“We ought to have a good long time together, looks as if,” said Mrs. B, rolling the woman’s gown back over her calves.

“Are you sure?”

“We must have a little patience.”

“Those were my mother’s words to me as she was dying.”

“’Tis true, comin’ or goin’.” The midwife gave her a quick pat on the bodice of her dress. “Let’s get you out of this into something easier.”

The woman signaled toward a wardrobe, where Mrs. B found a clean, pressed chemise, not a single heavy bedgown in sight, typical for lying-in but much too warm. She was of the view that nothing should be added to dress or bedclothes that the patient wasn’t accustomed to in perfect health. When she turned back, the woman was on her feet, arms surrendered to the ceiling, at ease in her body. Her hair was all soft chestnut curls, brown eyes to match, her figure like a bulging flower vase.

“Not to worry,” said the midwife, undoing the gown at the back and coiling it up over her belly, head, and arms. “Everything’s in a fair way. You’ll meet her soon enough.”

In seconds the new garment replaced the old.

“Her?”

“Mmm.”

“But we were expecting ‘Master William.’ We’ve been expecting him from the first.”

All the bending and up-and-down had Mrs. B blotchy in the face. She stopped to blow a few strands of hair away, and saw the surprise on her patient’s face.

“Everyone does. Expect a boy. But you’re fleshy all over, not just out front. Feet nice and warm. Skin smooth as a plum.” The midwife put her hands on her hips to squint at the woman’s eyes. “Pupils closed up and small.” She put her nose in the air and took a satisfied sniff. “But it’s that smell of apple dumplings gives her away. You’ve a yen for sweets. That means a girl. Who’ll take her time with you, upon my word.”

Mrs. B bent over for her bag. She set the gin and satchel on a near table, and began unpacking.

“Another girl,” said the woman almost under her breath, “in this world.”