One With the Night (2 page)

His face went white. “Ye’re sure?”

She nodded. “I can’t turn it now. She pushed too hard, too early.” She didn’t blame. She didn’t have to. Mr. Campbell set his jaw. He knew.

“Jamie’ll waste wi’ grief if she passes,” his father fretted. “Can ye no’ save her?” His eyes held simple pleading. He had gone from distrust to faith in the last minutes. Perhaps he was responding to the life that seemed to throb in Jane since her infection. It made her seem … attractive to others on some level they didn’t even perceive. That’s what her father told her. And that attraction generated either fear or faith. Mr. Campbell had decided on faith.

“I’m not sure,” she said bluntly. “But there is a chance. Can you go for my father?”

“Aye,” he said, his mouth a grim line. “I’ll go.”

“Tell him to bring his Impellor.”

“Inpeller,” he repeated. It was close enough. Her father would know. Now if Mr. Campbell could pry him out of his laboratory … once he was embroiled in an experiment he had a remarkable ability to ignore the needs of others. Mr. Campbell nodded once and pushed out under the low lintel of the door. He looked like a man who wouldn’t be denied.

Behind her, Jamie said, “Another one’s coming, miss!” and Evie wailed.

Edindburgh, March, 1821

“Is there someplace ye can go?” he asked the group of young girls who clustered in the dingy hall, whimpering. They’d just watched him throw the master of this brothel and several brutal customers out a third-story window and yell to the street that the place was closed permanently. They’d probably seen his red eyes as well.

The oldest turned to Callan, mastering her fear. “Thankee fer wot ye did. But we’ll likely end in another set o’ rooms doin’ pretty much th’ same.”

Callan fished in the pocket of his coat. “Money creates possibilities.” He handed her the fat purse. She looked up at him, unbelieving, then untied the leather string and pulled out a winking gold coin. The other girls actually gasped.

“Buy a house,” he growled. “Buy a shop. Yer bodies are no’ all ye ha’ anymore.”

“Why’re ye doin this fer us?” the leader whispered, her eyes intent on his face.

Callan shrugged. He couldn’t tell them that. He turned to go.

“Wait! Let us take care o’ yer wounds.”

“No need.” That at least was true. “Mere scratches.”

“Then let us repay you in our own way.” The girl stepped up and ran a hand up to the nape of his neck. “Ye smell … like cinnamon. And ye ha’ lovely blue eyes.” His eyes weren’t blue, but no one ever noticed that. Her breasts pressed against his chest. Another girl took his hand. Callan’s member hardened. It was always ready these days.

He shook his head and put the girl gently from him. “I’d be as bad as they are, then. Ye should save that for th’ ones ye care for, in any case.”

“Seems no one cares about us but ye.” One girl smiled through her split lip.

“Ye’ll be surprised, I think.”

The oldest girl took a breath and held out her hand. “Alice. And ye are?”

He was a monster, unless the good doctor in Scotland could cure him. “Does no’ matter.” He pushed past her, but turned back. “Dinnae hate all men, just ta’ spite these, Alice.” He plunged down the creaking stairs. These were useless gestures, like bailing the sea with a tin cup. He did these things to keep his sanity. Was that sane?

Drumnadrochit, Scotland, March, 1821

Jane ran her forearm across her forehead to wipe away the sweat and sat back. Where was Campbell with her father and his equipment? The babe would come with the next contraction, no matter what she did. She wasn’t sure it would be alive. The feet had probably broken the sac by now and it had suffocated. Evie lay, half-conscious, soaked with sweat.

“Almost over,” she whispered to Jamie. “Next one.”

“Will it…? Will she…?”

“I don’t know.”

“She’s in God’s hands now.” But he looked frightened.

“Well.” She smiled wryly. “Let’s give God a little help tonight.” Actually she hoped some God somewhere was taking an interest. Evie was fading because she was bleeding inside. The night had taken a toll on Jane as well. The unnatural hunger that plagued her itched at her veins. She could smell Evie’s blood. Jane’s body, with its new and dreadful illness, was shouting at her, distracting her from the work at hand.

Evie moaned. Jane readied herself. The girl was fully dilated. Her moan cycled up into a scream, not as powerful as it had been earlier but still gut-wrenching for Jamie. He talked softly to her, trying to soothe her. Jane saw the tiny feet appear, slick with blood. This was it. She took hold, as gently as she could but firmly, and pulled. Nothing. Evie shrieked even louder.

