-THE FALL—

They hurtled towards Milton on the very next train—an evening express with fewer stops.

The note they had received had come from Grimsby. Mrs Platt, the Watson housekeeper, had sent a message to the mill house. Fanny had suddenly taken ill this morning and had to be brought to bed.

Fanny was not due until two weeks later. Margaret understood that there had been some difficulty for Fanny to be with child. Even though all had seemed to be progressing well, the doctor had advised great caution during the pregnancy. Fanny had seemed quite well the last time she had seen her—what could have gone wrong.

Her mind spun terrifying possibilities of what they would find when they reached. She prayed that they would reach in time, that they were not too late.

She looked at John. He sat on the opposite seat, looking out of the window. It was dark outside; there was nothing to see but he continued to stare at some far-off horizon as he sat in tense silence, his face rigidly composed. He hadn't said much to her since they'd received the note. Whatever he was thinking, whatever he was fearing he wasn't going to tell her.

It was around ten in the night that they reached Milton.

The moment the carriage stopped outside Mr Watson's house, John stepped out and went to the front door taking two steps at a time. After being forced to sit still in agonising suspense for hours, he couldn't bear to wait another second.

The butler opened the door right away. "Mrs Watson is upstairs," he told them, ending the suspense.

Relief rushed through her. But John didn't stop. She hurried after him.

Mr Watson had just entered the room. He looked to have aged decades. But John did not see any of that. His interest and concern were only for his sister.

"Watson." John stepped forward. "How is Fanny?"

"She is having the baby," he said, his voice haggard. "Dr Donaldson is with her."

Margaret rushed upstairs, removing her coat and gloves as she went. She headed for the room that had been prepared for the birth. Dropping her things on a chair in the outer chamber, she took a bracing breath and opened the door.

Inside Dr Donaldson, Mrs Platt, and a woman Margaret guessed to be the nurse matron were bent over a still form laid out on the bed.

They turned towards the door at her entrance; Dr Donaldson, his white brows gathered together in a frown, ready to object. But the housekeeper spoke up, the relief in her voice evident. "Mrs Thornton! Thank God, you have come."

Margaret closed the door behind her. Her gaze finally went to Fanny. If not for the low moan, she would have thought her lost.

Fanny was wearing a sweat-damped shift and petticoat. Her hair had been tied back in a braid. She was sleeping at the moment, though not very peacefully. Her brows were furrowed and Mrs Platt was wiping it with a cloth.

Margaret sat next to her friend, taking the cloth from the housekeeper. From the conversation between the doctor and the matron, she gathered that the birth was not proceeding as expecting.

"Her pains aren't strong," the matron was informing the doctor. "It's been more than fourteen hours."

The doctor's brows lowered over his eyes. "The contractions are weak but they have not ceased. The labour is proceeding slowly but naturally." He took out his watch and frowned at it. "Let me know if there is any change."

After the doctor left the room, the housekeeper came to her. "It's good of you to come so soon, ma'am. I hope you did not think it presumptuous but I did not know whom else to ask."

"What happened?"

"Everything was fine. We have all been so careful but last night, we found Mrs Watson lying on the floor. She must have had a fainting spell or something. We called the doctor right away." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "He said it might not bode well for the baby if it is not delivered soon. He had to induce the pains. But now it is taking too long."

Margaret did not know much about childbirth. She had never been present at one. Edith had written to her about the pain but it had been a brief mention, the bulk of her description had been about her joy at holding Sholto for the first time. Margaret knew that childbirth was a long and painful process; all women went through it and most managed to delivery safely. Dr Donaldson was the best doctor in Milton. He had once attended her father and she had found that she liked his simple but kind and competent manner.

Fanny was beginning to stir. "George?"

"The master has been with Mrs Watson all this time," the housekeeper explained. "She sent him away just now."

"Fanny," Margaret stroked her forehead. "It's me, darling. Should I call Mr Watson?" she asked uncertainly, looking at the matron for guidance.

Fanny shook her head. "I asked him to go," she said weakly. "He was being a nuisance." She smiled, a weak but absurdly charming smile; then her expression sobered. "He is so worried and I cannot bear it," she admitted tearfully.

