The Midwife's Tale

by Delia Parr

  “Yes, but I’d like to wash up first. Then we’ll have a look,” she suggested. Then she turned about and left the room. She waited until she was back in the kitchen before she let out a long sigh of worry about what morning would bring. With luck and a good bit of assistance from above, all seven boys would appear in a town filled with lots of folks who were already convinced the boys did not belong there. If less than seven showed up, only God knew what the townspeople would do if they found out one or several had balked at their punishment and were running loose in the countryside.

  14

  The drizzle started just before Martha got home from the academy. By dawn, the rain was steady, promising a gray day that would be chill and dreary. Not a good omen, but perhaps a valuable gift since the weather might keep most folks indoors when Reverend Hampton arrived with his charges. After talking with him last night and meeting all six of the other boys, she knew he would not let foul weather eclipse whatever plans he had for the boys’ punishment.

  At precisely seven o’clock, according to the watch she usually carried to time birthing pains, Martha peeked out from the covered bridge and scanned up and down West Main Street. Not a wagon or shopper in sight. None of the workmen were extending the planked sidewalk today, either, but the distant sound of both mills at the far end of town told her their day’s work continued unaffected by the weather.

  She waited, hoping for a lull in the rain, but after searching the overcast sky, she realized a lull might be long in coming. She tightened her grip on the covered baskets she held in each hand, bowed her head, and took a deep breath before she made a mad dash for the confectionery. With one basket nearly full and the other empty, she felt a bit lopsided and nearly lost her footing twice, along with her balance, when she tried to avoid puddles at the last minute.

  When she reached the confectionery, she charged toward the door and huddled under the overhang of the roof. Her cape was drenched. The hem of her gown was coated with mud, and her shoes were soaked clear through. Breathing heavily, she shook herself to get rid of the water still dripping from her cape. In the process, her hood dropped back and settled into a crumpled, soggy mass of fabric at the nape of her neck, unleashing a trickle of cold water that ran down her back and left gooseflesh in its wake.

  Oddly exhilarated, she set down the full basket to open the door and stepped into the vestibule the Lynn sisters had had built several years ago. In the next heartbeat, she grabbed the basket with her full hand, yanked it inside, and closed the door with a hearty swing of her hip.

  She managed to get the door shut before the echo of the bell overhead stopped tinkling. Greeted by a steady warmth and smells beyond delicious, she ventured to the doorway of the room on her right and peeked inside. Her mouth began to water immediately.

  The sisters had prepared so much today she could barely see the yellow gingham cloths topping the tables that skirted the perimeter of the former parlor. The aroma of freshly baked bread filled the room where loaves nestled together in long rows, overwhelming the top of one table.

  The sundry cookies, tarts, pies, and other pastries on the other tables were even more tempting and added a sweet smell to the air. You did not have to check a calendar, consult a farmer’s almanac, or gauge the temperature to know what fruits were in season. One whiff of the air and a glance around this room were all you needed.

  Today, the cloistered aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg that laced the distinctive fragrance of apples proved fall had arrived. Apples peeked through the centers of deep-dish pies, oozed from the ends of sugar-crusted tarts and strudels, and lay in soft puddles atop bread pudding.

  On the table in the center of the room, a small wooden box used to collect rewards from customers lay next to a roll of brown wrapping paper and several balls of string and a single pencil.

  None of the prices had changed for as long as Martha could remember, so there was no need to post them. More often than not, so the sisters believed, folks were generally honest, so they just picked out what they wanted and dropped their coins into the box or tore off a piece of brown paper and scribbled down what they would bring to the kitchen door at the rear of the building as payment in kind when they returned pie plates or other baking dishes.

  The sisters, as everyone knew, were too kindhearted to turn anyone away empty-handed for lack of coin or something for barter, so the system worked well for all concerned, except for Wesley Sweet, who operated the general store. He had inherited his grandfather’s talent for business and turning a coin, and had a keener eye when it came to balancing his accounts but none of his ancestor’s compassion or kindness toward folks in need.

