Mercy of the Moon

by Jennifer Taylor

  He longed to kneel at her feet to remove her boots.

  “There are more pressing matters than my rest. This little one needs mother’s milk, and I am wondering if Sarah will ever be able to feed her. She must be stronger and calmer before we try it. And what about her milk-what if it is tainted?”

  “You cannot help anyone if you do not get your rest.”

  She ignored him. “We know Edward Carter declared her dead and had her buried quickly because he said she had brain fever. He also pulled poor George’s teeth. If this Edward Carter is cruel when pulling teeth, how must he be when delivering a baby? My head spins with it all.”

  She gazed at Sarah, who had begun to stir.

  “He studied medicine in London. Oh—do you perhaps know him? You mentioned that you studied in London.”

  “No, we’ve not met; he sounds very unpleasant.” He had never heard of Edward Carter, but his particular brand of cruelty was all too familiar.

  There was something in her eyes, something plaguing her she would not share with him. He knew those eyes well, already.

  “Tell me,” he said, “how long has it been since you’ve lain in your bed?”

  At the mention of “bed,” Samuel stirred. So he had heard the whole conversation. Ian realized he had grabbed her hands without conscious thought and quickly released them. “Go up and rest, Maggie. I will watch over everyone. Even guardian angels need sleep.”

  Ignoring him, she continued. “Why would this man want to hurt Sarah? Perhaps he is merely incompetent?”

  He would find out who this man was and protect Maggie from him, if need be.

  The baby began to cry. Maggie rose.

  “Please, allow me,” he said. “God knows I have a surplus of energy.”

  Feeding the babe would still the trembling hands he’d been trying to keep under the table, away from her watchful eyes. She thought him odd enough, he knew; he would not have her knowing just how damaged he was.

  She rubbed her eyes with her palms. “Why is that, do you suppose? You are the most annoying of men. Do you never tire?”

  “Oh yes,” he said. “I tire of myself.”

  She chuckled shortly. He would do his utmost to hear that sound again, at his own expense or no.

  He’d seen where she put the other bubby-pot and soon had the baby sucking mightily. It was good to be occupied, to help still the tremble that spread to his entire body, even organs, the humming inside his skin. He held this new life in his hands, so pure; if he could but return to the time of infancy when he was not plagued by this affliction.

  Maggie watched him quietly, arms folded on the table. To feel the strength of her arms surrounding him, anchoring him to this world...how could he ever be worthy of her?

  Samuel rose and walked over to Sarah, bending to examine her. “She looks better.”

  “Yes,” Maggie mumbled. “Her coloring is much improved, and she breathes easier.” And his angel dozed off, head on the table.

  “Thanks to our clever girl,” Ian said.

  Samuel stood before him. “Our girl?”

  What had he said? But it was true. Maggie was his. He felt the man’s strength, in the hands fisted at his sides, the labored rise and fall of his massive torso.

  “You will not take liberties with her, do you understand?”

  He met Samuel’s eyes. “I will do my utmost to honor her, for she is rare.”

  “You are good with words, but it is your actions that concern me. Keep your hands off her.”

  Before Ian left, he draped a shawl over Maggie’s shoulders and crept out.

  A ship’s bell clanged in the fog as he made his way up the Strand. If he climbed aboard that ship, he could escape the memories. The anatomy table with his professors and fellow students. The beauty of the words could not be restrained—latissimus dorsi, salpingopharyngeus- sal-ping-o, phar-in gee-us—over and over, the rhythm pounding through arteries like blood from the heart, the veins back to the chambers of his heart in a song, beating through him, caressing his skin, and he began to sing and knew of nothing else, but someone saying, take him to Bedlam.

  Today that ship would sail without him. He must find in nature’s storehouse the potion that would heal him, make him whole for her.

  Chapter Ten

  The next morning she came downstairs blessedly well-rested. Samuel had already gone to the shop, and Ruthie stood by her mother’s bed, gazing at her with unease, as if she both dreaded her presence and felt compelled to watch over her. Maggie sipped a cup of strong tea and joined Ruthie at her vigil.

