Matthew took a moment to consider. “Yes.”
“Oh.” I’d expected a song and dance about the sanctity of pregnant women and how he would put up with anything for me. I giggled.
“Lie on your left side and I’ll rub your back.” Matthew pulled me down next to him.
“That’s the only thing you’re going to rub,” I warned.
“So I understand,” he said with more aggravating control. “Lie down. Now.”
“That sounds more like you. I was beginning to think they’d given you the epidural by mistake.” I turned and fitted my body into his.
“Witch,” he said, nipping me on the shoulder.
It was a good thing I was lying down when the next contraction hit.
“We don’t want you to push, because there’s no telling how long this will take and the babies aren’t ready to be born yet. It’s been four hours and eighteen minutes since the contractions started. There could be another day of this ahead of you. You need to rest. That’s one reason I wanted you to have the nerve blocker.” Matthew used his thumbs to massage the small of my back.
“It’s only been four hours and eighteen minutes?” My voice was faint.
“Nineteen minutes now, but yes.” Matthew held me while my body was racked with another fierce contraction. When I was able to think straight, I groaned softly and pressed back into Matthew’s hand.
“Your thumb is in an absolutely divine spot.” I sighed with relief.
“And this spot?” Matthew’s thumb traveled lower and closer to my spine.
“Heaven,” I said, able to breathe through the next contraction a bit better.
“Your blood pressure is still normal, and the back rub seems to be helping. Let’s do it properly.” Matthew called for Marcus to bring in the oddly shaped, leather-padded chair with the reading stand from his library and had him set it up by the window, a pillow resting on the support that was designed to hold a book. Matthew helped me sit astride it, facing the pillow.
My belly swelled out and made contact with the back of the chair.
“What on earth is this chair really for?”
“Watching cockfights and playing all-night card games,” Matthew said. “You’ll find it’s much easier on your lower back if you can lean forward a bit and rest your head on the pillow.”
It was. Matthew began a thorough massage that started at my hips and moved up until he was loosening the muscles at the base of my skull. I had three more contractions while he was working, and though they were prolonged, Matthew’s cool hands and strong fingers seemed to soften some of the pain.
“How many pregnant women have you helped this way?” I asked, mildly curious about where he had acquired this skill. Matthew’s hands stilled.
“Only you.” His soothing motions continued.
I turned my head and found him looking at me, though his fingers never stopped moving.
“Ysabeau said I’m the only one to sleep in this bedroom.”
“Nobody I met seemed worthy of it. But I could envision you in this room—with me, of course—shortly after we met.”
“Why do you love me so much, Matthew?” I couldn’t see the attraction, especially not when I was rotund, facedown, and gasping with pain. His response was swift.
“To every question I have ever had, or ever will have, you are the answer.” He pulled my hair away from my neck and kissed me on the soft flesh beneath the ear. “Do you feel like getting up for a bit?”
A sudden, sharper pain that coursed through my lower extremities kept me from responding. I gasped instead.
“That sounds like ten centimeters’ dilation to me,” Matthew murmured. “Marcus?”
“Good news, Diana,” Marcus said cheerfully as he walked into the room. “You get to push now!”
Push I did. For what seemed like days.
I tried it the modern way first: lying down, with Matthew clasping my hand, a look of adoration on his face.
That didn’t work well.
“It’s not necessarily a sign of trouble,” Dr. Sharp told us, looking at Matthew and me from her vantage point between my thighs. “Twins can take longer to get moving during this stage of labor. Right, Marthe?”
“She needs a stool,” Marthe said with a frown.
“I brought mine,” Dr. Sharp said. “It’s in the hall.” She jerked her head in that direction.
And so the babies that were conceived in the sixteenth century opted to eschew modern medical convention and be born the old-fashioned way: on a simple wooden chair with a horseshoe-shaped seat.
Instead of having a half dozen strangers share the birth experience, I was surrounded by the ones I loved: Matthew behind me, holding me up physically and emotionally; Jane and Marthe at my feet, congratulating me on having babies so considerate as to present themselves to the world headfirst; Marcus offering a gentle suggestion every now and then; Sarah at my side, telling me when to breathe and when to push; Ysabeau standing by the door, relaying messages to Phoebe, who waited in the hall and sent a constant stream of texts to Pickering Place, where Fernando, Jack, and Andrew were waiting for news.
It was excruciating.
It took forever.
When at 11:55 P.M. the first indignant cry was heard at long last, I started to weep and laugh. A fierce protective feeling took root where my child had been only moments before, filling me with purpose.
“Is it okay?” I asked, looking down.
“She is perfect,” Marthe said, beaming at me proudly.
“She?” Matthew sounded dazed.
“It is a girl. Phoebe, tell them Madame has given birth to a girl,” Ysabeau said with excitement.
Jane held the tiny creature up. She was blue and wrinkled and smeared with gruesome-looking substances that I’d read about but was inadequately prepared to see on my own child. Her hair was jet-black, and there was plenty of it.
“Why is she blue? What’s wrong with her? Is she dying?” I felt my anxiety climb.
“She’ll turn as red as a beet in no time,” Marcus said, looking down at his new sister. He held out a pair of scissors and a clamp to Matthew. “And there’s certainly nothing wrong with her lungs. I think you should do the honors.”
Matthew stood, motionless.
“If you faint, Matthew Clairmont, I will never let you forget it,” Sarah said testily. “Get your ass over there and cut the cord.”
“You do it, Sarah.” Matthew’s hands trembled on my shoulders.