  With no sign of Fern or Ivy, Martha turned about and headed for the other door. She cringed, but she couldn’t stop her shoes from squeaking and squishing as she walked any more than she could keep the water from dripping from her cape and pooling on the wooden floor.

  Inside the second room, tins of hard biscuits, crackers, and pretzels vied for space on a table along the front. Directly ahead, beyond another wrapping table in the center of the room, lay day-old baked goods. Today’s offerings, only two loaves of bread and a tray of oatmeal cookies, waited to be claimed for half the price of yesterday.

  Still no sign of Fern or Ivy, but Martha knew exactly where to look for them now. She set her baskets down and wriggled her toes to try to get them warmer before heading directly to the kitchen, which was located just beyond a door in the vestibule. A second closed door in the vestibule hid a staircase leading to the living quarters on the second floor, which was private. She knocked and poked her head inside the kitchen, took one look at the sisters tugging an unsightly pink wad of taffy between them, and grinned.

  “Having some trouble?” she teased.

  With her face flushed the same color as the taffy, Fern looked up and promptly tossed her end to her sister. “That’s the sorriest mess I’ve ever created,” she groaned. “Mornin’, Martha.”

  Ivy held the sticky mound at arm’s length, glanced at Martha, and made a visible effort not to grimace when she nodded welcome. “It’s not a mess, is it, Martha? It’s . . . it’s . . .”

  “A mess. And a disaster headed straight for the trash pit,” Fern countered. She slumped her shoulders as she wiped her hands on a wet cloth. “I let it sit too long,” she explained while holding Martha’s gaze. “Are you heading over to the market?”

  Martha raised a brow. “You know about that?”

  Ivy plopped the disaster onto the table. “Mayor Dillon stopped by late last night. He didn’t tell us much. Just said to come to the market at eight if we wanted to see those boys held accountable for putting Dr. McMillan’s carriage on top of the market roof. From what he said, I gather most folks are going, which is why we spent most of the night baking extra goodies.”

  Fern sighed, her forehead lined with exhaustion. “Baking and trying to make taffy at the same time was a mistake. You were right, Ivy. I should have waited until we finished baking to start on this,” she admitted after she gave the gob of taffy a good poke.

  “It’s probably not a total waste,” Martha suggested as she ventured into the room.

  Fern snorted. “That taffy is getting as hard as a rock as we speak. We can’t salvage it, and we can’t even give it away to anyone because it’s bound to break their teeth. A pure waste of good ingredients, too. Lord, forgive me.”

  Prompted to test the perception of all things, even disasters, as gifts, Martha tried not to think of the sugary confection as taffy but as something else. She offered the distraught woman an encouraging smile. “What if no one knows it was supposed to be taffy? What if you stretch it as thin as you can, cut it into really small pieces, and sell it as . . . as hard candy. It probably tastes good enough, and people wouldn’t be tempted to chew it,” she added.

  When their disbelieving expressions did not brighten, she tugged off a small piece of the taffy and popped it into her mouth. She held it between the roof of her mouth and her tongue, closed her
eyes briefly, and sighed. “Sweet. Wondrously sweet. And refreshing, too. Is that apple I taste?”

  Ivy nodded. “That was my idea. Just to try something different.”

  “And I ruined it for you,” Fern whined. “Wasted a jug of Hilda Seymour’s honey and half a basket of apples, too. At least we didn’t waste time peeling them first.”

  “Well, I think the taste is delicious. Actually, it’s very soothing to the throat. If you did cut it into little pieces, it would be like . . . like lozenges. Folks can always use something like this with winter coming on. You know how cold it can get and how it hurts to breathe when you’re outside for any bit of time.”

  Fern raised a brow. “Like Harper’s Lozenges at the general store?”

  “Exactly. You can call them . . . let’s see . . .”

