Talk Sweetly to Me (14 page)

She stood.

“Set your hand here.” He gestured to her abdomen. “Feel—you should be able to find the baby’s head. A nice round lump. Yes?”

She nodded.

“Good. Then as soon as her next contraction comes, push. Start off gently; push harder and harder as she does, too.”

“But—”

Stephen took hold of her free hand. “You can do it, Rose.”

It came in the next moment. Mrs. Wells gritted her teeth and let out a moan. Rose squared her jaw and pushed. And then—just a moment later—they heard a low wail.

“Oh.” Mrs. Wells’s voice was hoarse and ragged. “Oh, thank God.”

“He looks healthy.” Mrs. Jacobs sat at the edge of the bed. “Not that I’m an expert in babies—but he’s moving and breathing and crying…”

“Let me have him.”

Mrs. Jacobs stood. She wrapped a white cotton towel around dark, glistening chestnut skin. A tiny hand pulled at the air; a foot kicked out. A minuscule face scrunched in protest.

Stephen was not a baby sort of person. They’d always seemed strange, clumsy things to dote over—human beings that were not yet old enough to be interesting.

But
this
baby might have been the most beautiful thing Stephen had ever seen. Every toe seemed perfectly formed. The whole room seemed bathed with light.

“Excellent work,” he heard himself say. It seemed inadequate to the occasion.

Mrs. Wells took her child, holding him to her. Her eyes were shining. In fact, the entire world seemed to shimmer, and Stephen found himself surreptitiously wiping his own eyes.

Rose and her sister were holding each other, speaking in barely coherent sentences, and Stephen realized he was extraneous.

Scarcely a friend. Definitely not family. He’d only been the man who was close enough to help when no one else was around. He hadn’t slept; his presence in a woman’s bedchamber was entirely improper, and…and…

He stayed long enough to make certain that the cord was cut, the after birth properly expelled.

He wished he could stay longer, wished that he belonged here. But this wasn’t the time to demand attention—not now, when the sisters were basking in victory after a hard-fought war. This moment was about everyone but himself.

He smiled at the two of them and then slowly, quietly slipped out of the room.

M
RS.
J
ACOBS HAD LEFT
to draw a bath for her sister, who was doing her best to stay awake with little Isaac in her arms, when Rose realized that Stephen was no longer in the room. She absented herself swiftly, ran to the stairwell—and caught sight of him in the entry below, staring bemusedly at the door in the entry.

“Stephen,” she called.

He turned around, tilting his head up. He looked every bit as exhausted as she felt. His shirt had long since lost any hint of crispness; it was unbuttoned past his throat, showing a triangle of pale skin and dark, wiry hairs.

“I’ll be on my way shortly,” he said with a small smile. “It’s just that I’ve realized it’s broad daylight—and it will be extraordinarily shocking if I’m seen walking out of your door. Particularly looking like this.” His hand swept down.

She followed his gesture. His sleeves were rolled to his elbow, showing a shocking, delicious amount of skin. His trousers were wrinkled—which only made them mold to his thighs all the more. Without a coat, the linen of his shirt clung to his shoulders—and if she remembered the gossip correctly, hadn’t he done some rowing at Cambridge? He looked like he had.

And she could see precisely what he meant. No shoes; no coat. It would be shocking indeed.

“Oh, dear.” Rose found herself drifting down the stairs toward him. “Oh, dear. I see what you mean. If you go out like that, you’ll start a veritable riot.”

He blinked once…and then ever so slowly, he began to smile.

“You can’t leave without letting me thank you.”

“Ah, Rose. There’s no need for that.”

She descended the staircase. “There’s every need. After what I told you yesterday—”

A sharp rap sounded on the door. Rose frowned—and then realized that Mrs. Josephs was assisting her sister upstairs and Mr. Josephs had not yet returned. She was the only one who could answer the door, and Stephen was standing right here, in a shocking state of undress. Not that she was doing much better; her gown was stained. It wasn’t just wrinkled; it looked as if it had spent the last year wadded up in the back of the wardrobe.

