Chapter 22

Twenty-Two

As the carriage pulled into the mews behind Hope House, the constriction around Grant's throat intensified. It felt as if he was inhaling and exhaling through a slim, hollow tube. Sweat gathered under his suit and at his temples.

Patrick brought the horses to a stop, and Grant descended straightaway, his doctor's bag clutched in his hand. He wasn't prepared for this in the slightest.

When Cassie's driver had shown up at Thornton House shortly past five o'clock, Grant had just returned from Jackson's on Bond Street. His home had been too quiet for the past day, ever since he'd returned from their night at Lindstrom House. He'd needed a distraction from the relentless barrage of images. Of Cassie coming apart in his arms, of her blushes during breakfast the next morning, of the exquisite pleasure of sinking into her while she straddled him in the carriage and rode him with unbridled passion.

He'd spent the rest of Monday in his home surgery, seeing a few patients whose ailments battled for his attention, though barely triumphed. He told himself to be thankful for the work. Otherwise, he might have devised a way to meet with Cassie again. Getting through the night, alone in his bed, had been a study in torture. He could have gone out, to the Fallen Arch or another club, but it would not have helped. In fact, it might have made things worse, especially if Martha was there to drape herself over him. He wanted no one and nothing but Cassie.

Tuesday, he could not stay at home while his blood continued to boil, so he'd taken himself to the boxing club to replace his unchecked desire with blunt pain. It had worked. Somewhat.

But it was the urgent message Patrick carried with him from Hope House that had successfully dashed away every lingering carnal thought, replacing them with cold trepidation.

Grant knocked twice on the back door, then thrice more after a two-second pause. The door opened an inch, and the face he had not been able to expunge from his mind stared up at him, her blue eyes pleading.

"You came," Cassie breathed out in a rush, allowing him into the kitchen. She shut and locked the door behind her.

"Did you expect me not to?"

At Cassie's flinch, he realized it had come out more harshly than necessary.

"It is only that I know you don't attend births," she replied, her strain evident in the crease between her brows. Curls of hair had come loose around her face, too.

Had anyone else called on him to attend a birth, he would have directed them to some other doctor. However, it was Cassie asking, and Patrick had said she was alone at Hope House. That had spurred him on ever faster.

"What has happened?" Grant asked. "Where is Miss Khan?"

Cassie led him from the kitchen, toward the slim corridor and stairs. He noted that the door leading to the staged accountant's office at the front of the building had a new second bolt lock. Good. They'd taken action following Mr. Youngdale's attack.

"Elyse left a few hours ago for her dinner with Madame Archambeau and Miss Stone."

"That is tonight?" The benefactresses had sent him an invitation in which to pass along to Hope House's organizer, and he had. But he'd lost track of the days since then.

"I've sent a messenger to her there, but I don't know how long it will take. And Mabel has been out for another birth. Everything was fine when they left," Cassie explained as she started up the stairs. "But then one of the residents went into labor, and it's progressing quickly. Faster than usual, and it's only me and Sister Agnes here, and I didn't know who else to turn to?—"

Grant reached for her hand sliding up the railing and stilled her. She turned, eyes wide and a bit wild. "Breathe, Cassie. Everything will be fine. You're not alone now."

She exhaled, visibly attempting to calm. Then, more evenly, she told him what the problem was. "Mrs. Rawling has four children. This is her fifth. She says something is wrong."

Panic started thumping at the base of his skull, but Grant stopped it in its tracks. Cassie was already in distress; he wouldn't add to it. She'd called on him. Needed him to be strong. As did Mrs. Rawling.

"Take me to her."

Cassie led him to a small room. Well-furnished and comfortable, the room was simple but cozy. The woman on the bed, however, was in supreme discomfort. Red-cheeked and glistening with sweat, she grimaced as she held her round abdomen. Sister Agnes stood to greet him, appearing frazzled.

"I never learned a thing about birthing babies," she said. "I'm so glad you've come, Doctor Brown."

Grant shed his greatcoat and jacket and got to work. He'd attended several births before Sarah's death and like most things having to do with the practice of medicine, the knowledge came back to him without delay. A swift birth was normal for a woman who had already borne several children, and Mrs. Rawling was fully dilated and ready to push. But after an examination, Grant understood what she had meant about something being wrong.

