The Midwife's Choice Read online

  More important, she had not spent much time with Victoria today, but there was nothing to be done about that now. To her chagrin, her duties today had once more come at great personal cost, an ever-present difficulty she had balancing her responsibilities as a mother with her duties as a midwife, friend, and neighbor.

  She passed Dr. McMillan’s home and glanced up. The second floor was well lit. He was no doubt spending the evening with his old friend. Martha still needed to talk to him about several issues, but they would have to wait. The third floor, where the Andrews had their own quarters, was dark, save for light coming from the front room they used as a sitting room. Hopefully, Rosalind was discussing Martha’s idea with her husband this very minute.

  Martha whispered a prayer, made her way through the covered bridge, and approached the confectionery. The second floor was not lit. The shop was dark. Another day’s business was done, although she wondered how the two sisters managed to make a profit. They gave away almost as much as they sold, charged a pittance for their baked goods, and gave credit without bothering to make any attempt to have folks settle up.

  Just where the sisters had lived before they landed in Trinity four years earlier remained a mystery. Their utter goodwill and generosity, however, had stilled gossip about them long ago. Folks simply accepted Fern and Ivy for what they were—good, honest women who loved the Word and practiced it. And made scrumptious confections.

  As soon as Martha cut to her left to walk alongside the building to get to the back door, light from the kitchen gave her hope. Supper, though later than usual, must still be in progress. She quickened her steps and formulated a proper apology. If supper was late, it was because Fern and Ivy had held it hoping Martha would make it home in time to join them.

  Martha stomped her feet clean, slipped inside, removed her cape and gloves, and set them aside. She entered the kitchen. “I’m so sorry for being late,” she said. “I had so much to do, but I truly thought I’d—”

  Her apology died on her lips. She stared at the scene before her and glanced from one figure to another trying to make sense of it all. Shock rendered her speechless and immobile. Alarm sent her pulse pounding at her temples. She blinked several times, but the scene remained the same.

  Thomas stood in front of the hearth. Exhaustion and worry etched his features. Fern and Ivy stood across from each other at the table. Between them, bloodied cloths lay next to a basin of water and an assortment of salves and ointments. Martha’s bag of simples lay open. Victoria was nowhere to be seen.

  Ivy rushed over to Martha and clasped her hand. “Thanks heavens you’re finally home! We practically searched the entire town looking for you.”

  “Victoria. Where’s Victoria?” Martha croaked. “She’s been hurt, hasn’t she? What happened? How badly is she hurt?” Without waiting for answers, she swirled, about to head upstairs to find Victoria.

  Ivy yanked her back. “Victoria is fine. She’s not hurt at all. She’s right upstairs.”

  Relieved, Martha blinked back tears. “She’s fine? Then what happened here? Someone’s obviously been hurt.”

  Thomas rubbed his forehead. “There’s been an . . . an accident,” he offered.

  Fern snatched up the cloths from the table and bunched them into a ball. “You’ve got to be dumb and blind to think that what happened was some sort of accident!” she snapped. “It was deliberate.”

  “You don’t know that,” Ivy protested.

  When Fern glared at her, Ivy dropped her gaze.

  Martha looked at Thomas and felt her heart leap. “An accident? You’ve been hurt! Why didn’t you go to see Dr. McMillan?” she cried. She rushed to him, visually searching for any sign of injury, but braced to a halt when he held up his hand.

  “I’m fine. I just happened to be at the right place to be able to help. As for the doctor, the fewer people involved right now, the better.”

  When Martha cocked a brow, he sighed. “We’ve only been here an hour or so. If you hadn’t come home soon, we would have sent for him.”

  Martha looked from Fern to Ivy to Thomas and back again. “Will somebody please tell me what’s going on?”

  Fern and Ivy clamped their mouths shut and looked to Thomas.

  He nodded, took Martha’s arm, led her to the table, and packed the salves and ointments back into her bag. “Let’s go upstairs. Fern and Ivy did the best they could, but I think you should look in on your patient.”

