Love According To Lily (31 page)

The doctor paused for a moment before answering. “These things are rarely predictable. It’s her first child and she might simply be a trifle slow. On the other hand, I am concerned that the accident today might have caused the water to break prematurely, which might have upset the natural progression of things. But for all we know, it could be happening now. I could go back to her room in five minutes and the baby could be coming.”

“What if the womb doesn’t open?”

The doctor was direct. “There are ways I can intervene to help things along.”

“If that doesn’t work?”

Dr. Benjamin didn’t answer the question right away. He put a hand up to halt the discussion. “As I said before, this conversation is premature—”

“If it doesn’t work, doctor,” Whitby repeated, more firmly this time. Though he already knew all too well what would happen. That’s how his mother had died—under the doctor’s knife, in a last attempt to save the child.

Dr. Benjamin’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Then you and Lady Whitby would have to consider your options. The fact is, my lord, that once the water has broken, the child must come out, or the child’s survival will be at risk.”

Whitby stirred uneasily in the chair. “What about the mother’s survival?”

“Hers, too, of course. But truly, you mustn’t concern yourself at this stage. All could very well be fine.”

Whitby leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and raked both hands through his hair. “
Christ
.”

The doctor put a hand on Whitby’s shoulder. “My lord, in all likelihood, Lady Whitby will deliver the baby safely in her own good time.”

Whitby nodded and sat back. The doctor was right. It was Lily’s first child, and she could simply be taking her time. Worrying would get him nowhere. He had to be hopeful.

But hope was not easy for a man like him, who had lost so many people in his life. He was jaded. He couldn’t help but expect the worst.

Chapter 34

By mid-morning the next day, Lily was no longer cheerful, and Whitby did not know what to say to her, for he, too, was out of his mind with worry. She had not yet made any progress.

She was growing weary of the pain and it had been a long, grueling night. The midwife had given Lily a warm bath to try and encourage the baby to come, but it had produced no effect. She hadn’t been able to sleep either, not with the labor pains coming every five minutes. Whitby had dozed off a few times in the chair because Lily had encouraged him to do so, and she was very quiet when she experienced her pain, unlike his mother. Lily had told him to go to bed at least a dozen times—for a birthing room was no place for a husband, she had said—but he’d refused to leave. He would go when the baby was ready to come, he had told her.

He wished it would happen, but still, as the morning wore on, it did not.

That afternoon, the doctor began his methods of intervention. He administered three doses of chloral, which increased Lily’s pain but did not produce the desired effect he had hoped. He tried manual pressure over her abdomen. When that didn’t work, he gave her quinine, which he said was a general stimulant and was frequently employed in lingering labors such as these with marked benefits. Whitby sensed the doctor was getting desperate at that point.

By nightfall, there were still no changes when the doctor examined her, and his distress began to show.

“It’s been more than thirty hours, my lord,” he said to Whitby quietly in the privacy of the drawing room, “and Lady Whitby is exhausted. I do not want to be the forecaster of doom, but if she does not dilate soon… I would prefer to take steps sooner rather than later.”

“Steps?” Whitby said.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Surgery.”

The doctor stared wordlessly at him.

“That’s how my mother died,” Whitby told him.

Dr. Benjamin’s chest rose and fell with a compassion-filled sigh. “I am aware of that, Lord Whitby.
I read the reports. But I believe the physician attending her waited too long.”

Whitby swallowed over the lump of dread rising up in his throat, while he struggled to keep a clear head. “Have you said this to my wife? Does she know what this means?”

“I’ve said nothing yet because anxiety can sometimes exacerbate the problem. I’ve only told you. And Mrs. Hanson of course knows from experience.”

Whitby turned away from the doctor and poured a glass of brandy from the side table. He had not touched a drink in nine months. He walked to the other side of the room to sip it, hoping it would numb the strain upon his nerves, but in the end, all he could do was stare down at it. He realized with unnerving melancholy that he did not want to be numb. Not today. Not ever again.

Eventually, he set it down on a table and walked away from it. He faced the doctor. “Can we wait a little longer? I’m not ready to make this decision.”

“Yes. But she can’t go on like this forever.”

“Is there nothing else you can do?”

“If the pain becomes unbearable, I can give her chloroform. It’s safe, if managed properly. But again, if surgery becomes a necessity, the sooner you make the decision, the greater the chances of success.”

Whitby pinched the bridge of his nose. Would he be forced to make a decision that could kill Lily and the baby? And if he acted sooner rather than later as the doctor was saying, and they did
not
survive, would Whitby always wonder what would have happened if he’d waited? Would Lily have given birth safely on her own?

He would never know the answer to that, and if anything happened to her, he would drive himself mad, because he would assume the worst—that yes, she would have been fine if he’d waited just one more hour…

He cupped his forehead in his hand and realized frantically that if Lily did not deliver that baby soon, he
was
going to have to make that choice. And God help him, he did not want to.

Later that evening, Whitby woke in the chair next to Lily’s bed with his forehead on her hand. She was weeping.

Instantly awake and alert, he stood and leaned over her. Mrs. Hanson, who was sleeping on a cot in the dressing room, came running in.

