Page 36 of The Earl She Once Saved

Slowly, the girl obeyed.

“There you are.”

Another pain gathered. Verity saw it before Mary felt it, the tightening beneath the sheet, the change in her breath.

“Give me your hand.”

Mary seized it. Pain came. She cried out. Verity let her crush her fingers.

“That is it. Breathe.”

“I cannot.”

“You are.”

“It hurts,” Mary wailed, with reddened cheeks and swollen eyes.

“I know.”

“I want Will,” Mary kept crying.

“He is outside.”

“I want my mother.”

That nearly undid her, not because of Mary, but because for the briefest instant, Verity heard another voice beneath hers. She heard men calling for mothers on fields thousands of miles from home, boys with powder burns and torn uniforms. She heard her father saying: Very good, Verity. Again. Keep your hands steady.

She pushed the memory down. There was work to be done. Work had always been merciful that way.

“Mrs. Weller,” she called out. “More light.”

The older woman brought the lamp. Verity examined Mary, then went still. The child was … wrong. Not hopeless, but wrong enough.

“How long has it been like this?”

Mrs. Weller lowered her voice. “I could not turn it.”

Verity looked at her.

“I tried.”

“I know.”

The woman’s eyes filled. “I thought we’d lose them both.”

Verity looked back at Mary.

No.

She rolled up her sleeves. “Mary, listen to me.”

The girl’s lips trembled.

“I need to help the child turn.”

Fear widened her eyes. “Will it hurt?”

Verity did not lie. “Yes.”