  Sarah slept peacefully, her hand curled under her chin. The only sign of abnormality was the frenetic movement of her eyeballs behind the lids. As she puzzled over what that meant, someone rapped on the door.

  Martha Wilson, the baker’s wife bustled through the doorway carrying a basket heaped with rolls, meat pies, and gingerbread. Maggie had no need to look under the cover; she could smell each and every comestible. The baker’s wife put the basket on the table and took off her cloak, peering around avidly. “Is that a pot of tea you’ve just made?”

  It would not do for Martha to be lingering, but she could hardly refuse her friend some simple hospitality. The woman gaped at Sarah, who now shifted restlessly with her thumb in her mouth.

  Maggie set another teacup on the table and took the cloth off the basket. “Thank you for the glorious bread, Martha.”

  “Pardon me?” She tore her eyes from Sarah and snapped to attention. “You misunderstand, dearie. This basket is intended for Dr. Carter, but do take a slice of gingerbread. I know how much you love it.”

  Oh. “No, that’s quite all right. We have eaten. Wait-Edward Carter?”

  “That’s right.” She sidled over to the bed before she could detain her. “Mistress Sarah seems to be resting well.”

  “Come have your tea, Martha.”

  She gaped open-mouthed at Sarah. “Does she speak of her time, er, in the ground?”

  “She is tired, of course, like any new mother, but resting peacefully, as you can see.”

  Martha clasped her hands to her chest. “Holy Father, you have delivered her from the jaws of death, may you be praised. Your servant Sarah nursed my Isadora back to health, and I am forever grateful.”

  Sarah had nearly worn herself to nothing taking care of the smallpox victims a few months ago. Isadora’s case had been severe, and she was left with partial deafness in one ear and unfortunate pock marks. But she was alive, and that was more than could be said for many.

  Just then, Sarah opened her ice blue eyes.

  “Good morning, Mistress Sarah.” Martha waited, but Sarah merely stared, in that vacant, bone-chilling way of hers. Martha backed away from the bed. “Does she speak?”

  “No, she doesn’t, not just yet. She is a bit altered still.”

  “Oh my.” Martha plopped down at the table, hands shaking as she picked up her tea.

  Maggie brought the babe over and hoped that Joannie would arrive soon to feed her.

  “Look at her! She is a beauty,” Martha cooed.

  She handed her over. “How do your girls fair, Martha?”

  She looked up. “My Bess has a sore throat. I sent her and her sister over to Dr. Carter’s so he could look at it.”

  “We must go,” Maggie urged. “Now. You do not want Edward Carter touching Bess.”

  “Why ever not?” her friend scoffed. “He looks like a handsome, competent young lad and charming as a courtier, he is.” Her eyes lit with speculation. “And he is unattached.”

  “Martha, I have heard he is inept and causes pain where there need not be.”

  “Surely this cannot be true. You must be mistaken. And he says he can do what midwives do, only with instruments that ease the way.”

  “We must go now to stop him.” Maggie snatched her cloak off the hook by the fireplace.

  “You want him for yourself, do you?”

  She urged the woman on her feet and wrapped her cloak around her.
“Please. I will explain on the way.” She stopped at the barn to tell Samuel to watch Sarah in the cottage until Joannie arrived.

  She grabbed Martha’s arm and hurried her along. “I met Henry the night soil man yesterday morning, and he told me how Edward Carter pulled George’s teeth, more than were necessary and quite cruelly.”

  “What? Oh, my sweet girls!” She hastened her speed.

  A short time later, they stepped over the prone body of a sailor sprawled in front of the Shipwreck Hotel and entered the shop next door. Mrs. Wilson gasped like a banked sturgeon, her face alarmingly red.

  A painfully thin young man with wispy brown hair hovered in the small waiting room. “C-can I help you?” he stuttered. “D-doctor Carter is busy.”

  There was a high-pitched giggle in another room and a deeper answering chuckle. A light shone from an open door down a narrow hallway. She ignored the assistant’s feeble protests and headed for the sound, Mrs. Wilson in her wake.

