The Midwife's Tale

by Delia Parr

There was still no sign of the boy.

  Martha prolonged her work in the herb garden as long as she could, hoping against hope he might come to her for help. After two hours of picking the best of the herbs, pruning away those damaged by insects, and gathering seeds for Bird, while keeping one eye on the stable door to make sure the boy did not run off, she had no choice but to retire to her room and wait for him there.

  Once inside, she placed the baskets on her worktable and stored away her garden gloves. She refilled the seed bowl for Bird, who eyed her warily from his nest in the corner of the cage. One quick glance around the floor of his cage told her she had better clean it out while she had the door open. While she worked, she realized she really had not given the animal’s name much thought.

  She sighed. She had a bird in a cage named Bird and a boy in the stable loft named Boy. Both had been severely wounded, one in body, the other in spirit. Both were completely dependent on her right now, although Boy would probably argue that point. She carefully latched the cage door when she finished and took some comfort that at least Bird was easy to control. “That should keep you in for the night,” she teased.

  He cocked his head and ruffled his feathers.

  She chuckled. “Go ahead. Try. You can’t get out and sleep on Victoria’s cot again tonight, so accept it. You have a perfectly fine nest right where you are.”

  Humming softly, she spread out the comfrey from the first basket. Her hands halted in midair when a thought suddenly interrupted her work. “The curtain! I forgot!” She hurried to the window and tied back the curtain. She glanced outside and surveyed the rear of the property. The door to the stable was still closed. There were several wagons, including a Conestoga, in the yard now, and a lone bulldog stood guard near the horses tethered together at the trough.

  There was no sign of the boy.

  “Guide him, Lord. Help him to trust me,” she whispered, and returned to her work.

  She positioned her chair at the end of the table to give her a view through the window while she worked. She bundled and tied the rest of the comfrey and finished off every one of the sweet treats Fern and Ivy had given her that morning.

  The combination of work and sweets helped to mitigate the sense of total frustration she had experienced since coming home. Unable to resolve her daughter’s disappearance or Rosalind’s troubles or her feelings for Thomas, to come to terms with the impact Dr. McMillan’s presence might have on her calling, or to help Samuel Meeks, she faced the challenge the boy in the stable presented with renewed energy and hope.

  In truth, the boy had a real chance for a good future, assuming she could convince him to return to the academy and let Reverend Hampton provide the guidance the child so sorely needed. Of all the people in Trinity whose needs lay heavy on her heart, only Samuel Meeks seemed to face a future bleaker than this boy’s.

  If she did not find a remedy for Samuel’s failing vision and he did become blind, she had no idea how he would survive. As adept as he had become in making the transition from life at sea to life here in an isolated cabin, Samuel had not endeared himself to the community—a community that would be his only source of help if he faced the future in total blindness. Stymied for the present in her efforts to help Samuel, she rallied all of her energies to help the boy.

  When she paused to stretch the muscles in her neck and looked down, she found that the contents of the baskets of dill and horehound had been emptied and prepared for hanging as well.

  But still no boy appeared.

  She retrieved the ladder she needed from the storeroom and set it into place with the top of the ladder leaning against a crossbeam in the middle of the room. She wiped her brow with the hem of her apron. “Either that ladder is getting heavier or I’m getting far too old to haul it around all the time,” she grumbled, but she found a great deal of satisfaction in doing physical work. In truth, she had only to ask her brother for help. He would gladly have set the ladder into place for her, but she was as independent as she was determined to make her own way in this world.

  Grateful to have the worst of her task done, she grabbed three bundles of comfrey. After climbing up the ladder, she hung one bundle, then the second. When she stretched a bit too far to hang the third, she lost her balance, dropped the last bundle, and grabbed the ladder with both hands. With her heart pounding, she looked down and saw the third bundle lying in a heap on the floor. She pressed her forehead to a rung on the ladder and waited for her heartbeat to return to normal, then climbed back down.

