The Midwife's Tale Page 6

  Her heartbeat quickened for the briefest of moments, then slowed to a heavy thud. It made no sense at all, but there were parts of her—the irrational, the romantic, the child, and the dreamer—that had been hoping to find Victoria safely tucked into her bed, the way Martha had found her so many times upon returning home from a delivery. The more rational sides of her—the adult and the realist—merely accepted Victoria’s absence as a sad reality.

  The very sight of Victoria’s empty cot brought tears to her eyes. Even though she knew it had been an impossible dream, even though Aunt Hilda had told her Victoria was still missing and there had been no word from her, Martha had not really accepted that as reality until now, when the sight of that simple little empty bed made Victoria’s disappearance finally become real, so very, very real.

  “Victoria,” she whispered, and struggled until she had blinked back every tear. Her mind raced in a host of directions, searching for an image of Victoria that would give her the strength and courage to endure thinking about the horrid possibilities Victoria might be enduring during her sea travel. Those thoughts would keep her sleepless if she let them.

  She chose one image, with Victoria planted at the railing of a ship. The wind freed a few dark curls from beneath her bonnet and whipped at the ribbons hanging from the bow beneath her chin, raising a healthy pink glow on her cheeks. With her hazel eyes dancing, Victoria studied the open sea, and her lips gently eased into a smile. She exuded health and happiness, an image Martha claimed, dashing all other images—shipwrecks, epidemics of shipboard diseases, and a lascivious crew, not to mention scalawag traveling companions—to the netherworld where they belonged.

  After storing away her midwife’s bag and the birthing stool, she placed her travel bag and gloves on top of the trunk at the foot of her cot. She hung her bonnet and cape on wooden pegs on the wall. Working quickly, she took a fresh gown from the trunk, changed, and then pumped a basin of water so she could wash.

  She chanced a look into the mirror, grimaced, and unpinned her hair. Several quick brush strokes were all she needed to clear the tangles. She twisted her hair into a knot and pinned it at the nape of her neck. When she glanced back at her image in the mirror, she studied the stranger looking back at her. Gray hair at each temple now streaked gently through her auburn hair. A frightening number of new lines etched the corners of her dark brown eyes. The generous number of freckles that were sprinkled across the bridge of her nose and spilled down her cheeks were darker, her naturally pale skin had tanned, and the deep dimples in her cheeks now appeared to be bottomless caverns.

  She leaned closer to the mirror, tilted her head to catch more of the light, and sighed, but there was nothing she could do now to prevent wrinkles from forming on her sun-drenched face. “And I’m getting gray now, too. I suppose I’ll look like Grace before long.”

  Dismayed to find herself preoccupied with her appearance, she looked herself straight in the eye, squared her shoulders, pursed her lips, and turned away from the mirror.

  Met by sounds emanating from the storeroom, she hurried to the connecting door, threw the bolt, and opened the door.

  James turned around so fast he nearly dropped the cask of rum in his arms. “Martha! Land sakes, you just took five years off my life!” he complained, but the tender look in his dark eyes gentled his reprimand. Although they shared the same coloring, they were a contrast in shapes, even given their gender. Martha was near average in height and carried enough weight to have the abundant curves most men admired. James was overly tall and decidedly angular, to the extent he carried his childhood nickname, Stick, even to this day.

  “I’m sorry,” she gushed. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought you knew I was back.”

  He set the cask down on the floor, brushed his hands off on his overalls, and pulled her into a crushing embrace. “Dillon thought you’d have been here long before him. Once Aunt Hilda left and you didn’t come home during the night, I figured you met up with her at some point and wound up at the Finches’.”

  She squeezed him back before breaking free. “Indeed. I got there just in time to help Glory Adelaide Finch arrive safe and sound. Her mama’s doing just fine, too,” she added, and made a mental note to add this most recent birth to her diary.

  He placed one of his hands on her shoulder. “But what about you? How are you, Martha?”

