Vincent took Dr. Jones’s advice and looked away. He walked to the far side of the room, trying by some action to trick his body out of its betraying weakness. He reached the wall, turned, and walked the circuit of the room, until his path brought him to the bed.
Jane’s head was turned to the side, and her soft mouth hung a little open. Her skin was grey and translucent, making the delicate blue vein at her temple all the clearer. By her head, wrapped tightly in white cloth, Charles lay in ruddy contrast. His son’s perfect health, even coming nearly a month too soon, seemed obvious in the roses in his cheeks.
Good. It would kill Jane to lose another child.
Vincent wrapped his hands in his hair. She would be well. Dr. Jones knew her business. His wife, his Muse, his life, would be well. She had the best possible medical care.
Just like the Princess Charlotte.
Vincent’s stomach turned. He closed his eyes. Absolutely not. Not now. He would not begin to panic and mourn when there was no need. Dr. Jones would bring Jane through this. His chest ached with every inhalation. Jane would tell him that he needed some activity, and she would be right. He needed to do something before he lost all semblance of control.
Lowering his hands, Vincent opened his eyes and stepped forward to pick up Charles. Jane would not want him to be unattended.
He had been frightened to hold Tom the first time Melody had handed the baby to him. One hand cradled Charles’s head, shifting him to the crook of his arm. Then Vincent put a hand under Charles’s back to hold him steady. He weighed so little, no more than five pounds. Their nephew, Tom, had seemed impossibly small, but he must have weighed nearly twice that.
Vincent bounced from the knees, twisting a little from side to side in the pattern Tom had seemed to like. It made his rib ache a little, but that was a useful pain. Charles squirmed, frowning at the motion, and then relaxed. His little rosebud mouth opened in an imitation of Jane’s. Vincent touched Charles’s lips, and the tip of his finger obscured his son’s mouth.
His hands had stopped shaking.
Risking a glance at Dr. Jones and Nkiruka, Vincent had to look away immediately to keep the panic from fluttering back. Blood soaked the blankets and covered Dr. Jones’s arm.
He bent his head to Charles. His son’s eyes were open, winking and staring about without comprehension. The frown came back, bringing with it the little furrow that Jane got when she concentrated. Not yet an hour old and already trying to understand the world.
A heavy sigh from Dr. Jones almost dropped Vincent to his knees. He stared fixedly at the wall and tried to interpret the sound. “Mr. Hamilton, I have stopped the bleeding.”
Vincent took firm hold of the fraying threads of control and clung to them. He could no more move than a glamourist could walk with an intricate illusion. Some response was required, though. He formed the thought in his head, made certain that he could speak without his voice breaking, and said, “I am glad to hear it.”
“I do not want to cause you further distress, but neither do I want to give you any illusions. Your wife has lost a great deal of blood. More, I judge, than when Sir Ronald attended her.”
“Thank you. I recall your cautions from when she was bled. May I assume that our efforts will be the same here?”
“Keep her calm. Keep her warm. Get as much liquid into her as we can. Yes.”
“But she will recover.” His voice sounded too coldly formal. He was doing that thing his father despised, being unable to make eye contact. Vincent turned to Dr. Jones and tried not to look away.
“She will be in danger for some time yet.”
“But you think she will recover.”
“That is my hope.”
He clenched his jaw and bore down on the threads of his emotions. The effort made tremors of tension run through his frame, but those he knew how to hide. So long as he was holding Charles, they could not see his betraying hands. “I understand. You will tell me if there is anything that I can do to aid in her recovery.”
“Naturally.”
Nkiruka leaned against the bed, breathing rapidly from her work with the glamour. She wiped her hand across her forehead and nodded to him. “Got some glamour you could do to help.”
Dr. Jones rolled her eyes. “It will do no harm, but do not exaggerate it.”
“Knew we shouldn’ta sent you to France. You have all these foolish European ideas.”
“Those foolish European ideas have saved a number of lives here. And you know that, or you would not have raised the funds to send me to study.”
It was insignificant, a safe topic to give him time to regain a little governance. “You studied medicine in France?”
“Paris. With Dr. Laennec.” Dr. Jones wiped the blood from her hands on an already bloodstained towel. “My early training was here, as a midwife. I have since realised that a number of practices I learned here were superstitions, but harmless.”
“Harmless … until you na do them.”