Chapter Four:

Downton

Minutes have ticked past into hours since Charles found workhouse inmate Laura Banks rushing breathlessly up the stairs to tell him that Sarah had gone into labour. For a moment, he felt as if the very breath had been stolen from his lungs. Stunned, he listened quietly as Laura explained how while walking the maternity section of the women's ward of the infirmary, checking that everything was in order, and giving general instructions for the next day, Sarah suddenly winced in pain, put a hand on her stomach, and doubled over next to an empty cot. Mary McGregor, a widow of some years, mother of three, grandmother to a baker's dozen, and maternity ward helper wrapped her arm around Sarah's back and gently helped her to lie down.

Charles steady pacing is wearing a groove in the already worn black and red tiles of the infirmary's maternity ward. Hannah Heath, an inmate, and the maternity ward's midwife has been with Sarah the entire time and after Charles brief visit with Sarah, Hannah tells him that's better if he waits in the corridor. She tells him that he'll not want to be in the room for the birth. After all, labouring and delivery is a hard business and only after it's all over will mum and baby be ready to see him. Reluctantly and with approval from Sarah, a grumbling Charles makes his way out into the corridor and for the first time, he realizes that they haven't a proper area for a father to await the birth of his child.

Most of the women who give birth at the workhouse are without a husband.

The men who've lain with these women had no intentions of marriage, no intentions of making honest women out of them. No. These men either sweet-talked innocent shop girls or poor farmer's daughters with velvet lies of love and promises they never intended on fulfilling. Some women they selected from a lineup, had their way with them for the coins in their pockets, and then left them alone, pregnant, and on the mercy of the world. There aren't any men awaiting the birth of a babe born to these women. Charles thinks about those women who have been reduced to degrading themselves before men who think of them as nothing more than objects of their own desire and then he wonders what happened to Alice Neal. He wonders if she ended up in a workhouse somewhere, pregnant, and alone. He wonders what reduced such a handsome woman to prostitution. What reduces any woman to prostitution come to think of it? But Alice had been sweet to him, she'd not pushed and goaded him into accepting her services like some of the other women in her profession, like her sister, who'd caught the attention of one of his teammates. What a sad way to live, Charles thinks. Selling false affection, but it isn't affection is it? It's a shadow of affection. A distortion of the thing that he and Sarah feel. Odd to think of Alice Neal at a time like this when his wife is in labour and their child to be delivered soon. He hasn't thought of the woman in years. The things one thinks of when all one has is time.

Charles pulls his pocket watch free and looks at the time. It's going on half past four in the morning and Sarah hasn't delivered yet. He closes his watch and replaces it in his pocket then scrubs a hand through his hair. He knows that generations of women before her and generations of women after her have done and will do the same thing. Childbirth a natural process of life. It's one thing that women have in common. Some women anyway. He remembers his grandmother's sister who bore no children and the whispers of women of the family. How they took turns watching out for her each month when she expected the signs of a pregnancy yet none came. How she fell into melancholy, mourning the children that would never be.

Charles stands and shoves his hands in his pockets. It's been a long while since he's seen Sarah and his thoughts are running away with him. There really isn't anyone to wait with him to talk with him and take his mind off these odd and distracting thoughts. He hasn't a brother or sister and he'll not send for his parents until at least after sunrise. Isobel Crawley, the upper-middle-class widow of a doctor, cousin to the Crawley family of Downton Abbey, accomplished nurse, and infirmary superintendent will not arrive for another hour and the only ones on the ward with formal training are a few young nurses and medical officer Thomas Barrow.

Though Charles has no real experience in these things, he remembers his time helping his father in the stables and that the longer the labour, the greater the chances of something going horribly wrong. But he tries to push such thoughts out of his mind. Sarah is young and healthy. Her pregnancy has been uneventful and surely the midwife would have told him by now if something was wrong.

Beryl Patmore, who's been the cook at the workhouse for several years longer than Charles has been Master, and who runs her kitchen with the precision of a field general, is keeping early hours in the kitchen. She's a much more accomplished cook that what is required of her by the needs of her employment and Sarah Carson is always slipping into her hands newspaper clippings of situations for hire, but Beryl seems uninterested in leaving the workhouse yet to serve as an apprentice in a manor house when she has been in charge of her own kitchen for some time now. Charles has heard mention that the owners of the Goose and Gander Tea Room may be selling up in a year or so and that their friend may be biding her time until she can purchase the well-known establishment from the owners. While he will hate to see her go, he can't blame her. In fact, he envies her. He wishes that he and Sarah could find their way out of the workhouse.