“Miss Blundell,” Jamie cried, panicked.

It all happened quickly, just as it always did. One minute Jane was tugging, trying not to break tiny limbs, and the next minute the babe just slid into her lap, a wizened, bloody mess. He was followed by a gush of blood. The smell assaulted Jane. But she had to focus on the baby. He was so still, so tiny. Jane held him up and opened the tiny mouth with her finger, scraping out the slime and fluid. Still nothing. Evie had gone silent. Jane could feel Jamie holding his breath. Jane wasn’t breathing either. She held the baby upside down by his feet and patted his back.

The tiny, sputtering cough was deafening in the silence.

The door burst open behind them just as Jamie’s son started to wail.

“Get me the knife,” Jane cried, as her father and Mr. Campbell strode into the room. Jamie jumped for the knife Jane had made him sterilize in the fire.

“Well, Jane!” her father exclaimed. “I’m surprised you managed that. This good man said it was early and breech and the local women were making her push.”

Jane nodded. He was always surprised at any of her successes. This time even she was surprised. She took the knife from Jamie and cut the umbilical cord. “Now we have another problem,” she said quietly, nodding to the barely conscious Evie. All three men stared at the blood soaking the quilt and the bed.

Jane’s father looked grim. His groundbreaking research into transfusion had been inspired by all the women he’d seen die from hemorrhaging. As a well-known obstetrician of thirty years, Papa didn’t like to fail. Jane knew this would be upsetting to him. Especially since he had not yet solved the issue of why some blood seemed to do a patient good when transfused, and some seemed only to make the patient sicker. There was only one person’s blood which seemed to work universally. Her father rolled up his sleeve. So far only his blood was a sure thing. But Evie was hemorrhaging so badly the blood her father could give might not be enough. Then it was Evie’s gamble whether blood from anyone else would heal her or kill her.

“Jane, you take care of Mr. Campbell’s son.” He turned to the men. “This woman will die without blood from someone else to replace the blood she is losing.”

“What’re ye goin’ ta do?” Jamie asked, white-faced.

Jane wiped the baby boy and tied the umbilical knot. Her father was busy setting up his equipment: a telescoping stand, some rubber tubing, and a squeeze bulb. The huge needles glinted in the candlelight as he laid them on the bedside table. “I’m going to suck blood out of the vein in my arm and push it into the vein in your wife’s arm with this device. I call it the ‘Impellor.’”

The banished women peeked in at the cottage door. “Against God’s will,” one muttered.

“The Sassanach’ll be struck dead for tryin’ to cheat Him,” another whispered.

Mr. Campbell looked uncertain, suddenly. It was the equipment, so metallic and rubbery; out of place in the tiny stone cottage on the edge of a lake where dwelt monsters.

“This can work,” Jane said urgently as she cradled the crying infant against her breast. “I have seen it. There are no guarantees, but she has no chance without it.”

Jamie stood, toppling his stool. He was trembling. “Get out o’ here, ye two-faced bitches,” he cried to the apparitions at the doorway. “I’m goin’ ta try everathin’ ta save my Evie, if it goes against God or no’!” He turned to Jane’s father. “Doctor, do what ye can.”

The women in the doorway fussed as they withdrew. “If that child lives, it’ll belong to Satan himself,” one muttered.

Jane patted the tiny back and mourned the burden of suspicion just created for this small bit of life that would follow him as long as he lived in the village.

“Jane, give the child to his father. I need you to place the needle in my arm. Boy, your blood is next after mine, and then yours, Mr. Campbell.” Jane was exempt, of course. If her father’s blood was certain to help Evie, only Jane’s was certain to kill her or worse.

Jamie paled, but took the now-silent bundle awkwardly. “I’ll lend my blood if it will save Evie,” he said. There was only a slight quaver in his voice.

Jane wondered if she could bear the sight of blood right now. She picked up the needle.

*   *   *

Their work was over at the little cottage. The last two hours had been a torment for Jane. The smell of fresh blood when she was so hungry for it was excruciating. That something that was in her blood rose up and demanded, and it was all she could to do concentrate on her work. Her father had given Evie blood and cauterized the vessels that were broken. He decided to chance using Jamie’s blood, since Evie had lost so much. Jane was forced to leave the cottage. She set the needle and retreated to the cold night air to steady her nerves and escape the smell of blood. Thank God Evie had experienced no reaction to Jamie’s blood. Only she and her father knew how lucky that was. Jane was shaking now with need, unsure how she would live through the next hours without losing what sanity remained to her. When she returned to the room, Evie lay sleeping, her face once more blushing, while a pale Jamie cradled his child.

