He bent down and picked a lute off the ground, played a few measures, and began to sing.
“Is your cup of love half full?
Desire your man to love like a bull?
My tonic with his morning ale
Will make your love life hearty and hale.
Hearty and hale, ladies, hearty and hale
Hearty and hale with his morning ale.”
She was astounded to hear “huzzahs” from the men, and the “ladies,” young and old, tittering and preening and opening their purses. The chandler’s wife grabbed his sleeve and chattered away. Maggie hadn’t seen her so animated in years.
Ian raised his eyebrows in amusement and busied himself taking their coins as they grasped their bottles. In a matter of minutes, his neat row of tonics disappeared.
Suddenly, as if she had called out to him, he glanced up, and their gazes met and held. In his green eyes, a distant tide pounded toward her, pulsing with life, the warm current carrying her forward, his smile lifting her into the morning air.
And at that moment, in the presence of the whole town, she stumbled on her numb foot and fell, the wet cobblestones and the slime of fish slapping her cheek. She cursed herself.
Then there he was, crouching down beside her, face close, those sea eyes framed by dark lashes, brows knitted in concern. “Miss Maggie, have you hurt yourself?”
She shook her head, waves of dizziness washing over her.
He scooped her up and set her on her feet, as if she weighed no more than sea foam, and took a clean handkerchief out of his pocket, wiping her face, fingertips skimming off pebbles, dirt, and the odorous fish entrails. “You have scraped yourself,” he murmured. “Are you able to walk?”
She fell against him into the warm, hard plain of his chest and the muscles of his thighs. The spice of a far-off island wrapped around her and warmed her center like a foreign sun.
He steadied her with hands on waist, warm breath ruffling her hair. She stared at the muscular column of his throat, and her fingers crept up of their own volition to feel the life pulsing in his veins. If she could only sink into the warmth and mystery of his body, where she might feel safe and free of worldly concerns and the endless toil that awaited! For one brief moment they stood, all else forgotten, the weight on her shoulders carried away by the ocean tide in his eyes.
Widow Jenkins gasped. “Shameful conduct!”
Ian rumbled into Maggie’s ear, his warm breath tickling the tiny hairs on her neck. “Well, you must give me credit. My intentions to distract the townspeople from your family’s trials worked for a while. I’d heard about your visitors this morning.”
She stepped back abruptly. Ah, so that explained his performance. Why would he do that for her, make a fool of himself singing and the like? But he hadn’t—both the ladies and men had enjoyed his display thoroughly. It was her he’d made a fool of, causing her to forget herself so close to him.
“Such a shameful display of lust,” Widow Jenkins crowed. “So unbecoming of a midwife.”
“We seem always to be colliding, Mistress Maggie.” He lifted her hands up and examined them closely, pulling yet another clean handkerchief out of his pocket. “You are bleeding—a sharp stone, no doubt.”
She could only gawp at him.
He sniffed close to her mouth. “Why, you are fox’d,” he whispered. The corners of his mouth twitched. “A newly discovered side to my Maggie.” He tilted his head. “One might say you’ve had a thump on the head with Sampson’s jawbone.” He took his handkerchief and very slowly brushed something off her cheek.
She glared at him.
“You’re dizzy as a goose.” He chortled softly.
She swatted at him and missed. Like a douse of cold water, she became aware of their audience. The men guffawed and pointed, and from the women came hisses of “unseemly, how very unseemly,” and “is this how our midwives behave these days?”
A flush of embarrassment crawled over her. What had she been thinking? She broke Ian’s grip on her hands and ventured over to the vegetable stall to purchase turnips and potatoes. Mr. Simmonds wriggled his eyebrows. She glared at him and slapped the coins into his hand, felt a tap on her shoulder, and there was Ian again.
“Mulled cider and gingerbread.” He placed it into her hands and steered her to the bench under the trees that lay just behind his stall. He spread his cloak on it before she sat down. “You need taking care of, Maggie.”
