I could feel the girl, though, the life of her echoing in my hands, her heartbeat strong and steady—there was a large blood vessel visible on the surface of the uterus, and I could see it pulsing. She’d been lucky in the one thing: the uterus hadn’t been perforated, and looked healthy. I couldn’t tell whether there was internal scarring, but when I cupped my hand gently over the organ, it felt normal to me. For a moment, I closed my eyes, feeling deeper, and found what I thought I needed. I opened them again, blotted the ooze of blood from the cut tissues, and reached for a fresh needle.
How long? Anesthesia complications were one of the nasty little flying “ifs,” and that one flew down and perched on my shoulder. I had no clock or pocket watch but had brought a small sandglass borrowed from our landlady.
“How long has it been, Rachel?”
“Twenty minutes.” Her voice was soft, and I looked up, but she was still steady, her eyes fixed on the open belly. She was nearly four months’ pregnant, her own belly slightly rounded. “Don’t worry,” I said to her briefly. “It won’t happen to you.”
“Surely it could?” she said, still more softly.
I shook my head.
“Not if I’m with you when you give birth.”
She made a small amused sound and picked up the dropping bottle again.
“Thee will be, I assure thee, Claire.”
Rachel was shivering slightly by the time I’d finished; I was wringing wet but feeling the glow of at least temporary victory. The fistulas were repaired, the leakage stopped. I irrigated the surgical field with saline solution and the organs glistened, the beautiful deep colors of the body unmarred by smears of fecal matter.
I paused for a moment to admire the neat compactness of the pelvic organs, all in their places. There was a tiny trickle of pale urine from the catheter, staining the towel with a faint yellow shadow. In a modern hospital, I would have left the catheter in during the healing, but it would be difficult to manage without a drainage bag, and the chances of irritation or infection from the device were likely greater than the possible benefits of leaving it. I eased it free of her body, watching. Within a few seconds, the flow of urine ceased, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
I had taken up a fresh needle threaded with silk, to close the incision, when something occurred to me.
“Rachel—do you want to look? Closely, I mean.” Sophronia had had ether within the last couple of minutes and was still deeply under; Rachel checked her color and breathing and then came round the table to stand beside me.
I didn’t think she’d be disturbed by the blood or the sight of organs, given the things she’d seen in military camps and battlefields. She wasn’t, but she was disturbed.
“That—” She swallowed and put a hand to her swelling stomach, very gently. “So beautiful,” she whispered. “How the body is made. How such things can be.”
“It is,” I said, her awe making me lower my own voice.
“To think of her poor infant, though . . . and she no more than a child . . .”
I glanced at Rachel and saw tears standing in her eyes. And I saw the thought cross her face, masked as it was: It could happen to me.
“Yes,” I said quietly. “Go back to the ether; I’ll close the incision now.” But as I dipped my hands again in the bowl of alcohol and water, something else occurred to me.
Oh, God, I thought, appalled at the thought. But . . .
“Mrs. Bradshaw,” I said. She was sitting with her head bowed, arms wrapped round herself against the chill, perhaps half asleep. When I spoke, though, her head came up sharply.
“Is it over?” she asked. “Does she live?”
“She does,” I said. “And, with luck, will continue to do so. But . . .” I hesitated, but I had to ask. And I had to ask this woman.
“Before I sew up the incision . . . I can—do a very minor procedure that will stop Sophronia from becoming pregnant again.”
Mrs. Bradshaw blinked.
“You can?”
“Yes. It’s a simple thing to do—but, once done, it can’t be undone. She’d never be able to have babies.” A fresh cloud of “ifs” had formed, buzzing anxiously over my shoulder.
She was thirteen. She was a slave. And had a master who used her. If she were to become pregnant again soon, she might well die during the labor and would almost certainly be seriously damaged. It might never be safe for her to bear a child—but it wasn’t safe for any woman, ever. And “never” is a very big word.
Mrs. Bradshaw had drifted slowly toward the table, her eyes twitching toward the exposed, half-draped body, then away, unable either to look or to stay away. I put out a hand, warding her off.
“Don’t come closer, please.”
“He was sad when the baby died. He cried.” I could still hear the sadness in Sophronia’s voice; she mourned her child. How could she not? Could I take away the possibility of another—forever—without even asking her what she felt about it?
And yet . . .
If she bore a child, it, too, would be a slave; it might be taken from her and sold. Even if not, it would likely live and die in slavery.
And yet . . .
“If she wasn’t able to bear children . . .” Mrs. Bradshaw said slowly. She stopped speaking, and I could see the thoughts crossing her white, pinched face; her lips had all but disappeared, so tightly were they pressed together. I didn’t think she was concerned with the fact that Sophronia’s value would be diminished if she couldn’t reproduce.