by Betty Bolte
"What's... What?" Lydia struggled to sit up far enough to see the baby, and then she cried out and fell back onto the mattress. She moaned and gripped her abdomen, eyes wide and panicked.
"George, take your son." She gently transferred the lifeless form to its father's shaking hands. Peering into his stricken eyes, she shook her head slowly. "I'm so very sorry."
"Help my wife." His eyes pleaded with Samantha to save the woman writhing on the bed. He hugged the child to his chest while the boys fixed wide eyes on their father. The child would have had a loving father to defend it against the inequalities of the world. If he had lived.
Samantha nodded at the stoic man before rushing to Lydia. She had no idea as to what possible problem or ailment caused the distress evident on her patient's face. The pregnancy had progressed normally by every indication. Cord accidents were rare, but would not threaten the mother's life. The random feeling Lydia had of things not being right had been the only concern which cast a shadow on her condition. Reviewing the signs and symptoms she'd witnessed on previous visits, Samantha performed another examination, searching for any possible cause. Lydia presented normal response to childbirth, other than the pain. Could it be associated with the failure of the afterbirth to emerge?
She scrambled in her bag for a strong simple to both kill the pain and to encourage the expelling of the placenta. Time slipped away as she searched for what she needed. She must hurry. Fumbling the tiny bottle into her still trembling hand, she pulled the cork with a faint pop. She placed the mouth of the bottle to Lydia's lips. "Drink this."
Lydia groaned but obediently opened her mouth for Samantha to administer half the volume. Lydia's eyes watered as she swallowed. She coughed on the bitter taste, dropping her head back onto the pillow.
"What did you give her?" George edged closer to stand beside her, peering down from his towering height.
Samantha glanced at him and then the baby in his arms. "Something to kill the pain."
"What's wrong?" George hugged the tiny body as though afraid it might break. "Why is she in such pain?"
"I don't know." Samantha slowly shook her head. All her fears joined into one massive failure. All her training ended up for naught. All her experience providing no insight as to even what to try. A woman's life hung in the balance. "I-I simply don't... I don't know."
"Who does?" George pinned her with a fearful gaze. The tall brawny black loomed above her, muscles bulging beneath his tattered shirt. His voice shook nearly as much as his hands. "Fetch someone who can help her. Please."
Samantha took a deep breath as she studied George's severe expression. One swat of the back of his hand would send her careering across the room. But she relied upon the fact that he needed her help to keep her safe from his anger and grief. "My mother was the only other midwife in town."
"Get her, then." George shifted the tiny body in his arms, not relinquishing his hold for a moment. "And be quick. Lydia needs help now."
Samantha shook her head. "Mother left town and won't be back."
"Then who else can you get?"
"There's no one else. No midwives, at least."
"You talking about one of them docs?" George frowned down at her. "Do they help slaves?"
Samantha shrugged. "I believe so. If I were to summon Dr. Trent Cunningham, I feel certain he'd attend posthaste." Just to make her failed efforts look worse. But he'd come and maybe he'd have a better idea as to what to do to help her friend.
"Do it." George moved to Lydia's side, taking hold of her hand with his massive fist. "I won't lose my wife."
Dr. Trent to the rescue. Yet again. Samantha sighed and shook off the impending dread inching across her shoulders. She could do no more for the poor woman. Other than seek help from the same man who wished her methods to go away.
"Very well. Send one of your boys for the doctor, Dr. Trent. You know him?" How she hated to need his help, but she must do whatever she could for Lydia.
Without a word to Samantha, he yelled for his oldest son and dispatched him on flying feet to retrieve Trent. Samantha turned back to Lydia, noting the pain had subsided along with some of her distress. A small sense of victory, of hope, edged into her heart. Please, let her live.
"Is the pain less?" Samantha asked.
Lydia nodded, her expression reflecting the easing of the discomfort. "I'm feeling a touch dizzy, but otherwise not so bad as before but still not right. Can you do somethin' about the pain? Please?"
