by Delia Parr
When she stood up, her legs were shaking. She squared her shoulders, and her steps grew steadier as she passed through to the kitchen and out the front door. She forced herself not to run all the way home, but the echo of Rosalind’s bitter words did not fade. Frightened by the depth of her own emotions, Martha slipped into her room and closed the door behind her.
She collapsed back against the door and stifled deep sobs with a clenched fist. Oh, how she hurt. So deeply her chest ached with the struggle to keep her heart from bursting. So completely her mind could fashion not a single thought. She could only feel and react, completely defenseless as anger, resentment, and fear fought bitterly against hope, trust, and faith on the battleground of her soul.
The skirmish was fierce but quick.
As her sobs eased into gentle whimpers, she was as weak as a newborn babe. A glance at the mirror startled her, and she let her shoulders slump. “I feel ninety, and I look ninety,” she groaned. She quickly removed her bonnet and set her reticule on the table.
After she moistened a facecloth in cold water, she wiped the tears from her face. She rinsed the cloth, folded it into a long rectangle, and pressed it across the bridge of her nose and both eyes. Each time the cloth warmed, she repeated the process and then checked her progress in the mirror.
After half a dozen tries, she gave up and accepted the puffiness around her eyes and the red streaks that remained. She leaned closer to the mirror and brushed damp hair away from her face. “I was right before. I do look ninety,” she grumbled.
She ignored the traitorous streaks of gray at her temples, traced the lines at the outer corners of her eyes with her fingertips, and caressed the sun-kissed flesh on her cheeks. Still firm. But those blasted dimples still looked ridiculous on a woman her age. She studied, really studied, her features, searching for an answer as to why she appeared to have aged so much in the course of only three months.
The answer stared back at her from the depths of her dark brown eyes. Once sparkling and filled with the joy of life, her eyes were now opaque and listless, dulled by the pain of loss and failure, and there was no way the light of her spirit could shine through.
Unless she was wrong. Unless her spirit itself had dulled, devoid of hope, lacking faith strong enough to rebound from Rosalind’s verbal attack.
“Not lack of faith,” she whispered. “I have faith, but I’m only human. I’m—”
A harsh pounding at her door interrupted her slide into self-pity. She flinched and whirled about. She managed to open the door before her bear of a caller broke it down.
To her surprise, Byron Shaw stood just outside her door holding what appeared to be a large box wrapped in canvas that was secured by twine. Two squat barrels rested on the ground next to his feet. When he grimaced, she realized she must have a mighty frown on her face.
“Sorry,” he blurted, and the rest of his words tumbled out in a rush, as if he believed that if he talked quickly enough she might forgive him. “Had to use one of my feet to knock. Sam Ward told me you passed the tollgate late yesterday afternoon.” He blushed. “Actually, his son Aaron told me,” he admitted.
She nodded. The Shaw and Ward homesteads shared a common boundary, which explained how quickly news of her arrival back home had spread.
“I wanted to settle my debt with you, so I left at first light. Didn’t have a chance before, what with . . . with all that happened.”
His pale cheeks flamed. “Me and Libby are right sorry about Victoria. We’re both praying hard she’ll come back home soon,” he managed, before pausing to draw in a long breath.
“I thank you. For your prayers,” she murmured as memories flooded her mind, sweeping her back to June, when she had delivered the newest baby Shaw and left late the following day to tend to Captain Tyler’s wife, a call to duty that had kept her fifty miles away when the theater troupe came through Trinity and left with her precious daughter.
“Come in. Please,” she urged, eager to dispel her painful memories with more heartening news about Libby Shaw and her new son, who had joined three female siblings.
When she stepped aside, he carried his oversized package into the room, looked around for a moment, set it atop the trunk at the foot of Victoria’s bed, and put his hat on top of it.
She tried not to let her imagination conjure up anything too bizarre in terms of what he had made for her. His reputation as a fledgling inventor was well known, and his attempts to fashion any number of household aids had fueled many a humorous anecdote told by patrons over pints of rum at the tavern. Whatever it was, it squeaked, inspiring visions of some kind of contraption sorely in need of oiling.
