The Midwife's Tale

by Delia Parr

  His words had tumbled out in a rush, apparently spending his frustration. When he turned around and glanced at the boy, his gaze softened. “Make sure he’s good and warm,” he murmured, and left before she could thank him.

  In point of fact, a thought that had been simmering in the back of her mind began to boil into an idea so preposterous, so impossibly wild, she had no inclination to ponder the complexities of the man who had just left her.

  21

  Sunday meeting.

  Martha dreaded the thought, fought the demons of fear and worry, and let her hunger for worship keep her steps sure. She had not attended Sunday meeting since Victoria ran off, and she was not at all certain what she would do if her customary place had been relegated to someone else.

  She passed the market and rounded the bend in the road. Just ahead, townspeople were entering the meetinghouse, where Reverend Welsh still stood outside to welcome them. Inside, the faithful who had arrived earlier spent their time waiting for the service to begin by scanning those assembled to see who had not come, providing fodder for gossip that would last until the ritual began again next Sunday.

  After a night of very little sleep, she had spent the early morning turning over one very recalcitrant guest to Reverend Hampton and keeping her promise to herself to visit with Samuel Meeks and deliver his new eyedrops. She had every excuse for being late, but dug deep for the energy to hurry her steps. Once Reverend Welsh closed the meetinghouse door, no one dared to slip inside. He was a good minister and a kindly man, but no one interrupted his service without regretting it.

  When she was just yards away from the meetinghouse, he turned to close the door, saw her approaching, and waved. She ran the rest of the way. “I’m so sorry to be late,” she whispered.

  “‘And the last shall be first.’ Welcome home, Martha. We’ve missed you. I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to talk at the market the other day. I wanted you to know how badly Mrs. Welsh and I feel about Victoria.”

  “Thank you. It’s good to be home.” She slipped inside while he closed the door behind them and made his way through the crowd of people standing in the aisles to get to his pulpit. A sea of curious faces watched as she followed him toward the front of the meetinghouse, where members of the church vestry and town officials sat as one, leaders in the community of faith here as well as in everyday life.

  Greeted by some genuine smiles of welcome, fewer frowns, and hushed whispers, she found her customary seat, on the end of the second bench next to the sheriff and his family, empty and waiting for her.

  Relief she still had a place of honor at meeting did not ease the pounding of her heart for several long minutes. Winded, she drew in shallow gulps of air before joining in with the rest of the congregation as they sang the opening hymn.

  Here, surrounded by the people she loved and the people she served, her famished spirit found nourishment. Here, she could find the strength, week by week, to wait for Victoria to come home and to return the whispers of gossip and scandal about Victoria’s disappearance with a smile as she continued her work.

  Before the echo of the final notes faded, Reverend Welsh began the service, so familiar to her she could have recited the prayers from memory. He finished his sermon nearly an hour later. His message, as well as his delivery, was not nearly as powerful or as moving as the one Reverend Hampton had given at the market, but Reverend Welsh did have a deep and abiding faith and a sincerity that precluded an unfair comparison of each man’s gifts. Thus, she had no thoughts beyond his message and sang the closing hymn with gusto. Armed with joyful satisfaction, she looked forward to the impromptu reunions that lay ahead when the congregation gathered in disparate groups outside.

  She also realized now that no matter how long it took, no matter how she had to prove her worth, no matter how malicious the gossip, she would reclaim her place here and meet every obstacle by taking comfort from those who welcomed her back with understanding and compassion.

  When she finally stepped outside, the sun had stretched beyond a band of clouds to bathe the day with warmth. She scanned the yard, saw Thomas speaking quietly with the sheriff and several others, and thought better of approaching them now that they knew she would not help them. Dr. McMillan held court with a number of families surrounding him, but she did not see Rosalind anywhere.

  Feeling a bit lost, she saw the Lynn sisters chatting with Patience Greywald and her children. She joined them immediately, if only to satisfy her growing curiosity about the contents of the baskets the two sisters carried. “A blessed morning, isn’t it?” she asked before directing her gaze to Patience. “How’s Charlie?”

