He narrowed his eyes, his broad face dark with stubble. “You know how I feel about that, Maggie. No place for a lady.”
“I’m not a lady, I’m a midwife,” she quipped and was rewarded with a dark scowl from Samuel and a muffled giggle from Joannie. The sound of laughter helped to lessen her strong sense of unease about the strange word Sarah had uttered—“vengeance”—and the figurine that seemed to burn in Maggie’s hand. Surely she had imagined this, due to her profound fatigue!
“A foreign girl staying there is due to deliver in a fortnight or so,” she said. “Sarah had checked on her and did not like the looks of her. She said she was very thin and sporting bruises.” How odd to be talking about Sarah as if she wasn’t in the same room. But was she really with them? Yes, it was her body, but so far no sign or recognition of the woman they once knew. No time for these answerless questions; there were too many people to care for.
“Mind you don’t call attention to yourself,” Samuel said. “Do your business and get out. That includes Lena.”
She held her tongue, well accustomed to Samuel’s protective efforts. But she intended on doing as she pleased. “Samuel, you know Lena has been a good and tender friend.”
He considered Lena to be a bad influence because of her tough and outspoken ways. It was good Lena was tough—as alewife at the Siren Inn, she served the roughest of sailors and the Hawkhurst Gang to boot—she had better be tough. Two years ago, Maggie delivered Lena of a stillborn son and sat with her often in comfort. God had not blessed the alewife with the children she so dearly wanted. The women’s friendship grew, and she in turn mothered Maggie as she had never been mothered.
On the subject of mothering, little Ruthie had been neglected long enough. Maggie found her upstairs wrapped in a blanket. She lay down and curled her arms around the child’s shaking body.
“Ruthie, everything will be okay, I promise you.”
“She frightens me. Why does she not know me?” She rubbed her eyes with her fists.
“Ruthie, do you remember what Ian—Mr. Pierce said last night? Think of your mother as being in the middle of a very bad dream right now.” Maggie took her hands away from her face and covered them with her own. “I promise that I will set your mother to rights. Have I not always done what I promised?”
She nodded.
“Come downstairs with me, child. You must practice your stitches. With the new baby here, your mother will need your help with the mending.”
A few minutes later, as she watched the little girl’s progress, she wondered how would she accomplish what she’d promised Ruthie. First, she would take advantage of the quiet to question Samuel about Sarah’s delivery and hasty burial. He sat by the bed holding Sarah’s hand.
“Samuel, tell me what happened yesterday.”
“I don’t know, Maggie. I was working in the shop and heard a ruckus. Mr. Smyth brought Sarah home in his wagon. Sarah had been looking in on his wife and their newborn and went into labor. His son was fetching the new doctor, and he would meet us here.”
“New doctor? Oh yes, the one who set up shop a week ago? I have been so busy with deliveries that I have not crossed paths with him. What is his name again?”
“Edward Carter,” he said. “Come from Hastings. So the doctor came, and we had to put her upon the table. She screamed that her head hurt to bursting. The doctor sent me outside. I did as I was bidden. He said it was happening fast, and he would take care of her.”
He released Sarah’s hand, stood, and paced the floor. “I wanted to fetch the gossips so she would not be alone, but there was no time for the women to come. I sent Ruthie in, but he sent her out. Minutes later he came out holding the babe. He said Sarah had died of brain fever, and he scarcely had time to deliver the babe before she died. He said she must be buried quickly before it spread.”
Brain fever? She’d not heard of a case in the area for quite some time. There had been a smallpox outbreak several months ago. She and Sarah had nursed a goodly number of townspeople back to health. But a case of brain fever was certainly a cause for alarm.
At the sound of his agitated voice, Sarah stirred and mimicked his distress by tossing and turning upon the pallet. Maggie tucked the blankets up to her chin again and felt her forehead. Good, no fever, but she was still so cold, despite the roaring fire that filled the length of the unusually long hearth.
“Samuel, you are upsetting her, I think. Comfort her and tell me the rest of what you know.”