  With her feet now on firm ground, she bent down to retrieve the bundle she had dropped and heard a loud racket in the rear yard. Horses whinnied. A dog barked. Again and again; the sound of the dog’s frenzied charge around the wagon yard was all too familiar. She half expected to hear the dog yelp if he had the misfortune to corner Leech, when a mighty pounding at her door interrupted her thoughts.

  She whirled about, only to see the door hurl open and bang against the wall. A whirlwind of fury and fear charged inside, grabbed hold of the door, and slammed it closed.

  Apparently just in time. A loud thud on the outside of the door was followed by a vicious, barking harangue that lasted for several minutes before the bulldog finally quieted in defeat.

  She grinned, in spite of herself, but the look in Boy’s eyes told her she was going to need divine intervention now more than ever to win his trust.

  11

  The boy pressed his back to the door and fought to catch his breath. When he did, he glared at her. “Cudda warned me about the dang dog,” he spat.

  “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

  “You musta heard him barkin’ and tryin’ to take a chunk outta my leg. You cudda tried to stop him—”

  “I really thought he was chasing Leech.”

  “Do I look like a cat?”

  She cringed and accepted the guilt she deserved from his reprimand. She should have warned him about the dog in the yard or checked sooner to see if he needed help, although she could not condone the lack of respect he showed to her. She saved her own reprimand for later.

  “He was only trying to protect the horses. That’s his job. Unfortunately, he doesn’t know how Leech loves horses.”

  He waved one of his arms in the air. “Stupid dog. I hate dogs. Cats, too. Matter of fact, there ain’t one single animal worth nothin’, ’cept for horses. Too bad they’re so dumb.”

  She held back an immediate retort. The boy had probably known a fair share of both street dogs and cats, and she tried not to think about the other critters, like rats, he had encountered on the streets of New York City. Out of loyalty to her mare, however, she felt obliged to speak up. “Grace isn’t dumb.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I saw her in the stable. She’s the ugliest one there. Might be the ugliest horse I ever saw.”

  She almost bit her tongue holding back a reprimand. “I happen to agree with you,” she admitted, “but you might have put it a kinder way. Grace might be the ugliest horse in these parts, but her beauty lies beneath her coat. In her spirit. Where true beauty lies.”

  He looked at her like she had grown an extra ear in the middle of her forehead. “Horses don’t have spirits.”

  “Of course they do. All creatures do, once you get to know them. Grace has a very loyal spirit. She never lets me down,” she countered.

  The boy inched into the room and pointed to the cage. “What’s in there?”

  She raised a brow. “A bird. I’m taking care of him because he broke his wing and it didn’t heal properly, so he can’t fly.”

  While he approached the cage, she went to the window and dropped the curtain back into place.

  He peered into the cage. “What’s his name?”

  She drew in a long breath. She was reluctant to give the boy any advantage, but knew he would not let the opportunity pass when he discovered the bird’s name, or lack of one. “His name is Bird.”

  “Just Bird?”

  She nodded.

 
He grinned.

  She took a deep breath and walked away. She got several bundles of herbs and returned to the ladder. She talked to the boy while she passed back and forth across the room, trying to change the course of their conversation. “Sometimes I like to ride for pleasure or to keep Grace exercised, but most of the time I ride because someone needs me. I’m a midwife and a healer. I help babies to get born and I help sick mamas and their children to get better,” she explained. “Come here. Hold these for me.”

  He eyed her warily as he approached her.

  “See these?” she asked as she passed the bundles to him once he was close enough. “These are healing herbs I use to make teas or ointments or poultices. I have to hang them up to dry so I have enough simples to last until next summer.”

  He stiffened, but cradled the herbs in his arms.

  She took several bundles, climbed up the ladder, hung them up, and returned for more. Four trips later, all the bundles had been hung up to dry, including the ones on her worktable. When she carried the ladder toward the storeroom, he backed toward the door that led outside.

