by Betty Bolte
Angel giggled when Samantha tickled her side and then sobered. "I missed you. You've been away a long time."
"Too long. I agree." Samantha kissed the child's cheek before lowering her to the ground, ruffling her dark hair. One day maybe she'd have her own child. A bitter pang swept her heart. Not too long ago, the hope of becoming a mother had seemed within her grasp. Before the bloody battle at Cowpens. "You've grown too big for me to hold for long."
"That's what my momma say too." Angel hopped up and down as though she wore springs upon her bare feet and pointed at Lydia. "She can't carry me because she's holding another baby."
"Angel, you hush now. That's enough." Lydia tugged on a threadbare cotton shawl wrapped around her thin shoulders, then rested her arms on her distended belly while the little girl dug her toes in the mud. "I's pleased you came today, Miss Samantha. My baby be due soon, but I can't say I feel right."
A wave of unease crashed into Samantha's core, inundating her earlier relief. Not another patient with issues. For so long, she'd managed to cure or relieve the pains of each of her patients. Until recent months, she'd even started to consider ways of furthering her education to expand her abilities and skills. The sudden change in her patients' health and recovery made her queasy, accompanied by a bitter burn at the back of her throat. This time would be different. She wouldn't let Lydia down after all she'd survived in her life. "Let's go inside, out of the chill."
At her mother's insistence, Angel hunkered by the fireplace on a blanket to play with a cornhusk doll while the women talked. They settled on rough wooden benches across from each other at the small trestle table shoved against one wall. Samantha quickly scrutinized the single room's condition, ensuring her patient's surroundings posed no threat to her health. The wooden floor showed signs of a recent sweeping. Bare wood shutters covered the windows, attempting to keep out the cold but failing to do more than dim the light inside. A cooking fire provided the mere illusion of warmth, a black cast iron tea kettle sending steam up the chimney. Small bunches of dried herbs hung from a rafter near the chimney. Two small shelves holding an assortment of dishes hung on the wall. The narrow cot Samantha had brought from her parents' house on her last visit for Lydia's comfort hugged the wall to the left of the fireplace. A makeshift pillow and thin blanket comprised the meager linens for the bed. A work table sat to the right of the fireplace, a bucket of water and a small remnant of soap waiting on its scarred surface. Against the far wall, a stacked pair of bunk beds provided a place to sleep off the drafty floor. No wonder sadness pervaded the entire area if everyone lived in similar circumstances.
The whole house could easily fit inside the guest parlor at the Sullivans' town house. Samantha tried to imagine the family sleeping on the thin mattresses or, worse, on a pile of straw on the wooden floor. Eating at the small table. Even dressing to meet the demands of a new day. All within the four brick walls. But she failed.
Instead, she leaned forward as she peered at Lydia's face, resting her hands on the table. "What seems to be the problem?"
"Nothing specific, just a sense of change." Lydia shrugged, dark chocolate eyes worried. "Somethin' different this time."
Samantha rose and moved to stand beside her patient, one hand resting on her shoulder. "Do you mind if I examine you?"
"Course not." Lydia pushed up to her feet and ambled over to the cot. Her threadbare dress brushed her ankles with each step. She laid down on top of the blanket, her head of curls on the wad of cloth with straw poking through the weave.
Silently, Samantha ran her hands over the woman's belly, checking for any signs of the baby in distress. Trent probably had some new gadget he could use to tell what occurred inside Lydia. She sure wished she had something, some instrument or insight to inform her next steps. She must rely on her senses and experience to care for her patients. Not metal tools. Stop. Trent's doctoring ways are not my ways. Irritated with herself for allowing the temptation of newer methods to interfere with her concentration, she bent closer to Lydia. With a nod indicating the little girl, she fingered the edge of Lydia's dress hem. "Do you mind if I check below?"
"If'n you have to, then so be it." Lydia moved her hands to rest higher on her belly, lips pressed into a firm line. "Angel won't pay us no mind while she got that doll in her hands."