Gingerbread! She could never resist the spicy treat. “You caused a scene back there and single-handedly tarnished my reputation,” she said with mouth full and took a sip of the cider to wash it down. It was hard to be angry while eating gingerbread.
He sat at a respectable distance and looked comically askance at her comment. “Forgive me, madam, but it was you who toppled over and displayed your toothsome legs.” His long mouth quirked at the corners, and the dimple under his eye appeared. “I will cherish the memory.”
She sighed in anticipation of the shame Samuel would be heaping on her. Her conduct had always been above reproach. What was it about this man that made her forget herself and all she’d worked for in this town? He made her want to feel, feel her body, feel him. It must not continue.
She handed him her cup. “Master Go-Lively. How can you not be tired after such a night?”
He smiled wryly. “I do not need much sleep. Sometimes it is not such a blessing.” He smacked his head. “Zounds! I have left my booth unmanned long enough. I must return.”
“Mr. Pierce. I must give you a list of medicines to fill. I am dangerously low on supplies, and I need them today. There is a girl in need of them at the Siren Inn.”
He regarded her for a moment. “I will be delighted to bring it to you later this afternoon. Will that do?” His eyes glinted and set off that spark in her center again, which would not do.
No, it would not do at all. “By all means, your adoring public awaits you. Do you not have more songs to sing?”
“Have I more songs? My sweet lady, I think in songs. I dream in songs.” He bowed like a courtier. A chorus of titters echoed through the crowd, and she followed him with her eyes despite herself.
He was the strangest man she’d ever met, making a fool of himself in the market square without a care to what anyone thought, charming all the women without angering the men. What was it about him that caused her to allow the liberties he took?
There was only one kind of man, surely like every other—looking after what he needed with no thought of anyone else’s welfare. What could he want from her, the workhorse? Only due to fatigue and shameful inebriation had she allowed him to treat her thus. He would not have that effect on her again. She lowered her head and took the shortest route to the cottage.
****
The overpowering smell of the baby’s urine-soaked clouts assaulted Maggie’s nostrils as she entered the cottage. Ruthie stood swaying by the fire with the baby in her arms. Maggie took off her cloak and opened the curtains, letting a weak light into the room. Samuel had certainly been busy this morning. During her absence, he had built a rough-hewn frame for a bed for Sarah, with leather lacings on the bottom and a mattress of straw.
“I helped Father build it,” Ruthie said vaguely.
“Ruthie, where is Joannie? She was to stay for the day.”
She clutched the baby closer to her chest. “Her husband came to fetch her this morning. Jimmy fell and cut open his head.”
She sensed an undercurrent of fear in her voice. “Did you think to tell her to fetch Mr. Ian?”
“Mistress Joannie sent her husband for Mr. Ian and ran home.” She glanced at her mother, opened her mouth, and then as quickly compressed her lips.
She followed Ruthie’s gaze. Sarah lay inert as a corpse, eyes wide open, and unseeing. She felt bone deep unease without knowing why. “What is it?”
“I am afraid, Aunt Maggie. Please do not leave me alone. There is someone here with us. I can feel it.”
It was too m
uch to ask of such a young girl to be left alone in this situation. She enfolded her niece in an embrace and laid her head against her bosom, the infant in her arms squirming between them.
What had she been thinking, letting Lena ply her with ale, cavorting about in the market square as if she’d not a care in the world? Granted, she didn’t know Ruthie was there alone, but she shouldn’t have tarried so.
“Where is your father?”
“In the shop,” she murmured. “Remember? He said he had much to do today. He stopped in while Joannie was still here, feeding my sister. I did not want to disturb him.”
Such a sense of duty in a young girl! “Ruthie, why are you afraid?”
She shook her head. “I told you. There is someone here with us, Aunt Maggie, and Mother is not Mother anymore.”
“You are tired, Ruthie, that is all. It plays tricks on us sometimes.”