“It’s the pain,” Lily said with a gut-wrenching sob. “I’ve been trying so hard to be brave, but I can’t take it anymore! It’s been almost two days. Why won’t the baby come?”

Mrs. Hanson stood at the foot of the bed. “Is the pain worse, Lady Whitby?”

Lily shook her head. “No. Yes. I don’t know. Maybe it feels worse because I have no tolerance left. I can’t do this anymore!”

Whitby bent forward and kissed her cheeks and her nose and eyes. “Can’t you
do
something!” he shouted at the midwife.

“Perhaps I should examine her,” Mrs. Hanson said shakily, appearing flustered. “Perhaps she is progressing.”

Lily sat up and let out a guttural cry. It was the first time Whitby had heard that sound come out of her—that familiar, nightmarish sound…

“If you will give me a moment, Lord Whitby,” Mrs. Hanson said, quickly moving around the other side of the bed in a panic, and pulling the covers off Lily.

He kissed Lily’s small hand, but she was unaware. She was panting, her face contorted in a tight grimace. Whitby met Mrs. Hanson’s gaze and saw the concern in her eyes. A tense silence enveloped the room. He swallowed with difficulty.

This was hell. He’d gone straight to the depths of fiery hell.

Making haste to leave the room, hoping Mrs. Hanson would discover that the baby was ready to come, Whitby left and closed the door behind him. He tipped his head back against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut, waiting. His heart was pounding erratically. He’d never felt like this—so desperate and powerless.

Everything was quiet on the other side of the door for a brief moment, then he heard Lily cry out, “No!”

Feeling as if his heart was about to explode from his chest, Whitby opened the door and burst back in. “What is it?”

Mrs. Hanson was covering Lily again, and Lily was crying. He felt nauseous. He wanted to give up his own life for her. If that would make the baby come, he would do it here and now.

Mrs. Hanson shook her head. “Still no progress, my lord. The cervix is closed.”

Lily was writhing on the bed with another contraction, and Whitby couldn’t stand it another moment. “Fetch Dr. Benjamin,” he said. “He’s in my study. He mentioned chloroform to numb the pain. Tell him to bring some.”

“Chloroform?” Lily asked, as the pain subsided. “Are you sure? It won’t hurt the baby?”

“The queen has used it, darling,” Whitby said. “It will help you.”

She lay back on the pillows and closed her eyes, falling almost immediately to sleep, but startling awake a moment later. She grabbed Whitby’s forearm. “Perhaps you should send word to my mother,” she said with desperation. “She’s in London.”

Whitby knew with bitter cold despair that if Lily wanted to communicate with her mother, she was anticipating the worst.

He strove to prepare himself for what lay ahead, but could not. All he could do was let her squeeze his arm as another labor pain seized her.

Marion arrived by train at noon the next day. Lily was still in the same state, suffering the pains of labor with no dilation of the cervix, but the chloroform had at least given her some reprieve. The doctor had strongly recommended the surgery, and Lily had agreed to it. She knew the risks to her own life, but she wanted to save the baby.

Whitby was devastated. He could not eat. He could barely speak.

He walked in somber silence as he escorted Marion to Lily’s bedchamber. He paused outside the door, however, before he opened it.

“I know you’ve never approved of me,” he said flatly, “and probably for good reason. But I do love her, more than my own life, more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I would die for her if I could. Right now.”

He’d never imagined he would say those words, but there they were. It was the truth. He loved her, and he could no longer fight it or deny it.

His mother-in-law stared at him for a long moment with unreadable eyes, probably blaming him for inflicting this death sentence upon her daughter. He knew what she thought of him. He had taken both James and Lily out of her control, and now the worst was about to happen.

But there was nothing he could do to change that. He knew all too well it was out of his hands now.

Marion, however, did not reproach him. She laid a hand on his arm and nodded to acknowledge what he’d said, while he gazed down at her with both surprise and despair.

A brief second later, she turned toward the door, so he showed her into the room, then went straight to his own room to be alone.

He sat down in the chair by the window to prepare himself, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything. All he could do was sit perfectly still, elbows on knees, hands laced together in front of him, his head bent forward.

He did not weep. He could not. He was in shock. He thought
he
should be dead. He was the one with no life, no rewards due to him. He had not loved the one woman who had given him her heart, body and soul—not the way he should have. He had kept his soul away from her.

He would have expected that under these circumstances he would be glad he had held back so much of himself. But he was not glad. All he felt was regret for all the love he had wasted, all the joy he had missed. Now it was too late. He could not have the past back.

He had denied Lily so much.

And he had denied himself even more.

Holding onto a mask she placed over her face when the pain became unbearable, Lily lay in bed, feeling as if she were floating. The chloroform did not suppress the pain completely, but it relaxed her and helped her fall asleep occasionally, dozing through certain sporadic moments.

She had no idea how long she’d been dozing when she opened her eyes and was struck by the sight of her mother sitting by the bed.

Was she dreaming?

“Hello,” Marion said, leaning forward.

Lily’s mouth was dry. She stared sleepily at her mother and felt the return of all the heartbreak and anger she’d felt the last time they’d spoken. She had thought she was over it, but she had not forgotten…

Lily tried to keep her voice cool and reserved, though she felt nothing of the sort. “I’m surprised. I didn’t think you’d come.”