  “I have to stow the ladder away,” she explained. “There’s a storeroom on the other side of this door that leads to the tavern. If you stand here, in the corner, no one will be able to see you when I open the door. Sometimes they need to get something from the storeroom,” she added to ease the mistrust that still stared back at her.

  He edged around the perimeter of the room and into the corner. She balanced the ladder with one hand, opened the connecting door with the other, and quickly had the ladder back in its place. Before she could reenter her room, Lydia poked her head into the storeroom.

  “James and I are ready for supper. Shall I have Annabelle bring you some or do you want to join us?”

  “I think I’ll have my supper in my room. I still have some unpacking to do, and I think I’ll take Grace out for a ride later. I’m not sure at what point I’ll have time to eat.”

  Lydia smiled. “Then I’ll have Annabelle bring your platter to you now before I send her home.”

  “I’m . . . well, I’m actually rather hungry after working out in the garden all afternoon,” she lied. After eating a chocolate tart and half a dozen cookies, she had no appetite at all, but she had a feeling the boy was truly hungry.

  “Extra helpings it is.”

  Martha hesitated. “With some corn bread and honey, too. If you have it to spare. I didn’t have a truly good hunk of corn bread all the while I was gone. Not like yours.”

  Another smile. “I’m sure there’s plenty. I’ll tell Annabelle,” she offered, and returned to the kitchen.

  As soon as Lydia left, Martha shut the door to her room. When Boy’s stomach rumbled, she captured his gaze and held it. “I suppose you want supper. Is that why you came to my room?”

  He nodded and dropped his gaze. “You got somethin’ for my hand? Blasted cat must have bayonets for teeth. Sliced into my hand real deep,” he murmured, “not that I can’t do with the pain. It’s just . . . well, when I get home I don’t wanna be botherin’ Miz Hampton. She gets all weepy and . . . and she don’t always know what to do.”

  “You stay put for now. Annabelle is a young lady who helps in the tavern. She’s going to bring us supper, which means I’m going to have to open the door again. While we’re waiting for her, I’ll get everything ready to take care of your hand. And your knee, too.”

  He did not move a muscle and kept his body braced in the corner, ready to sprint away at the first sign she might not be telling him the truth.

  She went directly to the corner cupboard for a small bowl and filled it with fresh water from the pump. After gathering up several fresh cloths, strips of cotton to use for bandages, and the smartweed ointment to take the sting out of his wounds, she put everything at one end of the table.

  She answered the knock on the adjoining door and greeted Annabelle with a smile that broadened when she saw that the platter was nearly overflowing with food. Three thick squares of corn bread on one side balanced an enormous mound of boiled potatoes and peas swimming in cream. “You surely are a blessing, child,” she murmured as she took the platter. “Goodness gracious, this smells delicious.”

  Annabelle winked, turned about, and retrieved yet another plate she placed in Martha’s free hand. “Mrs. Fleming let me make baked apples. Just for the family. I hope you like them. It’s my mother’s special recipe.”

  Martha’s mouth actually watered the moment she smelled the two plump apples nearly drowning in a dark sauce that smelled of cinnamon, cloves, and lots of butter—just what she needed to win the boy’s heart.

  “I’m afraid both of them will quickly disappear,” she admitted. “Thank you. And don’t bother yourself about coming back for the dishes. I’ll wash them up here and return them in the morning.”

  Annabelle grinned. “Yes, ma’am.” She reached around Martha as soon as she stepped back and closed the door.

  With both hands full, Martha glanced at Boy, whose eyes were wide with hungry approval. “I suppose you want to eat first.”

  He swallowed hard and nodded.

  “I’ll set our places at the table. You get yourself to that pump over there and wash your hands. Your face, too.” He scowled, but headed to the pump.

  Martha set the food on the table at the end opposite her remedies. After securing crocks of butter and honey, along with an extra plate and utensils from the cupboard, she set them onto the table as well before she poured two mugs of cider. He met her at the table, and she pointed to a chair. “Sit.”

