The Midwife's Tale
Page 29
Help him.
Her eyes snapped open, and she stared at the darkness that surrounded her. Her heart began to gallop in her chest. “Help Dr. McMillan? That’s absolutely ridiculous. Out of the question,” she muttered. “I’m a midwife. He’s a doctor. Trying to work together would be like mixing oil and water. You can’t expect me to spend my time teaching him to be a better physician all by myself any more than You can make me believe this . . . this disaster can be turned into some kind of miracle.”
Like changing water into wine?
“Precisely,” she grumbled. “But . . . but I can’t help him. I won’t. This is asking too much. I must be delirious,” she whimpered, certain she must be desperately ill to be hearing voices. She tugged off one of her bandages and felt her forehead. She could not detect any sign of fever, and slammed her eyes shut. She tossed and turned, but found no peace. No rest. No sleep. No assurances, either, as she battled her deepest fears. As her conversation with Rosalind just the other day replayed in her mind, she realized, among other things, she was a hypocrite of the first order if she did not follow her own advice and accept His will instead of forcing her own.
“Pray. I need to pray.” She crawled out of bed and dropped to her knees. Sobbing, she emptied her heart and let her faith wash over her anger and disappointment. When she was done, when she was too limp to kneel without leaning against the side of the bed for support, she bowed her head and surrendered her will to His. “I can’t do this alone,” she whispered.
I am with you. Always.
Peace. Sweet, healing peace invaded her very spirit, extinguishing all fear and doubt, as well as anger. She sniffled and wiped the tears from her face. When she crawled back into bed, she fell asleep almost immediately.
Half the town turned out to bid James and Lydia farewell the following morning. Men, women, and children gathered on the planked sidewalk along West Main Street, waving and calling out good wishes as James and Lydia rode slowly by the homes and businesses. The back of the wagon nearly overflowed with trunks of donated clothing and barrels and baskets of foodstuffs.
Martha walked alongside the wagon with the memory of their private farewell tucked next to her heart. Still, the prospect of seeing them disappear from view lay heavy on her spirit. James slowed the wagon to a halt when Webster Cabbot stepped out from the crowd and approached them. He handed James a pair of ivory-handled pistols. “Don’t expect you’ll have much use for these yourself, but they’ll bring a good value at trade. Enough to help you get started again.”
James swallowed a visible lump in his throat. “I’m obliged to you, Webster,” he managed, and set the pistols behind him.
Cabbot nodded, then looked directly at Martha. “I gave a pair to young Sweet at the general store to credit to your account,” he informed her, turned, and strode back into his shop.
Stunned, Martha barely had the wherewithal to follow along when James started the wagon forward again.
“We’ll get that rubble cleared away in no time,” one man shouted.
James smiled in reply.
Lydia moved closer to her husband. Weeping openly, she kept her gaze on the roadway ahead.
Each step Martha took was harder than the last. With fresh tears of her own threatening, she was anxious to bring this town-wide farewell to an end before she broke down in front of anyone. If her friends and neighbors learned she was planning to be a mentor, of sorts, to Dr. McMillan, folks would suspect she had become distracted. Blubbering in front of them now would only make that suspicion seem more likely.
When Wesley Sweet ran out of the general store and hailed down the wagon, she nearly cried out in frustration. Why couldn’t everyone just let James and Lydia leave?
Panting, he held on to the horse’s bridle. “Sorry. Don’t mean to hold you up, but I just found this.” He held out a letter. “It was stuck to one for . . . well, that doesn’t matter. What’s important is that I found it in time. No charge. It’s my fault it’s been held up.”
Martha took the letter and handed it to James.
Wesley opened his mouth to speak, but James spoke first as he handed her back the letter. “It’s not my letter. It’s yours, Martha. It’s addressed to you. Best open it before we leave.”
She stared at the familiar scrawl and her heart skipped a beat. With her hands still bandaged, she was afraid to try to open it for fear of ripping the letter. She handed it back to James, almost too excited to breathe. “Open it for me. Hurry!”
He unsealed the letter, and she grabbed it back. She read the short missive twice before a flood of tears made it impossible to see a single precious word.
“It’s from Victoria. She’s coming home. She’s coming home!” she cried before she dissolved into tears. Her knees grew weak, but strong arms suddenly appeared and held her upright—arms with a strength and familiarity that echoed from long ago.
She wiped her tears away and looked up. Thomas’s gentle gaze locked with her own. His eyes glistened with an unspoken but heartfelt promise that the future held long-awaited fulfillment and love, if each of them had the will and the courage to fight for it.
Overwhelmed, she reached up and cupped the side of his face. “She’s coming home, Thomas. She’s coming home,” she whispered.
As the echo of her announcement rippled through the crowd, a round of applause began slowly, then built into a crescendo replete with whistles and cheers for a daughter of Trinity who was finally coming home.
Overwhelmed, Martha let herself relax in Thomas’s strong embrace, but she offered to Him all the accolades from the crowd for the wonderful news of Victoria’s impending homecoming—and for leading her through life’s greatest troubles, for knowing the deepest secrets of her heart as well as her faults, and for loving her. Still.
Author’s Note
Modern midwifery has made significant advances since the nineteenth century. Readers who are interested in modern midwifery techniques and their advantages are encouraged to refer to contemporary literature for information and advice rather than applying any historical midwifery practices explored in this novel. They are also advised to contact their physicians and modern-day midwives. Any decisions readers make regarding pregnancy, labor, and delivery should be based on sound, professional, up-to-date information.
The interest in alternative medicine, which includes herbal supplements and treatments, has grown enormously in the past few decades. The treatments used in this novel are historically accurate, but they are not suggested for modern use; instead, readers should combine research of contemporary herbal medications with standard medical advice from their physicians and other trained healthcare providers.
I hope The Midwife’s Tale will place midwifery and herbal treatments in historical perspective. Not only can this help explain the evolution of modern medical practice and treatments, but it can help to document the active participation of our foremothers—women who safely guided our ancestors into this world and comforted and treated them when they became ill.
God bless.
Delia Parr is the author of fifteen historical and inspirational historical romance novels, including Hearts Awakening, Love’s First Bloom, and Hidden Affections. The mother of three grown children, she was a longtime high school teacher in southern New Jersey before retiring to Florida’s sunny Gulf Coast.
Books by Delia Parr
AT HOME IN TRINITY
The Midwife’s Tale
HEARTS ALONG THE RIVER
Hearts Awakening
Love’s First Bloom
Hidden Affections
CANDLEWOOD TRILOGY
A Hearth in Candlewood
Refining Emma
Where Love Dwells
Resources: bethanyhouse.com/AnOpenBook
Website: www.bethanyhouse.com
Facebook: Bethany House
;