  “My patient? I still don’t know who my patient is, let alone what happened.”

  “I’ll explain everything later,” he assured her. “First, I want you to see your patient. Assess the injuries. Then we’ll talk. You can decide for yourself if this was an accident or not.”

  Martha was still mystified, but too concerned about the patient waiting for her upstairs to waste time arguing. Thomas led her up the steps to the guest chamber where June had stayed. He handed Martha her bag and knocked softly.

  When Victoria answered the door, dim light inside the chamber gave Martha the opportunity to see for herself that her daughter was all right. She was pale and obviously distressed, but unharmed. Her eyes widened with relief when she saw her mother. She put her finger to her lips and stepped aside.

  Martha stepped into the chamber and glanced at the figure of the woman sleeping in the bed. Unsure of the woman’s identity, she took a few steps closer and felt her heart skip a beat. With all the injuries to her face, the woman was barely recognizable, but Martha knew exactly who had been brought to her for help.

  She turned and hugged Victoria. “Go downstairs with Mayor Dillon,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t be long.”

  “I’d like to stay to help, if you’ll let me.”

  Martha eyed her daughter, saw determination staring back at her, and smiled. “I’d like that.” She turned to Thomas. “We’ll be down in a bit. Have Fern or Ivy set some water to boil, just in case I need it,” she murmured.

  As soon as he left, she shut the door. Gently. She went straight to the task at hand. “I need more light,” she said. “Are you sure you want to stay?”

  Victoria nodded. “I promised her I wouldn’t leave.”

  “Then let’s get to work. Fern and Ivy have probably done what could be done, but I’d like to make sure.”

  With her bag in one hand, she approached the bed while Victoria turned up the lamp. As soon as Martha had a clear view of the woman’s face, she gasped. Her pulse quickened. Her hand tightened on her bag.

  The word accident ricocheted in her mind, leaped over clumsy and illness and crashed headlong into another word: impossible.

  14

  You’ll rue this day, Russell Clifford!” Martha vowed. She unclenched her fists and drew in a deep gulp of air before she lost all sensibility and sight of her responsibility to her patient. Nancy Clifford might be clumsy, either due to natural awkwardness or some sort of disorder, which could account for the other bruises Martha had seen, perhaps even the fall that triggered the premature birth of poor Peter.

  But this . . . this was an abomination no woman deserved. Ever.

  Feeling guilty for leaving Nancy, Martha studied the woman’s battered face and assessed the treatments Fern and Ivy had applied. A thin sheen of ointment on the bruises glistened, but there was no telling what the ointment was for sure. Both of Nancy’s eyes were swollen shut. Red and purple streaks mottled the lids and the half-moon of flesh beneath the sockets. Her nose was red at the tip, but did not appear to be broken. Parted in sleep, her lips fared worse. Fresh blood oozed from a small slit in the center of her bottom lip. Her upper lip had swollen to twice its normal size.

  No fall, no accident could cause this much damage. Only a man’s hands or fists.

  Martha swallowed hard and turned to Victoria, fearful of what other unseen injuries Nancy might have sustained, as well as possible complications the poor girl might have while recovering from the stillbirth. “I need you to go downstairs. Tell them to add more wood to the stove if they ha
ve to, but—”

  “But I promised I’d stay.”

  “I need to examine her further. While I do, you have to go outside. Get Mayor Dillon to help you. Fill several pails of snow. Then bring them inside and pack some towels with the snow.”

  Victoria’s eyes widened. “Snow?”

  “To stop the swelling,” Martha explained. “Hurry, dear. And get Miss Fern to get me some clean cloths and dry towels while Miss Ivy gets the teapot ready.” She opened her bag and handed Victoria some peppermint. “Tell Miss Ivy this needs to steep for ten minutes. I want the tea hot and strong so it’s ready for Mrs. Clifford when she wakes up.”

  Victoria glanced at the woman she had been watching. “She’s . . . she’s going to be all right, isn’t she?”

