I do not own any of the characters from Downton Abbey. Any resemblance to other fan fiction stories is purely coincidental. I write for my enjoyment, and hopefully for the readers as well.
Spoiler alert.
Downton Abbey is currently being rerun in the Netherlands. Yesterday was the episode on in which Sybbie is born. I noticed that when Sybil was dying, Dr Tapsell was dressed in pyjamas, while Dr Clarkson, despite being somewhat dishevelled, was still in his evening attire. Which in my view indicated that he had been keeping vigil by Sybil's side.
This made me start wondering what Sir Tapsell's thoughts were the moment Sybil died. Why didn't the experienced doctor, he claimed to be, recognize the symptoms? Or did he recognize them but had another reason for continuing to deny them?
Why did he continue to refuse to take Sybil to the hospital? Yes, a Cesarean was a risky operation at that time, but Sybil would have had a significantly better chance of survival than if nothing had been done. According to ChatGPT, the chance was 50 to 60 per cent, compared to nearly none by doing nothing.
This is my interpretation of why Sir Tapsell acted the way he did.
This time, it was different.
Sir Philip woke up to frantic shouting in the hallway. He quickly jumped out of bed and tried to make sense of what was being shouted. Was there a fire? After a loud knock, the door flew open, and one of the nurses rushed in.
She made a small curtsy and said, "Sir Tapsell, please come quickly. Lady Sybil. It's not going well." She turned around and ran down the hall to warn the family.
Philip threw on his robe and hurried to the bedroom, which had served as a maternity room over the past day. He stood in the doorway. He saw the other nurse trying to calm the woman. The country doctor, although less neatly dressed, was standing at the foot of the bed in evening attire. Had that man been keeping vigil by her side?
Now that the convulsions had started, there was no denying it. He had hoped that once the baby was born, everything would be fine.
"There is nothing more we can do," said the country doctor resignedly.
Sir Philip froze, watching the young woman in the bed fighting for her life in vain. Her loved ones stormed in one by one and formed a circle around the bed. The men looked hopeless and defeated, just as he felt. No one, as long as Lady Sybil was still alive, wanted to admit the inevitable.
To himself, Sir Philip could acknowledge that he had realized it too late: it was eclampsia.
One of her sisters grabbed the woman and desperately shouted, "Breathe, dear Sybil! You just need to breathe!"
The desperation in the room grew with every second. Sir Philip threw a discreet glance at Dr. Clarkson. The man already knew. It was inevitable. Lady Sybil would not survive.
Why, why had the family insisted on bringing this country doctor in?
Dr. Clarkson had recognized the first signs of eclampsia earlier than he had. He had ignored the first signs for too long.
Swollen ankle? What pregnant woman didn't have that? Strange remarks? He could write a book about that. Women lost all sense of decorum during childbirth. It was downright shocking how even duchesses could turn into swearing sailors during the birthing process. The headache? Lady Sybil had only started complaining about that after Dr Clarkson had examined her the first time.
The man had tried to convince the family of the necessity of a caesarean. Fortunately, it hadn't come to that. Philip was relieved that he had spared himself that humiliation.
Because what should he have done? Admit that he had never performed a caesarean? Should he have performed a dangerous operation in a simple village hospital with hardly any modern facilities?
Should he, the great Dr. Tapsell, have asked whether the local doctor could lead the operation, offering only his assistance? Should he have watched Dr. Clarkson perform the caesarean?
He couldn't do that.
His role had always been to oversee the delivery. To make sure the mother was as comfortable as possible, leaving things like cooling the head with a wet cloth and everything else to the nurses. In the hours before the birth, he had always been occupied with reassuring the soon-to-be father and family. Until the moment of actual birth, he had never needed to do more and let nature take its course.
Sir Philip turned his head away when he realized that she had passed away. Faint murmurs and sobs filtered through to him. It seemed unreal, but it was over.
Death had caught up with her.
He walked to the window and looked outside, but saw nothing. What had he been supposed to do?
Admit that he was wrong and that Dr. Clarkson had been right? Wouldn't that just make him the renowned professional who acknowledged that a country doctor would have acted better than he had?
It happened so often that a woman died on the delivery bed. It was an accepted fact that most people had resigned themselves to, even though it was painful. Death was often part of life.
She was not the first woman who hadn't survived childbirth, and would not be the last.
What would people think if they found out that Dr. Tapsell, the doctor who had built such a respected name in twenty years, had never performed an operation? It would ruin his reputation.
Moreover, even if they had gone to the hospital in time and Dr. Clarkson had performed the operation, the survival chances for both mother and child would have been slim. A caesarean was always risky. There was always the chance of complications and infection. The child could have died too.
Yes, Philip reassured himself. At least the child survived. And it was the child of the youngest daughter of the Earl, so no heir. It was a girl, a child who would never have any claim to the inheritance of the title.
Perhaps he had even done the family a favour. He had heard that the Earl's daughter had disgraced the house by marrying the chauffeur, an Irishman no less.
People would be more forgiving after this tragic event. The disapproval she had brought upon herself would eventually fade.
Sir Philip cleared his throat and slowly turned around, no longer looking at the window but at the family, most of whom were slowly beginning to realize what had happened, tears in their eyes. He walked over to the grieving husband and shook his hand.
"A great loss. Extremely regrettable," he said in a cold, controlled voice.
Then he went to Lord Grantham and extended his hand. "My Lord," he uttered. "My condolences on the loss of your daughter. Unfortunately, a higher power has called her to be with Him." The words sounded hollow to him, but Sir Philip spoke them with authority and confidence.
He could barely bring himself to look at the mother and the other women. Lady Grantham had supported Dr Clarkson in his suggestion to go to the hospital.
As discreetly as possible, Sir Philip slipped out of the bedroom. Tomorrow, he would leave for London. But not before offering his condolences once more to Lord Grantham and convincing him that, despite his expertise, the inevitable had happened.
Sir Philip Tapsell, the respected doctor from the highest circles, had a reputation to maintain.
.
.