  Ivy’s face lit up. “Lynn’s Little Lozenges. We could even make more, if folks like them. You know how strict young Sweet is with his books. He always gives credit to you in the end, but he slices off a layer of a person’s pride before he does. Poor folks can’t help getting sick or suffering from the cold. We could have the lozenges here for anyone who needs them, whether or not they’re able to pay.”

  “We could set plates of them in the confectionery with a sign telling folks they were free, as long as they came back and gave us their honest opinion,” Fern suggested, breathing more life into Martha’s idea. “Truth be told, we probably have enough already to supply every man, woman, and child from here to Clarion and back again for the entire winter.” She offered Martha a sheepish look as she pointed to several bowls on a side table. “That’s more taffy.”

  Martha laughed in spite of herself. With the mood suddenly filled with hope instead of despair, she had to admit that Aunt Hilda might really be right. Even if the sisters’ plans for the taffy-turned-lozenges ultimately fizzled, they would find some satisfaction in their efforts. “You two start rolling this all out so I can help you cut it into lozenges. We’ll try several different sizes until you decide which is best.”

  She paused and checked her watch. “I don’t have much time, but while we work, I’d like to tell you what I learned about the academy last night before I head off to the market.”

  Martha left the confectionery alone at a quarter to eight. The rain had reverted back to a cold drizzle that covered the town like a blanket of fog, but the atmosphere in the confectionery was bubbling with warmth and excitement. Both of her baskets now were nearly overflowing, thanks to a generous donation from the sisters.

  With her spirit heartened by having Fern and Ivy as her allies in her plans to support Reverend Hampton’s endeavor, she crossed back to the other side of Dillon’s Stream. When the rain began to fall in heavy sheets again, she waited just inside the covered bridge to protect her cargo as well as herself. If she tried to get to the market around the bend in this downpour, she would be drenched to the skin before she took as few as four steps.

  From behind, she could hear the sounds of horses and wagons traveling down West Main Street as the town stirred to life. By looking ahead, she had a clear view of Dr. McMillan’s home, although the rain made it nearly impossible to see the sign out front, let alone read it.

  She watched with curious fascination as several people arrived, knocked on the doctor’s door, and were ushered inside. Stanley Pitt, the owner of the gristmill, arrived first, followed by Sheriff Myer and Reverend Welsh, who had apparently returned from Clarion. Each time the door opened, she got a glimpse of Rosalind. So far, Dr. McMillan remained out of view, although she distinctly heard his voice at least twice.

  Surprisingly, none of the callers remained in the house for more than five minutes, which made her wonder whether Dr. McMillan was going to attend the event. She rechecked her watch. Eight o’clock. She scanned up and down East Main Street. No sign of any activity yet, let alone Reverend Hampton or the boys, but the rain might have slowed them down a bit.

  The sound of wagon wheels clicking on the bridge behind her inspired her to turn around, but she was completely unprepared for the parade of wagons that appeared to be waiting to enter the covered bridge at the opposite end. Convinced she must be mistaken, she went back to the opening at her end of the bridge and peered down West Main Street. Sure enough, there was a line of wagons approaching that extended halfway down the street!

  With the sound of the wagons already on the bridge growing louder and closer, she instinctively nudged her baskets closer to the wall and put her back against it, although the canvas bag kept her from getting as close as she would have liked.

  One by one, the wagons entered the bridge, approached her, and finally began to pass her by. Abner Sparks and his family led the brigade, the second bad omen for the day. He waved at her. “You lookin’ for a ride? Got some room in the back.”

  She waved back, but shook her head. “No, thank you. Where’s everyone going?” she asked, half hoping there was some other event that had lured half the town out on such a miserable day.

  “The market,” his wife chimed in her singsongy whine. Her face crinkled into a scowl. “Those boys need to find out we won’t tolerate the likes of them here,” she spat. She tightened her hold on her two dour-faced sons, sitting on either side of her.

  Fortunately, the wagon never halted and passed by before Martha could think of an appropriate response, but as the rest of the wagons passed by and she greeted the others, she found Priscilla Sparks’s attitude to be the most prevalent.