Her father rose. “I think she’ll be fine, Mr. Campbell, perhaps a little weak for the next week. Be sure to make her drink some good dark ale so she’ll have milk for the child.”

Mr. Campbell was a simple man, not used to expressing emotion. But his eyes were full as he said, “I’ll live in yer debt and that of yer daughter till the end o’ my days, sir, and Jamie too. I know right well Evie and the boy would no’ ha’ lived without ye.”

“I’ll stop back by tomorrow and check in on them,” Jane said, knowing her father would not want to take time away from his experiments. He gathered up his equipment. Mr. Campbell helped them take it out to the gig.

“So this is what ye’re doin’ with th’ blood?” Campbell asked, speculation in his voice. “Practicin’ how ta pass it, one ta th’ other?”

Her father nodded, though that was not quite true. Papa apparently didn’t have as much trouble with lying as Jane did. Or maybe he was just distracted. He often didn’t listen to those around him if they weren’t saying something he cared to hear.

Campbell nodded brusquely and handed Jane into the gig. It was late and perhaps three miles up the Urquhart Valley to Muir Farm. Jane still smelled blood. The thick, rich scent seemed to follow her. She pressed a palm to her forehead. Her hunger ramped up almost into pain.

Campbell nodded to himself. “If ye can save lives like ye saved Evie’s, then it’s God’s work ye do, nae matter what those biddies say. I’ll get donations fer ye, Doctor. Evera man in th’ village owes me a boon.”

Jane leaned over and took his large, work-worn hand. “Thank you, Mr. Campbell.” Some would call feeding a monster the devil’s work. Perhaps it was. She shook the reins and the gig rolled out of the village. Mr. Campbell didn’t know he was doing the devil’s work, so perhaps he would escape blame in his Creator’s eyes. But what if it took Campbell several days to convince his friends to donate? Could she last?

The smell of blood made her giddy with emptiness. She could sense the pounding of her father’s heart that sent his blood careering through his body. She breathed and pushed down the thing in her blood that was so joyous at the scent. The mountains on each side of Urquhart Valley loomed up around her. She could see each brown bracken fern sending out green shoots from its root, and shale poking through the vegetation to make you realize the spine of the world lurked just below the surface. It was a sere land, the Highlands, a land she could not love. Even the softer valley, with its grass for grazing and the pines around the house at Muir Farm, was not soft like England was. It was not a land you could call beautiful.

“You shouldn’t have tried to deliver that baby.” Her father’s admonition broke into her thoughts. “You should have called me immediately. That was work for a doctor, not a girl who’s watched some crones catch a few babies.”

He didn’t think her capable. It hurt, as always. The irritation in her blood wound its way up into anger. “I’ve birthed a hundred babies myself, Papa. And some of them were breech.”

“You!” her father scoffed. “Where would you have gotten such experience? Don’t lie to make yourself seem more important than you are, Jane. It doesn’t become you.”

That was too much. “I got that experience in the slums of Whitechapel and Bethnal Green, Papa, while you thought I was embroidering pillow covers and gossiping with silly girls.” She should have said “other silly girls,” since he obviously thought she was silly too.

Her father knitted his brows. “Those are not places for someone like you, Jane. That was dangerous, reckless behavior. Why would you do that?”

She sighed. He couldn’t help the fact that he would always see her as a little girl. Or how disappointed he was at that. She was tired, all of a sudden. “Because they couldn’t afford an obstetrician like you, Papa. Someone like me was all they had.”

“You will
not
expose yourself to such riffraff again, Jane. I expressly forbid it!”

She hoped someday to get back to her work. But she wouldn’t say that. She’d already snapped at him. And first she had to get back to daylight, and normal living. “No, Papa.”

“Do you want it now?”

“What?”

“The blood I took from Campbell. It’s in the canteen under the seat. Can’t have you getting wild. It’s been a fortnight.”

Jane mastered herself, and managed a smile. “I shall wait and sip it from a china cup as I always do.” She squeezed his arm. “Even a vampire can be civil.”