  The young woman smiled. Broadly. “Dr. McMillan truly did work a miracle. Charlie won’t be able to work for some time, but he’s not going to lose his hand.”

  Fern lifted a small package wrapped in brown paper from her basket. “Give this to Charlie, won’t you? He won’t have any trouble with his throat this winter, either. It’s a sample of those lozenges I told you about.”

  Ivy glanced down at the two boys clinging to their mother’s skirts. “Some for the younguns, too.” She handed a package to the youngest boy. “Now, don’t forget not to chew them. Might break a tooth, you know.”

  Martha chuckled. “That’s what’s in the baskets? Lozenges?”

  Fern beamed. “Hundreds of them. Lynn’s Lozenges. Guaranteed to sweeten your sore throat.” She leaned toward Martha and whispered, “I thought of that all by myself.”

  “I couldn’t have said it better,” Martha whispered back.

  When the older boy snatched the package from his little brother and ran off, the younger one gave chase.

  “I’ve got to go,” Patience mumbled, and headed after them.

  “Don’t forget to let us know how you like the lozenges,” Fern cried.

  Ivy’s bottom lip began to quiver. “I didn’t mean to get the boys in trouble.”

  Fern sniffed. “Next time, hand one to each of the children.”

  “But only if you ask the parents first,” Martha cautioned. “Do you want some help handing out the rest of the lozenges?”

  Fern looked at Ivy and shook her head. “No, we’ll be fine. You do some visiting.”

  As the sisters headed off together, Martha spied Alice Cornwell standing with a group of women while their husbands talked nearby and their children raced about. She was eager to see how the young woman fared, and approached the group with little trepidation since she had safely delivered all five of these women in the past.

  An awkward silence replaced the animated conversation the moment Martha joined the circle of women. Alice laid her hand on her swollen stomach. “Widow Cade! It’s . . . it’s good to see you again.”

  “Thank you. You look well. Extremely well. Your time is coming soon, as I recall.”

  The young woman blushed. “Another six weeks. Maybe sooner. Dr. McMillan says . . . that is . . . I’m sorry, but I wasn’t certain you’d be back in time, and Martin . . . Martin thought it would be better if . . . if . . .”

  “If you have Dr. McMillan tend to you when the time comes. I understand,” Martha murmured, voicing the words Alice was clearly too embarrassed to say. Deeply disappointed, she kept her smile in place, even when the glances from the rest of the women failed to offer her the support she had hoped to find.

  Letty Chase toyed with the strap on her reticule. “He’s very good with the children, too. He sat up all night with Betsy after she broke her arm.”

  Jane Post nodded in approval. “Patience Greywald can’t praise the doctor enough for saving Charlie’s hand.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Poor dear. She’s teeming again, too, but Dr. McMillan assured her he would do everything he could to make sure she didn’t lose this one.”

  Though Jane’s words were softly spoken, they cut straight to Martha’s heart, unleashing disappointment that sorely depleted the joy she had found today. Martha had safely delivered both of Patience’s sons. A third child, a perfectl
y formed little girl, died several hours after birth, despite all of Martha’s efforts when the child developed breathing problems. She longed to help Patience this time, too, but apparently that privilege now belonged to Dr. McMillan.

  Jane sniffed. “How sad you weren’t able to bring Victoria home. You must be sick with worry. It’s a terrible thing for a young girl to do. I can’t imagine what Victoria found so alluring about those people.” She shuddered and tightened her cape around her.

  Martha cringed, held a lid on her temper, and swallowed hard. “I’m very worried, but I pray the good Lord will watch over her and bring her home. I’d appreciate whatever prayers you could add to mine.”

  “Ladies! Ladies! We have a surprise for each of you!”

  The arrival of Fern and Ivy gave Martha the perfect opportunity to escape. With no desire to diminish the little joy she had left from the worship service, she headed for the far side of the yard to speak with Reverend Hampton, only to encounter several women who surrounded Thomas.