"It's all right. Everything will be all right," Margaret fervently assured her.

Margaret saw that Fanny was conserving her strength, breathing deeply and trying to calm herself. She was worried for the baby but was trying to not to give into her panic. It was as if she believed that if she did not speak her fears, she could keep them from becoming real.

Margaret wished she had something encouraging to say to Fanny but she did not know very much. There was no older woman in their family to guide them and comfort them, she thought with dismay.

At first, Margaret drew courage from the matron's calm and competent manner but as hours passed, she saw the beginnings of concern on the woman's face. Margaret couldn't tell what it meant—should the pains be stronger now, should it be quicker now. The doctor came in again. He assured Fanny that the baby was not in "distress."

Eventually, the pains started to come more frequently. Intense and harrowing spells followed by brief intervals of relief and silence. Margaret held Fanny's hand, their palms soldered together by fear and pain. The matron urged Fanny to be strong for the baby. But it seemed to go on forever. Minutes became hours. Hours stretched into forever. Margaret could no longer tell what time it was.

After a long, racking wave of pain, the matron checked Fanny. "No much longer now," she said, sounding vastly relieved. "Call the doctor," she instructed the housekeeper, who immediately rushed out the door.

The next few hours were a blur. Margaret focused all her attention on Fanny, murmuring encouragements, talking to her to distract her from the pain, rubbing her back and shoulder. Fanny, mindlessly exhausted, did everything that was asked of her by the matron and the doctor.

Suddenly, a loud scream pierced the room. It took a moment for Margaret to recognise it as coming from the tiny wrinkled creature that the doctor was holding in his hands.

"It's a girl," the matron said triumphantly as she took the baby from the doctor. She wrapped the child in a soft towel and placed her in Fanny's arms.

And suddenly all the worry and the agony was gone, just vanished. Everything seemed worth the suffering. Margaret watched caught in the quiet wonder of the moment. A beautiful peace pervaded the room.

And then just as suddenly, it was gone.

The doctor was saying something to the matron, his voice urgent and sharp and then the baby was taken from Fanny to be cleaned and washed. Fanny didn't protest; she was shivering and sweating.

Without warning, everything quickly started going wrong. Fanny collapsed back on the bed as if someone had cut off the puppet strings. She was beginning to lose consciousness.

"Give her the ergot infusion," Margaret heard the doctor say.

Mrs Platt poured a cup from a large kettle that had been brought into the room earlier. The mug was pushed into Margaret's hand.

The housekeeper raised Fanny a little, careful not to move her too much. Margaret pressed the cup to Fanny's mouth. "Please have some of this."

Fanny weakly swallowed a little of the liquid.

"More," Margaret said inexorably, continuing to hold the mug to her lips. Together, they managed to get her to drink the entire content of the cup. But it didn't seem to help. Fanny was sinking by the moment.

"She is bleeding too much," the doctor muttered. "I need all of you to leave," he said. To the housekeeper, he began snapping out rapid instructions.

"I will stay—" Margaret began.

"Mrs Thornton, you will be of no use here. Please."

Mr Watson was waiting outside, barely able to contain his agitation, his eyes fierce with panic. John had come up as well; someone must have told him about the birth.

For the next couple of hours, Margaret watched as blood-soaked linens and covers were discreetly taken away from the birthing room and cans of hot water and endless supplies of fresh linen were sent in.

Mr Watson was pacing when the door to the room opened and Dr Donaldson came out. His shock of white hair was rumpled and he looked tired.

Mr Watson came forward. "How is she?"

"I've staunched the haemorrhage but she has lost a lot of blood," the doctor told him. "Her pulse is very weak."

"So what do you advice?"

Dr Donaldson shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry but there is nothing more I can do for her," he said.

There was a moment of bewildered silence in the room. Everyone was looking at the doctor, waiting for him to clarify, to make his words mean different. But the doctor stood with his shoulders hunched. "We can only pray that she pulls through."

Margaret covered her mouth with her hand. She looked at John. He stood stiff and straight, trying to absorb the shock.