Meanwhile, the cook, accustomed to late nights and early mornings, is determined to see that Mr. Carson and those attending his wife are sustained for what seems long morning ahead. Beryl assembles a tray with a tin of chocolate biscuits and a pot of tea with a few cups. She's slipped a flask of single malt into the pocket of her apron because she knows Charles Carson well enough to know that tea will not calm his nerves one bit.

"You are a welcome sight," Charles sighs with a weak smile.

"How's she doing?" Beryl's Yorkshire accent is heavy, thick with sleep. Four o'clock is an early wake time no matter how accustomed one is to it.

"They haven't told me much," he confides in her. "I feel useless." Charles takes the tray from Beryl and places it on a table between two chairs that are nearby. They each take a seat and the cook pours them a cup of steaming hot tea as Charles reaches for the biscuit tin. Beryl cannot help but tenderly smile at the man. He has a sweet tooth, there is no denying it.

"I should have brought you a piece of that treacle tart that we had left over from yesterday," she laughs softly.

"Mmm … Perhaps." There is a hint of a smile in his voice. Where most think the cook and the workhouse master gruff and often unreasonable, they get along well; they see the soft side of one another, for they are good friends.

"How about I go and check how she's doing, hmm?" Beryl asks as she places her tea cup on the tray. Charles casts an appreciative gaze her way in thanks. "I'll be back in two winks," she promises.

Beryl's gone longer than the two winks that she promised and Charles begins to worry. He knows that something is wrong. He can feel it in his bones. He's sent George Birch to fetch Dr. Tapsell and wonders where on earth the two men are. Charles gave Birch explicit instructions to bring back the doctor as soon as possible and even though the women attending his wife assured him that a midwife will suffice, Charles wants a doctor present. He balls one fist and grinds it into the order, muttering curses under his breath. He's not a man to allow such things slip from his lips, he's disciplined and must be an example to the men in his charge. If he so much as hears a swear from one of the tramps or vagrants on the workhouse floor, he disciplines them harshly. But Charles reckons that he's earned the right to let a swear of frustration loose. After all none of those men are anywhere near this ward and no one has heard him anyway. Just as the tension is about to spill over he hears male voices and the thudding of footsteps coming toward him.

The doctor barely has a word for him and sweeps past in his overcoat and top hat, his medical bag in hand. Charles cast an angry glare in the good doctor's direction but he doesn't notice; he's too busy shedding his coat and doffing his top hat, then handing them over to Mr. Birch. He removes his shiny gold cufflinks, something Charles knows that he'll probably never own, and places them into his waistcoat pocket. Just as Dr. Tapsell is about to disappear behind the curtain that separates Charles from his wife and soon-to-be-born child, Charles steps forward and grabs him roughly by the wrist.

"Where have you been?" It's so unlike Charles to be aggressive, to find himself angry even, but his tone is menacing, frightening even.

"Mr. Carson, I have been attending other patients. Mrs. Carson isn't the only woman in labour. Mrs. Wigan just delivered a little boy not an hour ago." Charles releases the doctor's wrist and with an apology, allows him to draw the curtain back and attend to Sarah.

Charles hears the hurried taps of a woman's boot heels clattering on the tile floor and looks up to see Isobel Crawley rushing toward him.

"Why didn't you send for me the minute she went into labour?" The words spill out of her mouth almost one over the other like droplets of water cascading over a cliff. "And why on earth is she labouring on the ward and not in hospital?" Isobel seems angry and Charles is put off at the way she is speaking to him. He's unsure if she's put out with him out of concern for Sarah, because of their friendship, or because the professional in her has taken over. Either way, he doesn't appreciate being spoken to in such a manner.

"Now just a minute," Charles blusters his eyes flashing with anger.

"I'm sorry," Isobel replies contritely, "It's just that I want everything to go smoothly is all. She'll be fine I'm sure. I just was surprised to find out from the women when I walked in this morning is all." She notices Charles's shoulders relax and once again they are on more even footing.

"Dr. Tapsell finally arrived a few moments ago. I'll not deny that I'm worried, Isobel."