"I suppose." Samantha retrieved the little bottle and uncorked it, sifting in her mind the dosage limitations of the potion. She placed the bottle to Lydia's mouth, propping her head up with her other hand. "Take a tiny sip. That's all you should need."
Lydia obliged and Samantha eased the woman's head back onto the thin pillow. "Try to get some rest. Relaxing may help you overcome the soreness."
Rubbing her belly in slow circles, Lydia moaned and closed her eyes. Samantha used a kerchief to dry the perspiration from Lydia's brow and cheeks. All the while, she prayed for Trent's arrival with each passing minute. She'd done all she knew how. Lydia's fate rested in Trent's hands. An hour flowed by like molasses on a winter's day, cold and dark and bittersweet.
Samantha moved away to refill the tea kettle with water and hang it over the fire, As she returned to Lydia's side several minutes later, she inspected her condition. She didn't like what she saw. "Lydia, are you feeling any better?" She smoothed a hand over the woman's damp black hair, away from eyes squeezed shut in response to the pain. "Lydia? Did you hear me?"
Lydia cried out, hands pressing onto her stomach. Then a low sigh preceded silence as her hands fell from her abdomen to drop onto the cot at her sides.
"Lydia!" Samantha grabbed the woman's shoulders and gently rocked her. "Lydia! Please. Don't do this."
She lay frantic fingers on the side of the woman's still neck. No pulse. Her chest didn't rise and fall. She positioned her cheek over the open mouth but no air brushed her skin. The pain induced tension around her eyes and mouth had relaxed into a peaceful expression. Oh dear God. Lydia, no! She stepped back from the bed, one hand covering her mouth. Turning to George, she shook her head, unable to say the dreadful words.
George blinked several times and then belted out an angry grief-filled string of curses. He placed his dead son on the cot at Lydia's feet, and pushed Samantha out of the way. He kneeled beside the bed, a deep rumbling moan filling the air. He lifted Lydia's body into a bear hug, rocking to and fro as he repeatedly sobbed her name.
Samantha sank to the floor, her legs not capable of supporting her shock. What had happened? George's sobs hammered her senses. The other son and Angel stood by the table, adding their cries to the grief in the room as they witnessed and responded to their father's anguish.
The front door burst open and Trent rushed inside on a blast of cold air, followed by the older boy. Trent took in the situation in one sweep of his gaze. The question in his eyes shifted to understanding as quickly. He rushed to where she sat on the dirt floor, her dark blue skirts a puddle around her. He reached out a hand to help her stand. She reluctantly accepted his offer, and rose to her feet all in the space of a minute.
"What has happened here?" His tone suggested he knew the answer. "Why have you sent for me?"
Oh, how she wished she didn't have to say it out loud, with the family hanging on every word they exchanged. "Her baby was a stillborn after the cord suffocated the poor thing. But then Lydia suffered from some pain. I tried to help her. She d-died despite no other known problems, nothing apparent to my eye." Her voice quavered as her gaze drifted to where George continued to rock with Lydia in his embrace. The woman had hoped to be free after her baby was born. Not like this, though. Samantha choked back a sob. "I don't understand."
"Following your mother's ways again. I thought we'd moved passed such nonsense." Trent headed toward George, making a shooing motion toward Samantha. "You've been through enough. Why don't you go home? I'll take care of things here."
> She bristled at the implied insult until she realized he spoke the truth. Bowing her head, she sucked in a fortifying breath. Let it out while counting to five. She must face the reality, the true meaning of the situation. Her involvement had led to misery and death. The only thing any one needed from her was to step aside and let others heal. Quelling the emotion threatening to choke her, she grabbed her bag and fled the house.
She mounted the steps into the front seat of the carriage and picked up the reins. She wouldn't think about it. Wouldn't permit herself to feel the grief stabbing her like porcupine quills. Better to do something without thinking or feeling. Slapping the reins on the horse's rump, she gasped when the vehicle jolted forward.