He nodded and crooned to Sarah for a time, and she soon quietened. He straightened again. “It happened so fast. Before I knew it, I was standing over her grave. Oh God, Maggie. I saw her. She was dead, I swear. This is my fault. I should have seen that she was not dead.”
She touched his hand. “Samuel, no. It is not your fault.” No, it was hers. She should have been there. “There must be a logical explanation for this, and I ask you these painful questions so we can find out what really happened.”
He spoke so softly she scarcely heard him. “Mayhap the Lord knew how good she was and that I could not have lived without her, no matter if she is never the same as she was.”
“Oh Samuel, the Lord does not bring people back from the dead. If He did, my mother would not have died in childbirth, and he would have saved my brothers and sisters from smallpox.”
Sarah was all she had left. She must help her recover from this strange state, and somehow her sister must nurse the child. But her milk had not come down yet—would it? The midwife’s manual might shed some light on Sarah’s condition. What did it mean when a delivering woman had a headache? What might the book say of Sarah’s humours, and what could be done to remedy her imbalance? Her feet and ankles had been swollen. As to her condition now, Ian had promised he would work on a remedy.
Maggie suddenly became aware of a most foul odor and realized she had not emptied the chamber pot in a good long while. As she donned her cloak, she heard the night soil man and his son making the rounds to empty the town’s cesspits: the creak of the wagon wheels, the tuneless whistling of Henry, the father. Normally, Henry came in the dead of night with his simple son, George. Due to the unpredictability of women’s wombs, she was often about town at that time and had occasion to converse with them frequently. It was nearing daylight. He would catch hell from Constable Stowe if he wasn’t finished soon. Some of the townspeople might complain if he was seen doing his work, for as long as he was invisible, they could all pretend they did not shit.
She wiped her hands on her apron and checked for the peppermint-scented handkerchief tucked in the pocket, in case the stench was more than she could stomach. She ventured out into the fog to say hello. Despite the nature of his job, Henry was quite likeable. He had manners like the royalty for whom he was no doubt named and always charmed her with his sweet, attentive chivalry. Henry had lost his wife during the last smallpox outbreak, despite their best nursing efforts. Sarah had thought he now carried a torch for Maggie. She knew better; it was merely that she didn’t ignore him like some folks did.
He doffed his hat and jumped out of the cart to fetch the wood barrel from the back of the wagon. He maneuvered a long pole through the slots at the top of the barrel, which enabled George and Henry to put the pole on their shoulders and carry the shite-filled barrel more easily. George, who ordinarily had a shy smile for her, lumbered out of the wagon. He held his jaw, tears streaking trails on his dirt-sodden face.
“Hi ho, George. How are you this morrow?”
Well accustomed to his slow responses, she waited patiently, but no response. “George, what ails you?”
He eyed her pitifully, rocking back and forth on his heels, holding a bloody rag to his mouth.
She walked closer, hanky over mouth. Henry approached and put his hand on George’s shoulder. “It’s his teeth,” he said, the muscles in his jaw clenched.
“Do you want me to take a look?” she asked. “Perhaps it’s festered.”
“Miss Maggie, don’t be troub
ling yourself for us.”
“Never mind about that—let me take a look.”
Henry pushed George forward. “Open your mouth.”
With painful effort, George opened his mouth to reveal a ragged crater where several teeth had been. Blood pooled in the sockets, and the surrounding area looked inflamed. It was a brutal, botched job.
“Who did this to you?” Maggie whispered, rage setting her stomach afire.
He whimpered.
“It’s the work of the new doctor in town, Edward Carter,” Henry said. “He has set up shop next to the Shipwreck Hotel. Offered us a deal. Since the one tooth had been paining him for ages, I sat him down.” Henry’s face hardened. “He only had the one bad tooth, but the doctor up and ripped three others, no warning, from the poor lad’s mouth. It’s a wonder you did not hear him screaming from here. I almost flattened the man, above my station or no. Well, I must have scared the bastard, excuse the language, Mistress Maggie, because he stopped.”
“Did you not inform the constable?”
