Willow Springs

by Jan Watson

  “Isn’t that the truth,” Simon teased between bursts of laughter.

  Tickled, Copper flung a pillow at his head. He tossed it back and picked up another. She whooped and ran toward the door. A nice fat snowball would answer his assault.

  She drew up short as the doorbell trilled. The day had turned to night, and the wind still raged outside. Who would be out in such weather?

  Having caught up with her, Simon opened the door.

  A man swept off his hat. “Beg your pardon for coming to the front, but the snow is deep, and Mr. Collins say for me to hurry fast.”

  “Come in, Clarence,” Simon invited. “Come in out of the cold.”

  “Nah, sir, but thank ye. Just came to tell you Mr. Collins say come soon as you can. He say it’s Mrs. Collins’s time.” Snow caught on the man’s thick black hair and in his beard. “You want I should wait with my buggy, Dr. Corbett?”

  “Yes, thank you. We shan’t be long.”

  “We?” Copper asked as Simon closed the door. “Am I to go along then?”

  “You can’t learn about birthing babies sitting here alone, little wife.”

  “Oh, Simon.” Throwing her arms around him, she kissed him soundly. “I promise you won’t be sorry.”

  “The only sorrow I have right now,” he said as he helped her into her Persian wool coat, then bent to receive the muffler she wound around his neck, “is that I won’t be here to claim more of those kisses.”

  The house in which Nora Collins labored was imposing even in the stark light of the cold winter evening. Huge oaks lined the macadam driveway and clung with stick fingers to the dead leaves of autumn that rustled in the whining wind.

  Copper drew her coat tight and leaned into Simon as the carriage followed the horseshoe-shaped driveway. He pointed out gargoyles, illuminated by gas lamps, perched atop the roofline before they parked under an ornate porte cochere.

  “They’re so ugly,” she said. “They make me think of demons. Why would anyone want them on their house?”

  “The Collins family is like the Upchurches . . . old money,” Simon replied, as if that explained the sinister statues. “Phillip Collins’s grandfather Dexter Collins clerked in a law office, taught himself what he needed to know, and became an important man in political circles. He invested every dime he ever made in newspapers and left it all to Phillip’s father and thus to Phillip himself.”

  “Don’t you like Phillip Collins?” Copper asked as they climbed the stairs leading to the front door.

  “I don’t know him well enough for like or dislike. Let’s just say I wouldn’t spend the evening in his presence were it not for Nora.”

  A tall, thin man threw open the double doors. An overcoat was draped across his shoulders. He paused to shake Simon’s hand. “Jolly good to see you, old bean,” he said, then tipped his hat to Copper. “Beastly evening. Say what? Sorry I can’t stay, but duty calls, you know.” With that he danced down the walk, words flying back over his shoulder. “Nora couldn’t be in better hands . . . her mother here as well . . . dining with Benton . . . home late . . .” He fairly flung himself into the carriage Simon and Copper had just vacated. “I’ll send Clarence back here,” he called before his groom closed the door, “in case you need him.”

  “Don’t put yourself out,” Simon said barely under his breath as he escorted Copper through the door. “And that, my dear, was Phillip Collins.”

  “Why does he talk so funny?” Copper shook the snow from her wrap before handing it to the waiting butler.

  “He and Benton attended school together in Europe,” Simon answered when the butler disappeared into the cloakroom. “He glommed on to the language, thinks it makes him aristocratic. Thankfully Benton was not so affected.”

  Following the butler up a curving marble staircase, they paused before a heavy closed door. Two sharp raps from the butler’s gloved hand and the door cracked open.

  “It’s the doctor,” a young maid said over her shoulder.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” an older woman replied. “Not a moment too soon. Bring him in, Girt.”

  “Now, sweetheart,” Simon comforted, his hand at the small of Copper’s back, “don’t be alarmed at what you see tonight. This should be an easy delivery, physically anyway. Nora has had the best of care, and she is well built for childbirth.”

  Nora Collins lay on a four-poster, ensconced by layers of red toile curtains, propped up against piles of lace-covered pillows. “Phillip,” she said in the tiniest squeaky voice. “Phillip, I need you. I suffer so.”