“Go to the back room,” she said to Stephen. “Quickly.”

He winked at her and disappeared.

Rose smoothed her hands over her gown, which did nothing at all. The cause was hopeless, and so she gave up on it and opened the door anyway.

She really ought not to have been surprised at the man who stood there. He had, after all, promised to come in the morning. But at the sight of Doctor Chillingsworth, all the emotion she’d hidden over the course of the night bubbled to the surface—all her fear, her despair. Every last ounce of impossible worry that she had swallowed came back in one blinding rush.

“Doctor Chillingsworth,” she said in a cold voice.

He looked down his nose at her. “I am here as promised.”

“You are too late,” she heard herself say. “Patricia gave birth an hour ago.”

His face did not even flicker at this news. He didn’t look surprised. He didn’t apologize for his hateful words the previous night.

“Ah, did she?” he said instead.

She felt her hands clench into fists at her sides. “You said it wasn’t her time.” No. It wasn’t despair that filled her. It was a cold fury, one that threatened to overwhelm her. “You said she was a
lying malingerer—”

He shrugged. “Well, there was some chance I was mistaken—there is always that chance. But I figured there’d be no real harm. Women of her sort are like cows: They scarcely need any assistance when dropping their calves.”

He stepped into the entry and took off his coat, oblivious—or perhaps just indifferent—to Rose’s splutter.

“I suppose I’ll take a look now.”

Lying malingerer. Women of her sort are like cows.
It was too much—far, far too much.

She took a step toward him. “When Doctor Wells left, he asked me to stand in his stead—to tell him every time I heard the baby’s heartbeat, to convey every last kick I felt.”

It had not been so long ago that she’d held her sister’s hand, had put her hands on her sister’s belly and pushed her son’s head that last inch. They had not needed this man—but they might have. It staggered her what might have happened had things been even an iota worse. His absence could have meant the baby’s life. Or Patricia’s. And to him, this was a matter that he could shrug off. She could scarcely think for the anger that filled her.

“On behalf of my sister’s husband,” Rose said, “this is for you.”

So saying, she punched him in the stomach. She felt the blow travel all the way up her arm, stinging in the most gratifying way. His breath blew out; he gave a satisfying grunt.

“This is for her.” Rose punched him again. “And this is for
me.”
She made to ram her fist into his belly again, but he caught her wrist this time.

“Why, you little—”

“You’d better let go of her.” The words came from behind her. Rose felt herself smile—a beautiful, impossible, gratifying smile.

Chillingsworth froze. He looked up at Stephen, who had come into the entry. “And you are?”

“Taller than you,” Stephen said. “Stronger than you. Younger than you. And at this moment, I’m angrier than you, too. Let go of Miss Sweetly and get out of here before I hold you down for her to pummel.”

The doctor released her wrist. He stepped back and then shakily took his coat from the hook.

“Get out, then,” Stephen said.

He took another step forward; Chillingsworth wrenched open the door, letting in a blast of cold air, and then, as swiftly as he could, he vanished. The door slammed behind him.

Rose could hear her own breathing echoing wildly in the entry. She’d punched a man. Twice. And he’d deserved it.

And Stephen…

She turned to him. He was looking at her with the most intense expression on his face, one that made her whole body tingle from head to toe.

“Stephen.” She took a step toward him. “Stephen.”

He raised a finger and set it on her lips. “Don’t promise anything when your emotions are running high,” he said. “Or when you’re exhausted.”

Tired though she was, Rose had never felt more certain. All her fretting had burned away.

She didn’t know when she’d become sure. Not when he’d sat with her sister. Not when he’d agreed to come with her. Maybe it was when Chillingsworth had sent her away, when Rose had not known where to turn…until she had known. She had known that help was not a million miles away, but right next door. That she had only to stretch out her hand and ask, and it would be hers.

She had known. She had gone to him, and he had come.