It was Mr Watson who broke the ghastly silence. "Of course, she will pull through," he said, refusing to believe anything else. He pushed past the doctor and strode into the room where his wife lay.

Dr Donaldson picked up his medical bag. "I'm very sorry but I must go."

"But Fanny—" Margaret stopped him. "What should we do?"

"Make her as comfortable as you can," he said, then added, "Do not move her, it could start the haemorrhage. The matron will be here to watch for any signs of fever."

"Will she be in pain? I mean . . . She will wake up, won't she?" she asked.

"We must pray that she does." He sighed tiredly. "It was a complicated labour and . . . there is much we don't yet understand. So much depends on the constitution, a thousand things. Nothing is certain in these cases. At the moment, we can only hope that the body heals itself."

"I'm very sorry," he said again. John hardly seemed to see the hand that the doctor held out.

His eyes full of unspoken sympathy, Dr Donaldson departed, leaving the two of them alone. For several minutes, they stood without moving, rooted to the spot with shock. This couldn't not be happening. Not Fanny. The sweetest, dearest person she knew.

"Ma'am?"

It was Mrs Platt. She had been standing at the door.

Margaret went to her. "Yes?"

"I'm so sorry to ask this at such a time," the housekeeper said, her voice low and apologetic, "but should I arrange for a wet nurse? The baby will be needing her when she wakes up. Mrs Watson wanted to nurse the baby herself but now . . ."

Margaret turned to look for John but he had left the room.

She swallowed and nodded.

"Where's the baby?" she asked.

"In the nursery. The matron is looking after her."

In the beautiful room that Fanny had prepared, Margaret found the baby swaddled and fast asleep.

"How is she?" she asked the matron.

"As healthy and bonny as you could hope for." The woman handed the sleeping child to Margaret. "She has just gone to sleep. She has had a hard time of it too, the wee thing. She'll have a good long sleep."

The baby was so tiny and light in her arms. Fanny had so wanted a baby. She would have loved a daughter but now she would never—

Margaret cut off that thought. Fanny would pull through. She had to. It wasn't right, didn't feel right.

"Take her to her mother," the matron suggested. "It may do her good if the child's with her."

Margaret took the baby to the birthing room.

The room was shockingly quiet and clean. The bed linens had been changed, the floor mopped, the curtains were drawn. Fanny was lying still, the bed cover pulled all the way up to her chest. Her normally luminous complexion was waxen, her lips bloodless and her eyes sunken.

Mr Watson was sitting on the side of the bed, holding Fanny's hand, chaffing it.

When he saw the child, he looked confused for a moment as if he had forgotten about it. He hadn't even seen his baby, Margaret realised with a start. In all the commotion and shock, nobody had remembered to show him his daughter.

Margaret went to him and placed the child in his arms.

Overcome, he didn't speak for a few moments. He held her tenderly and awkwardly as he peered into her tiny face.

"She is a beauty, isn't she?" Margaret remarked. "We don't yet know the colour of her eyes; we won't know for sure for a few weeks, but she has Fanny's hair."

Smiling, he touched the fine golden hair on the baby's head.

"Is she supposed to be sleeping?" he asked uncertainly.

"Yes," Margaret said.

He nodded distractedly, his attention utterly absorbed with his daughter. He held the tiny bundle close to him. After a few minutes, he gently and carefully settled the baby in the crook of Fanny's arm, tucking her snuggly next to her mother.

Margaret felt her eyes fill with tears. "I will be right outside," she said. She hated to leave, but she knew it was not her place to stay with Fanny at this moment. She slipped away from the room, leaving the family to its privacy.

She returned to the waiting room. After the chaos of the birthing, everything was now quiet. The household had gone silent, their footsteps soft, their voices hushed. A mournful silence had descended over the house.

Margaret stood motionless, staring blindly at a small corner table, thinking about Bessy and how everything had turned silent and still at the end—her pain, her breath, the very air around her—until she wrenched her mind away from the image. She desperately wished that there was something for her to do other than to wait. But there wasn't anything to be done. Except—John. Where was John? She remembered the devastation on his face. She went downstairs to find him.