  A blond man with exceedingly curly hair tied back neatly leaned toward Bess, his hand hovering above her knee. This must be Edward Carter. She gazed up at him from her chair, roses blooming in her cheeks. Isadora sat primly in a corner, shooting daggers at her sister. “Miss Bess,” he said, “I find your throat to be raw and red, but minor in its severity. Your ears are free of purulence as well.”

  Martha barreled into the room and took Bess by the arm and out of the room. “Bess, my lamb. Are you okay?”

  Following closely behind, Edward Carter smiled, showing straight, white teeth and dimples in each cheek. “Good morrow, ladies. May I be of service?” He wore a starched white shirt tucked neatly into breeches that displayed his muscular legs to advantage. Although he was not tall, he had a commanding presence and the powerful build of a dockworker. He bowed.

  Martha straightened her apron and tucked her hair back into her kerchief, blushing. “Dr. Carter.”

  “You must be the girls’ mother. I see the resemblance immediately. It is indeed a pleasure to meet you, madam.”

  She handed the basket of food over and curtsied.

  “Thank you most kindly,” he said. “Your payment far exceeds anything I might have done in service to your beautiful daughters.”

  The three women glowed with adoration.

  Martha tittered. “No, no. It’s glad we are that you have come to our town.”

  He nodded and turned toward Maggie. “Good afternoon, miss. I have not had the pleasure of your acquaintance, for if I had, I would surely remember you.”

  Martha introduced her and he bowed again, reaching for her hand. She rolled it into a fist and put it behind her back.

  His hazel eyes widened. “Oh dear. Have I done something to offend you?”

  “You could say that,” she mumbled.

  He quite ignored her comment and prattled on about how he’d heard of her skill as a midwife and until laying eyes on her had not thought it possible her beauty would outweigh her skill, and so on and so forth. He had a manner of widening his eyes to emphasize a point while spouting his drivel.

  She could not help observing he was exceedingly suntanned for someone who spent so much time indoors tending the sick. As she continued to give him the gimlet eye, he began to grow slack. With defeat, perhaps?

  “Mistress Wilson, I am relieved to report that Bess will recover, with her mother’s loving care.” At the word, “loving,” Martha fanned herself with her hand.

  Edward Carter sighed happily, looking toward the heavens. “Nothing makes me happier than finding my patients in good health.”

  She’d place a wager against that. Three pairs of eyes gazed at him with dog-like devotion.

  He examined his pocket watch. “I regret to say I am expecting another patient presently.”

  “Doctor,” Martha squeaked. “Forgive us for taking up so much of your time. You must come to tea soon. Our Bess here is an accomplished cook.” She raised her eyebrows for emphasis. “We must get home. I’m sure my husband needs us at the shop. Maggie, we will pray on our knees nightly for Sarah’s recovery, for she is very dear to us.”

  “Thank you.” Their gazes met, and she knew her friend meant every word. Martha and her girls chattered excitedly as they made their way down the street.

  Edward Carter looked at his pocket watch again and waited.

  “Sir, I would like a word with you.”

  He tilted his head. “How can I assist you?”

  “You can assist me by telling me why you so incompetently pulled poor George Forham’s teeth.”

  “Miss, you are mistaken.”

  “I saw inside his mouth. Do you not even know the basics of tooth-pulling? George’s father himself said you did pull an excess of teeth and caused pain that was not warranted.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I do not appreciate your accusations. You would believe the village idiot over a skilled physician?”

  “I have yet to see the skill.” Her face grew hot.

  “The silly boy would not hold still. He made it nearly impossible for me to perform the surgery.”

  “George?” She scoffed. “He is ever the docile lamb. If he struggled, he did so only because of your ineptitude.”

  “Now, see here, mistress.” His eyes grew hard as agates, and he poked his finger toward her chest. “I insist that you cease your slander.”

  She would not be put off by his demands. “And another matter. Did you deliver my sister, Sarah Ackerson and mistake her for dead? How could such incompetence occur? You mistook her for having brain fever.”

  “I assure you, every symptom indicated she had brain fever and indeed she was dead. That she is alive now is something I cannot explain.” A corner of his mouth lifted, and he drew a step closer. “Can you?”

