She paused. Odd, how times like this made everything clear. There was no room for worry or second-guessing, no space for wounded pride any longer. There was nothing but her sister.

“I’m going to find someone who will help,” she said.

Chapter Nine

SOMEONE WAS POUNDING on Stephen’s door.

It was his first coherent thought upon waking—that hard, repeated tattoo beating in time with an urgency he did not understand, but felt instinctively in his blood.

He came out of bed, put on trousers and a loose shirt, and slipped downstairs.

He opened the door onto a white flurry of snow—and in dark counterpoint, with the streetlight behind her making a golden halo about her, Rose Sweetly. She had a cloak pulled about her, but her teeth were chattering noisily.

“Rose?” He had to be dreaming, but from experience, his dreams of her had never had her so bundled up.

“Stephen.” She sounded almost frantic. “I don’t know what to do. Patricia is in labor—her water broke—the baby’s coming and it’s still breech—”

“I’ll go fetch someone.”

“No.” She turned her head away and swiped at her eyes. “Mrs. Walton is out on another call, and Doctor Chillingsworth is…not available. Josephs is off in search of someone farther afield, but there is no time. The baby is coming now, and I don’t know what to do.”

He’d never seen her so upset. Little crystals of ice clung to her eyelashes, to the corners of her eye. Frozen tears, he realized. Her lips quivered.

“Right,” he heard himself say. “My father was a stable master. I’ve birthed dozens of horses, one of them breech. It’s not the same thing—”

But she was on the verge of a panic, and she needed him.

“—but I’m happy to come,” he finished. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be all right.”

“That’s what I kept telling Patricia.” Her teeth chattered. “And it just keeps getting worse and worse instead.”

“Well, you’re going to have to keep telling your sister that,” he said. “That’s your job now, Rose. You keep telling her that—and we’ll make sure it’s true. Come along.”

He found a pair of shoes in the hall.

“You’re coming like that?”

“No point wasting time. You’re only two houses down, after all.”

Rose nodded. It was cold outside—cold enough for the wind to cut right through the linen of his shirt, cold enough to drive the last remnants of his weariness from him. He followed her to her home. When she fumbled with her key, he took it from her numb fingers, unlocking the door.

“Rose,” he said as she took off her cloak in the hallway. “The most important thing is that you must not let her panic. You’re her sister. It doesn’t matter if there’s reason for her to be frightened; we must do our best not to scare her. You’re in command. I’m just here to make jokes. Understand?”

She paused looking up at him.

He set a finger on her chin. His hands were cold, but her skin was colder. No knowing how long she’d been outside looking for someone. Her lips parted; for a second, she looked up at him as if expecting a kiss. For a second, he wanted to give her one.

Instead, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and very gently wiped the ice crystals from her lashes.

“There,” he said quietly. “That’s better. You can do this.”

She drew in a shuddering breath. He reached out and took her hand in his. Her fingers were deathly cold; he rubbed them between his palms.

“Come,” she said. “Let’s go.”

As she ascended the stairs, her chin came up. Her jaw squared; he could see her gathering determination with every step.

She entered the room to the left of the small hallway.

“Patricia,” she announced. “I’ve returned.”

Stephen followed behind her. The room was warm and comfortable. A fire crackled on the hearth. Mrs. Wells was in bed, her head turned to the side. An older woman sat in a chair next to the bed, watching over her.

He’d only ever seen Mrs. Wells properly attired. Now she was in a loose-fitting gown. Her dark hair was held back by a kerchief. She took one long look at Stephen. “He’s not a doctor,” she said in a low tone.

“No,” Rose said firmly. “Chillingsworth…was otherwise detained. Patricia, you know Mr. Shaughnessy.”

“Mrs. Wells.” Stephen nodded at her.

“Stephen Shaughnessy.” A smile played along her lips. “Actual Man. My. I feel better already.”

“Mr. Shaughnessy has presided over many births,” Rose said in a commanding voice. “He’ll make sure all goes well.”

Stephen was not so sure about that, but he tried to look…well, competent.

Mrs. Wells raised an eyebrow at him. “Mr. Shaughnessy. I knew you were an Actual Man, but I had not thought you so…prolific.”

“Not my children,” he said.

“Oh.” She contemplated this. “Not human, either, then, I take it.”

“Horses.”

“Well, then.” Mrs. Wells swallowed. “Do we try to turn the baby?”

He regarded her thoughtfully. “I don’t think we can,” he said. “At this point in labor? I’m not sure it’s possible, and if it is, none of us know how to do it.”

“If there are any minor complications,” Rose said, “Mr. Shaughnessy will see to it.”

“And if there are major ones?” He could hear the strain in Mrs. Wells’s voice.

“Then the birth will take a little longer,” Rose said matter-of-factly, “and by the time greater expertise is needed, Josephs will have returned with another doctor.”

“Yes,” Stephen said. “So you’re in good hands. The best hands, Mrs. Wells. Your body knows what to do; it is doing it as we speak. Don’t fight it; do what your body tells you.”

“But the baby is coming breech.”

“Hundreds of babies are born breech every day,” Stephen said. “Hundreds of babies the world over—many of them without complications or further incidents. It’ll be a little harder on you, but you can manage.”

It wasn’t fast. Rose draped a sheet over her sister for modesty’s sake as the contractions came closer and closer. Mrs. Wells began to cry out with every passing wave; when she tried to choke back her moans, Rose encouraged her.