The Midwife's Choice

by Delia Parr

  “That won’t happen here,” Martha protested.

  June’s gaze softened. “Benjamin is a good doctor, and he’s better than most because he listens to his heart as well as his head. Unlike many other doctors, he has respect for the work midwives do and the treatments they use—treatments that have been passed down from one generation to the next. All because of you.”

  Martha felt her cheeks warm. “That’s very kind of you, but you overestimate—”

  “Little by little, his practice will expand and yours will diminish,” June continued. “Women here in Trinity will grow to rely upon him more and more, just like most women have done back East, where midwives are scrambling for ways to survive. In the end, all of the knowledge you and women like you have acquired will be lost or appropriated by doctors for their exclusive use.”

  Martha wanted to argue that June was wrong. Completely wrong. Maybe doctors had replaced midwives in large eastern cities, but she hoped Trinity would always have room for both a midwife and a doctor. But change, it seemed, was as inevitable as the shift in seasons each year. She could see it in the town’s landscape. She could see it in the shifting tide of people who came to Trinity to make new futures for themselves and the people who were leaving to do the same. She could even see it in the faces of women who were turning to Dr. McMillan to deliver their babies. Although that number was small now, it would increase. She had the feeling she would not have to worry about finding her own replacement. He was the town doctor, already in place, and as age slowed her down, the number of patients who called for her would also shrink.

  She dropped her gaze and steepled her hands. “What you say rings true, I’m afraid, although I’ve done my best to deny it to myself.” She fought back tears. “I suppose I should be grateful Dr. McMillan has the sense to respect time-proven treatments, enough to try them before resorting to some of the new medicines that mostly put women into a stupor.”

  June reached over and laid her hand on top of Martha’s. “But you can do more than just share your knowledge with Benjamin. Other women can learn about the remedies and use them at home, which would limit their need for a doctor. Other doctors, men like Benjamin, might want to learn about them, too.”

  Martha sighed and shook her head. “I can’t see how.”

  June smiled. “Your sketches and essays. They’re a veritable treasure, although the sketches need an artist’s touch and the essays need to read more like prose. And if we were to put one or two in every issue of our magazine, hundreds and hundreds of women, perhaps thousands if our subscriptions continue to increase, would have a reference to guide them at a far more affordable cost when compared to the price of books—which are mostly written by men, I might add.”

  As she spoke, her voice became more and more excited, and Martha’s heart began to race. “You’d put my sketches and essays into your magazine?”

  “Imagine the wonder of it, Martha. Women would heed your advice because of your status and experience. You would empower them, give them some sense of control over healing themselves and their families.”

  “I don’t know. . . .”

  “Just recently, Mrs. Child published a book,” June prompted. “The Frugal Housewife sold six thousand copies in a single year because so many women have either found themselves far from home without an older relative to guide them or they’re isolated from other women on homesteads that are stretching further and further west or . . . or they find themselves in reduced circumstances, forced to perform chores they once assigned to servants. Depending on the response we have to the first few issues, your series might very well end up as a book that literally thousands of women would use. My husband has many contacts in the publishing industry. I’m certain he would help to find a publisher who would agree to keep the price affordable to most anyone.”

  “First in the magazine, then a book?” The idea sounded preposterous, yet deep in the recesses of her very spirit, Martha felt a surge of excitement and joy that spurred new ideas about expanding access to her store of knowledge right here in Trinity—ideas that would acknowledge the very sisterhood she had nearly forsaken.

  Until she thought about Victoria.

  If Martha did have a series on simples and treatments for common diseases and ailments that appeared as a monthly feature in the magazine, she would be intruding on every hope and dream in Victoria’s heart. Writing and publishing were Victoria’s dreams, not Martha’s. She and Victoria had come too far together, as mother and daughter, to risk becoming estranged over something like this.

  Martha patted June’s hand. “As much as I’d like to accept your offer, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.”

  June leaned back and narrowed her gaze. “It’s Victoria, isn’t it?”

  “You’re a very intuitive woman. Victoria and I have had our difficulties in the past, as you know. Partly because I failed to realize that our gifts are so very different. She’s a poet. A writer. She belongs in that world. I know that now, just as I belong in mine. If I accepted your offer, I’d be intruding into her world. She’d resent it, and I wouldn’t blame her.”

  “No. I wouldn’t. Truly. I wouldn’t, Mother.”

