Laurie Alice Eakes - [Midwives 03]

by Choices of the Heart

  “Of course you did.” Esther brushed limp hair away from Bethann’s brow. “A body always wants to run away from one’s own guilt.”

  Bethann flinched but asked, “Were you guilty? I mean, did you deserve the lesson?”

  Esther stared down at the floor, her still loose hair forming a veil to hide her face but not her hands, which twisted together at her waist. “I didn’t think it was my fault at the time. Now, I don’t know. You hear enough bad about yourself, you start to believe it.”

  “You sure do.” Bethann’s face softened.

  “We never said—” Griff clamped down on the words. They just weren’t true. They had all said things critical of Bethann. They had made her name a byword on the mountain with the continuation of the fighting. As apparently Esther’s name had become a byword for an evil female in Seabourne, if those letters were only partly to be believed. He ached to help her. He needed to help his sister.

  “I shouldn’t have said anything against you, Bethann,” he began, “even amongst kin. You belong here.”

  Esther belonged with her family—loved, cherished, guided to the kind of husband she deserved.

  “You were happy enough to let me go away.” She glared at him.

  “I was.” Griff cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. You don’t need to leave us.” He read her bleak expression and added, “I want you to stay where we can take care of you.”

  “Even now after I—after today?” Again the challenge with a hint of antagonism.

  Griff closed the distance between them and took one of Bethann’s hands in his. “Especially after today. If you’d like to go back to the house and your own room now . . .” He shot Esther a glance, but she didn’t look up.

  His heart skittered in his chest as though it were a caged bird. He longed to go to her, pick her up, and hold her until she was at home with him. She was too quiet. He didn’t want to leave her. But he couldn’t take care of his sister and stay beside Esther. If he left Esther alone, she might not be there when he returned.

  And he would return if the Lord was willing. But right then, Bethann needed him, all of them—kin and evidence of God’s love for them, for her especially.

  “Will you stay, Esther?” he managed to ask.

  She didn’t answer but stopped twisting her fingers together.

  “I don’t want to leave you—” he began.

  “Not the pretty girl,” Bethann muttered with a sneer.

  No, not the pretty girl, but the one who spoke her mind a bit and was often cool to cold yet warmed him with a glance. Of course he didn’t want to leave her, after she had just admitted to something more awful than he’d imagined when he read the letters.

  “Will you come to the house with us?” he asked Esther.

  She shook her head, still not looking at him. “I need to be alone.”

  For a chance to run again?

  “I’ll be back,” he said to Esther, then offered Bethann both his hands.

  She took them, but her legs seemed too weak to hold her. She wouldn’t let him carry her, so he lifted her to her feet and walked her to the door with his arm around her waist to support her.

  “Feed her,” Esther said at last. “Give her as much food as you can get her to eat. And don’t let her sleep for at least another four hours.”

  “I’ll stay up with her all night.” Griff looked back at Esther.

  She was pale but composed and looked as isolated and immovable as a rock in the center of the New River.

  If he remained with Bethann to ensure she was all right, he would leave Esther in isolation, where she had placed herself. As she thought she deserved to be because . . . He could only guess from what little information she had given them, shared for Bethann’s sake.

  All the way across the yard, he kept glancing back at the schoolhouse in the hope of seeing her come to the door, raise a hand to him, ensure his patient was all right. He wasn’t all right without her. He’d abandoned her. He’d abandoned Bethann. He’d abandoned Zach in his attempts to maintain peace, not trying to learn who had now stabbed them both, if the person were one and the same.

  And how many left-handed throwers lived in the mountains?

  Griff glanced back at the schoolhouse one more time. Esther had closed the door. It could have been a slap in the face. Yet he didn’t blame her. She had shared something intensely private and painful for Bethann’s sake, and they had walked away from her as though they believed the worst of her, like the people she must have considered friends had walked away from her. All those people, some of whom had gone to her church. No wonder she thought God didn’t care.

  No wonder Bethann thought no one cared. Her family defended her honor by killing one another off, and in the end, no one kept thinking it was for her honor; it was for personal revenge for previous injuries. The man who had seduced Bethann, the twenty-five-year-old spinster, was married—if not happily, as his wife had given him no children—and still walked free. Better than free. He was respected for his skills. Griff himself treated the man with respect and trusted him, gave him a position of authority, while being willing to send his sister away.

  He held her close for a moment. “Bethann Tolliver, don’t you ever do anything so stupid again. Promise.”

  “I might have killed the—the baby,” she whispered in response. “Esther said it might not—I’m an evil woman, Griff. I should go away.”

  “Remember what the preacher says. God loves us. If you repent, it’s all forgiven. And He never stops loving us.”

  “Huh. Everyone always stops loving me.”

  “We haven’t.”

  But they had, finding her an irritation, a burden they bore because she was kin.

  They reached the back door, and Momma appeared, looking more rested than she had earlier. She drew Bethann to her for a long, silent embrace, then set her in Pa’s chair with the arms. “I have rabbit stew for you.”

  “I’m not hungry.” Bethann turned away from the table.