  “Oh, Dr. Corbett!” the elderly lady exclaimed. “I’m so relieved to see you. Nora is in great distress.”

  Simon bowed. “Good evening, ladies,” he said and made introductions all around. “Let’s see how our mother is progressing.” He strode to a waiting washbasin and began to scrub.

  Copper followed suit, nervousness churning her stomach.

  Simon rested one hand on top of the bedclothes and took out his pocket watch. “Just here.” He motioned for Copper to place her palm below his.

  Concentrating so hard she was nearly cross-eyed, she watched the second hand tick.

  “You will feel a tightening and then a release. That is one contraction. Time it from beginning to end and the space between each one. That’s one way to predict how far along she is.”

  Nora’s forehead was slick with perspiration. She squinted with each tightening of her belly.

  Simon snapped his watch shut. “Nora, do you remember what we discussed on my last visit? I told you about an internal exam, and now it is time. Mrs. Corbett will be assisting me, and your mother should stay, of course.”

  “Mama.” Nora clutched at her mother.

  “Nora, you must let the good doctor take care of you. Here, I shall hold your hand.” Nora’s mother settled herself in an armless chair at the bedside, her back to Simon and Copper.

  Girt tented the blankets, dissecting the bed. Everything was clean and in order, so different from Sally’s delivery. Copper stood at the lower side of the bed and, under Simon’s instruction, blindly examined her patient. At least with Sally she could see what she was doing.

  “A fingertip,” she answered Simon’s unspoken question. “She’s only a fingertip dilated.”

  “As I thought,” Simon replied. “We were summoned much too soon.”

  The maid brushed Nora’s fine brown hair away from her face as Simon continued, “Nora, you are in early labor. I suggest you try to sleep and you also, Mrs. Bellwether.”

  Mrs. Bellwether pried Nora’s fingers loose, then slowly stood. “I shall have Girt make my bed in the adjoining nursery, Dr. Corbett. You must promise to call me when she is imminent.”

  “Mama,” Nora pleaded, “I cannot bear this pain alone.”

  Leaning heavily on her ivory-handled cane, Mrs. Bellwether paused in her slow trek across the room. She turned back toward the bed. “Darling daughter.” One liver-spotted hand caressed Nora’s flushed cheek. “Suffering in childbirth is a woman’s curse and her delight. Why, the doctor despaired for my life on the night you were born after thirty-six hours of travail. It was quite the worst experience I have ever had.”

  Nora turned away, moaning. “I shan’t be able to stand it.”

  “Of course you shall. The good doctor and his wife will help you.”

  Simon drew Copper and the maid to the door. “Put the windows up, Girt, and place a screen near the bed to protect Mrs. Collins from drafts. And do remove the bed curtains. We need a clean, unencumbered room.”

  “Yes, Doctor.” Girt curtsied, her maid’s cap bobbing on top of her frizzy, ginger-colored hair. “Should I begin the preparations?”

  “Wait until we return. Mrs. Corbett will assist you.”

  In the expansive hallway, Copper leaned against the wall under the wavering light of a candle sconce. This was a big responsibility. It seemed so matter-of-fact in Simon’s books but so scary when there was an actual person before her. She had a million question
s. “Why would Nora’s mother scare her so? And why do men disappear just when they are so badly wanted?” she asked, remembering Sally’s husband.

  One finger to his mustached lip, Simon steered her to the staircase. “Let’s find the kitchen and have a cup of coffee. It’s going to be a long night.”

  The kitchen was just as pretentious as the rest of the house. “Searcy would call this uppity,” Copper said as a maid poured coffee into china cups. Simon took his black, but Copper doctored hers with cream and sugar. She didn’t like coffee, but if that’s what would help get her through the coming delivery, then she’d drink it.

  “Usually I’m not called this soon,” Simon said quietly once the maid had left them alone. “It’s a waste of a doctor’s time to attend to the necessities of childbirth easily handled by the women in the house. But Nora is . . . shall we say . . . delicate.” He reached across the table and took Copper’s hand. “It will be an excellent experience for you.”

  “What do you mean by delicate? I thought you said she should have an easy delivery.”

