The Midwife's Tale

by Delia Parr

  Lost to her myriad concerns, she was startled when Thomas called the increasingly restless crowd to order.

  “My friends and neighbors, I’m grateful to all of you for venturing out on such a miserable day.”

  Nods and a few grumbles.

  He smiled. “Reverend Hampton asked for a moment of your time before we hear from the boys involved in yesterday’s prank.”

  Without waiting for any further introduction, Reverend Hampton stepped forward, closed the distance between himself and his charges, and stood directly behind the two boys in the center.

  From where she stood, Martha had a side view of his face. His expression softened from stern to repentant. “We haven’t met many of you until today, and I’m deeply sorrowed that this occasion has brought us together. The boys’ prank was meant as that—a childish prank—but I believe they now understand how they put all of you in danger by having made it difficult, if not impossible, for Dr. McMillan to have responded to a call for help should any one of you have taken ill during the night. They were also disrespectful to a man who has come to their community to help others, not be subjected to ridicule.”

  He paused and scanned the crowd. “As guardian and teacher for the boys you see in front of me, I hold myself responsible for their misadventure yesterday, but when the good Lord called me to this task, I knew the journey would be as trying as it would be rewarding, a reality perhaps you can understand as you raise your own children.”

  A few understanding glances. Only a few.

  He shook his head. “Pride can be a terrible, sinful curse. Each time we succeed in any of our endeavors, we unwittingly open the doors to our souls, and before we know it, pride slips in and convinces us we are men of righteousness and distinction. We are quick to judge others when they stumble and fall. We judge them as sinners who need God’s grace and forgiveness, so we give them ours because we don’t need either. Or so we think . . . until we stumble and fall ourselves. Once glorious and boastful, we’re embarrassed and shamed because our pride is pricked and our reputation tainted.”

  He bowed his head for a moment, then gazed once again at the crowd. “I stand before you, my dear brothers and sisters in faith, both embarrassed and ashamed by my boys’ behavior. My reputation as a man, as well as a man of the cloth, is duly stained. I ask for your understanding . . . and your forgiveness . . . along with your prayers that I might be given the grace to be a better teacher to these boys and that I might guide them on the path of righteousness as I continue to answer His call and serve Him through these boys—His creations, His joy, and His beloved.”

  Martha watched as men and women turned to one another. Their murmurs grew to heated whispers, but no one openly challenged the minister’s message.

  Touched by the man’s eloquence, Martha glanced beyond the gathering at the gentle rain now falling, at the horses and wagons that surrounded them, at the familiar market itself. Somehow, Reverend Hampton had turned their ordinary market into a church without walls, a speech of apology into a sermon, and a gathering of discontented townspeople into a congregation.

  And it wasn’t even meeting day.

  He had a true gift for preaching, a gift that easily could have been misused had it been given to a man with chicanery or evil in his heart instead of faith and goodness.

  “If you please. If you please,” he repeated, and eventually silenced the crowd by waving his hands up and down. “The boys have something to say to you all—and to Dr. McMillan, of course.”

  Given the boys’ ages, which ranged from eight to about twelve, not a few expressions in the crowd filled with a combination of doubt and wonder. That mere boys could have taken the carriage apart, hauled it to the roof, and reassembled it amazed almost everyone in town. It was a task some of the able-bodied men present would find too great a challenge. The boys’ accounting, however, soon erased all doubt and further enhanced their reputation as street urchins capable of almost anything.

  Reverend Hampton tapped the tallest boy on the shoulder. The boy, whom she recognized to be P. J., took two steps forward and straightened his shoulders.

  Martha could not see the boy’s face at all and strained forward. She expected a rather meek apology, but when he spoke, his voice rang sure and clear.

  “My name is Peter Jacob Yates. P. J. The prank was all my idea, and I’m very sorry. I won’t do nothin’ like that again.” He turned, marched stiffly to Dr. McMillan, and extended his hand.

