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“It won’t come to that. You’re going to be well.”

“You’ll take him,” Tuppence persisted.

“Truly, there won’t be a need for—”

“And love him.”

“Yes. I’ll love and take care of you both.” Reina bent to press her lips to the housekeeper’s waxen forehead. “Don’t worry. Just rest and preserve your strength, dear. We’re going to fight our way through this. Whatever it takes.”

Another set of contractions.

Was it her imagination, or had the labor pains slowed? They’d been coming every seven or eight minutes, but this interval had lasted at least ten minutes. And now Tuppence wasn’t squeezing her hand nearly as hard.

Mrs. Caswell approached to test her temperature and check her pulse and retreated to the chair in the corner.

Gusts of sleet hit the windows at a slant, as if someone were tossing handfuls of pebbles at the glass. The roads had probably turned into icy mud. John and Maddock were out in this mess—when were they coming back? Were they having difficulty locating the doctor? Reina’s heart thumped with anxiety until sweat bloomed beneath the layers of her clothing, and then she grew chilled.

There were distant clinks and clatters from the kitchen, and footfalls on the stairs. Now and then, the beams and rafters groaned quietly as the house settled for the night, like an old dog making itself comfortable by the fire. The sounds were reassuring, the internal rhythms of a living thing that seemed to be watching over her. Don’t fret, it was saying. I’ve seen this before, many times. My coats of paint and paper are like the rings of ancient trees. I’ve weathered storms just like this one. I’ve seen birthdays, weddings, funerals, a million joys and sorrows. It all passes. It all happens again.

A chime fluttered from the mantel. Nine o’clock.

Reina sat up straighter, her pulse quickening as she heard a growing commotion from beyond the closed door—voices, rattles, thumps. John must have returned with the doctor. A thrill of relief raced through her. She blotted her damp forehead with the sleeve of her free arm, while Mrs. Caswell went to open the door.

To their surprise, a slim woman strode across the threshold with a leather doctor’s bag. Despite her youthful appearance, she radiated a crisp authority that whisked the sickroom atmosphere to the corners. Her incisive gaze took in the scene and settled on the still figure in the bed. “Hello, I’ve come to examine Tuppence. From what Mr. Pembroke has told me, we must make haste.”

Looking baffled, the midwife said, “We sent for a doctor. A surgeon . . .”

“Yes, I know,” the woman replied, in a pleasant and composed manner that Reina recognized immediately. It was the façade every professional woman had to wear like a suit of armor. “I’m Dr. Gibson.”

Mrs. Caswell’s eyes widened. “Garrett Gibson?”

Reina rose to her feet, staring at the doctor in wonder. She was the most well-known medical figure in England aside from Joseph Lister, and by far the most controversial. People who were opposed to the idea of female doctors claimed that women were too delicate by nature, both physically and emotionally, for the medical profession. It had also been claimed that women loved gossip too much to maintain doctor-patient confidentiality, and that the average female brain couldn’t grasp complex scientific subjects. Dr. Gibson had proved her critics wrong time and time again and had established herself as a surgeon of rare skill.

“I’m Reina Martin,” she managed to say, and gestured toward the midwife. “This is Mrs. Caswell. Thank you for coming, Doctor. Forgive us, we didn’t expect—”

“I understand. Mr. Pembroke caught me by surprise as well.” Dr. Gibson went to set her leather bag by the washstand. “But when he explained the circumstances, I knew I had to come at once.” After taking out a brown glass bottle, she poured several glugs into a basin and added water from a steaming brass can. “Mrs. Caswell,” she asked, washing her hands industriously, “have you kept account of Tuppence’s vital signs?”

“Yes, Doctor. I have all the notes here.”

“Excellent,” Dr. Gibson said. “I’ll want to read them in just a moment.” She came to the bedside. “Tuppence,” she said, laying a gentle hand on her forehead, “I’m Dr. Gibson. I’m here to take care of you. Are you able to open your eyes? Can you look at me for a moment?”

Tuppence made a quiet sound in her throat as if she were dreaming, but her eyes remained closed.

“That’s quite all right, Tuppence.” Dr. Gibson pressed two fingers against a pulse in her neck, just beneath her jaw. She looked at Mrs. Caswell. “How long since she last spoke?”

“Eight thirty,” the midwife replied.

Another contraction started. Tuppence didn’t seem to notice. Dr. Gibson slid a hand over the curve of her stomach, gently palpating.

“Twelve minutes since the last one,” Mrs. Caswell said. “It’s slowing.”

The two women exchanged a glance that chilled Reina.

The muscles in Dr. Gibson’s jaw tensed and flexed. “Mrs. Caswell, I hope you’ll be willing to assist me in the surgery?”

“I’d be honored, Doctor.”

“Thank you. You’ll want to disinfect with antiseptic solution straightaway. I’ve brought a surgical smock for you to wear over your dress.”