A moment later, her husband burst into the room.

“Lydia.” He collapsed on his knees beside the bed. “His lordship has gone for the midwife. She will be here in a blink and all will be well. She will know what to do.”

Just then, Annabelle peeked through the door. “Is the girl well?”

Sophia went to her. “Annabelle, could you please go to the kitchen and begin boiling some water?”

“Boiling…water?” she repeated, eyes wide and dismayed. “Using what, a-a pot? Where do I find the water? Is the stove already lit?”

Lord Meltenbourne stood and in a calm tone said, “I shall boil the water, your Grace. I assume there are linens in the kitchen?”

“Yes, in the large cabinet.”

“I was present for the births of all five of my daughters.” He offered a wise smile. Though his eyes were red from who knows how many days of drinking, he appeared quite a different man from the one who had that morning presented himself on the front lawn demanding a duel. “I am happy to do whatever I can to assist.”

Given the present situation, Sophia was more than willing to forgive. Five daughters! Indeed, there was something reassuring and paternal about the earl’s presence that reminded her, however fleetingly, of her own father, which made her feel sad and thankful all at once. The earl’s calm demeanor provided a benchmark for her own. She exhaled and vowed to proceed without panic.

After he had gone, Sophia sent Annabelle down the hall with the key to the linen closet for more blankets, a task that she assured the countess she was more than capable of doing.

Left alone with Mr. and Mrs. Branigan, Sophia did the only thing she knew to do. She tried her best to comfort the girl, who screamed and cried intermittently, propping pillows behind her back and placing a cool cloth on her forehead. Given her inexperience, she prayed the babe would not come before Claxton arrived with Mrs. Kettle. Having experienced her own tragic loss of a child, she prayed Mrs. Branigan’s complications would be resolved by the presence of a knowledgeable midwife.

Now was not the time for questions, but so many swirled unanswered in Sophia’s head. Why had Mr. Branigan been in Camellia House that night? Had the couple lived undetected on the premises before she and Claxton arrived? What were their circumstances? Clearly they had nowhere else to go, having taken shelter in the huntsman’s cottage. Could they be criminals? Dangerous even?

In that regard Sophia could not bring herself to feel any measure of alarm, not when the girl looked so young and vulnerable and clutched her hand so tightly. And her poor husband. He knelt beside the bed on his knees, a look of abject fear consuming his features.

Things went very much the same for the next half hour. Annabelle brought additional linens and blankets for the bed, and Lord Meltenbourne, pots of steaming water, though Sophia had no idea what to do with them. At last, Mrs. Kettle barreled through the door, a look of brisk efficiency on her face.

“Dear girl, I am Mrs. Kettle.” She removed her cloak and rolled up her sleeves. “Let us see what we can do to bring this child into the world with as little trouble as possible.”

Sophia nearly fainted with relief. Instantly, Claxton was there, his arm around her. “Are you unwell?”

“No, only relieved now that you’ve arrived. Or more specifically, Mrs. Kettle.”

Mrs. Kettle immediately banished Claxton, Lord Meltenbourne, and even the young Mr. Branigan from the room, saying that she, Sophia, and Annabelle were quite sufficient to do the job.

Annabelle appeared mildly traumatized. “I do believe there has been some mistake. I can’t imagine I shall be any help at all.”

“Nonsense, my lady. I’ll need the both of you when the time comes to hold Mrs. Branigan’s legs.”

The countess blanched.

Though half-terrified herself at the prospect of assisting in the birth of a child, Sophia couldn’t bring herself to shy away. If she were to have her own baby one day, perhaps soon, she wanted to know what to expect, so as not to be shocked when the time came.

Mrs. Kettle inspected the preparations already undertaken and deemed them well done. A gentle interrogation of the girl told them how far along she was and whether there had been any concerns about her or the baby’s health before now. Then the housekeeper-midwife lifted her skirts and undertook to examine her.

When she was done, a worrisome frown turned her mouth. “We’ve a malpresentation. That much is apparent.”

“What does that mean?” asked Sophia.

“If any other part of the baby besides its head appears, the birth will be breech. Let us undress her down to her chemise, then get her up and walking. Perhaps that will convince the child to turn.”

The three of them took turns in pairs walking Mrs. Branigan around the room, with her arms over their shoulders. When her pains increased, they encouraged and cajoled and tried their best to make her comfortable, believing that birth was imminent.

