The stout, matronly woman had recovered from the fire at the distillery quite well. Most of her burns had been mild, as she had been some distance from the boiler, for which Jane was grateful. Jeannette did her best curtsy and poked her husband in the side. “Yes, ma’am. This is William Smith.” She wore a simple calico dress, a little faded, but painfully clean. William Smith wore dark trousers, mended at one knee, a white shirt, and a neckcloth of rough cotton.
Jane welcomed them, regretting that she had chosen to wear her formal gown. As they went in, she turned to meet the next couple. The woman bore a strong resemblance to Amey, with round cheeks and the same warm tones to her skin.
“Please be welcome. My husband, Sir Da—” Jane cut off as the pain that had been in her lower back reached around her entire middle and squeezed. On instinct, she reached for Vincent. Jane had felt this particular pain before. That time she had tried to convince herself that it was only a cramp.
“Jane! What is— Oh, God.”
“No—wait. This happens to some women.” She had to believe that. This had to be a false labour. “Give me a moment.”
Vincent turned to the interior. “Frank!”
Jane put her hand on her lower back and forced herself to straighten. “There. See? It has passed.” She took a breath, trying desperately not to cry. The front sweep was full of wagons, and she put on a smile for them. The woman still stood in front of them, watching her carefully. Jane could not remember her name in that moment. “Please come inside and be welcome.”
Vincent took her arm. “Jane … come away.”
“There is nothing to be done.” She swallowed. “Either I am in labour in earnest, in which case we have some time, or, this was a false labour, which seems likely. Let us see what happens before resorting to panic. You recall how long Melody’s delivery was.” She was speaking to herself as much as to him, because the third possibility sat between them.
She did not let him argue, simply turned and greeted the next guest. Jane had no idea what she said—she relied on her education to carry her through the social forms of introductions and welcome. What little part of her was not turned inward directed itself towards Vincent, who hovered by her side, going through the same forms as Jane.
He turned away from her only once, when Frank arrived. She half heard the hurried conversation and knew that they were sending for Dr. Jones. Beneath her fa?ade of civility, Jane was too terrified to tell them not to. Deep inside, she repeated to herself, Not again. Please God. Not again.
And then she greeted the next guest and the one after that. As five minutes turned to ten, and then ten to fifteen, Jane began to relax. Women in her neighbourhood had been afflicted with these pains. So long as they were irregular—or, please God, there was only one—she had nothing to worry about.
Then another pain started in her back and her entire middle tightened again. Jane stopped with a word half formed on her lips and closed her eyes. It was not that it hurt. Indeed, the pain was no more than when her flower arrived, but it was so clearly a bearing pain.
Vincent swept her up in his arms, turning towards the house before she could draw breath. She clung to him as he carried her to their rooms. The hard square of the picture frame thumped against her cheek with each step. That inner voice crept out as she pressed her face against his jacket. “Not again. Please, please … not again.”
“Hush. Shh … shh … Frank has sent for Dr. Jones, and she will take good care of you.” But his grip tightened on her. He knew the math as well as she did. Seven and a half months. Thirty weeks.
It was too soon.
Twenty-eight
The Good Doctor
By the time Vincent had set her down on the bed in their room, the bearing pain had ended. Jane wiped her eyes as he stepped back. Vincent shifted his weight. “What do I do?”
Jane had no idea. She had been with Melody during her delivery, but until close to the end, most of the time had been spent waiting. Even then, Jane’s role had just been to hold Melody’s hand. Vincent would need some activity, at least at first. It was easier to worry about him than to think about what was happening to her. Near panic already compromised her ability to breathe. She had tried to be so careful. Jane caught her thoughts before they could run away with her. Clearly, she needed some activity as well.
“Help me undress.” She sat up.
Vincent leaped forward. “You should be lying down.”
“I am not doing this in an evening gown.” She slid her feet off the bed. “Besides, the midwife had Melody walking until her time began in earnest.”
“But—yes, of course.” Though Vincent was well practised in assisting her under other circumstances, his movements were so cautious that Jane could have unstitched the gown faster.
“I am not a china cup.” As if to belie her words, another of the cramping waves made Jane stop and close her eyes. God. It was too soon.
The door to their room opened, but she could not bring herself to open her eyes to see who had come. The voice identified her soon enough, though. “De picknee coming, eh?”
Vincent answered for her. “It seems so. Can you…?”
“Sure, sure. You go ’head now.”
“I cannot leave her.”