by Delia Parr
Perhaps for the first time, she understood Samuel’s disdain for townspeople in general, and she even envied his ability to withdraw into a world of his own, if only for the time it took for her to realize living the life of a hermit would be as constraining as it would be empowering, especially given her duties as a midwife and healer.
She tightened her lips, poured boiling water into the mug, and stirred the contents until the root began to color the water into tea. “I’m going to see if Adelaide is awake,” she murmured, and left the room without meeting his gaze.
Her steps were sure, her hands were steady, but her heart was pounding with indignation that the sheriff, along with the others, had sent Thomas—of all men—to ask her for help. Not Thomas, the mayor. Thomas, the man. The man who had once claimed her heart.
Adelaide was well on her way to healing very nicely, with Aunt Hilda hovering nearby and Daniel once again smiling, but the atmosphere in the buggy later that evening was explosive.
“I apologize.”
Martha glanced at Thomas, seated only inches away from her, and let out a sigh. “And for the third time, I accept your apology.”
He captured her gaze and held it. “You don’t sound very sincere.”
“I’m very sincere,” she insisted, although her words sounded a bit shrewish, even to her own ear.
“You’re angry with me.”
“I’m not,” she quipped, but his teasing smile snapped the last threads of her patience and self-control. “Yes, I’m angry, but more than that, I’m disappointed in you and your . . . your cronies. People here expect me to keep their confidences, and yes, once in a while I regret that when it causes undue hardship or adds fuel to malicious gossip because people misconstrue my silence for affirmation, but I deeply dislike . . . no, I resent being approached by you to ask me to break those confidences . . . especially you,” she added while pausing to draw a quick breath, “because I thought you knew me better than to think I could be swayed into divulging information clearly meant to be confidential or set to . . . to spying on folks because they happen to need me.”
Out of breath again, she was shocked by her uncustomary diatribe. She never lost control of her temper. Well, almost never. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, but she was honest enough with herself to recognize anger and regret as well.
Then he grinned at her. He grinned!
She slapped at the bag on her lap. “If you say one word right now . . . one word . . .” she warned. She willed her breathing to return to normal and her heart to stop racing.
He held up one of his hands in mock surrender, but wisely held silent.
She dropped her gaze for a moment to settle her thoughts. When she looked back up at him, he had both his hands on the reins again. “I’m sorry I lost my temper.”
When he looked at her, his eyes were twinkling and he had just a hint of a smile on his lips.
“And for raising my voice.”
He cocked a brow.
She dug as deep as she was going to go. “And for . . . for not kowtowing to the illustrious town elders who think they can intimidate me into doing their work for them.”
He nodded, but held silent.
She counted five heartbeats, then ten. When he still remained quiet, she waved at him with the back of her hand. “Go on. Speak.”
“I accept your apology.”
She narrowed her gaze. “You don’t sound very sincere.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe I’m not. Maybe, just maybe, I think you said exactly what I deserved to hear in exactly the tone of voice I anticipated, which, by the way, is precisely what I told the others you’d do when they asked me to speak with you.”
Martha looked up, and her eyes widened. “You told everyone I’d lose my temper?”
He grinned again. “Just a little.”
She sniffed. “And that I’d raise my voice?”
“Just a tad. They didn’t believe me, of course, but they did suspect you might balk at being cooperative. I think the very word they used was stubborn.”
“Stubborn?”
“I’d prefer to say highly principled and devoted to your calling, thank Providence. I also think I know you well enough to be fairly certain you’ll try to ferret out the thief or thieves on your own, if only to help Reverend Hampton save the academy for the boys.”
She stared at him, both awed and amazed. Guilty as charged, she blushed because he had voiced what she was going to do before she had even admitted it to herself. She had not been married to the man all these years, but he still knew the workings of her mind better than anyone ever had or could.