  When he plopped onto the seat, he was careful to keep his one leg extended to accommodate his scraped knee.

  She sat down at the end of the table next to him, ladled a small serving of supper onto the extra plate, and laid a single piece of corn bread alongside it for herself. She placed the original platter in front of him, but his gaze was glued to the baked apples. She hesitated, then offered him a baked apple before taking a generous spoonful of her own.

  She closed her eyes briefly and chewed slowly to savor the warm, delicious concoction. “I do love baked apples,” she whispered.

  His quizzical expression was almost humorous. “Don’t you eat your supper first? Miz Hampton would box my ears if I touched my dessert first.”

  She paused, held a spoonful of apple halfway to her mouth for a moment, then devoured another bite. “Mrs. Hampton is right, actually, but the way I see it, everything I eat for supper is going to end up in the same place anyway. I just don’t think it matters if I eat my meal first or my dessert. I don’t make a habit of it, but every once in a while, when I feel like doing something . . . something a little bit bad, I treat myself to dessert first. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

  A smile. Tentative. But a smile. “No, ma’am.”

  “Good. You go ahead. Try it,” she urged.

  He plowed through that entire apple before she could get half of hers down, and began to attack the main meal with a vengeance.

  He had the worst table manners she had ever had the misfortune to witness. He ate with both elbows on the table and chewed with his mouth open. He never bothered once to wipe away the food that collected in the corners of his mouth, but when he gulped down the entire mug of cider in one long, very loud gulp, she could not keep silent a moment longer.

  “Elbows off the table,” she cautioned. “And slow down! You’re shoveling that in so fast you’re going to end up with a stomachache.”

  He dropped one elbow and laid his injured hand on his lap. “It’s good.”

  “Obviously. Now the other elbow.”

  He belched and lowered his other arm before finishing the rest of his meal.

  She shook her head. Poor Mrs. Hampton. If she had half a dozen boys like this one, she certainly had a long, difficult road ahead. When the boy eyed her chunk of corn bread, she raised a brow. “You couldn’t possibly have room for more.”

  He belched. “Do now.”

  Lord, give
me patience.

  She handed him the corn bread and watched as he smothered it with honey before polishing it all off in four big bites.

  “Best . . . corn bread . . . I ever had,” he explained while chewing and nodding his head.

  “Please wait to talk until you’ve finished chewing.”

  He rolled his eyes. Again.

  “Someday your eyes might just roll right back into your head and stay there,” she warned. “Now that you’re finished, I’ll see to that bite on your hand and your scraped knee.”

  When he opened his mouth as if to argue, she silenced him by holding up her hand. “Not one word. Unless it’s your name.”

  He snapped his mouth shut and never uttered a single sound as she tended to his injuries, even when she had to work out the dirt and cinders embedded in his knee. By the time she had both his hand and his knee bandaged, she had no doubt he was one tough little scrapper, especially when she considered his age. She did not need to know any details about his life on the street. She had seen enough in her recent travels to know he had faced horrors as a street orphan no one, especially an innocent child, should ever face.

  Images of Victoria, off alone without family or friends to protect her while she traipsed around with that theater troupe, made her shiver. She might not be able to help her daughter, but she could help this boy and pray someone else might do the same for Victoria if she needed help.

  The savvy little urchin, however, presented quite a challenge—one she decided to meet right now before he got too sure of himself. “Your knee will be stiff for a few days,” she announced as she tied the bandage into place. “You owe me twenty-five cents. Cash or in kind. The supper is another ten cents, which brings your debt to thirty-five cents.”

  His eyes flashed. “You expect me . . . to pay you?”

  “Of course.”

  He narrowed his gaze and skewed his mouth. “You invited me to supper. I didn’t ask for it. Shouldn’t have to pay for it, neither.”

  “Hmmm. You’re right. That’s still twenty-five cents for patching you up,” she argued. Before he could issue a retort, she rose from her seat, secured her diary, and carried it back to the table, where she entered his debt.