"Very well." Samantha lifted the dress, reaching under with practiced hands to probe and press the taut flesh, and finished her examination as quickly as possible. She'd examined many women about to bring a child into the world. At least she could perform the inspection visually as well as using her hands, unlike so many male doctors who resorted to feeling around under the woman's skirts without looking at what they probed out of a desire to maintain the mother's modesty. Yet too many times she'd discovered a condition visible but not palpable. What else might those same doctors have missed in their examinations? For herself, the combination of both techniques worked together to yield the most complete picture of the patient's situation. She considered Lydia's condition, her age, the probing's results, and then smiled at her patient. "I expect you'll be glad to know everything appears normal."
"Like I say, it's more a feeling than a pain." Lydia smoothed her dress back down into place and accepted Samantha's hand to help her rise from the bed. "I'll make us some tea if you'd like."
"Thank you, it would take the chill from my bones." She refreshed her hands from the bucket of water, drying them on the apron protecting her navy day dress, and then returned to the bench to sink onto the hard surface. "Your husband and the boys working?"
"Yes'm. They're cutting firewood today, last I heard." Within a few minutes, Lydia placed two chipped porcelain cups on the table then lowered herself onto the opposite bench. "Sorry I have no sugar or milk to offer."
Skimming the room, Samantha realized how little she did have in the way of victuals. Times such as those during an occupation proved difficult for everyone with the prices of everything so high as a result of the embargoes on staples. Even if the manor house had sufficient provisions, the slaves did not necessarily benefit, dependent on the largesse of their master and mistress. Far be it for her to add to their burden. "I prefer it plain."
Lydia smiled and sipped from the cup. "What should I do about this feeling?"
"I'll visit again in a few days to see how you fare." Samantha laid a hand on top of the other woman's. "If you need me sooner, please do not hesitate to send word. I won't let anything bad happen, you hear me?"
"Yes'm. I don't want nothing bad to happen to any of my family." Lydia made one slow dip of her head and then glanced at Angel playing quietly nearby. The girl made the cornhusk doll dance across the blanket, bobbing in a similar manner to Angel's earlier play outside. Clasping her hands together on the little table, Lydia regarded Samantha with grim determination apparent in her entire mien. "Between you and me, I'll tell you true that if this babe is born before them British pull out, we'll be on the boat with them."
"Oh, Lydia." Samantha worried her lower lip with her teeth. She'd miss her friend if they made the scary choice to leave, but she couldn't begrudge their desire for a life of their own, either. Even if it did mean leaving everything they knew for a distant land. Of course, the plantation owner would do everything in his power to have them returned if they made the attempt to flee to freedom. If returned, they'd be punished or killed. "I don't know whether to applaud your courage or fear for you."
"We'd rather take our chances on a freedom we'd never know by staying." She smacked the wood table once with her palm, the cups jumping. "It's that simple."
And that dangerous. "I wish I could change things for you here, so you could stay and be free both." Samantha let out a sigh.
The laws put in place to prevent the threat of a slave uprising made it nearly impossible for any one to manumit a slave. Manumission, the freeing of slaves, required approval from the state, something not easy to obtain even if the slave had proven trustworthy and the owner desired to release the perso
n. Most often those released from slavery were mulattos, the children of a black female slave and white male father. Even those occurrences remained infrequent.
Samantha squeezed the woman's hand, trying to convey her sympathy for her family's situation. "Unfortunately, such an act is not within my power."
Lydia stared at her for the span of three shaky breaths. "What would you do in our place, Miss Samantha? Stay and serve others, under their rule and at their mercy, or take the dreadful chance to run for a freedom of your own?"
Lydia asked a very good question. In fact, the very query she pondered about her parents subsequent to the harvest feast. After all, they'd turned away from joining in her toast to the leaders of America faced with establishing a new form of government. Turned their back on what the future might bring to Charles Town, too. Turned their backs on her? The thought chilled her. Her father never openly discussed his political dealings, but from his actions and scattered comments he obviously leaned to the loyalist side. If so, what choice would he, and thus her mother, make as the Britons packed their bags for the journey home?
