by Lorin Grace
Amity looked up from her sewing. “My b-bab-by.” She laid the few pieces she had sewn together over her rounded middle.
“Do you think spring is here to stay—or should I say summer?” Mrs. Morton started the conversation.
After ten minutes of discussing the weather and the next color Amity should add to her blanket, Tim finished the chocolate and a piece of shortbread. “Well, ladies, I bid you good day.”
“Good-d b-b, Doc-c.” Amity smiled at him.
“Good day, Amity. Say hello to your father for me.”
She nodded her head and bent back over her miniature quilt.
Miss Brooks and Miss Page walked by as he exited the house. Miss Brooks raised her hand in greeting. There would be no good way to avoid her. “Good day, Miss Brooks, Miss Page. Are you enjoying the sun today?”
Miss Page answered. “Oh yes. I am! I think summer has just arrived. We are on our way to visit Sarah—I mean Miss Marden. She isn’t ill, is she?”
Someday the two would earn their places as town gossips, providing the widows that occupied the front pew at church all contracted a case of the putrid throat. Tim tried not to smile at the thought. “I did not see Miss Marden today. I do not believe she is at home.”
A door banged open behind them.
“Doct-t-or bab-by.” Awe filled Amity’s face as it did every time she felt the baby move inside her. Mrs. Wilson put her arm around the girl and took her back into the house.
Miss Page looked from the closing door to the doctor and back again. “Oh, is she—? Oh, the poor thing! How did that happen?” She covered her mouth as if trying to silence herself.
“As you see, that is my reason for visiting today.” And every day if that knowledge will keep you from questioning me daily. “It is best Miss Amity thinks of me as a friend for her lying-in, as it will likely be more difficult than most. Now, if you will excuse me, I have other patients to attend to.”
“Oh, that is why you come so often. I thought—” Miss Page stammered.
Tim had no wish to know what the women thought, but he did need to attempt to quell any prospective gossip. “If you would please keep Miss Amity’s condition to yourself … I doubt it will remain hidden much longer, but she doesn’t need everyone treating her any differently than they do now.” Most people acted as if they didn’t see her at all.
Miss Brooks fanned herself. “We wouldn’t tell her tale. The poor child. But did she get herself into this mess? With her eye and head the way they are, she isn’t even pretty.”
“Miss Brooks, whomever is responsible for taking advantage of the girl wanted only easy prey. If he is found, he will be prosecuted. Miss Amity deserves only love, not your censure. Anyone can see she’s done nothing to ‘get into this mess,’ as you put it. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go.” It took great effort for Tim to hold his tongue as he drove away. Not pretty! Obviously no one ever had taught Miss Brooks that the type of beauty that mattered had little to do with hair or eyes or clothes.
Two pounds of sugar, two pounds of flour, and a ginger root. Sarah finished her purchases, then packed them in her basket. Today’s outing to the store was a treat. Emma always seemed to stay in the present around Amity, but Sarah didn’t dare leave them alone. Sarah took advantage of Mrs. Morton’s visits, as the midwife and Amity were to the point Sarah no longer needed to carry the conversation. Mr. Swanson added a peppermint to the basket the same as he had for twenty years and gave Sarah a wink.
She heard the bell chime the half hour as she walked past the church. Tim was coming down the road ahead of her and slowed his doctor buggy to a stop just beside her. Sarah looked around. No one seemed to be watching, but she couldn’t be too careful.
“I missed you at the house today.”
“As you see, I needed to get a few things. We find ourselves baking more than we used to.”
“I could give you a ride.” Tim reached for the basket, but Sarah kept it away from him.
“No. It is a beautiful day, and you are headed the opposite direction. Good day, Doctor.” Sarah nodded and walked on. There. If her note writer were watching, she would see nothing to threaten Sarah about.
Turning the corner, she nearly bumped into Parmelia. “Oh, pardon me.”
“My fault. I thought you were teaching the summer term. Didn’t it start today?” Sarah shifted the basket.
“Oh, Mr. Colburn has me teaching only on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He said he had a niece … Anyway, I am glad for the time off. I can get some sewing done before fall.” Parmelia’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.
“How could he do that? Didn’t he promise you the job?”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter. Was that Dr. Dawes I saw you speaking to?”
Sarah looked back the way she had come, the buggy no longer in sight. “Yes. He stopped for a moment. He is very busy.”
“Oh? We had a lengthy conversation this morning. He is such a perfect gentleman, but so busy.”
“I suppose most doctors are.”
“Oh, I’ve tried to get him to go to a lecture and a choral with me, but”—Parmelia sighed—“I guess one could get used to it.”
“Mrs. Morton seems happy enough, so I guess one does.” Sarah shifted her basket. “Nice talking with you, but I must get home with these.”
“Oh yes. Good day.”
Sarah couldn’t help but wonder if Parmelia started every sentence with Oh when she taught as well.
As she locked up for the night, Sarah heard a scraping sound on the front door. She peered into the dark street but saw no movement, so she opened it. A paper fluttered in the breeze.
How benevolent of you, caring for little Amity.
The perfect excuse to see Dr. Dawes so often.