Perhaps it was that single issue that had frightened her, more than his wealth or his social position in the community, all those years ago when he had asked to court her. It had been disconcerting and extremely uncomfortable to have him know how she might feel or react before she even realized it herself, denying her any freedom to respond to her own impulses, to profit when she was right, or to learn from her mistakes when she was wrong without having the added burden of knowing he would have supported her whether she succeeded or failed, regardless of whether or not she had earned such total devotion.
When the buggy slowed to a halt, the door to her room was only several feet away. “I suppose you still want me to go to Clarion?” she asked, hoping he would have the good grace to be embarrassed that he had asked her to do a personal kindness for him when he knew full well what he would be asking her to do in his official role as mayor.
She had a good notion to express her disapproval by refusing his request.
He shifted in his seat. “Not for my sake. For Eleanor’s,” he murmured.
“I’ll go. For Eleanor,” she murmured, although she knew she was going to Clarion before she had asked him the question or entertained any idea of refusing his request.
And he knew it, too, confounded man that he was.
“I’ll leave at first light, but there’s something that needs to be taken care of while I’m gone. It won’t take up much of your time. If you can wait a moment, I just need to get something . . . unless you’ll be too busy with your duties as mayor,” she needled.
“I’ll make time.”
“Good.” She disembarked and went inside. Before she even lit a lamp, she knew what she would find as soon as the room came to life.
Sure enough, Bird was fast asleep on top of Victoria’s pillow.
She worked quickly and returned to the buggy, where she set a bulky package on the seat next to Thomas.
Eyes wide, he looked at her with curiosity and more than a little suspicion.
She grinned as she put a small sack into his hand. “This should last until I get back, but try to find a crust of bread now and then. Fresh water every day, and don’t worry if he lets himself out. He’ll make a nest somewhere and be back in the cage by morning. His name is Bird, by the way. Don’t ask. I don’t have time for details. I need a good night’s sleep if I’m going to be in Clarion in time for supper.”
She grinned again, went back into her room, and closed the door.
“Martha Elizabeth Alexandra Cade!” His voice bellowed. Bird began to squawk his little heart out.
Humming softly, she secured the inside lock on her door, went to her window, and opened it. “If you two keep making that racket,” she warned, “you’ll wake half the town.”
Thomas glowered at her. “You’re testing my patience,” he spat.
“I always did,” she whispered, and promptly closed her window.
18
Like all gardens and fields ripe for harvesting, sickrooms had a distinctive, sadly familiar scent. Martha smelled it as soon as she entered the dim bedchamber. Instead of flowers or crops, illness and suffering blossomed with fear that permeated the very air while weeds of death gained a stranglehold on life itself.
Eleanor Dillon Landis was asleep in bed with a heavy quilt pulled up to her chin so only her face was visible, even though the room was so warm it wa
s suffocating. Heavy drapes that covered the windows muted the busy sound of commerce on the street below and obliterated what daylight still remained. The light from two small lamps on the bureau was weak, but enough to let Martha maneuver her way into the room and edge herself between a trunk at the foot of the bed and the low bureau where bowls, linens, and a number of medicine bottles filled the space between the lamps.
She paused and lifted each bottle toward the light to read the label. By the time she finished, her worst fears about the method of treatment Dr. Park had pursued set her blood boiling and her heart began to gallop.
Dr. Park used emetics and purges, along with a sedative, that were powerful enough to put Eleanor and her unborn babe in such imminent danger that Martha feared neither one might survive unless the drugs were stopped. Immediately. Dismayed, yet heartened by her own chance to intervene and offer an alternative that might save them both, she made her way to the chair at the head of the bed and eased into the seat.
She studied the face of the young woman she had watched grow from infancy to adulthood, and her heart constricted. Eleanor’s face was pale and drawn, her lips cracked and crusted with bits of dried blood. Dark circles beneath her eyes added a ghoulish appearance to her features. Limp blond hair, once a glorious mane of curls that fell to the middle of her back, now barely skimmed her shoulders.