But hours later, despite numerous attempts at various methods, there had been no progress, only pain and misery. Mrs. Branigan grew lethargic from exhaustion, eventually refusing to follow any instruction.

Sophia stood from the chair beside the bed, where she’d been holding the young woman’s hand, and joined the others. An air of desperation weighted the room.

From the corner, out of hearing of the girl, Mrs. Kettle stared morosely toward the bed. “The baby has long stopped moving.”

“What can we do to help them?” asked Sophia.

The older woman whispered, “I’m afraid there is nothing more to be done.”

“What are you saying?” Her chest seized with dread.

Tears glazed the old woman’s eyes. “That there shouldn’t be such tragedies, especially not at Christmastime.”

Annabelle pressed a hand over her mouth and whispered, “The poor girl.”

“No,” gasped Sophia. In that moment her heart shattered into a thousand pieces all over again. Her baby lost. Never to be held in her arms. Never to experience its mother’s love or a father’s pride.

More than anything, she wished she could spare the young woman in the bed that same pain. But what more could they do? She had never felt more helpless.

Mrs. Kettle pressed a handkerchief to her eyes. “Someone should go downstairs and fetch Mr. Branigan.”

Sophia nodded, knowing it must be her. “I will go.”

“Not yet, please,” begged Annabelle. “I think we should pray for mother and child or speak our hopes for them aloud or something. We can’t give up just yet.” She reached a hand out to either of them.

“Yes, because I fear that only a miracle will save them now,” said Mrs. Kettle.

The three of them stood in a circle, holding hands.

“Please,” whispered Annabelle, tears streaming over her cheeks. “Let Mrs. Branigan and her baby live. Oh, please.”

“Let there be a Christmas miracle,” Sophia said fervently.

On the bed, the girl moaned and shifted.

Annabelle looked over her shoulder. “Mrs. Branigan?”

Sophia approached the bed and reached a hand out to touch her shoulder. “How can we help you?”

Mrs. Branigan cried out, grasping her belly with both hands.

Mrs. Kettle folded her hands together and looked pleadingly toward the heavens, then came bedside for another examination.

“Oh my goodness.” Her cheeks flushed with relief. “The baby is coming. He’s done a somersault for us. Your Grace, the towels. My lady, if you will please hold her hand and encourage her. It won’t be long now.”

Within the hour, the babe arrived, a big healthy boy.

At her first glimpse of the tiny, little body, Sophia burst into tears. Lady Meltenbourne sobbed. They embraced each other.

Mrs. Kettle exclaimed, “Ladies. Please. A handkerchief. Someone dab my eyes.” Sophia hurried to comply. “It is a miracle, nothing less. The good Lord hath seen to intercede and bring the babe into his mother’s arms.”

The child squalled as Sophia bathed and swaddled him, according to the instructions she’d been given. Mrs. Kettle tended to Mrs. Branigan while Annabelle slumped in a corner chair, her usefulness having come to an end.

With the babe returned to its mother’s arms, Sophia descended to the great room to find the girl’s husband standing with Claxton, Mr. Kettle, and Lord Meltenbourne. A bottle of brandy sat on the table beside four half-filled glasses.

Seeing her, Mr. Branigan leapt forward. With that sudden action he caught the corner of the table with his leg. The brandy bottle tipped and fell, splashing a dark stream across the carpet and floor. Lord Meltenbourne threw a pillow atop the rampant liquid before it could reach the fire.

“We don’t wish to ruin the occasion by burning the house down,” he exclaimed, eyes bright.

Mr. Branigan asked of Sophia, “My dear Lydia? Is she well?”

He looked so afraid and hopeful and on the edge of tears.

“Very well,” she exclaimed with a smile.

“And the baby?” His lips mirrored hers, forming a dumbfounded smile. “We thought we heard a cry.”

She smiled. “Why don’t you go see for yourself?”

“Thank you, my lady.” He bowed his head. “Truly, thank you. I can’t say it enough. And I’m so sorry, so very sorry for knocking you flat last night.”

“No apologies are necessary.”

He disappeared in the direction of the staircase.

“Oh, Meltenbourne.” Annabelle glided into the room and threw herself into her husband’s arms, dissolving again into tears. “I have never seen anything so ghastly and beautiful all at once.”

He nodded and patted her back. “Yes, I know.”