Does he know how much you and Amity have in common?
Seventeen
Friday morning dawned, bringing with it a chill wind that fluttered the paper Sarah held. The third note this week. Besides the one she’d found Monday night, there had been another Wednesday morning, which was now folded in the pages of her book upstairs.
I see you read my notes. Why do you not listen?
That conversation was much too long to be all business.
Encourage him to take someone to the concert on Saturday.
Tuesday’s conversation on the front porch had been all business—on her end at least. Tim had expressed concern about the date Emma had set for Amity’s lying-in, as well as worries over Emma’s condition. Although she didn’t seem to slip away around Amity, she had called Tim by various names. Too bad the note writer wasn’t a better eavesdropper.
Hoping to point Tim in the right direction—away from her—Sarah had tricked Tim into attending Saturday’s concert yesterday, when Noah Larkin had come selling tickets, by feigning that she didn’t have the fifty cents to cover the cost of one. She hoped the person writing the notes didn’t realize he had asked her first. Using Emma as an excuse, Sarah had declined, assuming he would chose to escort one of the women from the boardinghouse after she’d pointed out that few of them could afford to attend on their own.
According to the note, Tim’s second choice hadn’t met with her unknown correspondent’s approval either.
His mother? Try again.
Sarah laughed out loud. She’d had no idea he would ask his mother. How did that come about? He certainly hadn’t told her of his choice. The note writer must have ways of gathering information Sarah didn’t. Sarah pocketed the note. It would join the others upstairs.
John rode up in his wagon.
About time he visited Emma.
“Morning, Sarah. Is Ma here?” John didn’t wait for an answer as he walked passed her and went into the house.
After looking up and down the street a couple of times, Sarah followed him in and found him with hi
s mother in the kitchen.
John stood near the work table. “Can’t Sarah take care of that? I really need you.”
Emma continued stirring the contents of her bowl. “Sarah can’t cook for company.”
“But Lettie can’t come help today.”
Did he not listen during the family meeting last week? Emma was doing so well, with only minor lapses at night. She did not need to go out to the old house! Sarah balled her hands into fists. “John, can I talk to you for a moment? I think Piggy Peggy has a problem.”
Emma waved him out the door. “Go help Sarah while I put this in the oven.”
John stomped out the back door after Sarah. As soon as they reached the pigpen, she whirled around and looked him straight in the eye. It was hard to be intimidating when she was more than a foot shorter. “What are you doing?”
“I need Ma out at the house. Lettie sent a note saying she is ill, and it looks like it may rain, finally, and the south field is half frozen. I need to try to save the corn. I can’t risk having the children running around if this infernal weather takes another turn for the worse.”
“We agreed last week you would not take Emma out to the old house.”
“I didn’t agree to anything. All I heard was you telling tales about Ma not being in her right mind.”
Sarah moved her hands to her hips. “They weren’t tales. She has been so good this week. Helping Amity Barns has worked wonders to keep her in the present.”
“Well then, helping her own grandchildren should be better.” John turned back to the house.
Sarah fumed. Unless Emma refused, she had no say. If only Samuel were here.
Emma was just putting the cake in the oven when Sarah reached the kitchen. “Take this out at ten thirty and let it cool. To the beans, add yesterday’s ham at the same time. You’ll be fine without me. Mrs. Morton said she would be here the entire morning unless either Mrs. Holcomb or Mrs. Cobb started their lying-in early. Oh, good. You found my wrap.” She said to John, then she kissed Sarah on the cheek and left.
Amity took Mrs. Wilson’s absence in stride and worked on her next nine-patch square. Somehow Sarah remembered to remove the cake from the oven—only five minutes late. It didn’t look burned.
By the time the clock tower rang out the noon hour, Sarah concluded from Mrs. Morton’s absence that another citizen was about to come into the world. Tim knocked and came in—a pattern they had found less disruptive to Amity. He looked around the room. “Mrs. Morton went to assist Mrs. Cobb. Where is Mrs. Wilson?”
Sarah couldn’t stop her frown. “John came this morning. I think the meal is ready. Amity, would you like to come eat?”
Amity sniffed the air.
“Don’t worry. Emma made it before she left.”
As they moved into the kitchen, Tim leaned low and whispered in Sarah’s ear. “I don’t believe the tales about your inability to cook at all. You just don’t like to cook.”
Sarah shook her head. “I assure you I only abhor cooking because I do it so terribly. The entire Wilson family wouldn’t lie about it.”
They sat at the table. Sarah searched for a topic of conversation. Amity always listened, though sometimes she would participate. “I understand you are going to the concert with your mother on Saturday.”
“How did you hear that? I only told—My mother seems a bit miffed about it too. I am not sure why I invited her to go with me.”
Sarah wished he’d finished the sentence regarding whether she knew whom he’d told, but then, Mrs. Dawes-Morse could have told any number of people. “I think your problem is you are the most eligible bachelor in town. You probably upset more women than just your mother with your choice.”
“The woman I asked first wouldn’t go with me.”
“Couldn’t. There is a difference.” Sarah set three bowls of baked beans on the table.
