The Midwife's Tale Page 7

  Normally, she would use the covered bridge at the other end of town and cross over to visit with the other women and talk to the children, most of whom she had helped to deliver. Today, however, she had a mission that kept her focused only on the task at hand.

  The farther she walked, the more the activity at the sawmill and gristmill behind her receded into muted testimony that almost half the workday had already been spent. She had to hurry if she expected to return and help Lydia and Annabelle before the mill workers broke for their midday meal or wagons en route to Clarion arrived to fill the tavern to near capacity.

  She quickened her steps as she passed the mayor’s home and once more blocked out any thoughts of Thomas, but she rocked to a halt when she reached the site where the meetinghouse had always stood. Even though Lydia had tried to warn her, she was still unprepared for what she beheld with her own eyes. Only the foundation remained of the log structure where generations had gathered to worship as a community of believers each Sunday morning. She could see clear through to the cemetery, once hidden by the meetinghouse, and rows of tombstones weathered by time paid silent homage to so many loved ones who rested beneath them.

  She shook her head and felt her heart constrict with grief for the loss of the familiar meetinghouse, but she also understood the need for a larger building. According to James, who had attended the elders’ meeting in July, when the final decision had been made, the old meetinghouse had been removed from its foundation and rolled to the far end of East Main Street, next to the market, where it sat waiting to be converted into a new schoolhouse.

  Construction of the new meetinghouse, planned as a grand brick church with a parsonage alongside, had been delayed because the builder from Clarion had taken ill and died, leaving the elders no choice but to find a new builder. Unfortunately, he was not able to start work until spring. In the meantime, Sunday meeting would be held in the old meetinghouse, which would also be used as a town meeting place while the debate about where to build a permanent town hall continued.

  When she glimpsed the familiar figure of a large man making his way through the woods behind the cemetery, her heart leaped from despair to hope. Of all the things and people she knew and loved in Trinity, Samuel Meeks was a man on whom she could depend to be a constant, however odd others might find that to be if they ever found out she had become friends with the town’s infamous hermit nearly a year ago.

  Known as much for his formidable size and salty vocabulary as for the mystery surrounding his past, Samuel was a hairy bear of a man with thick dark hair that covered his head and his arms. If his size alone did not frighten you, then the tattoo on his left cheek certainly would—as would the tattoos on both of his forearms, although no one in Trinity had ever seen more than his face.

  For most people, his face was more than enough. The tattoo on his cheek was not colored with any dye, but had been created by a series of raised scars that must have been incredibly painful to endure while the image of the sea serpent they formed had been created.

  A long-retired seaman now nearing seventy, he had moved to Trinity ten years ago and lived in an isolated cabin deep in the woods on the outskirts of town. Martha had finally met him only last year and had tended to him simply because he refused to see a doctor or admit that his clouding vision might be a prelude to total blindness.

  Hoping she might be able to let him know she had finally returned to Trinity, she gathered up her skirts and hurried past the foundation of the meetinghouse, by the charred remains of an old oak tree, and through the cemetery. By the time she entered the woods, however, Samuel had disappeared. “Samuel? It’s Martha,” she cried as she scanned the area. His cabin lay hidden in the woods several hundred yards ahead, and she was reluctant to pursue him that far without being certain he had been heading for home.

  “No need to yell. I’m right here.”

  Startled, she swung around and found him leaning against the trunk of a large tree. He had a string of fish in one hand and a crude fishing pole in the other. “Heard you were back. Heard ’bout Victoria, too.”

  She swallowed hard. She was amazed at how much this virtual recluse knew about the townspeople he avoided. “I was on my way to see Dr. McMillan when I saw you. How’s your vision?”

  He held up his catch. “Good enough to get me some breakfast.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” she countered. “Have you seen any improvement after using the eyewash?”

  He pursed his lips. “Can’t say it did much ’cept take up a lot of my time.”

  She let out a sigh. Apparently, the goldenseal she had left with him had not been effective, and it was hard not to be disappointed. With Doc Beyer gone now, she had no one to turn to for other ideas, and she had exhausted her usual remedies. She doubted if Samuel would even consider talking with Dr. McMillan. “I’m sorry. I really thought it would help. Let me see if I can figure out something else.”

  His eyes flashed with hope he quickly extinguished with the brusque manner he usually used to cover up his fears about facing possible blindness. “Got work to do. Don’t go worryin’ yourself ’bout it. Nothing worse than a naggin’ woman,” he grumbled. He pulled back from the trunk of the tree and walked past her, paused, and turned around to face her again. “Stop by in a week or two. If you have a mind for it,” he murmured before he turned and headed toward home.

  She watched him until the woods closed around his figure. Reassured by his offer to have her visit at his cabin, she welcomed the opportunity to renew and restore their friendship as much as the chance to truly find a simple or any other remedy that would cure his vision once and for all.

  With a lighter heart, she backtracked and continued on her way down East Main Street, which was virtually deserted. She was grateful Market Day was tomorrow, instead of today. On Market Day the town would literally swell with families from the outlying areas who came to trade or sell their wares and purchase their needs before returning to the farms and homesteads that surrounded the center of town.