  She reached across her chest to cover his hand with her own. “I’ll be fine. I’m just . . . disappointed I couldn’t bring Victoria home,” she murmured, and quickly shared some of the details of her ill-fated travels.

  His eyes deepened, changing from a gentle shade of brown to almost black. “I should have stopped her. Somehow, I should have known she might run away. I should have paid closer attention to her that night. Maybe if I had—”

  “You can’t blame yourself. The good Lord knows I’ve learned that lesson over the past few months. Victoria made her choice. As hurtful and as reckless as it was, she has to bear responsibility for what she’s done. All we can do is pray she’ll be safe and come home soon.”

  She paused and took a deep breath. “I know it hasn’t been easy for you or for Lydia. Aunt Hilda told me you have someone here to help you,” she murmured, still hurt by his decision to hire a replacement for Victoria, yet aware now it had been necessary once she noted the lines of exhaustion that lined his narrow forehead.

  His gaze grew more troubled. “It’s not that we don’t think Victoria will be back soon or that we don’t want her back—”

  “I know. You did the right thing to hire Annabelle,” she admitted, seeing her disappointment now as pure selfishness.

  “You’re not cross with us?”

  She patted his hand. “I’m not cross. You and Lydia welcomed me and my children into your home for too long for me to ever be cross with you. Besides, you’re my big brother. We’re family,” she teased. Her heart swelled when relief filled his eyes and brought a smile to his lips.

  He nodded and swallowed a visible lump in his throat. “Let’s see about getting breakfast ready. Lydia’s anxious to see you. And there’s lots of news here at home. You’re . . . you’re not going to like some of it,” he warned as he led her out of the storeroom.

  She followed him into the kitchen without comment and found Annabelle kneading bread at the kitchen table with her sister-in-law. Martha was grateful Aunt Hilda had warned her in advance and twice as grateful she had been able to purge her selfish feelings before this moment.

  Lydia looked up and dropped a mound of dough she had been working to the table. “Martha!” she cried. She wiped her hands on her apron as she rushed straight over to embrace her. “It’s so good to have you home, but I’m so sorry Victoria isn’t with you,” she gushed.

  She set Martha back, took a good look at her, and frowned. “Just as I feared. You’ve gotten too much sun again. After breakfast, we’ll see about getting some milk to bathe your face.”

  Martha laughed. “We’re going to need gallons this time, I’m afraid.” She looked past Lydia to catch Annabelle’s gaze and noted how Lydia nervously twisted the hem of her apron with her fingers.

  The girl blushed and dropped her gaze, along with the dough she had been kneading. Her hands began to tremble. “Good morning. Welcome home,” she murmured.

  Touched, Martha smiled. “Aunt Hilda tells me you’re doing a fine job here at the tavern.”

  When Annabelle looked up, her eyes were open wide with distrust. “I’m only helping till Victoria comes home.”

  “I know,” Martha assured her. “We’re all blessed to have you here.” Her words were truly heartfelt and her smile was genuine. Praise God. She rolled up her sleeves and went directly to the pump to wash her hands. She looked over her shoulder again and smiled. “I’ll help with the bread and let you all tell me what’s been happening in Trinity while I’ve been gone,” she suggested, curious about James’s warning that some of the news might not be easy to hear.

  7

&nbs
p; Martha walked into the kitchen later that day, glanced around, took a good whiff, and smiled. At least some things had not changed.

  A huge kettle of mutton stew simmered on the hearth. A parade of fresh loaves of bread cooled on wooden racks, while apple pies laced with cinnamon and butter baked in the oven, creating even more tantalizing aromas that had begun to spread throughout the tavern.

  In the lull between the departure of last night’s guests and new arrivals, including townspeople anxious for a hearty meal, James was outside tending to the wagon yard and stables while Annabelle helped Lydia tidy the second-floor sleeping dormitory. Martha had used the time she had to herself, now that Annabelle was there, to bathe and change into a fresh gown before trying the milk remedy for her face.