She made her way back along the bumpy road toward town, through the obligatory check at the sentry, and then on to the Sullivans' home. All without being able to stop seeing Lydia's still body, or that of her tiny baby's. If only she could stop hearing George's sobbing. Stop hearing the weeping of the three motherless children. Stop hearing Trent's disappointment when he confronted her failure. Parking in the drive, she handed off the reins to Richard. Numbly, she descended to the cobblestones, dragged her bag out of the vehicle, and stumbled toward the house.
"Pardon me, Miss."
Now what? She couldn't withstand any more surprises. The man limping toward her appeared to have stepped off a ship. Dressed like a sailor in dark blue wool shirt and tan pants, a knitted cap on his head. He had an agreeable countenance and easy manner. He didn't appear threatening, so Samantha lingered until he stopped in front of her.
"How may I help you?" Samantha stayed still with an effort. She longed to escape to the privacy of her room, away from any chance of additional turmoil and tragedy.
"My name's Mack Hanrahan. I understand you took in a stray dog, a white and tan Water Spaniel to be specific."
Damnation. What did he want? The truth dawned slowly in her mind. No, not Thistle. She needed her dog. Yet something in his expression conveyed his sincerity as he awaited her response. "How is my dog any concern of yours?"
Mack slipped his knit hat from his balding head and clutched it at his belt buckle. "Rose is my best hunting dog. She ran off a few weeks back. I'm hoping to find her afore she has her pups."
Gramercy. He wanted Thistle and the puppies? She must think, get her brain working. She couldn't lose the dogs on top of everything else. Who was he to take her friend away? "How do I know she's your dog?"
"If'n you don't mind, I'll just whistle for her and we can answer the question." Hope sparked in his eyes as he twirled his hat between his hands.
What could it hurt? One more tragedy to pile on top of the others. If Thistle wasn't his, she'd ignore the sound. If she had run away, then the right thing for Samantha to do was to return the dog to her rightful owner. But if she had her choice, she didn't want to do the right thing. She wanted to keep Thistle, the loving, smart dog that had made a place in Samantha's heart no other being could ever fill. The hope in Mack Hanrahan's eyes decided the matter. On a sigh, she nodded.
He put first and fourth fingers in his mouth and blew three short high notes. Before the last note died on the breeze, Thistle bounded out of the stable and ran straight to Mack. He rubbed her head and she leapt up to put her paws on his chest. Close behind, four white and tan pups wiggled and waggled their way to her side. Samantha's hope deflated as she witnessed the elation on Thistle's face and in her furiously wagging tail.
"Ah, she's had them, then." Mack squatted and extended a hand for the puppies to sniff and lick. After a few minutes, he stood and withdrew a leather purse from his pocket. He removed several coins and offered them to Samantha. "Them pups are valuable to me, and I'm much obliged for your help. Thank ye for caring for Rose and her pups so well for me. I'll be taking them home now."
Automatically, she held out her hand to take the coins. As they clinked onto her palm, her heart shattered into sharp-edged pieces. She didn't want his money. She wanted Thistle and the pups. She closed her hands over the coins, feeling their cold weight. Sobs she'd held at bay erupted from her, startling Mack into silence. She shook her head, unable to speak, unable to put words to the grief engulfing her, unable to stay one more moment with the man destroying the last shred of hope in her life. Flinging the money to the ground, she raced for the back door, afraid she'd never have the courage to emerge from the safety of the house again. No one would care, of that she could be certain.
Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it to catch her breath, calm her thundering heart. She thumped her head against the hard wood, eyes closed, tears scalding her cheeks.
"Samantha? What is troubling you?"
Samantha cut off a sob and opened her eyes. She scrubbed a hand across her wet face. Emily stood at the entrance to the dining room, an arm wrapped around a porcelain bowl brimming with apples resting on her hip. Samantha pushed away from the door, her legs wobbly but managing to barely support her.
"What is troubling me?" She cackled, surprised by the harsh sound, and then sobered abruptly. She sniffled as she shook her head. "A woman died, along with her baby. Benjamin is unconscious. The town abhors me for my lies and my secrets. Thistle and her pups have been claimed by their true owner and taken from me. Need I continue?"