The constriction around his throat set in again. He met the mother's imploring eyes, and then Cassie's.

"The baby is transverse. That means it's in a crosswise position. It should be facing head down by now." Mrs. Rawling closed her eyes. She knew what this meant. "Were any of your other children breech?"

She shook her head. "Oh, Mother Mary, help me."

Cassie took her hand and looked to Grant. "What can you do?"

Most babies stuck in the breech position and thus, unable to come down the birth canal did not live. Neither did their mothers. But with Cassie looking at him, expectant and hopeful that he had some answer, he would do anything not to let her down.

"It means we need to turn the baby into the correct position," he said. "I've seen it done a few times, and it can be successful." He removed his cufflinks and rolled up his sleeves. "Sister Agnes, we need more hot water. Bring several basins, bathing soap, and linens. Miss Banks, do you have any laudanum on hand?"

Cassie released the woman's hand and stood, nodding. "I think so."

"Good. I don't generally like opium, but turning the baby is going to be painful. A small dose would relax you, Mrs. Rawling, making the turning easier."

The woman nodded, eager for anything that might help. Cassie found the medicine in Miss Khan's office, and within minutes of administering no more than five drops, Grant began to press the woman's abdomen in the fashion he'd seen from a few of the more progressive male midwives at university. Applying pressure against the womb to influence the baby to turn was complicated, but if external manipulation was successful, he may not require the forceps he had placed into his bag. The device would often kill the baby while sparing the mother. It would be a last option.

Cassie gripped Mrs. Rawling's shoulders while he worked slowly between contractions. At last, he felt the resistance give as the baby slid away from his prodding hands. After an examination, he nodded. It had worked. The baby was now in the proper position. He motioned for Sister Agnes to ready the linens and dampen several cloths with soapy water. He was in the minority of physicians who advocated for cleanliness, but as so few of his patients developed infection, he would continue with the practice, even if other physicians mocked him for it.

The crown of the baby's head presented, and after only two more contractions, the infant emerged. A boy. The umbilical cord had looped and tightened around his neck, likely from the twisted position in the womb. Grant freed him, but the baby's silence and the blue cast of his skin stopped his own breathing. He wrapped the boy into a warm blanket and took him into his lap, then began to rub his little chest vigorously. For several seconds that felt like hours, Grant saw again his own daughter, serenely silent and ashen when the midwife had put her bundled figure in his arms.

"Come on, little one. Fight," he whispered as he continued rubbing.

The baby twitched. And then a wail split the quiet. A rush of color flooded the baby's skin as he howled, and Grant joined him, letting out a cry of relief. Mrs. Rawling sobbed, but when he tried to hand her the child, wrapped and warm, his fists flailing, the woman shook her head. "No, no," she gasped, turning her face away.

Puzzled, he looked to Cassie, whose expression was a crush of pain. Sister Agnes bent to take the baby from him. Just then, a rush of footfalls came up the stairwell. Miss Khan dashed into in the room, busily removing her cloak, hat, and scarf. "I got your message and came as quickly as I could," she said, out of breath. But at the sight of the infant in the nun's arms, she beamed at Grant. "Doctor Brown, we might just get accustomed to having you here."

He stood when Miss Khan prepared to take over for the delivery of the afterbirth; he was more than happy to let her. His hands shook as he washed them. Cassie gathered his things and beckoned him to follow her. He did so on legs that were soft at the knee. His blood pumped hard and erratically, though now it was with thrill rather than dread.

Cassie led him to her office and shut the door. It was still just as cold as it had been last time, the brazier again unlit. But after the heat of the birthing chamber, Grant dragged the chilled air into his lungs with pleasure. She placed his bag, greatcoat, and jacket onto the lumpy sofa, then took up a hooked blanket from the arm. She came back and, just as he had with her after she'd assisted him with Amir, draped the blanket over his shoulders.

"There," she said, rubbing his arms as he had, to assuage the trembling that had afflicted her. He pulled her to him with a sudden burst of gratitude. Cassie embraced him, resting her head on his chest. "You were magnificent, Grant."

