The Midwife's Baby. Fiona McArthur
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herself. There was plenty of that.
Max Beresford, the groom, was pretty distracting. She’d known of him, but until now not by sight as he’d missed rehearsals because of some crisis at the hospital.
The real Max was tall, broad-shouldered and far too handsome for his own good, but his kind eyes had surprised her with their warmth.
Though younger than she’d expected, he looked every inch the new department head of obstetrics for the North Coast Region of Hospitals—a position he was taking up after Tayla’s and his honeymoon—and she was surprised how much she instinctively felt that Tayla had chosen well.
After her baby was born, Max would apparently find her a midwife’s position in the region, so she really did hope she wouldn’t ruin his wedding.
Max’s brother, Paul, who had played groom each time they’d practised the wedding service, seemed pleasant enough but not a warm person and he stood beside Max now as a paler shade of his brother.
Unfortunately Paul’s eyes were fixed a little too intently on his brother’s wife-to-be.
Meanwhile Tayla, gloriously aware of everyone’s attention, proceeded to lift her eyes theatrically towards the stained-glass window and shimmy her feathers.
Georgia could see no softness or devotion or anything redeeming from her cousin despite the perfect setting and the man beside her. Though she had adamantly said to Georgia that of course she loved Max.
On the groom’s part, even the smile Max gave his fiancée seemed strained and disconnected.
Georgia ached with disappointment. Weddings shouldn’t be like this. What was wrong with everybody? Except for her parents, who had remained blissfully in love until their deaths, she had begun to despair that all marriages were destined to be travesties.
Tayla she could understand. Tayla had always wanted the extravagant white wedding and the rich husband, topped off by the bridal magazine shoot currently in progress.
While her cousin would enjoy being married to a handsome consultant as she flew in to join Max briefly for social occasions in whatever city or town he visited, Tayla didn’t intend that her marriage would markedly change her life.
A tiny worry line drew Max’s thick black brows together even further and Georgia glared at him for not savouring the moment. Didn’t he realise the sacredness of marriage?
What was in it for Max if he didn’t have some affection for his bride?
Romantically, Georgia had hoped this wedding would restore her faith in true love. She’d hoped there would be a incandescent joy between these two as they stood before God and declared their troth.
Then the third contraction gripped her belly and all else was forgotten as the searing pain snatched her breath at the peak. This time the intensity drew a stifled gasp she couldn’t contain. Even the minister looked across at her with raised eyebrows.
It wasn’t fair. Labour was supposed to start with gentle regular contractions, gradually increasing in intensity. She should have been supported by her midwife friends at home, with birdsong playing. Not the Wedding March.
The only thing bird-like about these pains were that they flew straight to a pain score of ten.
When the contraction finally eased she accepted that it was likely the wedding would go on without her.
Georgia chewed her bottom lip and tried to focus on the glorious blue-green stained-glass window until the minister began to speak again. In the lull before the next pain, she could almost believe she could wait at least until the man-and-wife part of the service.
Tayla was going to kill her and when she looked at the bride she wanted to cry. Pregnancy hormones, of course—but, then Tayla had always made her want to cry.
She tried to concentrate on the ballet of the shooting fountains in the artificial lake below—surely the next contraction would be further apart—until a tiny clicking pop sent the trickle of warm fluid down her leg and forced her to call it a day.
‘Excuse me,’ she whispered to the minister as she edged away from the altar towards the side door of the church.
‘You’re not going anywhere,’ Tayla hissed, but this time Georgia didn’t hear.
Please, God, she prayed silently, don’t let anyone notice the tiny rivulets of fluid in her wake. She could feel the eyes of the congregation on her back.
Suddenly the trickle became a gush and her baby kicked and squirmed in an agitated dance that evicted any thought of who was watching and sent prickles of unease down Georgia’s spine.
This didn’t feel right and her baby’s panic was communicated to Georgia even though she had never experienced labour before. At work she’d seen labour go wrong and she tried not to allow those memories to intrude.
She remembered the words of her Calmbirth midwife—listen to your body. Listen to your instincts. Her belly heaved as her baby twisted again. Her instinct said she needed to go to the hospital and her baby demanded speed.
She lifted her eyes in panic. She needed help, and suddenly help was there. The steady gaze of Max grounded her panic with calmness and a strong, reassuring hand on her shoulder.
She swallowed the lump of fear in her throat. The last time she’d seen him he’d been at the altar with Tayla. She darted a look to the front of the church and her cousin glared with real menace towards both of them.
‘Your waters have broken?’
She nodded, still stunned that Max had left his bride. Georgia didn’t have the mental space to go there. Tayla would have to get used to being married to a doctor, but not yet—at least not until after the wedding.
‘You’ve been having contractions.’ His voice was gentle and she looked back at him because it was better than looking at the gaping assembly.
Her baby twisted and turned like a fish on a hook and she cupped her stomach and grabbed his hand as the next contraction squeezed.
‘Hard and fast. Something’s wrong.’ It was difficult to get the words out through the pain. ‘Something else came out with the water. I’m thinking cord prolapse.’
Cord prolapse was one of the true obstetric emergencies and they both knew it.
If a baby hadn’t ‘dropped’ or engaged its head in the pelvis, a loop of cord could fall between the baby’s head and the bottom of the uterus when the waters broke. With four weeks to go in Georgia’s pregnancy her baby hadn’t dropped yet so it was dreadfully possible.
Any contractions she had after that could force the hard head of the baby onto the presenting cord and cut off the flow of oxygen from mother to baby. With no oxygen her baby would die.
If that was the case they needed to try to keep Georgia’s baby’s head from coming down onto the umbilical cord. Minutes counted.
‘I’m scared, Max.’ She’d never met this man in her life and suddenly it felt OK to call him Max.
His eyes softened and he nodded once. ‘I know. We need to get you to the hospital ASAP.’
He flipped open his phone and spoke briefly into it. ‘Let’s get you outside to the car. An ambulance can meet us on the road if we don’t beat them there.’
He scooped her up in his arms and she cringed. ‘Your beautiful suit.’
‘It’s only a suit.’ He grinned down at her and incredibly his eyes were golden and caring and she suddenly felt her baby had a chance, even though the odds were stacked against them.
Another contraction coiled viciously through her and she moaned. This was terrifying.
Max carried her swiftly to his black limousine. White ribbons fluttered on the long bonnet and the JUST MARRIED placard sat proudly on the boot.
Georgia shifted in his arms as she