He laughed shortly without humor. “Pete Stowe? Full-pocket Pete? He’d sooner take a bribe than help an honest man.”
“Why would this Edward Carter bribe him in the first place?”
Henry shook his head.
She could not resist patting George’s head, shite-ridden or not. “Don’t you worry, George. The new apothecary in town will ease your pain. His name is Ian Pierce, and he will be receiving customers today.”
She turned to Henry. “Take him there and tell him I sent you. Mayhap he will have some oil of clove or willow bark to ease the pain.”
She handed George her handkerchief and helped him place it upon his jaw. The peppermint smell might distract him for a while.
“And from now on,” she said. “Go to him should you need teeth pulled. He is skilled and has been trained as a doctor.”
Henry sketched an elegant bow, so contrary to the nature of his employment that she stifled a chuckle. Father and son set to work emptying her cesspit. She returned to the house.
She had no sooner checked on Sarah and ladled out the porridge when a pounding on the door and a cacophony of voices sharp with alarm shattered the silence. She eased the door open to find a group of townspeople gathered. Ben Sutton, the town magistrate, worked his way into the room, followed by Martha, the baker’s wife and her two grown daughters. The owner of the Shipwreck Hotel and some sailors reeking of gin forced their way in before she could slam the door shut.
Samuel stood sentry at the foot of Sarah’s bed and glared at the crowd. “Go home, all of you. My wife needs rest.”
“It’s true, then.” Sutton yelled and tried to get closer to Sarah, without success. “Mistress Sarah has come back from the dead.”
“Impossible, a miracle, Mistress Sarah brought back to life!” Martha screamed. Her daughters prayed aloud in unison.
This had to stop. “Kindly take your leave,” Maggie shouted above the din. “Miss Sarah needs quiet and warmth. I promise to apprise you of her condition on the morrow.”
The chaos continued as if she had not spoken.
One of the sailors cried, “Unnatural, evil, this is the work of the devil. Look at her.”
“Nonsense,” Maggie barked. “There is a credible explanation for this, and we will soon discover what happened.”
“Miss Maggie,” Martha called. “I will send my husband for the vicar.”
“She does not need the vicar. What she needs is warmth, food, and nursing. The vicar can wait.”
Martha gasped. “But the vicar must come. Miss Sarah has been resurrected from the dead.”
“Yes, yes, it is unnatural, is it of the devil?”
“It is of God,” Sutton cried.
“No! Satan has his hand in this,” a sailor argued.
“You are Godly people. You know that only our Lord Jesus was resurrected, and there is no evil in this good woman who has served you all.” Her voice rose above the babble.
Samuel would not leave his spot beside Sarah. It was a good thing, for she did not like the tone this was taking, and Samuel’s fists would not improve the situation. She summoned all the authority she could muster.
“You must leave us, good people. My sister has been a victim of incompetence, not divine intervention or the devil. Use your reason, I beg you. Employ yourselves by praying for this good woman. I must tend to her now.”
“Get out,” Samuel bellowed.
Finally they left. She bolted the door. The confusion and noise had upset Sarah. Her eyes were glazed with fear, and a spasm shook her. Samuel climbed in beside her and enveloped her with his arms, crooning to her. Once again, it seemed to calm her, but they were no closer to reviving her sister than the night before.
Word would spread like smallpox about her “resurrection,” and it didn’t help that Maggie had dismissed the need for the vicar. Soon they would have everyone coming to the cottage. They must try to keep the villagers away until they could discover and prove what had happened to Sarah.
She had forgotten to draw the curtains. Ed the butcher passed by the window. She let him in.
“My grandbaby is coming,” he panted and glanced over at Sarah. To his credit and no doubt also due to his preoccupation with his daughter, Betty, he said not a word about Sarah. “Can you come now, Mistress Maggie?”
“Yes, let me fetch my bag and cloak.”
She prayed for the strength and endurance needed to deliver another soul into the world.
