Page 63 of So Close To Heaven
Claire hurried after, piggybacking on Alaric’s orders, saying to the cluster of servants just inside the doors, “And hot water—clean cloths, plenty of both!”
Alaric carried Ivy up the stairs, his arms iron bands around her, his breath harsh in her ear. “I’ve got ye, lass. I’ve got ye.”
Claire skipped up the stairs after them, her skirts in her hands.
Inside Ivy’s chamber, Alaric eased her onto the bed where just last night, he had indeed gone further than second base.
“No, wait,” Claire said quickly, shaking her head. “Hold her up a moment, so I can untie her laces.”
Alaric perched on the side of the bed at once, drawing Ivy forward until they were face to face. His big hand spread over her back, steadying her as Claire’s nimble fingers worked at the laces of her gown.
A contraction seized Ivy then, sharp and consuming. She tried to hold back a cry, mostly succeeding, her hands fisting in Alaric’s tunic. His other hand rose to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing across her damp skin.
“Everything will be fine,” he said, his voice low but certain.
She leaned into him, forehead pressed hard against his, drawing strength from the heat of his breath and the solidity of him, holding fast until the pain ebbed and released her at last.
Ivy turned her face up to Alaric but spoke to Claire. “It’s starting too fast. What if—”
“Nope, it’s fine,” Claire assured her. “You can lay her down now,” she said to Alaric, before assuring Ivy further, “I haven’t timed it yet, but they are not too quick, seem right on time.”
Just as he lowered Ivy, Alaric turned his sharp gaze to Claire, hope in his tortured gaze. “Ye are a midwife? Ye have birthed bairns?”
“I have,” Claire said confidently. “And I’ve met Ruth, the midwife, and between her and me, Ivy is in good hands, I promise you.” When Alaric looked as if he needed more convincing, Claire added, her tone tender, “She’s young and strong, and I have every confidence she will sail right through this.”
The door opened again, Evir arriving with a stack of clean linens.
Claire received them. “Thank you, Evir, and would you see Laird MacKinlay to the hall—maybe find him something stronger than ale.”
Alaric bristled, coming to his feet. “I’ll nae leave her.”
The midwife bustled in just then, Ruth’s sleeves already rolled up and her face set in brisk lines of command. She clucked at Alaric as though he were simply a wayward boy underfoot. “Out wi’ ye, laird. 'Tis nae place for men.”
Alaric looked helplessly at Ivy.
She reached for and squeezed his hand, forcing a smile she did not entirely feel. “It’s all right. I promise. I can do this.” Her voice came out steady, stronger than she’d imagined.
The midwife planted herself firmly near the door, her hand on the latch. “Ye will go now. Else I cannae do my work. I’ll send for ye when it’s done.”
For a heartbeat Ivy thought he would argue, but his grip only tightened painfully on her hand before he bent, pressed a kiss to her temple, and whispered, “I’ll be just below.”
Then he was gone, the door closing behind him, and Ivy found herself breathing differently—less afraid of distressing him.
Claire shifted to Ivy’s side, smoothing her hair back from her damp brow. “I’m right here,” she murmured. “I know you’re entering unknown territory, Ivy, but everything is going to be fine. In a few hours, you’ll be holding your daughter.”
Claire and Ivy had discussed the birth more than a week ago, Claire insisting she didn’t want to interfere with the midwife—but that if she saw something she didn’t like, if she thought for one minute that the midwife didn’t know what she was doing, she would step in. “I will toss her ass out,” she’d said.
Claire and Evir then proceeded to undress Ivy, removing everything but her chemise, which was bunched around herwaist. When they were done, Ivy let her head fall back against the pillows, sighing, bracing herself for the next contraction.
This was happening. At last, the moment she had dreaded and longed for was here.
After the first hour, the pains came steady and hard. At first, they were only tightening bands across her belly, sharp enough to catch her breath but not enough to steal it entirely. For a while, the midwife sat idly—Claire assured Ivy there wasn’t anything she could do at the moment, anyway—but did bustled about here and there, stripping Ivy’s bed to clean linens after Ivy’s water had broken a few hours in, laying cloths at the foot, setting water to steam in the hearth and herbs to steep.
“Walk, if ye can,” the woman ordered at one point. “It’ll bring the bairn quicker.”
Claire slipped an arm around Ivy’s waist, helping her pace the chamber. Ivy’s knees wobbled with each contraction, but she obeyed, pacing between the bed and the hearth, her free hand pressed hard to the small of her back. Claire kept her tone bright, almost merry. “You’re really doing it, Ivy. You’re going to meet your baby before the sun goes down, I bet.”
Since her water had broken, the pains had grown sharper, radiating down her thighs, leaving her breathless. Ivy leaned on Claire’s shoulder, whimpering despite herself. “I can’t—”