“Now,” he said, “have you a coat I could borrow so that I could look respectable long enough to return home?”

She smiled up at him. “Of course. I have everything you need.”

She found one of Isaac’s old jackets and a pair of his boots in a trunk and brought them out. He was sitting on the sofa, looking somewhat dazed. He smiled at her wearily.

“Here,” Rose said. “Let’s get these on you.”

They were both too large on Stephen’s frame. He let Rose do up his buttons. Her hands trembled as she did. She’d kissed him, let him touch her. But somehow, this seemed the most intimate act yet, the sort of favor that wives performed for husbands.

When she’d done the last button, she looked up into his eyes. She’d expected, maybe, to see a reflection of her own emotion.

Instead, his gaze was hard and utterly unreadable.

“You’re exhausted,” she said. But that was not all it was.

“I’m contemplating.” His words came slowly.

“Here. Let’s get you home, where you can rest.”

He didn’t resist her tug on his arm. Rose put on her own coat, opened the door to the house, and glanced down the street. It was empty but for the drifts of snow.

“Quickly,” she told him, “while nobody’s about.”

She accompanied him. Maybe she needed to make sure he arrived safely; maybe it was because he seemed strangely subdued, and she feared he’d not think properly. He unlocked his own door and then looked down at her.

“You were right,” he said. “I didn’t understand how difficult things might be for you—not until just now at the very end.”

The fear she’d been trying not to feel washed through Rose. He’d stopped her from making a declaration. Of course he had; he’d seen what Chillingsworth had said and done, had understood all the indignities she’d face, small and large. And of course he’d changed his mind. She stared up at him, stricken.

“The Irish are accounted violent drunkards,” he said. “Gamblers with no sense of responsibility, and terrible human beings, through and through. But at least we’re considered human beings.”

Rose would not let her heart break. Not here, not in the snow, not with her sister’s new child next door. She would stand here and look him in the eyes. She would…

She choked and looked down.

“But there’s something you don’t understand,” he said. “When I said I loved you, I didn’t mean that I would walk away when I realized your life was difficult. The fact that I understand how hard things can be means that I want to stand by you sooner, and try even harder to make it better.”

She could scarcely believe it. She lifted her face to his, her heart pounding.

And then he smiled at her, and all her fears took flight.

“I love you,” he said. “Let me buy you telescopes and kiss you half the night. And when things grow difficult, let me be make them a little easier.”

She looked up at him. She felt dazed, utterly worn out. And so she said the first thing that came to her mind, which happened to be…

“Did you know that Dr. Maro in Italy has calculated the likelihood that the earth will be struck by an asteroid at two hundred and fifty million to one?”

He blinked. “No. I did not know that. Is it…relevant?”

“Yes,” she heard herself say. And then she reached out and opened his door, and before her nerve left her, she stepped inside.

He followed her, scratching his head in bemusement.

“Yes,” she told him. “It’s very relevant. You see, it’s one hundred and sixty times more likely that the earth will be struck by an asteroid than that you will seduce me. And yet…” She swallowed, looking up at him. “I find myself seduced. Utterly. The only explanation is that we are all about to perish.”

He looked down at her, his breath hissing out. “Rose. Darling.”

“And since we are going to die anyway…” Her throat felt dry. “Would you…take me to bed?”

He looked at her. Really looked at her. His eyes were dark; a light danced in them. He leaned over her and drew one finger down her cheek.

“Rose,” he said. “I have just one question.”

She nodded.

“Does probability really work like that?”

Her cheeks burned and she ducked her head. “No,” she moaned, feeling rather ashamed. “It doesn’t. I’m sorry—I was going to tell you afterward. And I know that doing such a thing under false pretenses…” She let out a little laugh. “I know it doesn’t make sense. But I love you, and…and… I think that if we are to do this, I must learn to be a little outrageous.” She swallowed. “And in a few hours my parents will be here, and once we’re engaged, it’ll be four months before we’ll be left alone, and—”