He was in the study. A lamp was lit in the room. John was sitting on a bench by the right wall, arms folded, closed off. He looked as if he was preparing himself for the worst that fate would deal.

He turned his head towards her.

"Fanny is sleeping," she told him. "Mr Watson is with her. And the baby."

For a long time, he did not speak. Then he said, without looking, "You should get some rest. I will have someone bring the carriage—"

"No."

He didn't insist or say anything more.

Margaret stood at the threshold as she gazed at him across the empty room. He was aware of her silent attention on him, but he did not acknowledge it.

She was at a loss, watching his remote self-sufficiency. They had gone back to being strangers, she realised, unable to seek out or reach. She hated this silence between them, his exclusion of her from this as if she had no part in it. She wished she had words to give him solace and strength. She could not begin to imagine his distress and grief—having to watch helplessly from a distance, unable to do anything, as his sister slipped away.

"John?" she whispered with no idea of what she was going to say.

He did not answer. She bit her bottom lip, feeling inexplicably, selfishly hurt. He clearly wanted to be left alone. He was not going to turn to her; she should go back upstairs.

But she did not move.

Instead, she found herself walking into the room. She stood before him. Up close, he did not look so daunting. He looked exhausted, shattered.

"Margaret." He said her name as a tired warning, intending to dissuade her.

"No," she cut him off.

She sat on the bench beside him. A minute crawled by. When he understood that she wasn't going to leave, he uncrossed his arms and leaned back to rest his tired shoulders and head against the wall and closed his eyes.

She thought about how easily and assuredly he had consoled her the day Bessy had passed away, almost with an air of possession, how she had found unexpected comfort in the way he had simply held her.

She saw his hand, half-curled and empty. She placed her hand on his, sliding her fingers into his palm and pressed them in a reassuring clasp. He did not move, but she sensed a motion beneath his stillness. A moment passed and then slowly, he closed his hand, capturing her fingers and holding her hand, accepting her presence.

The two of them sat like this for long silent minutes.

After a time, she went upstairs. She found the matron sitting on a chair in the outer room, nodding off. Margaret asked the housekeeper to prepare a small meal and send it to Mr Watson and John even though she knew neither men would touch it.

Then she sat down and prayed and prayed. She went in a few times in the night to check on Fanny for any sign of fever or bleeding. Each time she visited, she found Mr Watson sitting on a chair by the bed, holding his wife's hand, willing his strength into her. The baby continued to sleep peacefully. And Fanny lay terrifyingly still.

Margaret awoke, empty-headed. Her neck was stiff and her back ached. She had fallen asleep in the chair. Across from her, the matron was sound asleep. A moment later, panic rose inside her. Fanny—

She rushed to the room.

Mr Watson was sitting on the side of the bed, leaning down, speaking in a soft voice. He had kept talking to Fanny as he'd kept his vigil, hoping for a response, keeping alive the delusion that she had only closed her eyes.

Margaret couldn't see past his shoulders. She walked further into the room, tense with hope and dread, trying to get a glimpse of Fanny.

Fanny was lying exactly as she had been but her eyes were open and her lips were moving. Her words emerged in a faint whisper, barely audible but Margaret heard them.

"How's the baby?" she was asking.

Margaret's muscles went slack with relief. Tears well up in her eyes. She raised her hands and brought them to her mouth in fervent thanks. "Oh, thank God! Thank you, God!"

Mr Watson noticed her presence; he lifted his head and looked at her and smiled.

"Oh, Fanny!" She came closer to the bed. "You gave us such a scare."

Dashing tears from her eyes, Margaret hurried to the adjoining room to wake the matron. While the matron examined Fanny, Margaret went to find John, her heart beating fast with joy. She couldn't wait to give him the happy news and to see the anguish on his face disappear.

He was still seated on the same bench. He was leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, his fingers threaded together. His head came up sharply when she rushed into the room and he rose immediately.

"She is awake!"

When he continued to stare uncomprehendingly at her, she added, "Fanny woke up, she is going to be fine."

She watched the news sink in, the tightly wound tension slowly unclench in him, the relaxing of muscles. Blinking a few times, he let out a deep breath and then looked down at his hands and nodded.

"Come, see her and the baby."

