Mary cupped her breasts with her hands. “They hurt,” she said. “I need to suckle her.”

Fordyce looked anxious at the prospect of examining the patient’s breasts. “Mrs. Blenkinsop,” he said, “would you mind?” He took the whimpering baby from the midwife’s arms.

Mary began to cry too. “It feels so cruel,” she said, “to both of us.”

Fordyce didn’t look to Mrs. B like a cruel man. In fact he looked at home holding the infant, even as she puled and squirmed. He was older than most of the doctors she encountered in her work, but she suspected he would fall on the modern side of the wet nurse debate: mother’s milk was better than animal milk, pap, or panada, and only a serious intractable illness could justify separating a mother and child. If the mother could not suckle, for whatever reason, a wet nurse was next best. It was said she should be between twenty and thirty, of good health, character, and manners, and no redheads, for their hot temperament, at which Mrs. B took special umbrage.

She sat on the edge of the bed and loosed Mary’s chemise. “I know what it means to you,” she said, rubbing her hands together to warm them. She then felt all around Mary’s breasts, pressing lightly with the flat of her fingers. They were hot to the touch, knotty in places, rock hard in others. A quick glance at Fordyce told him what he needed to know. She replaced Mary’s clothing with a light touch. “But for your little bird. We’ve got to get her to a wet nurse, today.”

Mary had sweated so much, wet through the sheets already three times, that she had hardly any tears to cry. Dry crying had no satisfaction in it, Mrs. B knew. Though her face showed all the same pain. A keening pain.

Mr. Godwin walked in quietly, wearing fresh clothes. Mrs. B understood that people, even in the midst of the most difficult things, and often without knowing it, perform small acts of optimism, as if a prayer. A clean, pressed shirt was of that sort, she knew, each button a rosary. But when the husband took one look at his wife, and the tableau around her, his whole being sagged. He walked to Fordyce and took the baby in his arms, then took Mrs. B’s place at Mary’s bedside.

“Darling,” she said, with a brave face. “We’ve got to send our little bird to a wet nurse.”

“Is that what you want?” he asked.

“It’s for the best. For her.”

Godwin looked between his wife, his child. “I will do anything you think right. Find someone nearby. Someone close, and kind. And our little girl will come back to us very soon, when you’re well.”