Talk Sweetly to Me (12 page)

Rose shook her head and then carefully ascended the stairs. Her sister’s room was dark, but Patricia was not in bed. She was walking a figure eight pattern on the carpet.

“Rose.” Patricia looked up as her door opened. “You’re back. Don’t worry about me; I’ll feel well soon enough. In fact, I don’t feel so badly now.” She managed a creditable smile.

“Should you lie down?”

“I feel better walking.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing really,” Patricia said. “Just more of those false labor pains, that’s all. And they’re not coming particularly swiftly—they’re still only twenty-three minutes apart.”

Rose felt cold fingers clutch her heart. “You’re still having labor pains? They’ve gone on all day? They’re coming closer together?”

“
False
labor pains.” But Patricia sounded as if she were trying to convince herself. “It’s too early for real labor. I…sent over another note to Doctor Chillingsworth at noon, and he replied that I had nothing to worry about from my description, that the only thing I needed to do was calm myself.”

“I do not like Doctor Chillingsworth,” Rose said passionately.

“He makes me a little uneasy, too,” Patricia said, far too nicely as always. “But I don’t want to bother him with a triviality. If I do, maybe he’ll not come when it’s urgent. So for now…” Patricia smiled. “He’s only five minutes away, less if Josephs runs. It’s doing me no harm to wait. And if I’d rather walk, it can’t be that bad, can it?”

No need to frighten her sister, no matter how Rose’s heart pounded or what scenarios her imagination invented. “No, of course not,” Rose said. “You’ll feel better tomorrow, no doubt. For now, do you want me to walk with you?”

“Yes. That would be lovely.”

Rose took her sister’s hand and paced with her along that four-foot strip of carpet. Patricia’s steps were slow and hesitant, but her voice was as welcoming as ever.

“Did you have a good day today?”

Rose hesitated. She could talk about her calculations, about the story Mrs. Barnstable had told her. But Patricia would see through her false humor in a moment. She was already peering at Rose, a frown on her face.

“I told Mr. Shaughnessy I couldn’t see him any longer,” Rose said swiftly.

“Oh, Rose. I know you had to do it—but I’m sorry you did.”

Rose shook her head. “It’s for the best, really. But…”

“But you liked him anyway, even though he’s a rake.”

“But I wish I were someone else,” Rose heard herself say instead. “Someone who didn’t have to think so hard about marrying an outrageous fellow without risking anything.”

“Marry?” Patricia turned her head to look at Rose. “He wasn’t talking marriage, was he?”

They made another circuit of the carpet, her feet falling on flowers, before Rose felt ready to respond. “He was,” Rose said softly.

“Did you doubt his future fidelity?”

Oh, she should have. All of England would doubt his future fidelity—all of it but her.

“No,” Rose said, her voice on the verge of breaking. “No, not that. But I’d be in all the gossip papers. They’d sneer at Papa for being in trade. And that would be only the beginning. It would be hard. Every day would be hard, and he simply won’t admit how hard it would be.”

“Oh, Rose.” Patricia’s hand clenched in hers. “I love you. But sometimes you have to do what you most want in life. You can’t hide from everything.”

“I don’t
hide,”
Rose said, stung.

Patricia didn’t speak for a moment.

Rose thought of her portfolios, her columns of numbers. She thought of the transit of Venus, of her ducking her head and insisting she’d never be attached to a scientific voyage.

It’s not that you think it’ll prove too difficult for
me.
It will be too difficult for
you.

“I don’t hide,” she said, more slowly this time.

“You do. A little. And you have ever since you were small. It’s why Papa broke with Grandpapa all those years ago, you know.”

“What?”

“When Papa moved to London from Liverpool? It wasn’t just to set up that first import store. It was because he didn’t like what Grandfather was doing to you—putting you on display, having you do your little adding trick with the basket in front of the crowds. You
weren’t
shy before then. After that… Papa wanted it to stop, but Grandfather said it brought in customers.” Patricia shrugged. “So Papa and Mama left instead.”

Rose swallowed. She hadn’t realized they’d left for her. She had thought… Well, she’d been too young to think of reasons. She had simply thought that her parents wanted to strike out on their own.

All she could remember when they moved was a feeling of gladness—that she could stop feeling ashamed of the best part of herself, that she could sit and revel in her talent without everyone’s eyes on her. She had stopped belonging to other people.

She had always thought it a happy accident. It hadn’t been; it had been a gift from her parents.

“So I worry about you sometimes.” Patricia squeezed her hand. “I worry about you a lot, in fact, ensconcing yourself in a quiet office with nothing but numbers to keep you company.”

“It’s not just numbers,” Rose said. “I like astronomy. It’s exciting. And it feels so…safe. Nothing else is about for millions of miles.”

But she hadn’t felt alone last night. Last night, when she’d taken his hand and kissed him, she had felt brave. Not afraid that the world would laugh at her, not with him at her side.

Patricia squeezed her hand again—but this time in a hard, lengthy clench. It was only because she stopped walking that Rose realized she didn’t intend it as a comforting gesture; she was having another contraction.

“Patricia,” Rose said, when she finally loosened her grip, “I really think we should send for Chillingsworth.”

Chapter Eight

R
OSE HELD HER BREATH
as Doctor Chillingsworth frowned. It had taken Josephs hours to find him; he’d been with another patient when Josephs had first set out. The doctor had come only reluctantly; he seemed tired now, his left eyelid drooping asymmetrically.

