Page 51 of The Secret Word
The midwife opened the door at that moment, and nodded at what Aunt Fern said. “Your wife is asking for you, Mr. Satterthwaite. You may speak with her briefly, and then leave her to us. The babies are impatient to be born, and the next few hours will be women’s work.”
If Clem had asked, Chris would have stayed. “Go and keep Father company, Chris,” she said, instead. “Aunt Fern and Mrs. Greene will look after me and the babies.”
But when Chris got back downstairs, Wright was gone. “He heard that the midwife had arrived, and he ordered his carriage,” the footman reported.
What on earth is the man up to?
Chris could only wait. With no news from upstairs and no anxious grandfather to keep him company, he paced from the window in the study that gave him a glimpse of the stable yard, through the hall that held the stairs up which his wife was working to bring forth his children, to the window in the parlor where he could see the carriage drive.
He was interrupted once, by a message from the school asking for news of “Mrs. S. and the babies”. He sent back to say there was none. There was no word from upstairs. Even the maids, who passed him in the hall carrying buckets of hot water and clean cloths, could tell him nothing except that the mistress appeared “well enough, considering.”
At last, Wright’s carriage came through the gates and proceeded along the drive. Chris rushed back to the study, where he watched Wright descend, followed by the London doctor whom Chris had ejected from their townhouse months ago.
That cunning old man! He must have had the man waiting at the local inn.
Chris met them both as they came into the house from the stable-yard door. “Wright, Doctor. Come through to the parlor, and I shall pour you both a drink.”
Wright puffed out his chest and jutted his chin. “The doctor needs to see his patient.”
“The doctor does not have a patient in this house,” Chris said. “But he has been good enough to come all this way, so I am offering him a drink.”
“My grandson…” Wright began.
“My wife and my children are above stairs, in the care of a highly-regarded midwife, who was recommended to us for her excellent record of live infants and mothers,” Chris replied.
“I have every right to protect…”
“This is my house, sir, and these are my wife and children. I respect your concerns for them, but I will not have Clem bothered while she is giving birth.”
The doctor was looking from one of them to the other like a man at a tennis match.
“Brandy, Doctor?” Chris asked, and led the way to the parlor.
“You are taking a serious risk, young man,” the doctor said, as he accepted his brandy. “In general, midwives are ignorant old women, practicing old wives’ tales that put women at risk. When there are problems, they do not know what to do.”
As opposed to doctors, some of whom were ignorant old men, Chris thought. “The midwife says that Mrs. Satterthwaite is healthy and strong, and that at least one of the babies is well positioned for the birth,” he said. “My wife is having twins, Doctor.”
The doctor shook his head, dolefully. “Twin births are complicated,” he said. “Midwives are not trained to handle the difficulties that can arise.”
“Can arise,” Chris pointed out. “The village doctor is standing by, and Mrs. Greene has promised to call him in if she is concerned about the progress of the confinement.”
Wright, who had been brooding, broke in at that point. “We won’t need the village doctor. Myaccoucheuris right here.”
It was a fair point. “That seems reasonable. If he is needed, and if Clem agrees to his attendance.” One thing would be a sticking point for Clem. “She will not want to be bled.”
The doctor sniffed. “I have found bleeding to be most efficacious in preventing the fevers that kill many mothers.”
Chris wondered how the man had counted the numbers who lived or died, and to what records he compared them. He forbore to argue. “We were about to have dinner when Clem decided that she needed the midwife,” he said. “Would you gentlemen care to eat?”
Presumably, the kitchen would be able to produce something fit to serve. He left the two men to their brandy and went to make the arrangements for meals to be taken up on trays to Clem’s attendants and served in the dining room for him and the two men.
After that, he climbed the stairs and knocked on the door of the birthing room. Martha the maid opened the door, but only enough to look at him through the crack.
“Everything is going well,” she said.
“May I speak with my wife and Mrs. Greene?” Chris asked, feeling both mildly outraged to be kept outside of a door in his own house and out of his depth in this essential feminine ritual.
“A moment please,” said Aunt Fern’s voice, and Martha shut the door in his face.