  “Esther says we need to feed her,” Griff pointed out. “As much as we can.”

  If Momma would stay with Bethann, he could return to Esther, assure himself she was all right. He kept seeing her standing alone in the schoolroom with the plain, hard benches and no adornment except herself, with her dark veil of hair hiding her face from him as though she were shamed by it.

  And maybe she was. Maybe her beauty had led her astray.

  He sank onto the bench beside the stove, though it was too hot there for the summer night. He watched Momma coax Bethann to take a few bites of the savory stew and wished for Esther to be beside him where he could protect her. If she could talk to him . . .

  As though she would confide in a crude man like him. No wonder she had flinched away from him so much. The thought of a man touching her must have repulsed her. She hadn’t said, and he was only guessing, but he figured his guess was right. Whereas Bethann had been willing, Esther had not. No wonder she ran off into the woods when Zach grew too friendly at the dance.

  And yet she had let Griff hold her, kiss her. Before that, she claimed she didn’t like to be touched, yet she sat close beside him and let him hold her hands when teaching her the dulcimer.

  Because he was doing something for her. She was repaying him for his help, as she had repaid him for rescuing her on the mountain that night. And he thought she cared.

  He scrubbed his hands over his face as though that could wipe away memory, thoughts, fears.

  He surged to his feet and began to pace the kitchen. He needed a run up the mountain, a swim in the pool, anything but being caged there in the house while Esther was alone. Yet he must stay with his sister, help Momma watch Bethann to ensure she was all right and didn’t do something crazy again.

  He strode to the parlor and returned with his dulcimer tucked beneath his arm. “If you don’t think it’ll wake the young’uns,” he said to Momma.

  “Naw, go ahead. If it does, they’ll like it.”

  So he played.
He strummed and plucked and let the music flow from his fingers through the strings and then his voice and into the night.

  I’m just a poor, wayfaring stranger.

  I’m traveling through this world of woe.

  Yet there’s no sickness, toil nor danger

  In that bright land to which I go.

  I’m going there to see my father.

  I’m going there no more to roam.

  I’m only going over Jordan.

  I’m only going over home.

  I know dark clouds will gather ’round me.

  I know my way is rough and steep.

  Yet golden fields lie just before me

  Where God’s redeemed shall ever sleep.

  I’m going there to see my father.

  He said he’d meet me when I come.

  I’m only going over Jordan.

  I’m only going over home.

  I want to wear a crown of glory

  When I get home to that good land.

  I want to shout salvation’s story

  In concert with the blood-washed band.

  I’m going there to meet my Saviour

  To sing his praise forever more.

  I’m just a-going over Jordan.

  I’m just a-going over home.

  32

  Esther stood in the doorway to the schoolhouse and drank in the music like nourishment. The rich timbre of Griff’s voice smoothed over her spirit like a healing balm, an ointment guaranteed to soften the tensest of muscles.

  Or melt the hardest of hearts.

  Run. Run. Run, her spirit cried. Get away before you’re lost.

  Her leg muscles tensed as though she would take flight that moment, race down the track leading back to civilization, back to a family who did love her, who always wanted the best for her. Yet she could not go. Could not. Could not. Could not. But how could she stay now that she had all but told them the truth about herself, told them how she had been broken beyond repair?

  It revolted Griff. She felt his tension, knew the instant he released her he would never want to touch her again. He got himself and his sister away as fast as he could.

  Yet he’d asked her to stay.

  Of course he had. She was useful to them. Bethann still needed help. If the opium had destroyed the life inside her, she would find herself in serious trouble. Esther hadn’t said so, but that could kill her where the laudanum had failed. Perhaps Esther’s skills would be good enough to save Bethann in such a horrible event.

  But she had helped to save Zach. Dear Zach, who thought her pure and innocent and next in line to the angels. She should have told him the truth straightaway, squelched any notions he possessed about making her his bride. But she feared being sent away. She wanted to stay. Knowing now that the Tollivers would likely ask her to leave, she wanted nothing more than to remain right where she was, teaching the children and learning the mountain by day, drinking the music by night.

  I know dark clouds will gather ’round me. I know my way is rough and steep . . .

  Not a cloud marred the sky, though the sultry stillness of the air and the rings around the three-quarter moon riding high above the treetops promised rain before dawn. It would keep them all inside, other than doing their chores. She would be shut out, away from the love and laughter, away from the music, away from Griff. All for the best. She knew better than to let herself care. He, like Zach, had been attracted to her outward beauty. When he learned what lay inside, the desire for her left.

  She closed the door and slammed the bolt home, then retreated to her room. The hairpins and length of ribbon lay on the washstand. She snatched up the former and began to wind up her hair, draw it back, and skewer it into the most severe bun she could manage. If anything, that was worse. It emphasized the fine bones of her face rather than obscuring them. With her hair down, she looked like a wanton. What had Griff said? It gave a man notions about seeing it spread out on his pillow.

  If the mirror had belonged to her, she would have smashed it against the wall.