  When she checked her complexion in the mirror, she did not see any change at all and decided the milk should be put to far better use. She washed the empty bowl and rinsed out the cloth she had used before storing them both away and returning to her room. Feeling refreshed, but still weary, she sat down at the worktable in her room. She added two new entries to her diary, and in the process, felt a familiar sense of order return to her life, a necessity since nothing much else in Trinity had stayed the same:

  15 June A son for Captain Tyler.

  Received $3 reward.

  10 September Delivered a girl to Mr. Finch

  and wife. Left her doing

  cleverly. Debt $2.

  She was satisfied she still had enough room on the last line to record her reward when it was paid, but as an afterthought, she added one additional line to the entry:

  Met the new doctor, Benjamin McMillan.

  Gazing at her two entries, she swallowed hard. There was nothing she could do now to change all she had failed to do between the birth of Captain Tyler’s son and the arrival of Glory Finch. There was nothing she could do about the three-month gap between entries, either. She had been faithful to her promise to her grandmother and had kept a diary of her work for the past ten years. She had never had a lapse of more than a few days. Until now.

  She would not find a three-month gap in her grandmother’s diary, either. That diary was actually a collection of papers kept in chronological order, as opposed to the bound book Martha used. Someday, perhaps, Grandmother’s papers and Martha’s diary would become part of the official town records since they contained accounts of all the births in Trinity since its founding in 1770.

  The chain linking past to present for all those who lived in Trinity now, as well as for future generations, had been broken. Disheartened, she set her diary aside.

  She was far beyond exhaustion at this juncture, but pent-up nervous energy would never let her sleep until she got rid of it. Rather than waste the energy, she put on her old canvas apron, garden gloves, and a wide-brimmed straw hat. She slipped her hand into one of the two wide pockets lining the front of the apron, felt the old pair of scissors, and went outside to her herb garden.

  With the smell and feel of autumn in the air now, she needed to dry enough herbs to last until next summer. The first frost was probably several weeks away, but she never knew when duty might call her away or for how long. Touched by the full light of day, however, her herb garden looked far less bountiful than it had earlier that morning.

  In the first bed of herbs, the wormwood had grown to nearly three feet high this year, although some kind of insect had attacked the silver-green leaves on many of the plants with a vengeance. Out of the entire planting, she barely had enough to line the bottom of her basket.

  Battling for dominance in the same bed, hyssop, with purple-flowered spikes, added grace and color but had apparently not held the same appeal to the bugs that had eaten the wormwood. She cut several dozen stalks, especially pleased with the size of the leaves this season. She turned her attention next to a graceful but sparse display of lady’s thumb. Clusters of small pink flowers lined the reddish stems, but at least half of the plants had been eaten clear down to the roots. She added a single layer to her basket and made a mental note to treat the soil before winter set in.

  She slipped the scissors back into her apron pocket, got back to her feet, and slipped the basket onto her arm. When she turned to go back to her room, she saw the mayor, Thomas Dillon, riding past the rear fence with Sheriff Myer.

  Her heart leaped in her chest. Instinctively. Before her mind could control the affection for Thomas she thought she had buried long ago.

  She rubbed her brow with the back of her free hand and shook her head. She must be truly exhausted to have let that happen.

  She held very still while her heart continued to race. It was probably too much to hope the men would not see her, but she hoped for just that. With any kind of luck, Thomas would be too engrossed in his conversation with the sheriff to take any notice of her. For several very long moments, she had the opportunity to observe him as he rode by.

  Memories washed over her—memories made more vivid now that he was no longer married. Following his wife’s death over a year ago, Thomas had become the most eligible widower between Clarion, in the west, and Sunrise, some thirty miles to the east. Remarkably fit at forty-five, he was not only the wealthiest man in Trinity, but probably also the most handsome, too. He topped six feet by four inches, had a thick head of black hair without a single touch of gray, and could sweet-talk a woman like no other man she had ever met.