Without offering any explanation, he walked back outside and hoisted one of the barrels to his shoulder. “Pickles. We had a good crop this year. Libby’s been busy in the kitchen,” he added.
“Let’s put that in the storeroom. This way.” She crossed the room and opened the connecting door.
He followed, set the barrel down, and within moments had the second barrel on top of the first. While he performed his task, he assured her that Libby had completely recovered and baby Joshua was growing bigger every day.
“Libby said to tell you the pickles need to soak a few more weeks before they’ll be at full flavor.”
“I’ll be sure to tell Lydia.”
He grinned. “Good. Now I’ve got somethin’ else to show you. Somethin’ really special for you,” he teased, and walked back into her room.
She followed him, and her curiosity grew stronger with every step she took. Certainly the barrels of pickles were more than enough to settle his debt for her services as a midwife, but it was not uncommon for fathers celebrating a firstborn son to offer her extra, especially when there had been an exceptionally good harvest. She promised herself that no matter what he had made for her, she absolutely must reward his efforts with a smile that most definitely could not erupt into laughter.
He set his hat aside. Almost tenderly, he loosened the twine and began to peel away the canvas covering. He blocked most of her view, and while he worked, the contraption inside squeaked again and sounded like it was moving around, although the box itself appeared to be stable as it rested on top of the trunk.
She half held her breath when he stepped aside, but when he waved his arm with a flourish and her gaze settled on his invention, she caught her breath completely and held it.
Instead of a box, she saw a wooden cage that was exquisitely detailed. Inside, peering back at her, was something no man could ever create. Awed, she let her breath out slowly and approached the most unique reward she had ever received.
Her fingers trembled when she ran them over the contours of the vertical band of carved spokes. The round cage stood nearly three feet tall. There was a sturdy latch on the tiny door. Inside the cage, there were three perches, each at a different height, and a haphazard collection of twigs and cloth filled one corner.
Unable to speak with emotion choking her throat, she peered inside and stared at the creature cowering in the corner. Small and yellow, the warbler stared back at her. He fluffed his feathers, distorting the chestnut streaks on his chest, and snapped his beak up and down while issuing a squeaky protest. When he flapped his wings, one hung at his side, twisted in a most unnatural position. Saddened by his plight, she did feel relieved. She did not like to see wild animals restrained for the selfish enjoyment of the folks who fancied having an unusual pet.
Byron poked a finger through the wooden bars and petted the bird’s head until he quieted. “Libby and the girls found him in August when they were picking berries, and brought him home. Poor fella. With that busted wing healed the wrong way, he’ll never be able to fly again. He keeps tryin’, but it’s pitiful. He won’t be able to migrate south with the few songbirds that are left, either.”
“No, I don’t believe he would,” she admitted.
“If we set him free, he’ll either die from the cold that’s comin’ or starve to death, if he even lasts that
long. He can sing, though. We thought . . . well, knowin’ how good you are with treatin’ all kinds of folks, we thought you might be able to take care of him. He’s very tame, and he’s good company, too.”
Martha could not take her eyes off the bird. “He’s the sweetest reward I’ve ever received. Ever,” she repeated. “And the cage, well, it’s simply grand. You’re a talented man. I’ll treasure it always.”
Byron smiled. “Thank you, ma’am.” He cleared his throat and pointed at the bird. “He’ll need a name.”
“Oh? What did the children call him?”
He chuckled. “Elsa and Kate called him Bird. Pamela, she’s two now, she just called him Mine.”
Now Martha chuckled. “Well now, I suppose he wouldn’t mind having another name. I’ll have to think about it, though.”