  Poor man. He looked positively dreadful, and she wondered if he had had a minute of sleep last night. Though she felt guilty, she returned his beleaguered, silent plea of help with a spirited wave.

  “Good morning, all,” she said as she passed by.

  Jack Engels left a group of men to stop her. He nodded toward Thomas and his eyes began to twinkle. “Mayor Dillon said he’d speak to you himself, but he seems to be rather occupied.”

  She laughed. “Quite occupied.”

  “Anyway, I just wanted to apologize. I can’t get to those shoes for Grace until tomorrow, but I promise that she’ll be first on my list come morning.”

  “Grace? I thought . . . you have Grace?” Her heart began to pound. When Grace had not been in her stall this morning, Martha assumed Thomas had merely taken her home with him.

  “Don’t worry. I checked her out real good. She’s fine. Didn’t pull a muscle or anything when she threw her shoe last night. Can’t say the same for the mayor, though. He took a nasty fall and cut his hand.”

  Martha looked over Jack’s shoulder at Thomas, and her heart sank down to her knees and back again. Judging by how haggard he looked, he had probably walked all the way home from the academy, but apparently blamed the cut on his hand on the fall rather than reveal his encounter with Will. She had little doubt now that he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep, either, and it was all her fault. The echo of James’s reminder to have Grace shoed rang a loud bell of guilt. “Could you bring her by when you’ve finished?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. Should be before dinner. If you’re not home, I’ll just settle her back in her stall for you,” he promised, and left her to rejoin his companions.

  She took two steps to continue toward Reverend Hampton, paused, and turned around. She reached Thomas with several long strides. “I hope you’ll forgive me, ladies, but Reverend Hampton asked for a word with Mayor Dillon before he takes the boys back home.”

  If disappointment and anger were thorns, the glances she received from the four women would have pricked her hide from head to toe. A relieved look on Thomas’s face might have been a salve that rewarded her efforts, but he almost looked reluctant to part company with Samantha Leery.

  The young woman, who was as beautiful as dawn itself, glowered openly. She tossed her head, rippling the cascade of golden ringlets that fell below her shoulders. Her pale blue eyes darkened into twin thunderclouds.

  Her mother, Ruth, held tight to Thomas’s arm and frowned at Martha. “Won’t anyone let this poor man ever have a moment to himself?”

  He gently but firmly disengaged himself and offered Ruth a dazzling smile. “When duty calls, I’m afraid I have no choice but to answer. If you’ll all excuse me, I’m sure Reverend Hampton is eager to return home.”

  He took Martha by the elbow and led her away from the group. “Jack says Grace should have been shoed weeks ago.” He still had a smile on his face, but his words were surly, even though he spoke so softly she barely heard him.

  “I’m sorry. James reminded me only yesterday, but with all that happened last night, I forgot,” she whispered.

  “Mornin’, Stan. Mrs. Pitt,” he cried, his voice cheerful again. He leaned his head toward her. “Like you forgot to tell me that yellow critter of yours likes to sleep on a man’s pillow? Mercy! You can be one aggravating woman at times.”

  The fact that he could grumble and complain to her and smile a greeting to other folks at the same time annoyed her to no end. “I should have left you back there with Samantha and her mother. The least you can do is be thankful I rescued you and accept my apology.”

  He slowed his steps. “Forgive me if I’m less than perfect. I’m tired to the bone, and my hand aches like there’s no tomorrow. Yes, I’m cranky, too, but I’m thankful for being rescued, and I accept your apology.”

  She frowned. “You don’t sound very sincere.”

  He sighed. “I sincerely accept your apology, and I sincerely hope you’ll stop by on your way home to collect your bird.”

  She chuckled. “Right after I talk to Reverend Hampton. You might as well stay, too, since you’re an interested party to all this.”

  “Interested in what?” he asked as they neared the minister and his wife.

  “In Will, of course. Good morning, Reverend. Olympia. It’s good to see you again,” she crooned, leaving Thomas no opportunity to argue the point.