  “What are you insinuating?”

  He smiled. “I have heard the rumors about town and smelled the fear. Perhaps there is a more satanic explanation for Madame Ackerson’s return...”

  His gaze crawled over her face. The menace was clear. She must keep her mouth shut about his treatment of Sarah, or he would fuel rumors that Satan returned Sarah from the dead.

  She longed to leave with the last word, but was speechless with rage and barely noticed the sudden downpour on the way to the cottage.

  ****

  Maggie made an effort to quench her anger upon entering the cottage. It was soon shoved aside by the sight of Sarah tossing and turning by the glow of the fire. Ruthie cringed in the corner. The exposed timbers of the ceiling, darkened with years of smoke, loomed toward her.

  Samuel paced with the squalling babe in his arms. “What am I to do with this lot, Maggie? The babe needs feeding, and I cannot budge Ruthie from her spot. I do not know how to make the babe’s food.”

  Maggie hurried over to Sarah and laid her hand on her sister’s forehead, then palpated her hot, hard breasts. It was as she had feared all along; she had milk fever. The midwife manual clearly said the life-threatening condition could be brought on by fear and shock alone.

  The only treatment available involved emptying the breasts of milk and dosing her with herbs for fever and discomfort. She would have to act quickly or the fever would worsen, and it would not take long for the poison to spread to the rest of the body. Sarah could very well die unless she could nurse the child as soon as possible.

  She hurriedly put warm compresses on her breasts to relieve her discomfort and set about restoring order to the chaos. “Samuel, I will fix some pap, and you will feed the baby just enough to make her cease her crying. Then Sarah must nurse her.”

  “How can a senseless woman nurse her child?” he asked.

  “I shall give Sarah some feverfew in her pap to relieve her pain, and you will feed her so she has the strength to nurse the child. We will prop her up, awake or no, and hold the child to her breast.”

  Comprehension lit his face. He wasted no time in grabbing the pot and feeding the babe.

  “Remember to give her just enough to stop crying.”

  Ruthi
e clung to Maggie, the cold sweat from her forehead wetting her apron.

  “Ruthie,” she grasped her bony shoulders. “What is amiss?”

  “I am afraid.”

  “Why, Ruthie?”

  “I lay down beside Mother. She was asleep too, I think. When she’s asleep, I can pretend she is the same mother I always had. Then, all of a sudden, her eyes opened. They were red, and she said—hissed, Aunt Maggie, a word I’d never heard.” She began to cry. “In a voice not hers.”

  She found herself longing for Ian’s presence, anchoring her with his bright, green gaze, his soaring voice settling on her like the dawn of summer.

  “What did your mother say, Ruthie?”

  She pulled away from her bosom. “That hissing voice chanted other words I’ve never heard, but I heard one word over and over. It sounded like...ee-shell.”

  At the utterance of its name, the presence lay waiting, heaving and powerful.

  Chapter Eleven

  Despite her unease, Maggie cradled Ruthie’s cheeks in her hands. “Ruthie, all is well. We will save your mother, and you will help. You must feed her some pap that has feverfew in it. It will lower her fever, and then she must feed the baby. It is time to be brave. Can you help me now?”

  Ruthie nodded. While Maggie and Samuel propped Sarah up, the little girl mixed the pap together according to her aunt’s instructions and began to feed her mother. The feverfew and Lena’s soporific ale would strengthen Sarah and perhaps relieve her pain, but would she be able to nurse the babe?

  As if he had been summoned, Ian arrived, carrying a lute. She followed his eyes taking in the scene. They lit on her, enlivening and calming, glistening like newly garnered mint. Her body seemed to drift toward him, toward the respite the mere sight of him brought her, but she hid her own desire and apprised him of the situation. He removed his coat and vest, rolled up his sleeves, and asked if Sarah had taken the feverfew yet. Maggie nodded.

  He reached into his coat pocket and showed her a packet of herbs, finely ground. “I concocted this for Sarah.” He added the mixture to the pap boat.

  “Thank you.”