Mrs. B pressed the cool cloth to Mary’s forehead, attentive to the squabble. Fordyce was big-headed, puffy-faced, with heavy eyelids and protruding lips. He wore his white wig askew, and looked as if he wore the same clothes he’d slept in.

“I’m told no one knows fevers better than Fordyce,” said Godwin, in the man’s defense.

“What about bleeding her?” said Poignand, who stood and wiped his hands on a towel. “I think it’s called for, under the circumstances.”

“Of course, leeches! Why not call in the snails, toads, and staghorns while we’re at it, shall we?” said Fordyce, spitting each syllable.

“A lancet will do fine,” said Poignand, losing patience.

“Ah, the lancet! Fever, sore throat, stubbed toe—what isn’t it good for?”

“You’re drunk!” said Poignand.

“Not too drunk to think the lancet’s any improvement on the guillotine.”

Poignand looked to Godwin to officiate, but it was no use. The midwife could see the terror in Mr. Godwin’s eyes.

“I want both your opinions. Anything that will help my wife,” he said, looking between them. “But are you drunk, Fordyce?”

The doctor took another pinch from his snuff box. “Well, if it’s before noon, which I think it is, likely drunk from the night before. But after lunch, which I take precisely at four o’clock—my one meal of the day, at Dolly’s Chophouse on Paternoster Row, the usual ale, brandy, port wine—also drunk. So, in a word, yes.”

Mrs. B had always been thankful that her James never took to the bottle, but was surprised to find herself drawn to Fordyce. She liked his blunt instincts.

“Never mind. Tell me what you can about the extraction of the placenta,” he said to Poignand, changing his tone. There was no accusation in it, only inquiry.

“He’s not trained in midwifery, obstetrics!” Poignand said to Godwin. “I won’t be in the same room with him.”

“Please,” Godwin begged. “We’ve got to do something for her.”

The newborn started puling again. Mrs. B got up from Mary’s bedside and took her from Godwin’s arms. She had more experience settling a hungry child. An agitated Poignand punched his arms into his coatsleeves, preparing to go.

“No visitors,” he said. “And the child should be put out of the room. You ought to send it to a wet nurse straightaway.”

Poignand and Godwin turned to Fordyce, expecting him to weigh in.

“Mary won’t want a wet nurse,” said Mrs. B. All three men looked at her. “She’ll put up a terrible fuss.”

Poignand snapped his bag shut and marched to the door. Godwin grabbed him lightly by the elbow.

“I’m sorry, Poignand. I’m desperate.”

“Don’t risk the child’s health as well,” he said, and left in a huff.