  Victoria’s voice, as much as her words, startled Martha. She clapped her hand to her chest, looked over, and saw her daughter standing in the doorway to the storage room. “Victoria!”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to startle you,” she said as she walked toward them. “Nancy’s upstairs putting the extra ribbon away, but I decided to come downstairs and make some tea.” She dropped her gaze for a moment. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but . . . but I did. I think it’s a grand idea. You should accept.”

  Martha rose and faced her daughter, but June remained seated. “Are you certain you wouldn’t mind?”

  Victoria nodded. “We could work on the essays together. I could even polish them up a bit. I think if we make them read more like a story, instead of an article in a scientific journal, women wouldn’t be able to resist them.”

  Martha cocked a brow. “You’ve read them?”

  “Just one. Dr. McMillan left it lying in the sitting room.”

  Blinking back tears, Martha took several deep breaths. “I’d like it very much if we could work on them together, but you’re going to be in New York while I’ll be here.”

  Victoria walked right into her mother’s arms and hugged her. “There’s an amazing thing called the post, you know.”

  Martha sniffled. “The only amazing thing I can think of right now is you.”

  “I’ll make sure to remind you of your own words when I begin to edit some of your essays. We have a few days left before I’m supposed to leave. Maybe we could start now and get several done.”

  Martha kissed Victoria’s forehead. “I’ll have to get them all back from Dr. McMillan, so you can help me decide where to start this . . . this series.”

  She turned back to June, ever more aware of the role this amazing younger woman had played, not only in reuniting Martha with her daughter, but also in helping them both to reestablish strong bonds. “Thank you,” she murmured. “It seems I’m going to accept your offer after all. Actually, we’re both accepting your offer to submit a series of essays and sketches. Since Victoria and I will be working on these together, then we should share the credit as coauthors.”

  June smiled. “You’re very welcome.”

  “Have you made all the arrangements to return to New York?”

  “I spoke to Sheriff Myer just this morning. Apparently, he has some business in Sunrise and he’s agreed to escort us there. After Victoria has a visit with her aunt and uncle, we can hire a driver to take us back to New York. If that’s agreeable, we can leave on Sunday after meeting.”

  “Sunday would be fine,” Martha responded. Was everyone going to leave together on Sunday? If so, there was going to be a caravan, similar to those that often passed through Trinity heading west, but this one would be heading east, toward the very regions the earliest settlers
in Trinity had once called home. “Sheriff Myer will get you there safely,” she added, making a mental note to tell Victoria about James’s plan to sell the tavern property rather than rebuild.

  When June rose to leave, Martha held up her hand. “If you’ll wait, I’ll walk you home so I can pick up those sketches and essays. That way Victoria and I can start working together tonight.”

  Martha had scarcely donned her cape when there came a series of harsh knocks on the back door. Instinctively, she sensed yet another call to duty that would obliterate her plans to spend the evening, if not the next few days, with her daughter.

  She hurried to the back door and opened it partway. The moment she recognized her caller, she braced the bottom of the door with her foot to keep it from opening any further. Instead of relief that the caller was not summoning her to duty, fear raised the hairs on the back of her neck and flooded through her body.

  Russell Clifford reeked of cheap rum, and she nearly gagged at the stench of his rumpled clothing. His bloodshot eyes flashed with impatience. “I want my wife back. Now.” He belched and swayed sideways, nearly losing his balance.

  Martha took the advantage, nudged the door halfway closed, and edged her body partly behind the door. “She isn’t home. Even if she were, she has no intention of speaking to you. Now be off. And don’t come back, or I’ll be forced to send for the sheriff.”

  He lunged at her so quickly, he caught her off guard and managed to catch her by her right shoulder. His grip was powerful, but he was so addled he lost his footing and had to let go to regain his balance.

  Martha pulled back, slammed the door, and dropped the bar into place to prevent him from charging in. Her chest heaved as she drew in gulps of air, and her heart whacked hard against her rib cage. As much as she did not want to wish away her last few days with Victoria, she knew Sunday could not come quickly enough—for everyone, but most especially, Nancy.

  32

  By late Saturday night, the shop looked more like a train station than a confectionery. Tables once loaded with hearty breads or sweet treats sat empty and forlorn, like abandoned pieces of track. The curtains on the front window had been removed, and Luther Phipps had already covered the window with a sheet of wood to prevent the curious from getting a peek at the renovations once they began.