  “We’re trying to round up the boys,” Olympia said as she scanned the crowd behind Martha and Thomas. “There! I see P. J. The others won’t be far away. I’ll be right back. I think,” she added with a weary smile before she hurried off.

  Martha captured the minister’s gaze and held it. “I wanted you to know I met with Samuel Meeks. He wants to talk to you himself, but I think he rather likes my idea. Maybe you could stop to see him on the way home. You’re far more persuasive than I can ever hope to be.”

  He hesitated and tugged on the end of his beard. “The boy won’t be off punishment for a few weeks. Think Samuel can wait that long?”

  “He’s been waiting for far longer. He just doesn’t know it. Talk to him. Let him talk to Will. It can’t hurt. If Samuel agrees, Will might tolerate the punishment better knowing he has something to look forward to at the end.”

  Thomas looked at her, switched his gaze to the minister, then looked at her again. “Would either one of you care to explain what you’re talking about?”

  She grinned. “Just a little matchmaking.”

  His eyes widened. “Ole Samuel and Will?”

  She grinned again. “It’s perfect, isn’t it?”

  He shook his head. “Only you would think of it.”

  “I had a little help,” she admitted. The very idea of pairing Will with the town recluse had been divine inspiration—in much the same way that she had been led to become Samuel’s only friend in town and help him to accommodate the growing physical problem he had hidden from everyone else.

  She knew in her heart why putting Samuel and Will together should work.

  She trusted God to figure out how.

  22

  Mid-November brought paler skies and weaker sunshine, but no word from Victoria.

  Martha grieved for her daughter but took solace in knowing she was not alone. Rosalind’s husband was still a wanted man in exile, and Aunt Hilda was still waiting for her husband to return from his thirty-year odyssey. The daybook she had started for Victoria had nearly half a dozen entries now, a source of comfort in the dark, lonely hours she spent alone.

  The past weeks had been alternately difficult, challenging, rewarding, and satisfying, a rather normal state of affairs that kept her from sinking into self-pity. She had not exactly climbed the mountain of success, either, but her life had a familiar rhythm again.

  Still, for every gain she had made, she had suffered a setback. The quick redemption Reverend Hampton had achieved for his wards had turned out to be short-lived. Just as Thomas had predicted, the thefts had continued,
gossip had spread, and the academy boys once again became scapegoats. For every patient she treated, she lost another to Dr. McMillan. Most of the women still called for Martha when labor began, but beginning with Alice Cornwell, several had sent for the doctor instead of a midwife, an omen that did not bode well for Martha’s future.

  Today, like other Sunday afternoons, she joined Aunt Hilda for dinner, resuming a ritual that had lasted for nearly a decade when either of their duties allowed it. She dried the last plate, set it back into the sideboard, and closed the door. “I think that’s the last,” she murmured.

  Aunt Hilda chuckled. “Until we dirty more dishes with dessert. You pour the tea while I get my surprise from the pie safe.”

  Martha poured tea into two mugs already on the table and tried to smile. Aunt Hilda was the undisputed queen when it came to making honey wine. There was not an afternurse more caring or qualified. Her crown slipped a bit at the stove, but when it came to baking, she was a complete and utter failure—so much so that she would have been dethroned and relegated to the dungeon in her own castle if folks had not been so fond of her.

  When Aunt Hilda put a sugar-coated apple strudel on the table, Martha’s eyes widened. “That looks too scrumptious to eat!”

  “You mean it looks too good to be mine. It isn’t. I stopped to see Fern and Ivy yesterday. They insisted I take this home, so I saved it for us. Not that I couldn’t make it myself,” she added. “But I’d have used honey instead of sugar. Hand me your plate. I’ll cut you a big slice, and you’d better eat every bite. You’re getting a bit thin.”

  “I’ve been busy,” Martha countered.

  “Delivering babies and tending to the sick is all well and good, but riding every day, searching for whoever is responsible for all that thievery, isn’t your job. That’s what I told Thomas before he first approached you with that idea our beloved leaders concocted. Glad you set them straight, but I’m none too pleased—”