“Yes, and when I must leave halfway through to attend to some emergency, my mother will forgive me. Name another woman who would do that.”
“S-Sarah.”
Tim laughed. “You are right, Amity. Miss Marden wouldn’t be upset with me at all.”
Sarah bent over her bowl and rolled her eyes. Tim thought entirely too much of himself.
The temperature dropped significantly while they had been eating lunch. The farmers were not going to like this, not after last night’s rain and freeze. Tim’s horse’s breath formed pale clouds. In February he would predict snow, but in June this could only mean rain.
The cold sliced through him—and a feeling he hadn’t experienced since the night before the battle at Plattsburgh overcame him. Something bad was coming, and he was not prepared.
He stopped by the livery to get an extra horse blanket. In this weather, someone was bound to need him, and leaving the horse cold and wet wouldn’t help anyone.
Next stop—home.
The greatcoat he’d worn during the war might come in handy. He grabbed the muffler his sister had sent him last winter and a set of gloves. On the way out, he raided the kitchen. The cook frowned when he took half a loaf of bread and a large wedge of cheese, but she didn’t complain.
At the office, he inspected his bag, adding a bottle of laudanum and some more bandages, as well as soap and a clean towel. He checked his bag again, then added a pair of forceps. With Mrs. Cobb delivering early, other women could too. There was supposed to be a lunar eclipse on Sunday, or maybe Saturday. At the moment he couldn’t remember other than some farmers arguing about it over the newspaper last week. Who knew how that could affect things both with weather and babies? But he did know they came at the most inconvenient times.
He arrived at the Mortons just as Mrs. Morton returned.
“Join me in a cup of tea, or coffee, or whatever we can find warm in the house.” She waited at the front door. “The Cobbs added one more boy to their family, well over seven pounds.”
The maid took both their coats and told them she would serve them in the parlor.
Tim was surprised to find the doctor downstairs. Mrs. Morton frowned and immediately started fussing over her husband.
“Don’t look at me that way. I couldn’t stay one more day in that bedroom. Don’t worry, dearest. They carried me like a baby. I didn’t walk.”
Mrs. Morton took the chair nearest the couch where Dr. Morton rested.
The doctor rubbed his splinted leg. “I always wondered what the old men complained about when they told me they could feel the weather changing in their bones. I am content to believe them now.”
The maid came in with a steaming pot.
Tim took a cup from her and warmed his hands. “I can’t say I ever wondered myself.”
“Don’t! It isn’t worth it. But I don’t like this weather at all. Tell me about your visits today.”
Tim and the Mortons conversed about the few patients he had seen and went over Mrs. Morton’s list of women set to deliver during the next three weeks—twelve in all. Only two were first-time mothers. Mrs. Morton had checked on both. Neither showed signs of early labor. Tim breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t delivered a baby for over a year and wanted to avoid it if possible.
They were just finishing when someone pounded on the door. A boy of twelve brought news of a brother falling and breaking his leg.
“And so it starts.” Dr. Morton raised his cup in salute as Tim pulled on his greatcoat.
As he trotted his buggy down the road, he thought he saw a snowflake in the fading sunlight. It had to be his imagination. It didn’t snow in June.
Mr. Barns came to collect Amity not long after Tim left. Sarah wished not for the first time that she owned a thermometer. It felt like January outside, not June. Just before dusk fell, John returned with Emma. He only stayed long enough to mutter a goodbye.
Sarah hel
ped Emma with her wrap, then led her into the kitchen.
“Oh, Mary, I am so glad you are here. Is Anna upstairs with the boys? I am sorry I took so long.”
No. Not that night! Sarah would beg Samuel to punch his brother for taking Emma home. Sarah had only been mistaken for her aunt, who had been murdered by deserters during the Revolutionary war, a couple of times before. Getting lost in that day never ended well for Emma, as in the end she had to remember the death of her own child as well as discovering her dear friend’s body.
“Emma, I am not Mary. I’m Sarah, her niece.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Anna isn’t married yet.”
Direct wasn’t working. Next up—distraction. “I made some baked beans. Why don’t you sit down for dinner?”
“They smell just like mine. You girls are going to be excellent cooks. But you must go. Look how dark it is getting. It feels like snow.”
“Emma, it is the 7th of June, 1816.” She emphasized the year. “It is not going to snow.”
Slap!
Sarah covered the side of her face and tried to rub out the sting.
“Don’t you ever lie to me again. Your father is going to worry about you not coming home, and you are trying to tell me it isn’t 1778? What is wrong with you?”
Tears stung Sarah’s eyes.
Eighteen
A draft wound its icy fingers around Sarah’s ankles as she descended the stairs. Hadn’t she banked the fire properly last night? White powder covered the floor. Flour? Emma wasn’t usually careless when she baked . . .
Sarah’s foot slipped.
Snow.
Impossible. Snow didn’t fall in June, and it shouldn’t be inside even in January. Not in Massachusetts.
Wind blew more snow through the open back door. She hurried to close it and threw the latch. Sarah closed her eyes and tried to remember if she’d locked up last night, and then her heart dropped.