Screams filled the room. It was the twelfth hour of labor, and all the dark-haired woman would do was watch the girl writhe in agony. It was not that the woman was incapable of assisting. She simply had no desire to do so. Her policy was to never get involved in the lives of those who served her.
Besides, the servant had been warned about lifting her gown and meeting men in the dark. Sadly, the wench did not even know the name of the man who put her in such a predicament.
But the woman knew. There was very little that went unknown in her presence.
“How much longer?” the woman, weary of waiting, asked the wizened midwife. If only they could cut out the babe and be done with it.
“The girl is not progressing,” rasped the old woman. “At this rate, she would not survive.”
“Her survival is of no importance,” the woman said.
If given the choice, perhaps she would have tried to save the mother. After all, the girl was a good and loyal servant despite her propensity for rutting around. The poor lass fled Ireland along with her employer, but it was neither hither or thither. The babe had been deemed important by a greater—or perhaps he was a lower—power.
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