Her heart ached at the very real possibility of them leaving. She loved her parents and always would no matter what they chose to do next. They had educated her and provided for her all of her twenty-five years. Despite their past disagreements with her wishes, she'd back them to the hilt. But, honestly, she had no desire to leave South Carolina to live elsewhere with them. To start over in a new place would be a daunting undertaking at best. But could she stay if they bolted before the patriots exacted their revenge for her father's loyalties? What would become of her in the event?
Put simply, she'd end up at her parents' mercy if she went with them. Or on her own if she stayed. Either way, she'd be confronted with difficult choices only she could make. Much like the woman sitting with her, waiting for her response. "I understand what a difficult choice you face, Lydia."
"One thing." Lydia leaned forward, grabbing hold of both of Samantha's hands in an iron grip. "You's got to promise to keep mum. Don't want the master to find out and try to stop us."
Samantha nodded, searching Lydia's serious expression. Is that why her parents walked away from the celebration? To not tip their hand? "Your secret is safe with me."
"George and the boys are ready to run any time we have the chance." Lydia folded her hands around the cup. "But I ain't going nowhere until this baby comes. I don't trust any one but you to bring the little one into this harsh world."
"Your belief in me is a high compliment." Samantha sipped her tea and then set the cup down on the table. The woman's faith in her skill brought hope to her heart. "I appreciate your kind words."
Lydia tilted her head as she studied Samantha's face for a moment. "Did somethin' happen?"
Samantha sighed and shook her head, dangling curls tickling her cheeks. How could she ever explain when she couldn't understand exactly what had occurred to turn Benjamin's recovery into a relapse? All under the chary regard of Trent Cunningham. She pulled her shoulders back and winked at Lydia. "Nothing I cannot handle."
When her patient and friend continued to wait expectantly, Samantha shrugged. "A young doctor seems to feel my ways are outdated and based on superstitions."
"I knows you too well, Miss Samantha." Lydia's chuckle rolled from deep in her chest. "What you aiming to do about such nonsense?"
"The only thing I can. I aim to prove him wrong." Samantha grinned and touched cups with Lydia. "He just doesn't know it yet."
Chapter 3
McCrady's tavern brimmed with customers that evening when Trent squealed open the door and stepped inside from the blustery rain. He paused to shake the drops from his overcoat while he searched for a vacant seat. Wandering among the townspeople, he wended his way to the back of the room. He spotted a lone table in the far corner and hurried to it before someone else did. Two chairs meant he probably would not be eating alone. The next desperate soul who crossed the threshold would be forced to sit with him, and he with them. He sighed. Nevertheless, a hot meal and a pint would help him shed the chill clinging like a second skin and give him time to think.
The tavern exuded a friendly welcome with its cheery oil lamps hung about the rafters. Candles in silver holders sat on each wooden table. In the front corner, a young man played ballads on a flute. A young couple performed a lively dance to the tune. Trent enjoyed their energetic display. He hadn't danced for several years, because he'd dedicated most of his free time to further studies. The results would be worth his effort. He had to believe that much.
When he first arrived back in Charles Town a few months ago, his path stretched clear and straight before him. He'd graduated from the University of Pennsylvania, earned some money on the side toward a place to call his own, and committed to bettering this bustling port city by establishing a hospital. The trip from Philadelphia to his father's house had taken longer than during peace times, spanning four weeks instead of the normal two. Between the enemy encampments he'd had to skirt and bad weather which led to worse roads, he'd begun to think he'd never safely return to his home in Charles Town. He'd had plenty of time along the way to plan his next steps, carefully considered steps in danger of being overturned like the baggage wagon on his journey home.
The barkeeper placed a bowl of hot beef stew and a tankard of ale on the scarred wood table. Trent reached into his vest pocket, fishing for a few coins to cover the price of the meal. "Thank you."