John followed her upstairs. Mr Watson was seated where she had left him. The matron was standing by the bed as she examined Fanny.

"The pulse is much stronger," the woman told them with a reassuring smile as she gently lay down Fanny's hand. "And no signs of fever so far."

John stood near the door, not venturing further into the room. He stood quietly, trying to conceal his shock at Fanny's weakened state.

"How are you, Fan?" he asked.

Fanny looked at her brother and smiled tiredly.

Mr Watson handed his daughter to Margaret. She took the baby and brought her to John.

The baby was so small but so perfect, from her little head covered with fine golden hair down to her unbelievably tiny fist, resting against her soft round cheek.

"Oh, have you ever—" Margaret whispered ecstatically.

John smiled, agreeing. "She is beautiful, Fan."

Margaret handed the baby to John. Unlike most large men, he wasn't awkward as he took the child from her. He held the baby securely in his hands, his strong fingers splayed out to support her fragile neck and body. Someone must have taught him how to hold a newborn, Margaret thought and then realised that it must have been his mother.

"We are naming her Hannah," Fanny told John.

His head came up. He looked at Fanny in surprise. There was a moment of poignant silence; a wealth of understanding passed between the two of them. He gave a small nod and ducked his head to look at the baby but not before Margaret saw his eyes well up. They glistened like wet sapphire.

Her heart ached to see it, to know that underneath the stoicism was a man who had known too much loss and pain. Watching him as he lovingly held the baby and struggled to hide his emotions, she could not believe that she had ever thought him cold and unfeeling. It was like turning a jewel in her hand and seeing a new facet.

"We should get the doctor," the matron was saying. "He would need to perform a full examination."

"I will go." John carefully handed the child back to Margaret.

Settling the baby back in her father's arms, Margaret hurried after John. She wanted to see him and speak with him before he went away and before the moment passed.

He hadn't left. He was standing in the hallway, his back to her. She quietly closed the door and went to him.

She put a hand on his arm. "John, are you all right?"

He turned to face her, his eyes were still a little misty. All at once, he wrapped his arms around her and drew her against him in an anguished embrace.

She was momentarily stunned. He held her in a grip that was painful but she did not mind it. She understood what he was feeling, the strength of his emotions, the overwhelming, unspeakable relief. She could feel his emotions as keenly as if it were hers. She lifted her arms and held him.

John didn't say anything, didn't do anything except to hold her in a tight grip. This was what she wanted. To have him be open with her. To let her see who he was underneath. He had let down a wall and behind it, she was beginning to see the man underneath.

She felt the slow easing of the tension from his arms around her. He lifted his head and loosened his hold, slowing releasing her.

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

"Margaret," he said. "I'm sorry about last night. I was—"

"It's all right," she halted his apology. She smiled, forgiving him. She understood his pride as well as she understood her own. "I understand."

"I–" He stopped as if he wasn't sure what he had begun to say. "I will get the doctor."

"Fanny is going to be fine."

He gave a nod, a small smile on his lips.

Dr Donaldson pronounced Fanny out of any immediate danger. But she was still incredibly weak from the blood loss and therefore susceptible to fever and corruption that could still develop.

He gave instructions about the food to give to Fanny. They must get her strength up, he said; so plenty of nutritious food and broths and lots of rest were recommended. She must not move at all, else the wound might reopen.

The doctor left them with some tonics to give to Fanny and told them that he would have some tablets compounded and sent over. He told them he would call again and see how his medicines worked.

It was around noon that Mr Watson could be convinced to get some sleep. He had had no sleep for almost two days. Margaret and matron stayed with Fanny while he went to get some much-needed rest. Fanny was asleep for most of the day; they would wake her up when it was time for meals and medicine.

Margaret did not see much of John though she knew he remained in the house. She guessed he was handling some important correspondences that simply couldn't be put off.

In the evening, a much refreshed Mr Watson took over from them. A new nurse was sent to attend to Fanny and relieve the matron. Everything seemed well under control.

"Margaret is drooping with fatigue," Mr Watson said to John and smiling at her in fond concern. "Take her home. You as well."