  Trying hard to keep the few more understanding folks in mind, she decided to follow the last wagon. She stooped to pick up her baskets and barely had a grip on them when a pair of strong hands snatched them away from her. Startled, she stood up, only to find herself nearly cornered with her back to the wall of the bridge. A very masculine body blocked her way forward and a pair of familiar gray eyes glistened with amusement.

  With her heart pounding, she clapped her hand to her chest. “Mayor Dillon! You frightened me half to death!”

  His dazzling smile slipped into a frown. “Mayor Dillon? You used to call me Thomas,” he murmured while hefting each basket to get a firmer grip.

  He was close. Too close.

  She sidestepped to put several feet between them. “You used to be more of a gentleman,” she charged. “What . . . what are you doing here?”

  His frown deepened. “I was just leaving Dr. McMillan’s when I noticed you standing inside the bridge. I thought I might be able to help you carry these,” he offered while lifting the baskets. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Forgive me. My intention was to be helpful. Truly,” he added, as if he might be able to talk away the disbelief she knew etched her features.

  Reminded of how persuasive and charming he could be, she sniffed. “I can handle everything quite nicely.”

  He ignored her comment, offered her his arm, and chuckled. “You’re as stubborn and petulant as ever. Since I’ve got both baskets, you’ll have to carry the umbrella. Now, take my arm. The roadway is very slippery.”

  She spied the umbrella leaning up against the wall just inside the bridge. When she hesitated, he swung one of the baskets toward the umbrella. “We’ve got to hurry if we’re going to get to the market in time. While we walk, you can tell me all about your trip. I’m sorry Victoria didn’t come home with you.”

  This time his smile was sincere.

  Still, she peeked around him, studied the roadway where mud was oozing up from below the cinders, and retrieved the umbrella. She had to hold it very high to accommodate his height and reluctantly took his arm.

  Appearing at the market with Thomas as her escort was bound to unleash a round of gossip. More gossip. That was why she was weak in the knees and why her stomach was flip-flopping and why shivers raced down her spine. Certainly not because she cared a whit about the feel of his arm beneath her fingertips, offering strength and support, or the sound of his laughter that still echoed in her mind, or the sense of being safe and protected when he was so near. Certainly . . .
not.

  15

  Beneath the very roof that had provided a showcase for yesterday’s prank, seven somber boys stood shoulder-to-shoulder in front of a jury of the town’s leading citizens and faced a crowd of townspeople that seemed unnaturally quiet.

  Perhaps, Martha mused, the rainy weather had dampened the embers of their discontent. Curious glances and murmurs rippled through the audience when she entered the market with their mayor, much as she had anticipated. Most, she hoped, expressed excitement and relief that the public renunciation of the prank and the boys’ punishment was close at hand, but she had lived in this town for too long not to know many of the whispers duly noted that the recently returned Widow Cade had been escorted to the event by widower Thomas Dillon.

  While Thomas briefly conferred with the other men, she caught Olympia Hampton’s worried gaze as she stood at the opposite end of their line and offered a smile of encouragement.

  The smile she received in return was tenuous, and her stomach began to churn with worry. She did not know exactly how the boys would be punished any more than she could predict the townspeople’s reaction to that punishment, but she trusted Thomas to be as fair and evenhanded today as he had proven to be all the years she had known him.

  She could only pray the rest of the folks would be swayed by his hard-won reputation as well and begin to accept the academy. If not, Reverend Hampton might very well have to abandon his efforts here and move elsewhere to continue his ministry. In either case, Dr. McMillan’s pride would have been properly avenged; in fact, he would probably find that the prank itself had opened more than a few doors of folks who wanted to rehash the whole scenario with him, creating a bond between them that would further his standing in the community as well as his career.

  How the doctor handled himself today would also provide a glimpse of his character for all of them, and she was probably as anxious as the boys in front of her to have this unusual event begin.