"First babies have a mind of their own Charles," Isobel replies with a comforting smile. "I'm sure that everything will be all right. I'll go back now." She places a comforting hand on Charles's arm and gives a gentle squeeze as she walks past him and pulls the curtain back to enter Sarah's cubicle.

Hushed voices fill the tiny space that has been cordoned off for Sarah and Charles can only make out a few words and phrases, yet what is clear to him is the increasingly loud cries of his wife. He knows that with the birthing process comes pain but that in this day and age it seems so cruel for women, for his wife, to endure such misery while bringing life into the world. Charles knows of remedies for pain; he saw them during his playing days when men were injured and wonders why his wife is not offered something to ease her agony.

Isobel Crawley and Dr. Tapsell seem to be at odds and just as Charles is about to charge into the birthing theatre Beryl Patmore walks out and she looks infinitely wearier than before. He hopes that it is just because the early morning hours have rolled around. He tries to push away any other thoughts, thoughts that she's worried over Sarah, perhaps that she's understood the things that Isobel and Dr. Tapsell are disagreeing over.

"Well," he asks nervously, his hands wringing together almost of their own accord.

"I only know that Mrs. Crawley thinks that the baby is large and that it's laying the wrong way maybe." Beryl eyes squint in confusion and she shakes her head just the slightest bit as if to make sense of the things that she's just heard. She's had to tease apart medical terminology from the laymen's talk she's heard at the births she's attended.

"Bloody hell," Charles mumbles as he scrubs a hand through his hair. "Enough of this!"

When Charles pulls the dividing sheet back he is stunned with what he finds. Sarah is lying flat on her back, her knees pulled up, her face pale, her raven hair disheveled and flared on the pillow behind her. She's listless, almost unaware of the world around her. For a moment, Charles loses his breath and the ability to speak. His stillness is only momentary and when he recovers he turns an indignant eye to Dr. Tapsell and the others in the room.

"I demand to know what is going on here!"

"Your wife is progressing just as she should Mr. Carson." Phillip Tapsell has a reputation as a fine doctor, but Charles does not appreciate the smooth, yet condescending tone with which he speaks to those around him. While a physician must be self-confident, Tapsell is smug and superior to those he deems his social inferiors. Tapsell hasn't been in Downton long; he's an outsider and Charles isn't sure why someone who isn't suited to country life has chosen Downton to set up shop.

"Isobel?" Isobel squirms a bit under the questioning of her friend and employer. As a nurse, she isn't to question her superior, but she fears that the doctor has made a fateful mistake. She's the one who has made Sarah's regular examinations, measured the baby, spoken with Sarah about her general feelings over the course of the pregnancy.

"Dr. Tapsell examined her …"

"Have you examined her?" Charles interrupts Isobel.

Isobel takes a deep breath before answering. "I have and I think that perhaps there might be an alternative to …."

"Mrs. Crawley," Dr. Tapsell postures, his chest puffing off out and his countenance hard "I don't think it the business of a nurse to countermand the advice of a doctor."

Isobel offers no apology or contrition but simply narrows her eyes and lips, her face pulling in fury. Just as Charles is about to further confront the doctor, Sarah rouses and cries out. He turns and is immediately at her side.

"Oh, my god, Sarah," Charles whispers as he drops to his knees taking her hand in his and bringing it to his lips. At the sensation of her husband's breath on her fingers, Sarah flexes her fingers in his grasp.

"Our boy is a stubborn one," she sighs as she reaches across and brushes Charles's cheeks with fingertips of her free hand.

"How do you know the baby is a boy?" Charles asks tearfully.

"Mothers know these things," she replies with a knowing smile.

As early morning turns into afternoon and afternoon into evening, a baby's piercing cry has not echoed through the halls of the infirmary. Dr. Tapsell has informed Charles that Sarah is progressing normally, albeit slowly and that first babies often take their time. He's offered Charles a reassuring pat on the back and told him to enjoy a pint or two of beer while they wait.

Charles has heard Mrs. Crawley and Dr. Tapsell arguing vehemently over the proper course of action. She, arguing to perform a Caesarian operation even though the operation is relatively new but could save the lives of both mother and child. He, arguing to watch and wait, that a Caesarian is often fatal when performed inside hospital much less in a workhouse infirmary.