  “I believe she’ll recover nicely, but I need to examine her now to be sure. Go on, child. If she wakes up, I’ll tell her you’ll be right back.”

  Victoria touched the small scar on her bottom lip, a memento from infancy she still carried, and glanced at Nancy again. “She’ll have a scar, too, won’t she?”

  “She will, and she’ll likely carry others no one will be able to see,” Martha murmured.

  Victoria tiptoed from the room, and Martha went straight to work. Throughout the careful but thorough examination, Nancy did little more than moan from time to time, which told Martha the girl had been given some sort of drug.

  Laudanum came to mind, but Martha never, ever carried it, used it, or approved of it for treating her patients. Any illness or injury that required laudanum was well beyond her realm of expertise. As far as she knew, there was no laudanum in the confectionery, and she could not imagine either Fern or Ivy having any call to need laudanum, let alone keep it on hand.

  Stymied, she took heart knowing Nancy did not have many other injuries beyond those to her face, only a few bruises on her hands and fingers. Her bleeding from the birth appeared normal.

  Martha sat in a chair while she waited for Victoria to return and searched her mind, replaying her stay at the Clifford homestead over and over again, but she could not imagine Russell as the kind of man who would ever beat his wife, especially after the tragedy of losing Peter.

  Or had that tragedy triggered yet another?

  Had the man become enraged and blamed his wife for their son’s premature birth and death, despite Martha’s assurances the child would probably have strangled to death during birth whenever that had taken place? Or had she been right to suspect what now seemed obvious—that Russell routinely hit his wife?

  Images flashed through her mind that sent tremors through her body. Guilt lay heavy on her heart. Had she simply accepted his claims as well as Nancy’s, that she was uncommonly clumsy, because he seemed so young and so devoted to his wife? Was there anything she could have done to prevent this tragedy?

  She had stayed in scores of homes during the past ten years and many before that as she learned her trade. She had lived intimately with her patients’ families and had observed husbands and wives together. Most men treated their wives with respect, if not affection. Only a precious few, thank heavens, had overstepped their God-given authority and defied both God’s laws and the laws of man by physically harming their wives.

  From experience, she knew the image of rural life, with bountiful harvests, healthy children, and affectionate marriages, was an ideal most folks did not achieve. Irregular weather, crop failures, illness, or injury were inevitable, but more often frustrating than devastating, whether personally or financially.

  For most, faith provided hope and the courage to carry on. For some, faith was as shallow and useless as Dillon’s Stream, which dried up during the frequent droughts. That old stream could not carry more than a light raft when it ran high, which destined Trinity to forever remain a mere crossroad in the backcountry.

  At best, the stream provided a quirky atmosphere to Trinity: quaint covered bridges at either end of town, a skating spot during winter, and a place for children to skip stones in summer. Memories of the townspeople who had formed a brigade and passed up buckets of water in a fruitless attempt to save her brother James’s burning tavern flashed through her mind’s eye.

  Suddenly, the chamber door opened, and Victoria entered. Martha set her musings aside and went to work. Victoria proved to be a valuable assistant, and she followed Martha’s directions well. First, Martha lifted Nancy’s head so Victoria could slide several towels below to cover the pillow. Next, Martha used the fresh cloths and some pokeweed to prepare cold poultices she placed over the bruises. She finished by laying the snow-packed towels along either side of Nancy’s face and across her lower face.

  Nancy moaned. She began thrashing about and tried grabbing at the towels, but it was apparent the girl was not fully conscious.

  “Hush, now. It’s Widow Cade. I’m trying to help your bruises and slow the swelling. I know it’s cold. There now,” she crooned. She caressed the girl’s hands until they went limp. When she tucked Nancy’s hand beneath the blanket, she noted the crooked fingers on her right hand, further evidence of a previous beating?

  Eventually, Nancy’s breathing became even. Her body relaxed, and she slipped, once more, into a deep, restful slumber.

  Satisfied for now that she had done all she could, Martha straightened the bedclothes and tucked the quilt just below Nancy’s chin.