Ruthie shivered. “No, something happened. I had just put Sissy to bed. The fire had gone down, and I climbed upstairs to fetch an extra blanket for Mother.” She paused and held onto her tighter. “When I returned, the fire was roaring. You must believe me, Aunt Maggie!”
“Ruthie, surely your father had slipped in and stoked the fire whilst you were upstairs.”
“No. I was only gone a minute.”
“What you are saying makes no sense, dear. Perhaps you just lost track of time.”
“The fire lit up the whole room, and I looked at Mother and she was whispering—no, hissing—something I could not understand, and her eyes looked like a cat’s in the dark, but red.”
“My sweet girl. Lay the babe down and come sit with me by the fire.” Maggie gathered Ruthie and held her against her breast as they rocked. “Do not worry, child. This will all pass, and you will have your mother back.”
How could she have been so thoughtless? While she’d been touching a man’s neck in front of the whole town, this poor child had been beside herself with fear. The best thing for Ruthie was to send her outside to enjoy the remainder of market day. She had spent too much time alone. Who wouldn’t be anxious seeing their mother in this state? Even she, a level-headed woman, felt unsettled in Sarah’s presence.
“Ruthie,” she repeated. “Do not worry. Everything will be okay.” She wiped her tears. “You have worked hard and deserve some time at the market. Let me plait your hair, then go and get yourself a treat and bring something home later for your father as well. Play a while with Ellen. Perhaps you can help her mother with the chickens.”
She jumped up and was ready to go before Maggie could remove her boots to rub her foot. The baby mewled in her cradle. She fetched the pap Ruthie had prepared, spooned it into the bubby-pot, and began to feed her. She was a mighty little babe. She seemed to be thriving, against all odds, and most of this was due to her sister’s loving care. What could she do for her own sister? She must try to feed Sarah after putting the babe down. She mulled over Ruthie’s story about the fire. Of course it was a story; a fire could not start by itself. Lack of sleep and trauma must have wreaked mischief on Ruthie’s mind.
She put the babe in her cradle and approached Sarah. She appeared to be sleeping. Her eyes shot back and forth underneath her lids as if she dreamt. The pallor of her face matched the pillow but for two red spots upon her cheekbones. Her lips were dry and chapped, forehead warm and dry. She must have fluids and food. The cloth that held her hair had become loose. As Maggie leaned down to fix it, she saw the dirt in her ear. She badly needed a bath; being immersed in the warm water might be comforting. She examined her sister’s privities and noted her bleeding was average for a woman who had recently delivered.
Next, she ladled out a cup of the beef broth she’d put on the fire to cook that morning. If she would take just a little of this...she propped her head up and held a spoonful of the rich liquid to Sarah’s lips, but she tossed her head and a great tremor ran through her, from head to feet.
She opened her eyes and grew very still. Her eyes changed from blue to the color of red clay, and they stared into Maggie’s very soul. As surely as her heart pounded, so too did she feel the being in the room and a heat that roared beyond the fire.
A voice echoed from Sarah’s lips, “Avenge them. We have saved her. You must avenge the women. Venganza.”
Sarah’s arms rose stiffly into the air, fists clenched.
She struggled to hold her down. “Sarah, all is well. Be still. You are safe.”
Then, as quickly as it had come the presence disappeared, leaving Maggie’s skin chilled to the marrow.
Sarah’s eyes had returned to their normal ice blue, and her arms rested at her sides. Her fists uncurled. The figurine of the old woman with the snake on her head, the one that Maggie had thrown into the fire, rolled out of her hand.
Chapter Eight
Cold sweat trickled down Maggie’s back as she grasped the figurine. She had thrown this into the heart of the fire last night. How could it have returned to Sarah’s hand? Ruthie would never have given it to her, afraid of her mother as she was now. She was not the only one who was afraid.
The room had returned to normal, and Sarah lay in her usual state, her eyes once again sightless and blank, not like a moment ago, when they looked into her as if they could see into her soul. She felt the echoes of the admonition—avenge them? Were there more women who had suffered as Sarah had? And now this spirit possessed her. Maggie could no longer deny it or the current of fear that ran through her.