Yet surrounded by all these signs of devastation, the promise of new life flourished in the small mound on Eleanor’s stomach.
While she waited for Eleanor to stir, Martha leaned back and closed her eyes to pray. First, for Eleanor, that she might be given the gift of health, and then for the child who struggled for life. Only then did she pray for herself. For wisdom. For courage. And most of all, for patience enough to ease the anger churning in her very soul.
She let the anger build, adding fuel to her determination to battle the doctor responsible for Eleanor’s deteriorating condition. Although he was only acting as he had been trained, everything Martha had learned about Eleanor’s treatments, designed to guarantee delivery of a healthy, living child, was in direct contradiction to what any midwife worthy of the name would have recommended.
At the root of her anger lay two divergent views on pregnancy and birthing, philosophies that set doctors and midwives at polar opposites, with their patients’ lives and futures lying in between.
“W-widow Cade?”
Though the voice she heard was weak, Martha’s eyes snapped open, and she turned immediately toward her patient. “I’m here, Eleanor,” she murmured. She caressed the young woman’s brow and used her fingertips to lift strands of damp hair off her forehead. No fever. Good sign.
A pair of wide, deep-set blue eyes gazing up at her misted with tears. “It is you! I prayed you’d be able to come to help me, but Father hasn’t written back to me yet to tell me you’d agreed to come, so I wasn’t sure it was really you.”
Martha chuckled. “He’s writing to you today, as a matter of fact. I thought I might be delayed for a few days, but things all worked out sooner than I expected, so here I am.”
Eleanor moistened her lips and stirred. She lifted one thin arm from beneath the quilt, took Martha’s hand, and laid it on top of her swollen belly. “Isn’t he wondrous?”
Martha smiled. “Indeed, he is. I haven’t seen Dr. Park, but I talked with Micah. He tells me you hope to deliver in midwinter.”
“February,” she murmured. Her eyes misted with fear. “I’ve done everything Dr. Park has told me to do. Everything. But . . . but I’m . . . but . . .” She dissolved into gentle weeping, unable to continue.
Martha stroked the young woman’s belly, concerned the baby might be smaller than normal. “But you’re growing weaker. Losing weight, too, I’d venture.” She gazed down at the several scabs on Eleanor’s arm where Dr. Park had apparently bled her and caught a frown before it formed. She could ill afford to alarm her patient, and she needed to know much more than what Micah had told her before she could even contemplate an opinion on how best to restore Eleanor’s health without putting the babe she carried at risk—if indeed there was a risk.
Eleanor sniffled and wiped away her tears. “Will you help me? I couldn’t bear to lose my baby. Not again. I can’t,” she pleaded.
“I know how important this baby is to you,” Martha crooned. “But you’re important, too, especially to Micah and your father. And to your baby, you’re the most important person on earth right now. I want you to remember that when I ask you some questions so you’ll be completely honest with your answers. It may not be the answer you think I want to hear. You may find a question painful or embarrassing. You might not understand why the question is important, and you might wonder if you should even give me an answer because you feel loyal to Dr. Park because he’s been trying to help you. But every answer you give me will help me to understand what’s happened before in each of your pregnancies and what’s been happening during this one so you and Micah can decide together what’s right for you to do this time.”
A sniffle. A brave smile. “I’ll remember. And I’ll try to be as honest as I can be.”
“Good. Now, let’s go back a bit to the first time you were teeming,” Martha began. Gently, she led Eleanor through a series of questions. When she finished, she got a fresh cloth from the bureau, dampened it, and washed Eleanor’s face.
“Now the second time,” she prompted. Tears accompanied more of the young woman’s answers this time, and she did not seem to be anything but completely forthright. Once Martha sorted the information she had already gleaned, she got Eleanor to provide more about her current condition.
By the time the young woman finished, she was near exhaustion and had to battle to keep her eyelids from staying closed.
