was the mother figure of the Stillwell family, household medicine had fallen to Hettie’s shoulders, and she was familiar enough with the common ingredients used to rattle off an extensive list—none of which would cause Charity any harm, should Mrs. Baxter insist on pouring the drink down her throat.
To that, Hettie added quite a few instructions certain to draw out the time required to prepare it, lengthening it as much as she could without making Mrs. Baxter suspicious concerning the “medicine’s” true intent.
Mrs. Baxter’s brows furrowed. “This will take some time to gather and brew. Does it truly need to steep for an hour?”
Hettie nodded. “I am certain. I reviewed the instructions before coming here, and the physician was quite insistent on it. At least an hour. The longer it brews, the better. And make certain to stir it constantly. If it burns or boils over, you must begin again.”
Giving a vague hum in response, Mrs. Baxter studied the hastily scratched out instructions as she strode from the room. Only once the door was shut firmly behind her and the sounds of her footsteps echoed down the stairs did anyone deign to breathe once more.
