He was fairly convinced either Caroline or the baby would die. Both, if his luck was anything to go by – Caroline particularly had escaped mortal harm by narrow measures at so many previous junctures that Evander suspected now would be the day fate would bite.
So, trying to mentally prepare for all that, Evander had not moved from his desk in his study in hours. (There was little reason that he ought to be rereading his own will tonight, since he was the only one in the house not in danger of expiring – between her sorting and the baby’s birth both looming, Charity might well find a way to spontaneously combust, just to ensure there was some tragedy here – but at least if he suffered an ill-timed fit of apoplexy, he could be comforted by the neatly articled provisions he would have left for them.)
And still, the very stress of this endeavour (although speaking of stress, his wife was presently in the other end of the house behind a very solid door, in the throes of who-knew-what) had made Evander sorely tempted to send for a solicitor to make some very minor but absolutely vital amendments to the document, but, valiantly, he had refrained. At some stage the words had begun to swim before his eyes from the repeated sight of them, his breathing gone a little shallow and his head a little heavy, when –
Oh, the midwife had sent for him. On edge at once, he had sprung from his chair in haste – but he slowed down on the stairs, somehow unable to digest any of the midwife’s placating statements about mother and baby being well. Indeed, Evander ended up letting himself into the room in such utter trepidation that, white-faced, he had to exhale in confusion at the strange sight he saw, of Caroline with something tiny and pink swaddled in her arms. “You’re not dead,” he exhaled from the doorway, the words issuing all a-jumble (and not intentionally aloud). But the sentiment remained. He took another step or two into the room, gingerly; but was almost too afraid to approach the bed and interrupt her, lest the image of them vanished into thin air before his eyes.
So, trying to mentally prepare for all that, Evander had not moved from his desk in his study in hours. (There was little reason that he ought to be rereading his own will tonight, since he was the only one in the house not in danger of expiring – between her sorting and the baby’s birth both looming, Charity might well find a way to spontaneously combust, just to ensure there was some tragedy here – but at least if he suffered an ill-timed fit of apoplexy, he could be comforted by the neatly articled provisions he would have left for them.)
And still, the very stress of this endeavour (although speaking of stress, his wife was presently in the other end of the house behind a very solid door, in the throes of who-knew-what) had made Evander sorely tempted to send for a solicitor to make some very minor but absolutely vital amendments to the document, but, valiantly, he had refrained. At some stage the words had begun to swim before his eyes from the repeated sight of them, his breathing gone a little shallow and his head a little heavy, when –
Oh, the midwife had sent for him. On edge at once, he had sprung from his chair in haste – but he slowed down on the stairs, somehow unable to digest any of the midwife’s placating statements about mother and baby being well. Indeed, Evander ended up letting himself into the room in such utter trepidation that, white-faced, he had to exhale in confusion at the strange sight he saw, of Caroline with something tiny and pink swaddled in her arms. “You’re not dead,” he exhaled from the doorway, the words issuing all a-jumble (and not intentionally aloud). But the sentiment remained. He took another step or two into the room, gingerly; but was almost too afraid to approach the bed and interrupt her, lest the image of them vanished into thin air before his eyes.