He buried his nose and mouth into her crown of hair. The scent of warmed apricots curled through him, and after several moments, his pulse slowed. His breathing evened. But just as he began to regain his composure, he heard Cassie sniffle. Grant pulled back to peer down at her. "What is wrong?"

Any hope of the tears being happy ones dissolved when the corners of her mouth turned downward.

"Caroline—Mrs. Rawling," she said softly. "She's here because she is going to leave her baby with the nuns for placement. She can't afford another child, and so…"

Grant nodded. That was why she had not wanted to hold him. It would be too painful to then give him up.

He held Cassie closer, his lips brushing her forehead.

"I know how devastated she is," she whispered. Grant nudged her chin with his thumb, and when she looked up at him, he kissed her cheek, wet and salty from her tears. Her lashes were damp, the tip of her nose red. She appeared so vulnerable, and yet he knew she wasn't. At least not all the time.

"The world can be cruel," he said. "You're doing the best you can for Mrs. Rawling. She's grateful for that, I'm sure."

Cassie rested her head against his chest again. She didn't attempt to disentangle from his embrace. Instead, her palms rubbed his back. She turned her face into his chest, her nose scuffing side to side. He felt the press of her lips through his shirt and waistcoat. His body replied, instantly going hard.

"I'm sorry about Michael."

Grant had shaken off the duke's reaction the morning after the snowstorm. In all honesty, he could not blame Fournier. "He thinks me unsuitable."

She nodded. He rubbed circles against the small of her back.

"I am, you know."

Cassie lifted her head. "Don't say that."

"Why shouldn't I? It is true."

She frowned and started to pull away, but he wrenched her back into place. Her body came flush against his, and her eyes widened as she felt his arousal.

"You see?" He gripped her waist and lifted her to sit on the edge of her desk. The blanket around his shoulders fell off. "I am entirely unsuitable."

He kissed her, her lips salty from tears. Her thighs fell apart, and Grant stepped between them, stretching the fine wool of her skirt.

"The only thing I've been able to think about, dream about, for two days, is being inside you again," he said against her mouth. "Is that not depraved?"

Cassie hooked her hands around his neck and pulled him lower, her tongue first to delve into his mouth. After one long, scalding kiss, she replied, "Then I must be depraved too, because I want that. I want you. Grant, please."

The sound of her gasping his name awoke a sleeping dragon within him. He had the insensible desire to collect a thousand such gasps from her and hoard them like jewels. Christ, he needed her skirt up; the blood in his veins throbbed for it. But he could not entirely dismiss where they were. Or what they were doing.

"Cassie," he whispered as her thighs clenched around his, as if to draw him closer. "This is getting out of control."

She shook her head. "I don't care."

In truth, neither did he. Grant covered her mouth with his and pushed her back onto her desk, rucking up the hem of her skirt. He'd gathered it around her stockinged knees, exposing her garters, when a knock resounded on the office door. The spell gripping them shattered, and Grant stood straight, tugging Cassie off the desk, to her feet. Her skirts swayed into place as the door opened.

"Are you in here?" Miss Khan called as she popped in her head.

Cassie whirled away from the midwife and went behind her desk. Grant half-turned, entirely aware of the bulge in his trousers. "Oh good, Dr. Brown," Miss Khan said, coming inside the office. "I wanted to thank you again for your assistance. Mrs. Rawling and her baby seem to be doing just fine."

He kept his back to her as he swiftly reached for his things on the sofa. "I was happy to help." He barely looked toward Cassie, who was pretending to be busy at her desk. Her flushed cheeks were telling, however. "But I'm afraid I'm late for another appointment. Send for me if there are any complications. Good evening to you both."

He hastily departed the room, incensed they'd been interrupted, and yet also relieved. This was madness. It had to stop. He could not touch her again, not even once. As he took the stairs, the squalling of an infant sounded from another room. He thought of Mrs. Rawling and the strength she'd possessed to not hold her baby. One touch, and she might not have been able to give him up.

"Christ," he muttered.

He was in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.