As Sarah's pain grows more intense, Charles keeps vigil by her bedside though the good doctor has told him that it isn't necessary. To her great credit, Mrs. Crawley has become the Carsons' advocate and stands her ground with the doctor telling him in no uncertain terms a husband has a right to be by his wife's bedside if he wishes.

"Dr. Tapsell, if Mr. Carson wishes to remain by his wife and it comforts her, why do you insist that he leave?" Isobel pleads her case.

"Mrs. Crawley, I understand that your husband may have allowed your … interference … but I am not the late Dr. Crawley and I will not tolerate the insubordination of a nurse. So if you wish to remain in this room, you will not question my judgment again," the doctor roars condescending.

Charles watches as his friend and dutiful workhouse nurse, the woman beside whom his wife has worked for years, bites back a sharp response. It isn't in Isobel Crawley's character to back down from a fight. She is a woman of conviction and high moral principles; a dutiful champion of those less fortunate and of those who cannot advocate for themselves. She needs to be useful.

As Mrs. Crawley goes about her business, she dredges a flannel through cool water and passes it to Charles. He looks up with a crooked smile and a nod in thanks for taking on his cause with the doctor who's allowed him to stay.

"Perhaps, this will make her more comfortable," she says as presses the cloth into Charles's hand.

"She's getting weaker Isobel," Charles replies quietly. "I'm not sure that she can withstand much more."

The hands of the clock have ticked past midnight and into yet another day and it is becoming clearer by the moment that something is dreadfully wrong. Sarah's pain is intense and Charles hears the nurse and doctor mentioning technical words like uterine dystocia and transverse; Charles knows what the word transverse means. He's heard his father use the word before when a mare had a troubled labour and the foal lay incorrectly in its mother's womb.

"Dr. Tapsell, the meconium is passing," Isobel calls to the doctor. The worry is evident in her voice.

The cook has brought breakfast up and the doctor is finishing when he sets his coffee cup on the tray she's brought him and rushes over to the bed on which Sarah lies. Charles sees the horrified look pass across the doctor's face and knows that his worst fears are confirmed.

"What does this mean?" Charles questions.

"It means that the baby is in distress," the doctor replies quietly.

"You said that everything was fine. That first babies are simply slow in being born," Charles rages. "When Mrs. Crawley suggested the operation … "

"Mr. Carson, even if we had performed the operation there might not be a guarantee that your wife or the baby would survive. There is still a chance for both of them. For your wife," the doctor argues.

Charles glances to Isobel and sees the truth written all over her face. His wife and child may not survive and he can do nothing about it. Nothing at all.

In the mid-afternoon, Sarah delivers a stillborn son. A perfectly formed little boy with broad shoulders and a round belly. As she's predicted, he looks just like his father. Isobel wraps the babe and hands him to his father. A long moment passes between the two and Charles understands what he is to do. With tears in his eyes, he places the boy in his mother's arms and Sarah smiles adoringly.

"He is perfect Charles. A beautiful boy, like his dad. I knew that I was right," she teases. She cradles the babe and with the tips of her fingers brushes the downy black hair that covers his head, and she kisses the end of his button nose. "Look Charles, he's sleepy. It took him an age to get here. He's tired I imagine," she coos.

Charles is both heart-broken and terrified; his eyes are red with tears and his brows are knit in confusion.

"She's delirious, Charles," Isobel confirms sadly, quietly. "She doesn't realize … "

Finally, after Beryl Patmore has come and paid her respects, cradled little Baby Carson in her arms and kissed his brow, Charles and Sarah have one last moment with their son.

"Mrs. Crawley needs a look at our boy, love," Charles says as he places a kiss to his wife's cheek. "She needs to wrap him up in fresh linens."

Reluctantly, Sarah places the babe in her husband's arms but not before one final kiss to his cheek. Charles scoops the boy up in his arms and marvels on how perfect he is. The little lad is not the image of what he'd pictured at all. Not deformed after such a long, tortuous labor, but perfectly formed in every way. He pulls his boy close to his chest and knows that this is the last time that he will ever hold him and that the undertaker has already been called and will fetch him soon.

"Charles," Sarah whispers.

"Yes, love," he answers

"We haven't named him. Every baby needs a name," she smiles.

"You rest," Charles murmurs. "When you've rested, we'll think of a name. There will be plenty of time for that."

But there isn't time for the naming of a stillborn babe. Three hours later and after a series of haemorrhages, Sarah Carson joins her son.