Miss Martin knelt to gather the glass from Caro’s broken goblet, and Althea joined her. From where he stood, feeling absolutely useless, Oliver watched two blond heads come together, and heard the low murmur of voices, but couldn’t decipher their words.
He detested feeling useless. Oliver motioned to another servant, hovering nearby—“Could we have a broom please, to deal with the glass?”—then joined the women. “Please watch the sharp edges, ladies. One medical emergency per night is my limit. If one of you needs stitches, you’ll exceed my emotional resources.”
Althea snatched her hands back, but Miss Martin continued plucking glass off the floor, onto a napkin. A second later, she hissed, then sucked her finger.
He’d swear his heart stopped. “How bad is it?”
The flash of her dimple, directed at him for the second time this evening, struck Oliver as nearly obscenely inappropriate, given the circumstances. “No more than a nick.”
Thankfully, a maid hurried over with a broom and waved everyone away from the remaining shards on the floor.
“Althea, I’ll take you home, then return to stay with Dorian. Miss Martin, I assume you plan to be on hand during the labor?”
“Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.” Miss Martin brushed her hands on the skirt of her gown, then examined her finger again. Oliver craned his neck to see the cut, but she shot him an exasperated look. “Go. We will be here when you come back.”
Miss McCrae appeared at his side and sent him a wry smile. “It sounds like you have your orders as well, milord.”
Althea said her goodbyes, then left to retrieve her cloak from the butler.
“Ladies.” Oliver bowed. “I’ll see you both soon.”
At the front door, he took his hat from Hastings, the butler, and waited impatiently as Althea fussed with her cloak until it draped just so over her shoulders. Why was she taking so long, when she knew he was eager to be with Dorian after seeing her home? And he wasn’t the only one. Caro’s cousins would be right by her side as well. Which reminded him—
“Hastings, please send someone up with a plaster for Miss Martin’s finger.” Thanking the man, Oliver placed his hand at Althea’s back and guided her out into the night.
Sweat dampened Caroline’s hairline, while strain pinched the corners of her mouth. Dorian stood by her side holding one hand, stubbornly refusing to leave the room, even after the midwife arrived. Hattie held Caro’s other hand.
Constance pulled up a chair beside Hattie’s, but without a hand to hold, she found herself picking at her cuticles.Not long after they got Caro settled in her room, a servant arrived with a plaster for Connie’s finger. When asked, they said Lord Southwyn had requested it on her behalf. Now, with nothing to do but wait—and waiting wasn’t something nature had equipped her to do comfortably—Constance stared at the small bandage as if it held some secret meaning.
Which was silly. Southwyn was merely being kind.
Tearing her gaze from her finger, she checked on Caro.
“So much of this evening will need to be edited out of the official story we tell this child when they ask about their birth,” Caro murmured when her body relaxed after another contraction turned her belly to stone. “I’m sorry about what the Dragon said, Connie. That was uncalled for.”
“Push it from your mind, darling. You’ve much more important things to tend to,” Connie reassured her.
“Must we have so many people present, Your Grace? Babes like peace and quiet when they enter the world.” The midwife cast a disapproving glower over the room as she pulled items from her leather bag. Constance eyed her askance when the woman poured gin into a small bowl rather than a glass. Then she placed a variety of sharp things into the bowl. A needle. A pair of scissors. A wickedly sharp knife.
Bile lurched up Constance’s throat.
Hattie clearly didn’t battle squeamishness. “Why gin?”
“’Tis cheaper than whisky. Wounds heal better with a splash of spirits. Makes sense to douse in spirits the things that make wounds, eh?” The woman tied an apron around her waist and sighed. “None of you are leaving. The dowager saw sense and left; why can’t you lot?”
Caro’s mouth was a flat line as she leveled the midwife with a look. “I’ve been alone for too many importantmoments in my life. These are my people, and I will have them beside me when I bring my child into the world.”
“Men don’t handle this well, Your Grace. Messes with their heads to see their wife’s body doing this kind of thing, ye understand.”
Dorian’s answer barely fell short of a growl. “I’m staying.”
And that was that. Constance smirked, knowing it wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation with this particular midwife, or the one before her. In fact, the woman they’d sent for tonight was the third midwife to tend to the duchess during her confinement.
The first had smelled so poorly, she’d literally made Caro vomit.
The second was neat and tidy, but she’d been immovable in her opinions regarding a husband’s place during what she called the “women’s work” of labor. Having lost her mother during childbirth, Caro was equally insistent on having Dorian stay beside her.
Thus, the current midwife who would deliver the first child of the Duke and Duchess of Holland. The woman’s number of successful deliveries far outweighed the alternative. Her overall cleanliness, coupled with the fact that she wasn’t afraid to push back a little on certain topics, rather than bowing obsequiously to the couple, cinched their decision to let her attend them.
