Part 82 (1/2)

Frances Catherine didn't take exception to that comment. She knew her husband was looking for something more to worry about. ”I ate twice as much,” she told him. ”Where did Iain go?”

Patrick found his first smile. ”I was driving him daft. He's training with his men.”

”You should go and help him,” Frances Catherine suggested. ”I'll send someone to find you when the time draws near.”

Patrick reluctantly agreed to leave. He kept coming back, however, and by nightfall he was camped out on the doorstep.

Isabelle's aunt came to fetch her twice during the long day to feed her infant son, and Helen left once to make certain the elders had a proper dinner and that her son Andrew was being looked after.

Frances Catherine's contractions continued to be inconsistent until late afternoon. They came on with a vengeance then, but Frances Catherine was more than ready to take on the pain.

By midnight she was screaming in agony. She was using the birthing chair and bearing down with all her might during each long, excruciating contraction. Helen used the flat of her hands to push down on Frances Catherine's stomach, but her efforts only intensified the pain. The baby wasn't cooperating.

Something was wrong and everyone knew it. The pains were coming one on top of another, and she should have given birth by now. Something was blocking the delivery. Helen knelt on the floor in front of Frances Catherine to once again check the baby's progress, and when she'd completed her examination, she leaned back on her heels and looked up at Judith.

The fear in her eyes made Judith's stomach twist. Helen motioned her to the other side of the room.

”No whispering,” Frances Catherine screamed. ”Tell me what's wrong.”

Judith nodded agreement. ”Yes, tell both of us,” she ordered.

”The baby isn't in the right position for the birthing. I felt a foot.”

Another contraction seized Frances Catherine. Judith ordered her to bear down. Her friend screamed her refusal. She collapsed forward, sobbing uncontrollably.

”Oh, G.o.d, Judith, I can't do this any longer. I want to die. The pain-”

”Don't you dare give up on me now,” Judith interrupted.

”I can't get my hand inside,” Helen whispered. ”We need the hook, Judith.”

”No!”

Frances Catherine's tortured scream of denial snapped Judith's control. She was so terrified inside, she barely knew what she was doing. She tore her hand away from her friend's hard grasp, then rushed over to the water bowl. She scrubbed her hands clean. Maude's instructions were echoing in her mind. She didn't know or care that what the midwife had told her might be based on nonsense either. She would follow her procedures and trust that it mattered.

Helen stood up when Judith knelt down in front of Frances Catherine.

Her friend was hoa.r.s.e from her screams. In a pitiful whisper she pleaded, ”Tell Patrick I'm sorry.”

”The h.e.l.l with that nonsense,” Judith shouted. She was heartless to her friend's agony now. ”Leave it to you, Frances Catherine, to do everything backward.”

”Are you thinking to turn the bairn?” Helen asked. ”You'll tear her insides if you try.”

Judith shook her head. She kept her attention on Frances Catherine. ”Tell me when the next pain begins,” she commanded.

Helen tried to hand Judith the bowl of pig's fat. ”Cover your hands with this grease,” she suggested. ”It will make the bairn's coming through easier.”

”No,” Judith answered. She hadn't washed her hands clean so she could cover them with the vile muck.

Isabelle put her hand on Frances Catherine's stomach. A scant minute later she called out, ”The pain's starting now. I feel the tightness building.”