He’d turned the lights on full bore and felt Patricia’s belly with a clinical detachment.

“Thirty-seven weeks along,” he said with a shake of his head. “Thirty-seven weeks, if that. The baby’s not yet turned. There’s no dilation to speak of. Mrs. Wells, it is still not your time.”

At least he was actually addressing Patricia now. Not that he had any choice; Mr. Josephs had not come up to the bedroom.

“But I’m having contractions,” Patricia said. “Regular contractions, coming closer and closer together. The time between them has fallen from forty-five minutes last night to nineteen just now.”

Chillingsworth looked at Patricia. He let out a long, long sigh. “And yet you are…
mistaken,
I suppose I shall say charitably. There are a great many changes that occur in the human body during a period of gravidity. No doubt you are experiencing gas.”

“Gas.” Patricia sounded shocked. “No. It’s not gas.”

“Your husband is absent,” Chillingsworth said, “And no doubt you find yourself in want of attention. I have observed it all too often in women in your state. But you are worrying yourself needlessly and no doubt causing more harm than not. Rest assured that it is not your time. I do not need more dramatics from you.” He shook his head. “I’d have a little more patience with a new mother’s antics—but I was called here at eleven in the evening after an exceedingly taxing day. Please show some consideration for others, Mrs. Wells.”

He packed up his things. Patricia’s lips had thinned considerably; her hands clenched together. She didn’t speak a word, and Rose couldn’t blame her.

Dramatic? In want of attention?
Her
sister? There was not a chance in the world of it. Patricia had never done a thing to draw attention to herself.

Rose wanted to talk to the man sharply.

But Patricia simply said, “Yes, Doctor Chillingsworth. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

If Patricia didn’t want to make a fuss, Rose wouldn’t make one for her. After all, wasn’t that the way of the world? Rose rarely made a fuss for herself; it was seeing the people she loved be treated unfairly that made her angry.

Rose sat with her sister long after Chillingsworth had left, holding Patricia’s hand, not saying a word, trying not to count the minutes that elapsed between squeezes.

She fell asleep in her clothes, trying to convince herself that the squeezes were not coming closer and closer together.

S
HE WOKE IN THE DARK
, disoriented and bewildered.

“Rose.” Patricia was shaking her. Her voice was a little ragged. “Rose, my water just broke.”

“Oh my God.” Rose came out of her confused dreams instantly. “Oh, God. I’ll wake Josephs. He can have Chillingsworth here in ten minutes.”

“Yes,” Patricia said. “Yes. I think that’s for the best now.”

Rose ran down stairs. She knocked sharply on the servants’ door and explained the situation. In no time, Josephs was stomping into his boots and setting off. Rose watched him go out the door into a wild flurry of snow.

A bell tower chimed twice in the darkness; Rose closed the door and ascended the stairs to her sister.

“He’ll be here soon,” she said. “Mrs. Josephs is fetching towels and putting water on to boil.”

She fumbled with a spill, igniting the rolled paper from the coals before lighting the lamp.

Patricia had her hands on her belly. “This is happening.” She gave Rose a wan smile. “This is actually happening. How…exciting.”

Exciting,
Rose suspected, was not her first choice of word. Nor her second.

“Very exciting.”

Rose didn’t say the other thing on her mind—that at thirty-seven weeks, it was too soon. What happened would happen; if Patricia didn’t want to fret, Rose would keep her worries to herself. It would all be well. It would be. And Chillingsworth would be here soon.

“I wish Isaac were here,” Patricia said.

So did Rose, and not just because Patricia’s husband was a doctor.

“Don’t you worry,” Rose said. “I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. I promised.”

Five minutes passed, then ten. Patricia’s contractions were coming closer now—mere minutes apart, and from the strain on her face, they were getting worse. Fifteen minutes had elapsed since Josephs left, when a third contraction came. Patricia gritted her teeth; Rose held her shoulders. “Shh, shh,” she whispered. “It will all be well.”

But even after the contraction passed, Patricia remained as she had been, her teeth set, her breathing ragged.

“There, there,” Rose said soothingly. “You’re doing so well.”

Patricia’s hand slipped to her belly once more. “Rose?”

“Yes?”

“I’ve just thought of something.”

Rose set her hand on her sister’s shoulder. “What is it? I’ll make it better.”

Patricia let out a shaky breath. “The baby hasn’t turned yet.”

Rose stared at her sister in horror. For one moment, she couldn’t find any words of comfort at all. Every snatch of remembered conversation, every story she’d heard of what might happen in labor floated to mind.

She caught herself before she could recoil in horror. “You mustn’t worry,” she said. “Chillingsworth will be here soon. We live in modern times. There’s a great deal that can be done. I’m sure of it. Don’t you worry.”

As she spoke, the door opened below.

It was a sign of how frightened she was that the thought of Chillingsworth—self-important, cold, rude Chillingsworth—warmed her through and through. “There,” she said soothingly. “He’s here now. I imagine he was only delayed because of the snow.”

There was some stomping in the entry, followed by footsteps coming up the stairs. “You see?” Rose told her sister. “It will be…”

The door swung open on the lonely form of Mr. Josephs. For a second, Rose waited, watching him in utter silence. It took her that second to understand that something was wrong—that the footsteps she’d heard just now had been solitary, that no doctor followed on his heels.

Mr. Josephs hung his head wearily. “He’s not coming.”

Rose blinked, trying to comprehend what had just been said. “He’s out on another call?”