The barkeeper waggled a hand in front of his well-used apron. "No need for that. Pay me before you leave, sir."
Frank nodded as the man turned away and then lifted his spoon to stir the steaming concoction. The hearty combination of simmered beef, carrots, and potatoes in a thick gravy made his mouth water. If only the elements of his life would come together as seamlessly as the ingredients of the stew. With the war ending and his livelihood on course, he'd decided during the arduous journey home that the next order of business would be finding a wife to manage his home and bear his children. A companion to share the events of his day. But the lady most attractive to his plan held herself apart from him even when they stood side by side. He grinned to himself. Or chest to chest. The memory of her startled expression made him chuckle. The moment their gazes had met, he knew she was the woman he wanted at his side. But then there was the tension surrounding treatment of Benjamin's fever and infection. Such a tangled mess. How would he ever convince beautiful, courageous, caring Samantha to take a chance on him when his goal was diametrically opposed to hers?
He blew on a spoonful to cool it before taking it into his mouth. The front door swung open, drawing his attention and permitting Samantha to enter the crowded, boisterous room. He could barely see her for all of the people between them. Her black curls had been captured on top of her head and flowed down her back. Her gaze swept the room, finally stopping when she caught him watching her. She'd never find another seat in the noisy, crowded establishment. He beckoned for her to join him. She shrugged, a light lift and fall of her shoulders, and started toward him. The crowd parted for her as though sensing she meant business. The set of her jaw as she drew closer warned him of her mood. Perhaps if they avoided speaking about Benjamin or medicine, they'd get along.
"Hello, Miss Samantha. How fare you this rainy evening?" He rose to help her remove her cloak and to pull the other chair out for her. She raised a brow as she sank gracefully onto the seat. He hung the sodden garment within easy reach on a wood peg on the wall.
"I am well, thank you." She slipped her black gloves from her hands, laying them across her lap. "Oh, the stew looks divine. I didn't realize how hungry I am."
"I can do something about that." Trent signaled the barkeeper, who nodded his understanding of Trent's order. "What brings you out on a night so wet and dreary?"
Samantha chuckled, a rich sound that made him smile. "My parents elected to stay at home to avoid potential confrontation and to keep poor Evelyn company. I felt trapped within the house and chose to fin
d my entertainment in town. The smell of beef stew drew me inside."
"It is well for your parents to keep to themselves. They should be more discreet about their political leanings." Trent fiddled with the spoon handle as he studied her relaxed expression. "If they're not more circumspect, their loyalties may cause no end of trouble for them."
The barkeeper returned with Samantha's stew and a small beer. The aroma of the beverage reminded him of apples and spice, a comforting scent evoking fond childhood memories. Samantha carefully placed a linen napkin in her lap to protect her brown dress, a color reminiscent of the thousands of walnuts he'd shelled for his mother when he was a boy. Thinking of her, long dead, made his eyes smart and he blinked to force the tears back.
"Father is aware of how the town feels about loyalists." She lifted a spoonful of stew and held it aloft over the bowl. "I can only hope he doesn't force the town's hand by flaunting his feelings on the topic of independence."
Trent stared at her, entranced by the precise movement as Samantha slipped the spoon into and out of her mouth. As she chewed, her gaze met his. How could a simple, straightforward look evoke such a stirring beneath his belt?
"I agree with you. No good will come of it." Her lips pressed together and then parted to allow another bite inside. He should focus on his point, and not his body's reaction to the temptress before him. Maybe a change of subject would help. "Benjamin told me you're a fine seamstress and have helped make shirts and pants for our troops."
Samantha rested her spoon in the bowl. Taking a long sip from her mug, she regarded him over the rim until she set the vessel on the table. "It was quite nice of Benjamin to compliment my efforts. I find practicing my technique while sewing helps me with stitches when a patient's wound calls for them. I've settled on using catgut, like when I stitched together a man's thigh after the wheel broke on his wagon and a flying spoke managed to slice it open. What do you use to close up a wound?"