She examined the figure again, the fierce hawk nose, a back bent like all old women, from a lifetime spent in labor for others. Was she evil, this woman? Surely she must be, with a snake coiled atop her head. Maggie felt its power. How had this object come to be in Sarah’s hand? Tremors ran through her body and all rational thought vanished.
Sarah moaned and put her thumb in her mouth, sucking noisily. She had an instinctive need to suck, a need for that primitive comfort. Had fear so overcome her she must again become a babe in the womb? Maggie settled her child back in the crook of her arm; she sucked on the mixture as if her life depended on it and indeed it did.
And then it came to her. She wondered why she had not thought of it before. If Sarah had in essence become a babe again, then she must be fed like a babe with the pap boat, immediately. A surge of hope quickened the midwife’s pulse.
A shadow blocked out the weak sun shining through the window. A man stood outside, stock still. Upon seeing that he’d been observed, he disappeared. She sighed and answered the knock. How long had Vicar Andrews been standing in front of the window, staring?
“Good afternoon, Vicar.”
Vicar Andrews bowed awkwardly, hat in hand, revealing a poorly powdered wig. He had taken over for Vicar Simmons a few months ago while he took the waters in Bath for a lung infection. Young Vicar Andrews reminded her of an adolescent boy who’d woken up and found himself a foot taller, not yet accustomed to his new body and still learning how to operate it. She ushered him in and hoped against hope his visit would be brief.
Warm hazel eyes searched her face. “Miss Maggie, I have come to pay you a visit, to see the new little angel, and to inquire after Mistress Sarah.” He bent over her and murmured, “My, she is so very small.”
Without warning he boomed, “Look at you, a tiny servant of God, ready to do His bidding.” The baby flung its arms and legs out in alarm. “Oh my goodness—my pardon.”
She jiggled her niece a little, and she soon calmed down again. Will he not just leave so she could feed Sarah with the bubby pot? Vicar Andrews continued to gape, a beatific smile upon his face. As the moment dragged on, Maggie realized the object of his perusal had become the shape of her bosom under her apron.
She cleared her throat. His head flew up. Two spots of red stained his wide cheekbones. Poor boy, he clearly had not meant to gape. The innocent look on his face made it hard for her not to like him. He was painfully young. She imagined what her younger brother would have been like at that age had he not died of smallpox.
Oh dear. Did he imagine her as the future vessel for those children?
“Please, Vicar.” She motioned to the rocking chair. “Won’t you sit and have a cup of tea?”
He shook his head, upsetting his wig again. “No, thank you. I can’t tarry long. Widow Saunders is in need of comfort. Have you heard about her husband’s tragedy?”
“Yes, he went down with his fishing boat, did he not? I am most sorry for it.”
The vicar nodded and wandered over to where Sarah lay. “Is she sleeping?
“Well,” Maggie said. “Yes, I think so.”
He stepped back. “She is sucking her thumb. It is most unnatural,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“Why does she do it?”
“I do not know, Vicar, except that I think it gives her comfort.”
He nodded and cleared his throat. “Miss Maggie, I would be remiss if I did not tell you the people of the town are afraid and confused by Mistress Sarah’s—return. Already they have come to me with their concerns. They say either Satan has had his hand in this or God has wrought this miracle.”
He suddenly looked years older. “I have read accounts of the Inquisition, and my heart aches for the innocent souls that suffered in the hands of ambitious men who created a climate of fear so horrible that neighbors would send neighbors to the dungeon. I strive to be a man of reason.”
He paused for breath. “In the two months since I have been in King’s Harbour, I have heard story after story of how you and Miss Sarah nursed the townspeople during the smallpox. And your care and succor of the women in this town as they suffer the sins of Eve is beyond reproach. In truth, I have only seen virtue and goodness in your conduct, and I will do my utmost to calm their fears, but they need reassurance. Can you tell me what happened?”
Mercy of the Moon Page 6