He turned to her and gave her a peck on the cheek and gently pushed her in John's direction. The men shook hands and gave each other a nod and then John handed her into a carriage.

Margaret felt limbless, exhausted beyond words. She rested her head against the seat. A part of her mind noted the dark prickly stubble on John's jaw. He was telling her something but for the life of her, she couldn't follow. Funny how a man's face changed in a day. Or was it two?

A slight weight against his shoulder alerted him.

Margaret had fallen asleep. He was hardly surprised. He shifted slightly, adjusting his arm so that she could rest her head more comfortably. Keeping her in a light clasp, he settled back into the seat and released his breath in a deep sigh. Despite the bone-deep exhaustion, he felt strangely alert as if something momentous was taking place.

So much had changed in the past few days, it was hard to emotionally account for. In his image of their marriage, he had always seen himself as taking care of her but he had never thought that she might take care of him. That idea had never occurred to him. He didn't want her to do it but a part of him didn't want her to stop either.

She had surprised him. She could not have known the despair he had experienced last night. She could not have known how helpless he had felt. He could not believe fate would be that cruel to their family, not after everything they had been through. There is so much that Margaret could not have known but she had understood.

Her refusal to leave him, her silent and determined presence had been the sweetest comfort he had known. He had allowed himself to be more vulnerable than he had ever allowed himself to be. He had turned to her and finally leaned on her.

The carriage rolled to a stop at the mill house but Margaret slept on. From this close, he could see the delicate skin of her eyelids, the thick lashes tangled at the edges. She looked so peaceful. He hated to wake her. The trusting way she slept satisfied something deep inside him, filled his heart with tenderness and protectiveness.

"Sir, th' stop—" the coachman began, ready to pull the door open but John gestured for him to keep silent. The man glanced at Margaret and hastily retreated, "Beg pardon, sir."

He touched her cheek. "Margaret, love?"

She gave him a sleepy scowl, not wanting to be disturbed.

"We are home," he told her.

He saw her register that. She half-opened her eyes and slowly lifted her head from his shoulder. "Come, you can sleep as long as you want inside."

She sat up. A warm, sleepy scent clung to her. He opened the door and helped her out.

Grimsby must have seen the carriage. The door opened before they arrived at the front step. He greeted them with a "Welcome home!"

"Thank you, Grimsby." Her voice was husky from sleep.

He could see that she was trying not to come fully awake so that she could easily return to sleep. They went to the master suite. She opened the door to her room and stopped when she heard her maid bustling in the dressing room, laying out the nightclothes.

Margaret sighed tiredly and unhappily, slumping slightly against the door frame. She had no doubt wanted to go straight to bed, rumpled clothes and all.

She turned to look at him, giving him a weary grimace. He didn't blame her.

"Good night, John." She smiled and for a moment, he was lost without a coherent thought in his head. He wished it was because he was tired.

He was a cautious man. He had to be, always, in every regard. But he was not a fool.

He felt as if he had been walking on a tightrope for some time now and had somehow managed to not fall into the unknowable depth beneath him. But now . . . now he felt as if he was on thin air, weightless. That maybe he was falling—may have already fallen.

A/N: I had hoped to get the chapter to you before Christmas but you know . . . life and plans and all that. Still, not too late I hope.

This was a strange chapter to write. Writing about childbirth from the point of view of an attendant felt so limiting. Margaret would have no emotional access to Fanny's anxieties and labor pain. I felt that she would mostly be helpless and confused and emotionally drained by the sheer time it takes.

I had to look into childbirth in the mid-Victorian era for this chapter. I cannot imagine a more distressing and depressing way to spend your free time. The fever that the doctor is worried about is puerperal fever, which would start at about 3 to 10 days after birth. The fever was caused by infection propagated by doctors and birth attendants who did not bother to wash their hands or sterilize their instruments. I spared Fanny that. Interestingly, ergot of rye was given to mothers immediately after the birth of the baby to prevent post-partum bleeding, so that helped Fanny.

So an emotionally exhausting chapter but 'major breakthroughs' for our couple! I felt so giddy as I finished writing it :-)

Let me know what you think.

Warm wishes!

Sophia