“Yes, ma’am. I—I best be headin’ home. Oh, I almost forgot.” He pulled a pair of miniature wooden bowls out of his pocket and handed them to her. “Fill one with water; the other one is for his food. He’s partial to berries, of course, but he’ll snap up as many insects as you can find in your herb garden. I’m not sure what he’ll eat all winter—”
“I have plenty of seeds,” she assured him, even though she had no firm idea in mind about what to do with the creature when she was called away for several days or more. “Tell Libby I’ll stop by soon. And hug all four of those babies for me.”
He plopped his hat back on his head and grinned. “Yes, ma’am. We’ll be lookin’ forward to your visit.”
After he left, she peered into the cage again. “Well, Bird, we’ll have to see about that name, but not till I help Lydia and Annabelle with dinner. When you trust me enough, I’ll take a closer look at that wing, too, and see if something can’t be done to set it right.”
She filled one of the bowls with water and set it into the cage. She tucked the second bowl into her apron pocket. Humming softly, she checked her image in the mirror. She looked the same. Almost. Except for just the barest hint of a smile glowing in her eyes.
While Annabelle served the patrons, Martha filled and refilled trenchers with mutton stew and kept the fire steady. Lydia sliced the bread and pies fast enough to keep the patrons content and refilled other supplies from the storeroom while James dispensed the spirits and added coins to the till when patrons had had their fill.
Spirited speculation today centered on the fate of poor Charlie Greywald. According to the latest rumor, Charlie’s hand had been freed and he had been taken to Dr. McMillan’s office, where his mangled hand was about to be amputated. It sounded logical, but so had the other rumors that had filtered in through the dinner hour. At one point, patrons argued Charlie had bled to death, had recovered after receiving ten stitches, or still remained at the sawmill with the saw embedded in his hand. And this from men all at the same table!
Even if Martha had listened with half an ear, she could not have missed one universal factor common to all accounts. Apparently, Dr. McMillan was handling both himself and the situation well, earning the respect of all those who had come to the tavern that day.
The tragic event at the sawmill had drawn quite a crowd of spectators, so the normal lull between dinner and supper had never materialized. The arrival of six wagons filled with folks headed west would have drained the kettle dry, but Lydia had had enough foresight to start another kettle of stew earlier. All the pies were gone, and Lydia had to slice the bread thinner to make it stretch to meet demand.
By eight o’clock at night, Annabelle had been sent home. There was no room in the wagon yard for more than a mouse. The sleeping dormitory upstairs was filled to capacity with four to a bed. In the main room of the tavern, James continued to serve the half a dozen patrons still nibbling on the day’s gossip over pints of their favorite spirits while Lydia and Martha finished clearing up the last of the day’s clutter in the kitchen.
While she worked, Martha studied her sister-in-law. Nearly fifty, Lydia had little meat on her bones, which made her seem even taller. Gray mixed with the black in her hair to such an extent now that there was twice as much salt as pepper, accentuating the new wrinkles on her brow. Her complexion, however, was as clear and flawless as it had been when she was a young bride, nearly thirty years ago, and her eyes still shined with love when she gazed at her husband.
Martha could not have chosen a better companion or helpmate for her brother, which only added to the burden of guilt she already carried. “I truly do apologize for being gone so long,” she murmured, and plunged the last of the dirty trenchers into a pan of soapy water. “I know it’s been hard for you and James to handle the work at the tavern, even with Annabelle’s help.”
Lydia dried the trencher Martha handed to her. “It was easier when I was younger. That I’ll admit.” She added the trencher to the stack of clean ones on the table and covered a yawn with the back of her hand. “I can’t remember ever being so tired.”
Martha caught the yawn and returned it.
Lydia chuckled. “I’m so tired I can’t get my eyes to see straight. Can’t hear right, either.”
“You can’t hear right?”
“That’s what I said, and if you repeat what I’m going to tell you to James, I’ll deny it. Every word.”
Intrigued, Martha dried her hands on a towel. “Spit it out, Lydia. What is it you can’t hear?”