  Victoria remained at the foot of the bed. “It wasn’t an accident, was it?” she whispered.

  Martha let out a heavy sigh. There would be little good that would come from this whole affair, but there was nothing Martha could do to protect her own daughter from learning that not all marriages were ideal. “No, I’m afraid not. Did she . . . did she tell you anything about what happened?”

  “No. She fell asleep pretty quickly after Mayor Dillon carried her to bed.”

  “And before that?”

  Victoria shrugged her shoulders, but her eyes flashed with indignation. “I was upstairs when I heard some commotion in the kitchen. I went down to find out what was happening, but Miss Ivy shooed me right back up the steps and told me to put fresh linens on the bed, that you had a patient who would be staying with us awhile.” She paused and took a deep breath. “I’m not a child,” she protested. “I could have helped. She was . . . she just kept crying and crying. I could hear her.”

  Victoria shuddered. Her eyes filled with tears. “She wouldn’t let go of my hand. She kept squeezing and squeezing, begging me not to leave her.”

  Martha went straight to her daughter and embraced her. “Don’t fret. It’s the reassuring touch we give to others that means the most of all, but it’s not always easy to give comfort, is it?”

  Victoria wept softly. Martha rocked her from side to side until she quieted. “What’s going to happen to her now?”

  “She’ll need time here to mend. After that, I’m not sure. I need to talk to Mayor Dillon for a moment to find out exactly what he knows about this. Do you think you could stay with Nancy while I go downstairs?”

  Victoria sniffled and wiped her teary face with her hands. “I can stay with her all night, but what do I do if she wakes up?”

  “I won’t be very long. I have to come back to change the dressings. If you’d feel better, I’ll send Miss Ivy or Miss Fern up to keep watch with you until I can come back.”

  With a quick lift of her chin, Victoria smiled soberly. “I’ll be fine by myself.”

  Martha slipped from the room. She was so proud of her daughter. She must remember to tell her.

  When Martha reached the kitchen, she found the room tidy. The pot of peppermint tea was steeping, filling the room with a fresh aroma. Fern and Ivy sat together in front of the fire, talking quietly. Oddly, Fern had a rolling pin on her lap. Ivy held the poker for the fire in her hand. There was no sign of Thomas, so she would have to rely on the two sisters to provide the details surrounding Nancy’s “accident.”

  Martha approached the two women, and they stopped whispering. “Nancy is resting now. Very sound
ly. Perhaps too soundly. Which one of you would care to tell me where you found the laudanum you used?” she asked gently.

  No response.

  Two pairs of blue eyes feigned ignorance, but guilt blushed cheeks on both pale faces.

  Martha held out her hand. “Give it over.”

  Fern pursed her lips.

  Ivy tilted her chin.

  “I know you must have some laudanum. There’s nothing in my bag to account for how deeply Nancy is asleep. I know you meant well, but I don’t approve of using something so strong.”

  Ivy narrowed her gaze and tightened her grip on the poker. “The girl needed something strong to help her heal faster. And to forget.”

  Fern shook her head. Her eyes glistened with compassion, even as she ran her hands over the rolling pin. “That sorry excuse for a husband beat his wife with his fists. She’ll never forget what he did, but she needs time to heal and get her strength back. Before she has to stop making excuses for him and face the truth. Before she has to stop forgiving him for being a brute.” Her gaze hardened. “If that man tries to put one toe near that girl . . .”

  The longer Fern talked, the angrier she became and the shriller her voice grew. Martha felt a shiver run the length of her spine. Fern sounded as if she had firsthand knowledge of how Nancy might feel and react, but that was impossible.

  Fern, as well as Ivy, had never been married before. Since that was the case, Martha assumed Fern had witnessed a woman being brutalized by her husband or perhaps she and her sister had grown up in a household where her father had beaten their mother. Since Martha had no knowledge of their past, she could only speculate, but she had no doubt that both Fern and Ivy recognized the real cause of Nancy’s injuries—a beating.