  His thumb stroked the back of her hand. “I said physically easy, but Nora is a little fey. Occasionally she has spells . . . perhaps absence seizures. I wanted her to go to Cincinnati to be seen by an expert in diseases of the brain, but Mrs. Bellwether would have none of it. If Nora’s illness progresses, I fear she’ll wind up at the asylum.”

  “There’s a woman near home, up the holler at Crook Neck, who has fits,” Copper said. “When she gets to acting strange, her family ties her to a tree.”

  “A tree! That’s barbaric.”

  “It keeps her from falling off a cliff, and it keeps her home. Mountain folks take care of their own.”

  “There’s truth in that,” he replied. “Now finish your coffee. You need to get back to your patient.”

  Copper poured more cream. Her spoon clanked against the china cup as loud as a ringing bell in the quiet kitchen. “I feel so ignorant, Simon. Girt is only a little older than me, yet she seems so experienced.”

  “A lady’s maid learns these things. Girt has been present each time I called on Nora. I feel comfortable she will be a good teacher for you.”

  “But where will you be?”

  “Stretched out on the nearest bed. You won’t need me for hours yet.”

  Copper sipped her cooling drink; the coffee was not helping her jittery stomach. “Why would Nora’s mother say those things about having babies? Why scare her daughter more than she already is?”

  “Women like to share horror stories. You’ll learn it’s best to get your patient’s mother out of the room as soon as possible, before she turns into a shrew.”

  Copper set her cup aside. “That’s unkind.”

  Simon smiled at her over the top of his cup. “Perhaps, but true nonetheless.”

  Copper stood and stretched. “I’m so proud that you are trusting me to do this.”

  Simon chuckled and pushed their chairs up to the table. “You’ll find midwifery a humbling profession, my dear.” He tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “Administering Nora’s enema will take care of your pride.”

  Hours passed. Simon slept in a room just down the hall. Girt rested in a straight chair pulled up to Nora’s bed. Copper had learned from Girt how to prepare an occupied bed, and now her patient dozed fitfully, the drawsheet underneath her drawn tight.

  A fire roared in the fireplace to offset the chill from the half-open windows, and a standing screen protected the bed from drafts. Three basins—one for washing, one for rinsing, and one for antiseptic solutions—sat waiting on the washstand. A rolling tea cart draped with boiled linens held instruments previously sterilized.

  Too overwhelmed to take advantage of her patient’s nap, Copper stood at the window, thankful for the cold wind that swirled in. It was imperative, Simon had told her, to keep stale, unclean air from the room. Her mind slipped back and forth between Sally’s outrageous, fearsome delivery and this sterile, controlled labor. It seemed unfair to her that wealth made such a difference in a woman’s life.

  Near 4 a.m. Nora moaned, “My back. My back.”

  Instantly Girt was on her feet.

  Copper rinsed her hands in the antiseptic solution and pulled back the covers at the foot of the bed. Just then a great gush of water soaked the patient’s diaper pad and the drawsheet.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Girt said, her milk white complexion flushed with excitement. “The doctor will want to know.”

  Copper went to fetch him. “Simon.” One whisper of his name and he sat up. “Girt says it’s time.”

  A commotion in the stairwell caught their attention. Copper saw Phillip Collins stumbling up the steps. Approaching the landing, he rocked back on his heels. Simon reached out a hand to steady him.

  “Shellabrating,” Phillip slurred as if they’d asked. “Shellabrating the birth of a son wish Benton the banker!” His laughter ended in a hiccup. “That wush funny. Benton the banker!”

  “You’ve begun your celebration a little early,” Simon said.

  “It wush a boy, right? My fair Nora didn’t let me down?”

  “Phillip?” A plaintive cry. “Phillip, I need you.”

  “Would shumbody shut her up?” Phillip said as Simon steered him down the hall toward the room he had just vacated. “I’ve got a dreadful headache.”

  Moments later, Simon was back.

  “He should be horsewhipped!” Copper fumed. “Make him come be with Nora.”

  “Best let sleeping dogs lie,” Simon replied. “Now let’s check on our patient.”

  The room whirled with activity: Nora groaning, knees to chest; her mother pacing in front of the fireplace; instruments clanking; Girt calling, “Push! Push! Push!” Copper kneeling, hands ready to receive a miracle. A baby born.

