Talk Sweetly to Me
Page 25

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?”
“No,” Josephs said shortly. “He’s in. He’s just not coming.”
Rose felt all her hope slowly drain from her.
Patricia pressed her hand. “What does that mean?”
Josephs shook his head. The thing he didn’t say—well, Rose could hear it echoing all too well. Chillingsworth referring to her sister as “dramatic,” saying that she was “mistaken” and thinking himself charitable for not calling her an outright liar.
Rose stood. “There’s a misunderstanding,” she said tightly. “A mistake. He just needs someone to explain what is happening to him.” That had to be it. “We didn’t tell Josephs your water broke. No doubt once he hears that, he’ll be right over.”
“No, Miss,” Josephs started to say. “I told him—”
Rose held up a hand, stopping those words. She couldn’t accept them. She’d promised Patricia that she would take care of her; she couldn’t let her down. Not now. “I’m going,” she said. “I’ll get him. I’ll be right back, Patricia. Right back. Mr. Josephs, have your wife come up and sit with my sister. You’ll need to come with me.”
It was a good thing Rose had fallen asleep in her clothing. She had only to find stockings and boots—no point doing them up all the way—and slip into her coat. She was winding a scarf about her neck when Mr. Josephs came down to her.
“Miss,” he said in a low voice. “Perhaps you need to hear…”
“Don’t say it.” She couldn’t hear it.
“Mrs. Walton, the midwife—she is out. That’s why I was so long returning. I was checking on her. I can find someone else, but the next nearest physician is miles away, and in this snow…”
“Do not say it,” Rose warned. “If the next nearest physician is miles away, then we will simply have to get Chillingsworth.” She thought of her sister’s face twisting in fear. Of her sister trying to be brave as she told her the baby hadn’t turned. “We will have to get him.”
The snow was falling in earnest; Rose could scarcely see more than two houses down. The street lamps were like dull white globes of light, scarcely illuminating their way. Three steps in the snow—now three inches deep—made Rose realize she should have taken the time to lace her boots. Snow slipped in, cold and wet, packing itself against her stockings with every step. But she didn’t dare stop. She counted time not in minutes, but in the length of time between Patricia’s contractions. She could almost feel the squeeze of her sister’s hand in hers as she hurried down the street.
It took two contractions to arrive at Chillingsworth’s home. She rapped smartly on the door. In her mind’s eye, she could see her sister smiling gamely, trying to put a good face on things.
No, Rose told herself. It was going to be all right. She would make it all right.
The door finally opened. Chillingsworth’s eyes fell on Rose; in the flickering light of the streetlamp outside, she could see his nostrils flare.
“Please,” Rose said. “My sister’s water broke. The baby is coming now. It hasn’t turned—”
“Of course it hasn’t turned,” the doctor said in a cold voice. “It’s not her time yet.”
“No, it is. It is absolutely her time. She’s laboring now, Doctor Chillingsworth, truly laboring. There can be no question—”
“And how many births have you presided over?”
“None, but—”
“Did you see her water break?”
“No, but our woman was cleaning—”
“Miss Sweetly, I spent ten years at a naval post in the West Indies. While I was there, I saw a hundred women like your sister, and let me tell you, a more dramatic set of lying malingerers I have never observed. I have gone to your sister twice in the last twenty-four hours. I will not rouse myself for her again.”
“But—”
“I shall wait on Mrs. Wells at seven in the morning, which is far earlier than she deserves. No sooner. Tell your sister to stop with her hysterics and behave with some decency.”
Rose was too shocked to speak.
“And for God’s sake, if you bother me again tonight, I’ll not come in the morning, either.”
“Doctor Chillingsworth. Please.”
He shut the door in her face.
“I tried to tell you, Miss.” Beside her, Josephs sounded apologetic. “I did.”
He had, and she hadn’t wanted to listen. She hadn’t dared to listen, because there was no one else to be found at this time of night but this man.
This man who had spent ten years in the West Indies. Who had called Patricia dramatic, had accused her of falsifying her condition simply because she craved attention.
I saw a hundred women like your sister, he had said. For weeks she’d listened to Chillingsworth talk. For weeks, she had wanted to believe that when he said women like your sister he had meant women who were pregnant with their first child. But he hadn’t qualified his comments with a statement about pregnant women. He’d talked about working in the West Indies.
A more dramatic set of lying malingers I have never observed.
It was a punch to the stomach. Rose inhaled. The cold air felt like a knife in her lungs. But she didn’t have time to weep over it or to gnash her teeth at the unfairness. She didn’t have time to rail at life’s injustices.
In the back of her mind, she was still counting contractions—and she knew now that they were coming even closer.
“Josephs.” She was proud of herself; her voice was steady. “Find someone. Anyone. Please. I’m…”