  Now that Martha had a full view of his face, she could see his expression was properly remorseful.

  “I apologize, sir.”

  Dr. McMillan shook the boy’s hand and nodded. “Accepted.”

  When P. J. returned to his place in line, Reverend Hampton tapped another boy, who followed P. J.’s lead, and then another boy, until a full accounting had been made describing each boy’s role in the affair.

  Not a single boy had been spared, including Will, who had held the ladder and confessed last. When he turned from Dr. McMillan and locked his gaze with Martha’s, she smiled approvingly, although she detected a glimmer of devilment in his eyes that his punishment today had not extinguished.

  With all the confessions now given, the mood of the crowd had changed. The hardened expressions, filled with fear and scorn on some faces, told Martha the minister had been right. Some people would never accept these boys. But most of the people in the gathering appeared to be impressed by the boys’ demeanor and their willingness to confess to their role in the prank before them all.

  Until the minister changed the atmosphere once again. At his whispered command, the boys took to the crowd. They introduced themselves again and apologized, individually, to every adult member in the audience. The minister followed suit, shaking hands with the men and women and giving every child present a pat on the head.

  Before her very eyes, the somber event that had come to resemble Sunday meeting became as animated as a revival. The atmosphere was charged with energy—positive energy that renewed her faith in humankind in general and in her friends and neighbors in particular.

  When the boys finished and returned to their places, Reverend Hampton once again stood behind them. The townspeople edged closer, and Thomas nodded to the doctor.

  Dr. McMillan stepped forward. He kept his back as straight as a broom handle and his expression sober. The only visible sign he was unnerved was the line of perspiration dotting his forehead and the opening and closing of his fists.

  As he began to speak, a young boy Martha thought might be Jeremy Farnsworth rushed up to Thomas. The mayor leaned down, listened to what the lad had to say, and followed him outside. Unfortunately, with Dr. McMillan speaking, she was not able to hear what Jeremy had said.

  “. . . and now, as you all witnessed, the boys have confessed and apologized to all of you and to me.” He mopped his brow. “Their punishment should be fair and equal to the distress and inconvenience they have caused.”

  Martha’s heart began to pound as she contemplated what further punishment, beyond the humiliation of a public confession and apology, might be given. More particularly, she worried Dr. McMillan might actually want to use a strap or a paddle to give each of the boys a solid whipping. Some members of the crowd clearly anticipated the same, judging by the gleam she saw in some men’s eyes and the number of children who edged closer to their mothers’ sides and clung to their hands or their skirts. Others frowned, clearly satisfied with the punishment already given.

  “I’ve discussed the boys’ punishment with most of the good people standing behind me. I’m a man dedicated to easing pain and suffering, not deliberately inflicting it.” He clenched his fists and held them against the sides of his trousers. “I’ve agreed . . . that is, I’ve decided that to have the boys apologize, as they’ve already done, and reassemble the carriage, in full view of everyone here, would be . . . will be satisfactory punishment, provided they keep their word never to cause such trouble again.”

  He nodded over his sho
ulder. “We’ll all be staying to watch, and I invite you to do the same.”

  Like a sun slowly struggling through stubborn clouds, the applause began with several women, then spread, becoming loud enough to overwhelm a mere whisper of jeers and taunts directed at the boys.

  With no physical punishment to be delivered, relief washed over her, and Martha realized how stiff she had been holding herself.

  Reverend Hampton stood on the sidelines while P. J. barked orders to the other boys. The audience chatted and watched with both awe and amusement as the boys struggled with the frame of the carriage and the sundry parts. Some of the parts were either too bulky or too heavy for some of the boys, but Reverend Hampton did not lend a hand. Harold Givens, a gunsmith with several sons of his own, stepped from the crowd to give the boys a hand. His neighbor, Lars Hoffbrauer, quickly joined them, inspiring a number of men, along with their sons, to do the same.

