Mrs. B helped Mary into presentable bedclothes, brushed her hair and pinned it up loosely, sat her against some pillows, spruced up the posy of love-in-idleness she’d brought up from the garden, and opened the windows to bring more outside in. She stayed in the room, or the adjoining study, never far, to be attentive to when Mary needed rest. On this she claimed more authority than Fordyce, who granted it to her. As for visitors, Mrs. B had more experience than anyone with scenes like these, but she’d never seen a mind so tranquil under an affliction so great. Mary was all kindness and attention, dwelling with anxious fondness on her friends, asking more questions than she answered, but with a wisdom about her condition.

The midwife understood that there’s a course to most illnesses, and as many variations as there are people. With childbed fever there might be nausea, vomiting, swelling, soreness in the belly, pains in the head, back, breasts, hips. The tongue, at first moist and white, might become covered in white fur. If it progressed, there would be other things, worse things, but Mrs. B didn’t fill her head with them—it was only inviting trouble. The patient listened steadily to her friends’ advice—orange rinds and Peruvian bark for the bleeding, and a strengthening diet overall: blancmange, flummery, calf’s-foot jellies, and hartshorn, as if there was no doubt of her getting well. Mrs. B plied her with sips of tea and broth, a few bites of gruel, but Mary had no appetite, much as she wished to have one. The midwife made sure to give her fresh linen cloths dipped in cold vinegar and applied to the bleeding three or four times a day, which seemed to help.

Mary seemed most glad of seeing her old friend Joseph Johnson, who pulled his chair close to her, set a thin book on her table, then put his elbows right on the edge of the bed and leaned in so far that Mrs. B thought he might lay his head on the pillow with her. She was accustomed to intimate moments, and didn’t mind. The house was used to her now, there was no attempt at privacy. People like her, the midwives and helpers, often grew invisible in the room when big things were afoot. There was no blame in it, just so much activity, it was natural to let lesser things blend in.

She could tell Johnson held a special place for Mary.

“Translations in four languages. I’ve brought you the German,” he said. “Your little book has caused quite a stir. Even Fuseli’s read it!”

“Fuseli,” she said. “I thought he wouldn’t even speak my name.”

“Oh, your name is on every tongue in the literary world,” said Johnson. “With near-universal praise.”

“Only ‘near’?” said Mary, with a wincing smile.

Mrs. B took that as her signal that Mary needed to shift position.