Chapter Six
In her lying-in room, Betty, the young mother-to-be, lay in the rickety bed, screaming and shaking her fists. “William Hobson, I swear you’ll never touch me again.” Her face shone like a wet beet, and sweat poured off her body as another wave of labor pains hit.
Young Will slumped against the wall. “Miss Maggie, is my Betty dying?”
The midwife skirted the rough-hewn bed and patted Will on the back. Despite preoccupation with her own concerns, she laughed inwardly at the shock on the young man’s face. He looked as if he’d been slapped with a haddock. He slid down the wall, face in his hands.
She spoke slowly, meeting his eyes. “No, Will. She is not dying. This is what a woman must endure to bear a child.”
All laboring women need the comfort of other women during their travail, and in Betty’s case it was her family. Betty’s sister held a wailing child on one hip, bending over to pat her sister’s arm with the other in silent support.
On the other side of the tiny room, Betty’s grandmother guffawed. She sat in the room’s only chair, jowls shaking with laughter, gnarled finger pointed at Will. “Fear not, Sir Randy,” she said to him. “Come spring the girl will be singing a different tune.”
Betty’s mother, Margaret stood at the foot of the bed. “Mother, must you be so vulgar?”
Maggie helped William up. “Come, take heart. Your young bride is doing well for her first time. She probably doesn’t mean what she says. Besides, it’s a good sign she has the energy to curse you.”
Ed the butcher burst into the room, carefully averting his eyes from the bed. He grabbed Will by the arm. “What are ye doing in here, boy? Can ye not see Mistress Maggie is working? I’ll give ye a bit of whisky to calm yer nerves.” He winked at her and thrust the protesting lad out of the room.
Will’s exit was timely. Betty’s screams increased in volume and intensity, and there was no time to coddle the lad. At this stage of delivery, a woman believes she will die and indeed, sometimes she does. She could not think about what Sarah must have gone through, not when she had a child to bring forth. First the laboring mother must be calmed.
In truth she did not excel at comforting, for that was Sarah’s gift. It did not help that the child in the room screamed in unison with his aunt. She took a deep breath for patience. Her sister had an abundance of it. She did not but would do her best.
“Eunice,” she addressed Betty’s sister. “Are you trying to frighten your poor boy back into the womb? Give him t
o his grandfather for a spell.”
Betty’s screams continued, and Maggie could not help but think they were a far cry from the screams of ecstasy she might have made in the begetting of the child. She would not know about ecstasy; in light of what she’d seen over and over in her daily work as a midwife, she’d yet to meet any man who could entice her to suffer the rigors and possible mortality of childbirth. But the singer, the apothecary, strange man with eyes the color of spring, his touch warming her like...what possessed her? Now was not the time to think of that man.
She patted Betty’s thigh. “It shouldn’t be long now. Allow me to examine you to see how you are progressing.”
She did so gently and reassured mother and daughter that all would be well. God willing, she’d deliver in the next hour or two and none too soon. Maggie had not slept in two days and likely would not sleep tonight, between the babe’s pap feedings (she could not ask Joannie to tend three infants during the night) and Sarah’s precarious health. Last year’s raucous May Day celebration had yielded an abundance of births this February, and with Sarah incapacitated she was the only midwife in town. She must get some sustenance into her sister somehow or she would perish.
She stood up straight, flexing her shoulders back. All that mattered now was the task at hand. The room echoed with silence. At this time in labor, nothing else exists but the mother and the fight to bring forth her child.
At the next pain, Betty gasped, “I must push!” She lay panting, her immense belly rock hard, eyes glazed.
“Push, then,” Maggie urged.
She pushed, gasping for breath between moments of sweat-soaked rest, veins in her neck bulging, eyes wide and staring. And before long, with one last push, the glistening, blood-covered head appeared.
“That’s right, sweeting. Just the shoulders now.”
Praise God, the babe cried already and only its head out of the birth passage.
“Do you hear it calling to you, Betty?”
One last guttural groan and the baby slid out and into Maggie’s waiting hands. “Oh, well done, Betty. It’s a boy.” She cleaned him as quickly as possible.
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