“You’ve been a great help. Now rest. That’s right. Take a short nap. By the time you wake up, I’ll have some recommendations, and we’ll have Micah join us. Then you can ask any questions you might have,” Martha added, mindful that she must keep careful balance on the tightrope on which she found herself now that her worst fears about her own position here had been confirmed.
Only Eleanor and her husband had the right to choose between continuing with Dr. Park or letting Martha take over caring for Eleanor for the rest of her pregnancy—a choice that would decide the fate of their unborn child and Eleanor, as well.
Obligated by her calling to offer them both that choice, Martha eased from the chair, dropped to her knees, and bowed her head in prayer—the only weapon she had that would be powerful enough to prepare her for meeting with Eleanor and Micah and later, if they decided in Martha’s favor, with Dr. Park himself.
Martha had no doubt about her recommendations. She had no doubt the decision facing this young couple was difficult. As they gathered together later that night, the only doubt that niggled at her mind and spirit was that she might fail to help them reaffirm their faith, for only faith would give them the courage they would need tonight and all the nights that would pass between now and the birth of their child.
Martha sat in the same chair as earlier. Eleanor was still in bed, and Micah sat on the bed facing her. With their hands entwined and their faces glowing with affection for one another, they looked so very young to have endured such tragedy and to be facing such uncertainty now.
“All I can give you is my honest opinion,” Martha began. “Whatever decision you make about whether or not to continue with Dr. Park will be entirely your own.”
“I trust you. We both trust you, don’t we, Micah?”
The young man sobered. “Yes, we do.”
Martha took a deep breath and quickly outlined her recommendations, which Micah challenged at every turn. She ended with one last plea. “Trust one another. Respect one another’s opinion. You don’t have to make your decision tonight, but I would urge you to not wait too long.”
She glanced at both of them and smiled. “I’ve delivered hundreds of babies since Grandmother Poore passed on, and I’d like very much to deliver
yours. I know how frightened you both are. With good reason. But I have every faith and hope that come February you’ll be able to hold your babe in your arms—but only if you discontinue Dr. Park’s treatments.”
Micah paled. “All of them?”
“All of them,” she repeated. “You lost your first babe very early, but don’t forget that nature plays a very important role. When something is wrong, nature takes over and ends the pregnancy. It’s simply nature’s way of correcting itself to prevent the birth of a deformed child, for example. In the end, we must trust God to know what is best before we do, and to know that one day He will shower us with joy equal to the pain we have endured.”
She paused and watched with compassion as Micah wiped away his wife’s tears. She waited for Eleanor to regain her composure before continuing. “What happened the second time was an unfortunate quirk of fate. There is nothing you or Dr. Park, or I, could have done to prevent the cord from wrapping around your baby’s neck as he was being born. From everything I’ve been able to learn, however, there is nothing that would indicate either scenario would hold true this time.”
Leaning forward, she placed her hand atop Micah’s and Eleanor’s. “If you honestly thought Dr. Park’s treatments were helping, you wouldn’t have sent for me. But in the end,” she cautioned, “it is your own fear and your own doubt that you must conquer. For that, you need faith. Not in me. Not in one another. Faith in God. Faith that He’ll restore Eleanor so she is strong enough to deliver your child. Faith He would never send you a gift you didn’t cherish, whether that gift caused tears of joy or sorrow. Faith that He will bless you with peace of mind when you make the right decision. Whether you choose to remain under Dr. Park’s care or return to Trinity, where I can help you, I will support your decision because I know you turned to Him for guidance and will accept His will when the time comes for this babe to enter the world.”
She rose and straightened her skirts. “I’ll leave you now so you can talk this over together.” Whispers accompanied the sound of her footsteps as she took her leave. She had no sooner returned to her own room when Micah knocked at her door. When she looked at him quizzically, he grinned. “I don’t suppose they need a good lawyer in Trinity?”