  Before long, the carriage came to life, and the air fairly rippled with the sounds of laughter and good cheer, a transformation just short of miraculous. Awed, Martha picked up the baskets Thomas had carried for her and worked her way behind the assembled dignitaries to reach Olympia Hampton.

  “Just a little something for your larder,” she explained as she handed over the first basket. “My rewards are always unpredictable. Since we have more than we need right now, even for the tavern, I thought . . . well, it’s sinful to waste.”

  She held out the second basket, which was much lighter. “Sweet breads from the confectionery. Fern and Ivy wanted you to know . . .” She paused, reluctant to speak for them. “They’re hoping you’ll stop to see them the next time you come to town.”

  The older woman’s eyes filled with tears. “I can’t tell you how much I . . . we appreciate your kindness last night, Widow Cade, and now this . . .”

  Martha pressed Olympia’s hand around the basket handle. “Please. If we’re going to be friends, you should call me Martha.”

  “Friends,” she murmured. “Then you must call me Olympia.” She glanced at the center of the market, where townspeople worked alongside her husband and her charges. “We’ll never forget what happened here today. I doubt the boys will, either.”

  Before Martha could respond, Thomas joined them. Given the jovial atmosphere, his expression was oddly sober. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”

  “Not at all,” Olympia murmured.

  He looked directly at Martha. “Daniel Finch came looking for you. Mrs. Seymour sent him. Adelaide seems to be having some difficulties. He wanted to know if you would come to see her.”

  Martha’s heart began to race as fast as her mind could conjure up a number of problems serious enough to call her back to her patient. “Of course. If you’ll excuse me, Olympia, I need to get back to the tavern to get my bag.”

  Thomas shook his head. “No need. I knew you’d want to leave right away so I sent Daniel to the tavern to collect it. It’s already in my buggy, which is just outside. Daniel’s already left for home.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Your buggy?”

  “It’s pouring rain,” he argued as he guided her past the rest of the men to his buggy.

  Martha locked her knees together and braced her feet. Independence stiffened her spine. “I don’t need a buggy to get to my patients. I have Grace and a perfectly fine cape to keep me dry.”

  He lifted the mud-splattered hem of her gown and wrung it out. “That’s not dry, is it? And even if it were, it would be soaked before you got to Falls Road. By the time you got to Adelaide, you’d be sopping wet and chilled to the bone, which wouldn’t help your patient, now, would it?”

  “No,” she admitted. “It wouldn’t, but I’ve managed to travel in worse weather on my own for nearly ten years now. I don’t need your help, Thomas. Truly.”

  His gaze softened. “No, you don’t, but I . . . I need to give it. Truly.”

  She stared into his eyes and found no hint of guile, only sincerity and an earnestness that nudged the window in her heart open again. Beyond the promise of passion that beckoned in his eyes, she saw the buds of mutual need and respect that had never been there before. She saw him now not as a youthful, inexperienced man, but a man tempered by life, a man whose body and spirit had grown in both faith and character. A man who could come dangerously close to forcing her to confront her true feelings for him—if she did not carefully guard herself against his charm.

  Both frightened and challenged by the man he had become, she climbed into the buggy, more determined than ever to keep a tight rein on her thoughts as well as her heart.

  16

  The buggy’s wheels crunched over the rain-slicked cinders in the roadway and rocked its way toward the Finch homestead. The smell of damp wool emanating from Martha’s cape was near suffocating, and Martha loosened the neck of her cape. The roof overhead protected them from the bulk of the rain. Fortunately, the rain fell straight and there was no wind to blow it at them, and the open sides of the buggy did allow for fresh, if moist, air.

  Being in a buggy, sitting side by side with Thomas Dillon, was just about the last place Martha had ever expected to find herself today. Given all that had happened at the market earlier, however, the day was turning almost surreal.

  “You might want to remove your cape, at least until we get there,” Thomas suggested.

