Chapter 8 - The Emergency
At three o'clock on a freezing Tuesday morning, the storm outside reached its peak, howling across the cliffs and rattling the heavy leaded-glass windows of the third floor.
Inside her private quarters, Meredith woke suddenly to a sharp, intense contraction that tightened across her abdomen like an iron band.
She sat up slowly, clutching the edge of the mattress, breathing through the wave of pain. She checked her watch. The contractions were six minutes apart.
Her baby was coming. Three weeks early.
She stood up, pulling a heavy wool robe over her nightgown, and opened her door to step into the hallway to alert Mrs. Doyle.
Before she reached the service stairs, another contraction hit her—far stronger than the first—forcing her to lean heavily against the wood-paneled wall, a gasp of pain escaping her lips.
A door down the hall flew open instantly.
August stepped into the corridor, wearing dark trousers and an unbuttoned white shirt, his hair disheveled from sleep. He took one look at her pale face, her hand clutching her stomach, and moved across the floor with terrifying speed.
"Meredith," he said, catching her by her waist as her knees buckled slightly. "Is it time?"
"My... my water broke," Meredith managed to say, breathing hard against his shoulder. "The contractions... they're coming fast, August. Four minutes."
August lifted her into his arms effortlessly, cradling her heavy weight against his broad chest as if she weighed nothing at all. He carried her swiftly down the hallway into his father's spacious suite, where a soft fire was burning in the hearth.
"Mrs. Doyle!" August shouted, his voice echoing through the upper levels of the house with absolute authority.
Within thirty seconds, the housekeeper appeared, tying her apron, her eyes widening as she saw August laying Meredith gently onto the massive leather daybed near the hearth.
"Call the hospital in Greenwich," August ordered, kneeling beside Meredith and taking her cold hand in his. "Tell them to send an advanced life-support ambulance immediately."
Mrs. Doyle rushed to the bedside landline, dialed, and waited. After fifteen seconds, she looked back at August with a face full of panic.
"Mr. Halloway... the lines are dead! The storm took down the ocean trees near the gate! The roads are completely blocked by fallen pines!"
Meredith let out a long, ragged groan as another intense contraction rolled through her body. She grabbed August’s hand, her fingers digging into his knuckles with extraordinary strength.
"August..." she panted, looking up into his gray eyes. "The baby... he isn't waiting for an ambulance. We have to deliver him here."
August didn't flinch. He didn't panic. The man who had managed crises on sea vessels and faced down dangerous syndicates simply shifted into absolute, lethal focus.
"Mrs. Doyle," August said, his voice flat, steady, and clear. "Bring clean linen, hot water, and the emergency surgical kit from the medical cabinet. Now."
He turned back to Meredith, leaning down so his face was inches from hers, his free hand smoothing the damp hair away from her forehead.
"Look at me, Meredith," August commanded softly.
Meredith focused her dark, pain-filled eyes onto his steady gray gaze.
"You are a surgical nurse," August said softly. "You know exactly what to do. And I am going to follow your orders. We are going to do this together."
At the edge of the room, Thaddeus swung his legs out of bed, gripped the rail with his left hand, and stood up—his body shaking with effort, but his eyes blazing with absolute, unyielding determination. He reached his wheelchair, sat down, and wheeled himself to the side of the daybed, reaching out his left hand to grip Meredith’s shoulder.
May you like
Clack. Clack.
Yes.