  Another huge wave of emotion washed away the past twenty-five years, sweeping her back to a time when they both were young and filled with the optimism of the future that lay ahead, their untested hearts vulnerable to a passion that was consuming. So consuming Martha almost accepted his proposal of marriage before she realized making her life with Thomas, a man also destined to play a leadership role in their community, would leave no room for anything else in her life.

  Her sense of duty to her grandmother and her future as a midwife had prevailed.

  Her marriage to John Cade the following year was not based on romantic passion but on mutual respect that grew, over the years, into an affection they shared that was both companionate and satisfying. It was a marriage in which Martha also found unyielding support for her work with Grandmother Poore.

  Eventually, Thomas had married, too, and from all accounts, his marriage to Sally Moore had been a good one.

  But John was gone now, and Martha still missed him. Ten years of widowhood had softened the blow of his untimely death as only one of many victims of an epidemic that had claimed too many of Trinity’s citizens. With his death, she had lost her safe haven, and she had rebuilt her life the only way she knew how—by focusing her love on her children and her energies on her calling.

  Sally Dillon was gone now, too. With Thomas’s mourning period nearly over, Martha’s heart beat a little bit faster when he was near, opening the window to dreams that belonged to the past.

  “Older is not necessarily wiser,” she grumbled as her heartbeat continued to race. Although she knew the barriers that separated them now were just as real as they had been twenty-five years ago, her heart refused to listen and beat even faster, demanding her attention and forcing her to face her feelings for Thomas again.

  She held her breath until the two men passed by on East Falls Road. Miraculously, neither man had taken any notice of her. She kept her place for several minutes after they disappeared from view, and waited until her heartbeat returned to normal. With pure strength of will, she closed the window in her heart and concentrated all of her efforts on reclaiming the path she had chosen for her life so long ago.

  With sure steps, she returned to her room. After removing her hat and gloves, she spread the herbs on the worktable and inhaled, enjoying the blend of distinctive aromas that began to fill her chamber and steadied her resolve to put Thomas out of her mind as well as her heart.

  She worked efficiently but carefully, loosely tying thin twine to the stems and stalks before securing a ladder from the storeroom and hanging her harvest from the overhead beams. When she was
finished and had restored the room to order again, the fragrant and colorful canopy overhead also restored her spirit.

  Her work had used up all her nervous energy, and her body now demanded rest. She lay down on her cot and savored a long view of her herbs overhead, but her heart and mind refused to quiet and find peace. Worry for Victoria inspired a fervent prayer before she replayed snippets of her earlier conversations with Lydia and Annabelle in her mind.

  Martha had spent most of their time together describing her recent travels and the arrival of the Finch baby. Annabelle listened rather than offered much by way of town news. Lydia did tell her about the new sidewalk being constructed on West Main Street and the planned construction of a new meetinghouse, but little else, since she appeared to be obsessed with providing all the details surrounding the death of Doc Beyer and the arrival of Dr. McMillan.

  As tired as she was, Martha’s thoughts kept leading her straight back to Rosalind. Since she still had to return the doctor’s lancet, there was no question she would see the woman again very soon.

  Rather than prolonging the inevitable or letting her mind exaggerate the problem, Martha prayed for patience and understanding while she freshened up. Before she left her room, she rewrapped the lancet in cloth, slipped it into her reticule, and tried to not think about the irony that she was about to return a weapon to one of her opponents. En route, she would have an opportunity to see some of the changes Lydia had described before a rush of patrons demanding breakfast had interrupted their conversation.

  East Main Street had a fresh bed of cinders, thank goodness, but little traffic even at midday, and Martha walked down the middle of the street under a clear blue sky and gentle sun.

  On the opposite side of Dillon’s Stream, several wagons and carriages rested outside the row of homes and businesses on West Main Street where workers continued to cut and hammer the new planked sidewalk into place, exactly as Lydia had described. Six or seven women with young children in tow had gathered outside the general store, too preoccupied to pay any attention to Martha as she strode toward her destination.