"Oh, my dear friend." Emily placed the bowl on a hall table and hurried to envelop Samantha in a sturdy hug, intended to bolster and comfort. "You have endured a very trying day, and I beg your forgiveness for bringing even more unwelcome tidings."
Samantha stepped from the embrace and sighed until all her breath had departed her lungs. Bracing herself for the next revelation, she crossed her arms. "What do you know?"
"Father dined with Mr. Manning today and discovered that your father's house has been purchased."
The last straw landed with the force of a shooting star, exploding inside her heart. She could only stare at Emily as the truth struck home. She'd lost everything. Every being and possession she cherished. Her legs crumpled and she collapsed to the floor, keening as she hunched over and rocked back and forth, certain she'd never recover.
Chapter 11
After visiting Amy as she tended to the still insensible Benjamin, Trent hurried to meet with his father and Frank at the proposed location for the new hospital. The streets thronged with people and conveyances as the day approached for the British to evacuate Charles Town. Men worked day and night to load supplies onto the vessels. Loyalists flocked from the city or to the quartermasters to arrange passage on one of the three hundred ships anxious to carry Britons to their homeland. The weather at long last had cleared sufficiently for the ships to safely hoist anchor and sail for England. Trent's spirits soared with anticipation of both the freedom of the town and of his long held dream becoming a reality.
He strode along King Street, anxious to investigate the property. Finally, after walking for blocks, he spotted the three-story warehouse at the corner of King and Jacob's Alley. The red brick building dominated the street. Dark green trim at the window sashes and door frames added to the overall effect. He lengthened his stride, excitement building in his chest so that breathing became difficult. He waved to Frank, who waited at the base of the three steps leading to double crimson doors. The location held a place of prominence and easy access, two features valuable to the future success of the enterprise.
"Hallo!" Trent halted beside the other man. "What do you think? Impressive, isn't it?"
Frank inclined his head, glanced down the street, and then back to Trent. "Where's your father? I thought he'd be with you."
"He should arrive momentarily." Trent searched the crowded street for a hint of his father's distinctive gray hair and beard, wearing his stylish black tricorne hat. "Ah, there he is now."
The elderly doctor soon wended his way through the passersby to join Trent and Frank. He craned his neck to perform a brief sweeping inspection of the exterior and then shook hands with Frank. He turned, eyes serious, to contemplate his son. "I believe t
his place may prove ideal for your purposes."
"Shall we go in?" Trent retrieved a key from his coat pocket. "Mr. Manning entrusted me, given the financial assurances I was able to present."
He bounded up the steps and soon had the door unlocked and swung open. His first impression of the interior was of a grand ballroom, light flooding the space from the banks of windows set into the whitewashed walls. The closed door to the right probably led into the area used by the previous owner as living quarters. Depending on its design, he envisioned using the space as locked storage for the medicines and apparatus. He strolled farther into the room, stopping to slowly pivot and dwell on every detail.
"This place would make a wonderful hospital." Frank stopped beside him and motioned to the left. "You could set up a primary clinic over there, under the windows by the door. You'll want a place where you can determine how ill or injured a patient is before admitting them."
Trent surveyed the open area, envisioning patients waiting on cots with nurses working over them, ensuring their comfort as well as their care. Doctors moving between the beds, making recommendations and performing seeming miracles with their skill and expertise. "The other floors could be bed space and the surgery, from what George told me. Let's go have a look." He led the way to the narrow staircase along the far right wall.
The second floor had been subdivided into smaller rooms than the first floor, but large enough Trent could imagine each containing seven or eight beds. Nurses would be occupied with providing the necessary care and feeding of the patients. In his mind's eye, every bed held a patient on the road to recovery.
The third floor matched the second floor in number of rooms and how they connected. Trent planned on leasing out a few of the smaller rooms to highly competent doctors to use for their individual practices. The combination of capabilities of each man would contribute to the overall success of the hospital.
He rested hands on his hips as he noted the reactions of his companions. "I plan to invite world renowned physicians to work here to give the best care possible to our citizens. I'd invest in the latest equipment in order to conduct experiments on possible cures."