  She tugged her cape closed again and tightened her grip on her bag, which was resting on her lap. “I’m fine. Did Daniel say what’s wrong with Adelaide? Aunt Hilda wouldn’t send for me, especially in this weather, unless something was truly amiss. Both Adelaide and the babe were doing cleverly when I left,” she murmured, trying to think of something she might have missed as a portent of future difficulty she might have prevented.

  “Whatever has developed, I’m sure you’ll be able to help.”

  She nodded. “I pray you’re right.”

  As though he sensed Martha’s worry, he smiled and changed the subject. “We almost met the other day at the tollgate. I was beginning to worry when you hadn’t arrived back in Trinity before me.”

  Fiercely independent, she hesitated to respond or to admit that the idea that someone might worry about her was oddly comforting. No one had worried about her for a very long time. John, rest his soul, had been gone for so long she could scarcely recall having him worry about her. She lived with James and Lydia, of course, but they were also too busy raising their three girls and running the tavern to worry overmuch about Martha. Now that their three girls were all married with children of their own, James and Lydia were quite accustomed to having Martha appear or disappear without notice.

  Victoria never appeared to worry; in fact, Martha had the distinct impression the girl welcomed Martha’s frequent absences as a respite from the inevitable clash of wills that had become the hallmark of their relationship.

  Hearing Thomas say he had been worried about her was a novel experience. Encouraging him to worry, however, implied reconnecting something between them she had severed long ago. Anxious to dispel any thought that she might want to rekindle emotions she had battled through before, she met his gaze and held it. “There was no need to worry. No need at all . . . I hope you’re not implying Grace is anything but a steady, reliable mount,” she ventured, steering the conversation to safer ground.

  He chuckled. “I wouldn’t dream of it. She’s a tough old girl, I’ll grant you that. But she did take you on a very long journey. Even the best horse loses a shoe or stumbles on a rock from time to time. Or just plain gets tuckered out, especially after traipsing through the countryside for how long now? Ten years?”

  “About that,” Martha admitted, although she suspected he was concerned more about her than her horse, which only made her feel more uncomfortable. “We do get to rest in between calls.”

  “Not always,” he countered. “Seems to me I could name more than one occasion when you literally rode Grace from one house to another for several weeks.”

  “And never once failed to make
it home safe and sound. Eventually.”

  “No. Never once,” he murmured. His gaze grew anxious and troubled, and he glanced out his side of the buggy. “The rain’s letting up.” His voice caught, and he cleared his throat.

  A belated flash of insight inspired a blush that burned her cheeks, along with the sin of selfishness that now tainted her soul. Memories of the riding accident that had claimed his wife surfaced, and Martha laid her hands on top of his, finding them cold and stiff.

  “You miss her terribly, don’t you?”

  He enfolded her hands within one of his own, but kept his gaze on the roadway ahead. The mask of the confident, outgoing widower he wore slipped away, revealing a vulnerable man grieving the loss of his wife while the single women in the world around him hustled to be the first in line when he chose a new one.

  “I should have been there. I should have insisted she take the buggy. It was such a stupid accident,” he whispered. “This past year I’ve lain in bed some nights and wondered if I’d have the strength to make it through another day without her. It’s getting easier, but now . . .”

  He paused and squeezed her hand. “She’s fading away, Martha. I have to struggle to recall her face or the sound of her voice. What kind of man does that make me? I shared her life and her bed for nineteen years. We had four children together. Now she’s buried next to two of our babes, and I can’t even remember the feel of her anymore.”

  Compassion filled her spirit. She had gone through the same troubling experience after losing John. She had learned over the years, however, that the passing of time was a gift, both wondrous and painful. Time might have muted her memories, but it had also eased the pain of loss and had allowed her shattered heart to heal. Would the same thing happen if Victoria never came home? She shuddered.

  “There’s nothing wrong with you,” she assured him. “Time lets the past slip away from all but your heart. She’ll always be there. And in your children, too.”