Page 34 of The Frozen River

“Like it was irrelevant with Joshua Burgess?” I point at Grace. “You might not think a name matters in a room like this, but I assure you, it is vital.”

I arrived at the Sewalls’ the night before, having crossed the frozen river on foot, just before dusk. I was accompanied by the shop boy who works for David Sewell and had expected him to lead me to a private home across the street, but instead he took me right into the chandlery, where David was pacing back and forth behind the counter, looking very much like his older cousin, Henry, the town clerk.

“Where is Grace?” I asked, looking around the dim store at the piles of coiled rope and barrels of oil, the shelves filled with nails and bolts and boxes of soap.

He pointed to the ceiling.

“It is called an appartement,” he’d said, exaggerating the French pronunciation, as he led me up the stairs at the back of the shop. “In England they call them ‘flats,’ but I prefer the European term. They’re everywhere in Boston. A very convenient way to live and work.”

He opened the door, then, and led me into the second-floor home that sat above his place of business. It consists of two small bedrooms and one larger room combining the kitchen, dining, and living area. His young wife was there, rocking slowly in a chair, lips pursed, and brow knotted. Her sour-faced mother sat beside her and held her hand.

“It hurts,” Grace had told me. “I didn’t think it would hurt.”

“What did you think, then?” I asked, kneeling beside her.

“I don’t know that I thought much about it all. This part was never explained to me.”

I glanced at the girl’s mother—the very proper looking Mrs. Hendricks.

“There was no need to alarm my daughter before she was ready.”

“I tend to think of it as preparing them, not alarming them,” I told her.

“I have prepared her to be a lady,” Mrs. Hendricks sniffed. “Not that you can tell by this backwater village that her husband has chosen.”

In reality, Grace had only been in the early stages of labor. So early, in fact, that had she been properly educated by her mother about the realities of childbirth, no one would have bothered to call for me until dawn. But I had sat up with the girl, regardless, timing her contractions all night. They came every thirty to forty-five minutes and lasted twenty seconds. Hardly birth pangs at all. And all the while I listened to Mrs. Hendricks complain about the long, hard journey from Boston, her difficulties on the bad rural roads, and her opinions of them as well.

The girl was inexperienced, and scared, and—when I performed an internal examination—barely dilated. Yet as the night hours dragged on, both Grace and her mother became more intimidated by the process. Impatient with the results and doubtful of my ability.

At some point, when I slipped out to use the privy, Mrs. Hendricks must have convinced David to send the shop boy for Dr. Page. And now he is here, trying to order me from the room.

“Let me see her,” Page demands, attempting to edge me away from the bed.

“You will not manhandle me.” I swat at his arm. “Cross to the other side of the bed if you wish to examine her. But I will not leave my position.”

“Very well. I shall have to educate you, then.” He turns to Grace. “It is unfortunate how many country women confuse false labor for the real thing.”

“I beg your pardon—” I interrupt.

“Because it is obvious—”

“Her pains are now regular and promising.”

“That this is a false labor,” he says.

“Oh, for the love of God, Grace, do not listen to this man. I have been with you all night. Your labor is early but real.”

The girl is of the stiff and straight variety. Well-bred and nicely mannered. If not pregnant, she would be slender and shapeless. Excellent posture. Tiny waist. Nose straight enough to be a ruler. Hair like a pane of glass. Grace Sewell has been bred to look nice in a gown and do as she is told. The problem is that she has always taken her orders from those with a pedigree and a formal education. So it makes sense that when she looks to Dr. Page and his fine coat, she finds comfort and familiarity. Whereas all she has gotten from me during these long hours of the night is an assurance that she must be patient, that the baby will come when it is ready, and that there is nothing to be done in the meantime but wait and walk and sleep if she can.

Mrs. Hendricks rises from her chair and joins him at the side of the bed. “What is your opinion, Doctor?”

“I believe,” he says, setting his medical bag on the bed beside Grace and unzipping it, “that your daughter is suffering in the way that all women of higher birth suffer.”

She waits for him to continue, her eyes round and her mouth curved into a moue of attentiveness, hanging on every word.

“It has been known for centuries that wealthy and beautiful women—those who lead delicate lives and are of an upper strata, such as your daughter—suffer a great deal more during childbirth than”—he looks at me—“common women.”

“That is absurd,” I tell him. “If you knew anything about women, much less birth, you would know the female body works the same regardless of class.”