  “Oh.” A collective sigh.

  Copper grinned from ear to ear. “She’s beautiful. Just beautiful.”

  “She is that,” Simon added. “Nora, God has blessed you with a lovely daughter.”

  Supported by Girt, Nora leaned toward the newborn Copper held for her to see. Suddenly Nora’s focus shifted. She turned away but not before Copper saw a shadow cross her face.

  “Let me see my granddaughter,” Mrs. Bellwether said, taking the flannel-wrapped infant. “My, but she’s a pretty thing.”

  Simon touched Copper’s arm. “There’s more to be done. More for you to learn.”

  Awed, Copper assisted Simon. When the afterbirth was delivered and Nora’s bleeding had slowed, Copper took a moment for herself and stood at the now-closed windows. Sometime during the long night the snow and wind had stopped. Dawn was breaking. Soft rays of morning’s first light streamed down from heaven and blessed each snow-covered bush, each icicle-tipped tree branch. Then the light surrounded her, touched her soul, and filled her with contentment.

  On the morning of Nora’s tenth day of confinement, Copper mounted the now-familiar staircase to her patient’s bedchamber. Her leather doctor’s bag, a gift from Simon, slapped against her leg with each step.

  Nora lay in bed, as prescribed, the back of one hand against her forehead, and with the other she fingered the length of ribbon decorating her gown. The baby lay across her chest, supported by pillows. Nora sighed and gave Copper a wan look before she motioned for Girt to take the baby. Furious crying at the interruption followed.

  “Now, Nora,” Copper said, “you must finish nursing or you’ll get engorged. Besides, Phillipa is still hungry.”

  “I have had enough of her for the moment,” Nora replied. “It’s obvious I don’t have enough milk to satisfy her.”

  “Of course you have enough milk. Phillipa gains weight daily.” Copper took the baby and patted her back. “Girt, please fetch the scales so we can show Nora how well she is doing.”

  Girt left for the nursery and returned with the baby scales on a rolling cart. Mrs. Bellwether followed.

  Deftly, Copper undressed the baby, except for the bellyband, and
laid her on the scale. “Look, Phillipa weighs seven-ten. Two ounces more than her birth weight.” After fluffing the bolster at Nora’s back, Copper repositioned Phillipa to finish nursing.

  Nora stared blankly. Her stiff arms barely supported her baby.

  Mrs. Bellwether slipped her hand into the crook of Copper’s elbow and nudged her toward the nursery. Gently, she closed the door. “I know you mean well, Mrs. Corbett, but you mustn’t upset Nora. I fear nursing is too much of a strain on her delicate disposition.” She tapped her cane insistently against the floor. “I want you to get a wet nurse.”

  “We must consider the baby’s health also,” Copper said. “There have been three infant deaths from diarrhea in the community in the last two weeks, and two of those babies were wet-nursed. I don’t think we dare take that risk with Phillipa.”

  “Many children are raised on boiled cow’s milk with no ill effect,” Mrs. Bellwether countered. “Why, Nora herself was a bottle baby.”

  Copper covered the old woman’s hand with her own. The cane stopped tapping. “It seems a shame to stop what is working so well.”

  “Then what can we do?” Mrs. Bellwether asked. Fatigue etched her face with a spiderweb of worry.

  “This is beyond my ability to decide. I’ll ask Dr. Corbett to call.” Copper turned down the coverlet on the nursery cot. “Meanwhile, I prescribe rest for you, Mrs. Bellwether.”

  “If I must.” Mrs. Bellwether handed her cane to Copper and sank onto the bed.

  “Can I get you anything?” Copper smoothed the cover over the frail woman’s shoulders.

  “No, dear.” A tear trickled sideways from her faded blue eyes. “I’m just so worried.”

  “You don’t need to fret, Mrs. Bellwether. Really, we’ll work this out.”

  Copper found Girt in the kitchen taking her morning tea. She jumped up and poured a cup for Copper.

  “Thanks, dear,” Copper said. She’d grown close to Girt and enjoyed their chats during her twice-daily rounds on Nora. “Have you seen Nora in seizure before, Girt?”