“It’s not what I can’t hear. It’s what I do hear . . . or heard all afternoon. Every time I went back into the storeroom, I thought I heard a warbler singing his heart out, and we both know most of the songbirds already flew south. Anyway, he sounded like he was close enough to be right in your room, which is a ridiculous notion—”
“Bird! I forgot all about Bird!” Martha cried. She pulled the miniature bowl out of her pocket, scanning the room for something, anything, he might eat, but the heavy crowd of patrons had consumed everything.
Almost.
She used a spoon to poke at the contents of a pail where they had scraped the remnants of meals from each trencher. She scooped out a crust of bread, scraped off the gravy, and tore the crust into tiny bits that fit into the bowl. “Your hearing is just fine,” she assured Lydia, who was watching her with concern. “Just fine. Follow me.”
Lydia followed close enough behind Martha to be her shadow. They moved from the kitchen and through the storeroom. When Martha opened the door, a shaft of light spilled into her chamber and provided just enough light for her to guide her sister-in-law to the cage. “Byron Shaw stopped today with my reward and gave me Bird, along with two barrels of pickles he put into the storeroom.”
Lydia peered inside. “What bird? I don’t see a bird.”
Martha stooped down and looked inside, too, but Lydia was right. The cage was indeed empty. Oddly, the door to the cage hung wide open, and it appeared that the twigs and bits of cloth in the corner had been rearranged. Bird was nowhere to be seen.
“Now, how on earth did he manage that?” Martha wondered aloud. Half afraid he might lay hurt and injured somewhere in the room, she stepped cautiously as she made her way to the table. She lit a kerosene lamp to chase away the shadows, but when she looked around, she stifled a cry of surprise when she spied him.
Bird was fast, fast asleep in a nest of sorts that lay on top of the pillow on Victoria’s cot. She should put him right back into his cage. She just did not have the heart to do it.
9
Market Day always drew a lot of people to town and lured most residents out of their homes, but the crowd of people today was as remarkable as the unusually warm weather. Quite spirited, too, given the volume of animated conversation and laughter that filtered from around the bend in the roadway ahead.
With a basket swinging from each hand, Martha held her head high and her spine stiff as she walked. She dreaded the next hour, when she would face many of her friends and neighbors again for the first time, although fielding their questions about Victoria now would be a far sight better than letting gossip continue to fester. She had n
o desire today to see Rosalind, either.
Martha kept her gaze downcast until she passed the doctor’s home and the covered bridge at the far end of town, and prayed for the courage and fortitude to keep a smile on her face regardless of what happened this morning.
“Martha! Martha Cade!”
Good omen.
She recognized the two voices calling out from behind her and turned to greet the Lynn spinsters. Wearing long white aprons, Fern and Ivy waddled toward her like a pair of plump Christmas geese running to escape the ax. By the time they reached Martha, their cheeks were flushed the color of overripe cherries and they were panting.
“We saw . . . you. From . . . from the shop,” Fern managed while fanning her face with one hand and balancing a cloth-covered plate with the other.
Ivy mopped her brow. “You always did have a quick stride.” She gave Martha a hug and patted her back. “How are you, dearie? We’ve been so worried about you.”
With her arms literally pinned at her sides, Martha could not return the hug and relaxed in her friend’s embrace. “I’ll be fine. Truly.”
“Of course you will,” Ivy assured her. “You don’t have to tell us anything more than that, but we’re here if you need a friendly ear or a shoulder to cry upon.” She stepped aside, took the plate from Fern, and let her have a turn.
Another hug, just as powerful and just as welcome. “We’ve brought you some treats. Fresh from the oven,” Ivy explained as she set the plate into one of Martha’s baskets. “We took some to Patience Greywald earlier. Poor Charlie. He’s going to be out of work for several months, you know. Thank Providence, he’s not going to lose his hand. Nothing eases a troubled body or heart better than chocolate tarts.”
Fern nodded her head. “Or oatmeal cookies. We made some of each for you, too. Now, make sure you eat every bite.”
The smell that wafted up from the basket was heavenly, even decadent, and Martha offered a prayer of thanksgiving for her two friends along with one for Charlie Greywald.