  She reached the home and office where Doc Beyer had lived and worked, and stopped at the end of the stone walkway that led to the front door. A new sign with Dr. McMillan’s name now hung from the post at the street edge of the front yard, replacing the weathered, paint-chipped sign that had hung there for over fifty years.

  The house itself looked different, too. A fresh coat of white paint brightened the plaster that covered the fieldstone underneath. The single-wide shutters on the two windows to the left of the front door were open. The door itself, once natural wood, had been painted dark brown, and a brass knocker now adorned the center of the door. Directly overhead, the stone lintel still carried the date, 1770, and the builder’s initials, MLL, a gentle reminder that this house had been one of the first constructed in town.

  A steep, slanting roof topped the three-story home, its slate shingles reflecting strong sunlight. Old shrubs of buttonbush and wild hydrangeas hugged either side of the walkway as lush testimony to the woman Doc Beyer had married and buried many years ago. Martha had missed their flowers this last summer, but she was more interested in the leaves and bark. Upon close inspection, she saw that the foliage was healthy, yet Doc Beyer’s passing and Dr. McMillan’s purchase of the property meant she no longer had permission to gather the bark and leaves from the buttonbush and wild hydrangeas.

  Now was probably not the time to broach the subject.

  Her hand was only inches from the knocker when the door opened. Rosalind blocked Martha’s entry and kept her hand on the frame of the door with her face and figure kissed by the full light of day.

  For one very long heartbeat, Martha studied the woman’s features. Deep valleys like those between her brows also appeared on either side of her face like elongated teardrops made of acid that had permanently etched her skin. The corners of Rosalind’s lips were turned downward in a permanent frown, but it was the bitterness in her eyes and the pallor on her face that pierced Martha’s heart.

&nbs
p; In the rush of things at the Finch household, Martha had not noticed the changes in Rosalind’s appearance, although the artificial light in the cabin had certainly been more forgiving than natural sunlight. It was also possible that after an absence of several months, Martha simply had the opportunity to see Rosalind now with a fresh eye.

  If ever Martha needed proof that a hardened heart drained not only the spirit but also the physical body, she had only to look at Rosalind to see how bitterness had marred Rosalind’s once-lovely countenance. Looking at Rosalind as she appeared now also gave Martha a chance to see how she herself might look if she did not accept the troubles life had to offer as anything less than a gift meant to be opened and treasured for the lessons it contained.

  She offered a genuine smile, but remained standing in place, all the while praying Rosalind might be willing to resume their friendship. “It’s a splendid morning, isn’t it?”

  “Dr. McMillan is resting this morning. He had a very late night last night, as you well know. You’ll have to come back later,” she snapped, and started to close the door.

  Martha took a step forward so that her shoulder was even with the jam of the door, effectively forcing Rosalind to keep the door open. “I don’t mean to disturb him, but he left one of his instruments behind last night. I wanted to return it to him so he wouldn’t have to go all the way back to the Finch homestead to retrieve it.”

  “How kind of you,” the housekeeper quipped, as if unleashing her frustration over Burton’s situation at Martha might make the problem disappear.

  Martha ignored the nasty tone in Rosalind’s voice. She simply opened her reticule, retrieved the wrapped lancet, and held it out to the other woman. “If you’ll give this to Dr. McMillan for me, I can be on my way.”

  “Widow Cade?” The doctor’s voice sounded very close, and he came into view once Rosalind stepped aside without taking the lancet and swung the door wide open.

  With his frock coat sorely rumpled and a day’s growth of stubble on his face, he looked like he had fallen asleep fully dressed after returning from the Finch homestead and only just awakened.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Martha offered as she entered the kitchen, typically the first room in homes this old. Rosalind presented her back and returned to a bowl and a pile of peas she apparently had been shelling when Martha interrupted her.

  “I only wanted to return your lancet. You left it behind last night.” She handed him the instrument. “It’s a long ride. I thought I might save you the trouble.”

  He took hold of the lancet, and the wariness in his gaze softened to appreciation. “Thank you. I trust Mrs. Finch is doing well?”

  “Very cleverly. The babe also. A girl.”

  He nodded, turning the lancet over and over in his hand. His brows knitted together as if he were mentally reviewing all he had done to aid Adelaide’s labor before Martha arrived, trying to figure out what he could have done differently so that he could have delivered the baby instead of Martha.

  The genuine concern she detected in his gaze earned him her respect, although she did not condone what he had done by bleeding a woman in labor. Nor had she altered her opinion that doctors in general—and this doctor in particular—had much to learn about treating and safely delivering a teeming woman. He was also, she noted, young enough to be her son, and her maternal instincts softened her attitude toward him.

  “May I offer you some refreshment? Coffee? Tea?” he asked. He gave her a sheepish grin that only made him look younger. “I’m afraid I haven’t changed or shaved since yesterday. It was so late when I returned—”

  “I understand completely,” she insisted. “A cup of tea would be most welcome, although perhaps you’d rather make it another time.”

  “One cup of tea. And some coffee, Mrs. Andrews. We’ll take it in my office,” he suggested, and led Martha to the room directly to their left without waiting for her to answer him.

