Free Riverbreeze: Part 3 by Ellen E. Johnson

hands.
    “We wash our hands now.” She said, finding a bar of lye soap. They washed their hands thoroughly and dried them on their aprons. Evelyn wasn’t fond of lye soap—it stung her skin—but she wouldn’t dare disobey Abigail.
    The rain continued to pound on the roof and the fierce wind rattled the windows. Raindrops found their way down the chimney and sizzled and hissed on the fire.
    Evelyn cried out when she saw water start to drip faster and faster from a crack in the ceiling. Luckily the leak wasn’t near the bed and George ignored it. He was much too intent on staying with his wife.
    Instead Jamie took care of it, finding a large pail and putting it under the leak. And then much to everyone’s surprise, he said he was going to go out and try to fix it! Evelyn thought he was crazy to want to go out in this weather and said so, but with a look that said, please let me go , she understood his need to be elsewhere.
    Hetta let out another long, pain-filled groan just as the first lightning strike lit up the little cottage. Evelyn and Abigail hastened to her side. Evelyn didn’t know what she could do. She stood behind Abigail, feeling rather useless at the moment. Her only consolation was the knowledge that because of her dream, they were here now to help Hetta, to save her life and the life of her unborn child.
    Very gently Abigail put her hands on George’s shoulders. Then she spoke to him as if he were a child. “Mr. Turner, I’m here now. Evelyn and I are going to help your wife deliver her baby. If you will please step aside…”
    “She’ll be all right, won’t she?” He asked, hope in his eyes.
    “I’ll try my best.” Abigail answered truthfully.
    He was silent for a thoughtful moment, then he nodded and rose from his position beside the bed. “Thank you.” He said softly, first to Abigail, then to Evelyn.
    “Do you have any olive oil, butter or lard?” Abigail asked.
    He looked surprised to be asked such a thing—Evelyn was equally as surprised—but he quickly answered, “Yes, we have all three.”
    “Will you please get me a spoonful of olive oil in a cup? I will need it to massage and stretch her opening when the time comes.”
    Aah, Evelyn thought.
    “I’ll get it right away.” He said, returning to the kitchen area.
    Evelyn and Abigail finally got their first look at Hetta. They hadn’t realized she was unresponsive. When George Turner was speaking to his wife, they had assumed she could hear him.
    But she wasn’t dead yet. Even so, Evelyn nearly swooned and Abigail had to put her arm around Evelyn’s waist to steady her. The poor woman was as pale as a ghost with dark circles under her listless eyes. Her hair was soaked in sweat and plastered to her head just like her thin linen chemise was soaked and clinging to all the hills and valleys of her weakened body. She barely looked strong enough to breathe.
    At any other time Evelyn might have been embarrassed to see a woman as exposed as Hetta was: nipples showing through the transparent fabric, her swollen belly large and round, her legs spread open in debilitated exhaustion, the patch of dark pubic hair. But not now. Evelyn only felt sympathy and compassion.
    “Are you going to be all right?” Abigail asked in a whisper.
    Evelyn nodded, drawing in a fortifying breath. That might not have been such a good idea considering Hetta’s unwholesome odor, but she managed to ignore it and reminded herself that she had once nursed countless dying children at the church orphanage in London. She knew she had the strength and courage to see this through because in her heart she knew that Hetta and this baby would live.
    “Good.” Abigail gave her an approving smile, then knelt beside the bed and touched Hetta’s cheek. “Hetta.” She called. “Hetta.”
    When the woman didn’t respond, Abigail slapped her cheek a little harder. “Hetta!” She called louder. “’Tis Abigail. Wake up now, Hetta. You have to wake up so you can