  She put out the light so she couldn’t see herself and climbed into bed. Every bone and muscle in her body ached, her heart worst of all. She had known too little sleep over the past few weeks, and now sheer exhaustion overcame her will to keep listening to the music drifting through her window.

  But sleep didn’t conquer the rumble of thunder echoing off the mountains and the roar of rain pounding on her roof, blowing in through the open window, and pouring through a leak in the roof over the schoolroom.

  “The new chalks!” She sprang from bed and ran barefoot into the other room. The storm had found a weak point in a corner, well away from anything important save the floor. Esther set the washbasin beneath the leak, then ran back to her room to light the lantern and dress. She needed a bucket. The basin wouldn’t hold enough. The barn held buckets—maybe one rested outside the kitchen door too.

  She tossed her cloak over her shoulders and drew up the hood. It didn’t help much. Rain soaked through the wool in moments. Her boots dragged in a yard suddenly turned to a sea of churning mud, and the lantern became a useless metal burden with the candle unable to stay lit.

  Esther could barely stay upright in the buffeting wind. She slipped and slid and used intermittent flashes of lightning to find her way to the barn, where relative dryness met her with the scents of horses and cows, hay, and the not altogether unpleasant odor of manure mixed with the straw on the floor. Horses stamped and snorted in their stalls at each roll of thunder. A hoof struck the wooden partition. She should get out. If the beast broke loose, he could run amok in a closed barn and trample her as she tried to escape.

  She snatched up a bucket from beside the door and turned to go. A lull had come. She might reach her room without further soaking herself. And the horses had calmed for the moment.

  She lifted the latch and then heard it, a low, groaning mew.

  “Kitten?” She cocked her head, listening for the sound again.

  “Ma-row.” It sounded like it was in pain, injured. Perhaps by one of the horses? Cats were known to go into horse stalls in pursuit of mice trying to get at the grain. If so, she couldn’t leave it.

  She set down the bucket and moved forward, her hands held out before her to find her way between the boxes. “Kitten?” she called again.

  “Ow-row.” The sound dropped onto her ears.

  It was in the hayloft.

  Esther groped in the darkness until she located the ladder, then she climbed, her skirt tucked into her waist sash, her cloak neglected on the barn floor. “Where are you, little one?”

  She heard a meow again, then a squeak. A mouse? Oh no, she wasn’t moving toward a cat with a cornered mouse. The idea sent a shudder through her. She paused, heard the squeak again, and laughed. No, not a mouse, a kitten.

  Outside, rain gushed and poured off the eaves of the barn. Lightning flashed, and the thunder rumbled and roared again and again and again as it bounced from mountain to mountain.

  Inside the hayloft, Esther sat cross-legged beside one of the feral cats she had befriended and marveled at the ease and calm with which she delivered four damp, hairless balls. How she licked each one clean and guided it to nourishment.

  “‘I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvellous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well,’” she quoted from Psalm 139. “God’s hand even in these tiny creatures.”

  If God cared about such tiny beings, how could He not care about the human beings He had created to have communion with Him?

  Esther stroked the momma cat’s head. She purred and snuggled more deeply into the nest of hay she had made for herself and her new family.

  “If women gave birth so easily, little one, there’d be no need for midwives.”

  And the pain struck again, her lack of a place in the world. Midwives were growing out of fashion. In trying to help Bethann understand she wasn’t alone in suffering pain deep to the heart at the hands of someone else, Esther
had ruined herself there on the mountain, as she had in Seabourne. She had some healing skill, but she wasn’t a doctor. As the mountain grew more civilized, one would come and resent her intrusion.

  “So how can I believe You care, God?” Her cry rang from her heart, yet it was too quiet for anyone or anything other than the cat and her new offspring to hear. “You gave me so much—looks, intelligence, a loving and wonderful family. And now . . .”

  A simultaneous thunder blast and lightning strike shook the barn. The horses’ whinnies sounded like screams, and the cows mooed with as much emotion as placid beasts could produce. Silent now, the momma cat curled herself around the kittens.

  Esther clambered to her feet. She had forgotten about the leak in the schoolroom roof. The place would be flooded.

  She headed for the ladder but stopped, nostrils flaring. Yes, she smelled smoke. Most definitely smelled smoke.

  She tumbled down the ladder, snatched up her cloak, and charged from the barn, then ran back to grab up a bucket and departed again. The smoke burned stronger; the rain fell lighter.

  Not now. Not now. If something was burning, they needed the rain, the wet.

  She glanced around, seeking flames—the barn, the house, the chicken coop.

  Her cabin. Against a patch of clear, starry sky, a plume of smoke bloomed as though someone had lit a fire on the hearth. Probably a lightning strike on the roof.

  “Nooo!” She raced across the yard, slipping and sliding in the mud.

  Everything she owned lay in that cabin—her pictures, her books, the curl of embroidered ribbon Griff had given her.

  She flung open the door. No flames she could see, just heavy, oily smoke like burning pitch. Of course. Pine logs. A pine-shake roof saturated with the oil of the sap and smoky before bursting into flames. She might have minutes; she might have seconds.