  She entered the room and quickly determined that he had not changed or added much since taking over Doc Beyer’s practice, although she had to admit he was a far sight neater than his predecessor. Straight ahead, a stack of books and pamphlets lay neatly on the corner of his desk. The cabinets flush against the wall on either side of the desk looked familiar. One was filled with instruments; the other contained bottles of medicines and other supplies. A door on the far right wall that led to a treatment room was closed, but Martha suspected the room remained the same, along with the second treatment room that lay beyond it.

  While he took a moment to return his lancet to its proper place in one of the cabinets, she took a seat in one of the two wooden chairs in front of his desk. Framed diplomas and certificates hung on the wall directly in front of her. Unlike Doc Beyer, who had served only an apprenticeship under a practicing physician before starting his own practice here in Trinity, Dr. McMillan was apparently university trained, both here in the United States and abroad, just as Aunt Hilda had claimed.

  She could not read the documents without getting closer to them to determine exactly where he had received his education, and she had no intention of being rude enough to inquire.

  He joined her and took his own seat, folded his hands atop his desk, and smiled. “I understand you worked with Dr. Beyer for many years,” he prompted.

  “And my grandmother before me.”

  He narrowed his gaze. “I’ve been told she was also a midwife.”

  She smiled. “The first here in Trinity.”

  “Then you’re following family tradition, just like I am. All the McMillan men in the past four generations have practiced medicine, although I’m the first to venture this far west.”

  “You’re from New York?”

  “Born and bred. My father still practices there with my brother. My grandfather retired many years ago, but he knew Dr. Beyer. That’s how I came to settle here after he died.” He paused to clear his throat. “In any event, I’m looking forward to serving the people here, and I’m grateful that Mrs. Andrews agreed to remain as housekeeper.”

  Martha nodded. Rosalind and Burton Andrews had moved in with her uncle, Doc Beyer, after his wife died nearly twenty years ago. In addition to working at the sawmill, Burt handled routine maintenance while Rosalind kept house, which included keeping the doctor’s office and treatment rooms spotlessly clean.

  The house was certainly large enough to accommodate everyone. Doc Beyer had had his own private rooms on the second floor while the Andrews had claimed the third floor for themselves and their only child, Charlotte. Whether or not this arrangement would continue, she supposed, depended on how long Burton Andrews decided to remain in self-imposed exile.

  Rosalind entered with a tray and had scarcely placed it atop the doctor’s desk when the front door banged open and a man charged into the doctor’s office.

  Breathing hard, he stopped to draw in a deep breath before rattling off a plea. “Doc. You gotta come to the sawmill. Quick. Charlie Greywald’s got his hand caught in a saw. He’s hurt real bad. Real bad. They’ve been tryin’ to get his hand free, but—”

  Dr. McMillan leaped to his feet, grabbed his medical bag, and called back over his shoulder as he followed the man out of the room. “I’m sorry. We’ll talk again. Soon,” he promised, and promptly disappeared.

  Martha bowed her head and said a prayer for Charlie Greywald. When she looked up, Rosalind was standing in front of her holding on to the side of the desk with her lips set in a firm line. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now.”

  “I could help you,” Martha offered. “Maybe we could talk.”

  Rosalind’s gaze hardened. “I don’t need any help, and I don’t have time for idle gossip.”

  Martha flinched. “I didn’t intend to gossip. I only wanted you to know how badly I feel that Burton still hasn’t come home. I know how hard it is for you,” she murmured.

  “Do you?” Her eyes glistened. “How could you possibly know what it’s like to have a husband who ru
ns off when he’s wrongly charged with a crime, leaving me behind to defend him to friends and neighbors who are all convinced he’s guilty of stealing that watch? I can’t go to the general store or the confectionery without people staring at me or hearing them whisper behind my back.”

  “Not everyone believes—”

  “Oh, please spare me your misplaced sympathy and your insufferable optimism!” she cried. “I’m not deaf, any more than I’m blind or stupid. And neither are you. I hope you’re stronger than I am, because you’ll need to be, now that you’ve come home without your daughter.”

  Rosalind nodded. “The only good thing about having you home is that maybe, just maybe, the gossipmongers will leave me in peace now and focus on you and Victoria instead of me and my husband. At least my poor Charlotte is in her grave and will be spared any more shame, which is far less than you can expect for your own daughter. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a room to get ready for the doctor’s patient,” she snapped, and marched off to the adjoining treatment room.

  Martha flinched. Her cheeks stung as if she had been slapped. She stared at the doorway through which Rosalind had disappeared and debated whether or not she should follow Rosalind to confront her or run home.

  8

  Martha gripped her reticule with both hands and clamped her knees together. The greater part of her wanted to storm into the next room and throttle Rosalind until her bones ached and her bitter heart snapped in half. Maybe then she would be willing to listen, to understand that she was not alone, that she was not responsible for what her husband had done.

  Martha’s conscience, if not her faith, reminded her that there was nothing she could do for Rosalind unless the woman opened her own heart. At one time, they had been friends. Close friends. It hurt deeply to be rejected, but it hurt more to feel utterly helpless and to stand by, watching her former friend become so bitter.