  A sign on the front door, facing outward, informed customers the confectionery would reopen by the end of February and promised new fare to complement old favorites. In the vestibule, three trunks sat end to end, one destined for Philadelphia with the Lynn sisters, one destined for New York with Victoria and June Morgan, and one for some secret destination for Nancy.

  On top of Nancy’s trunk, filled with her few meager pieces of clothing, which the sheriff had secured from her home, a small lidded basket lined with a piece of heavy blanket sat ready for Lucky. She had become so attached to the kitten, no one had the heart to deny her. Similar baskets on top of the other two trunks held an assortment of sweet baked goods, a tin of pretzels, and candy to enjoy on their journeys.

  Martha lay in bed, dreading the morning, yet urging it to come faster. The anticipation of saying good-bye to Victoria had formed a knot in her stomach, which kept her awake long after the rest of the household had gone to sleep.

  For the next month, she would be living here alone. She had never, ever lived completely by herself, like Aunt Hilda had, a reality that troubled her. She thought of Bird. He was still at Dr. McMillan’s, recovering from the doctor’s efforts to reset that damaged wing. Rather than live alone, she decided she might bring him back to the confectionery while he recuperated, just for the company.

  Without warning, she heard the rustle of bedcovers, followed by several quick footsteps before she felt Victoria slip into bed beside her. Martha wrapped her arm around her daughter’s shoulders.

  “Mother? Did I wake you? I’m sorry.”

  Martha chuckled. “It was easier to sneak into my bed when you were little. What’s the matter? Having trouble sleeping?”

  “I’m too excited about tomorrow to sleep. I’m a little frightened, too,” she admitted.

  “Frightened?”

  “For Nancy. What if our plan fails? What if her husband tries to stop her . . . and succeeds?”

  Martha let out a long sigh and stroked the top of her daughter’s head. “Well, it’s hard for me to say for sure, since I don’t know the particulars of the plan to help Nancy escape him, but I suspect all of you came up with a plan that would be hard to defeat. In which case, the best thing you can do is ask the good Lord to bless your plan and keep Nancy safe by giving her His protection. I like to think He’s got some angels trained for that very purpose. They protected you, didn’t they?”

  Victoria snuggled closer. “I . . . I could tell you the plan. Nothing could happen between now and tomorrow—”

  “I don’t need to know the plan,” Martha assured her. “I trust you. I trust the others.”

  “If our plan fails, then we’ll just have to think of another, I suppose.”

  “It’s not going to fail.” Martha yawned. “I do have some news from Uncle James I wanted to share with you before you left.”

  Victoria stiffened. “He’s not going to rebuild the tavern, is he?”

  “No. Apparently not, but that shouldn’t truly be a surprise to either one of us. Your uncle has been talking about selling out and moving up to Candle Lake for more than a few years. I’m sure he’ll tell you all about his plans when you’re in Sunrise visiting.”

  “But that means . . . What are you going to do? You’re truly going to be without a home,” she whispered.

  “We’re both welcome to stay here for as long as we like,” Martha ventured. “But I’d like to pray on it a while. I have this craving for my own home again. For our home,” she added. “We have time. You won’t be home till fall. By then, the good Lord will have decided where we should be.”

  “But what if—”

  “Now, don’t you worry about a home for us. Not now. We only have a few hours left together.” She pressed a kiss to her daughter’s brow. “I hope I’ve told you how much it’s meant to me to work with you on the essays these past few days.”

  A giggle. “Only a hundred times.”

  Martha returned the giggle. “I guess I’ve overdone it.”

  “Just a little.”

  “There’s so much I thought about saying while you were gone. I was actually writing everything down in a daybook I bought in Clarion, but the fire claimed it, along with everything else. I decided later it would be better to just tell you how I felt, rather than have you read something.”

  “I would have liked the daybook. Can you tell me what you wrote?”

  “There was so much, but basically, I wanted you to know that I admire you for many reasons, but most of all because you are the kindest person I’ve ever known, besides your father, and second, because you have such a strong commitment to the truth. You’re an exceptional person, dear heart, and I can hardly believe I am so blessed to have you as my daughter.”

  Martha continued, and the words poured straight out of her heart. By the time she finished, both she and Victoria were weeping, and the tears of joy and love that flowed between them strengthened their bond even more.

  Victoria cupped her mother’s face. “I still have so much to learn, but I will be forever grateful to God for giving me such a good mother.”

  Martha’s heart swelled, but her stomach ached anew with the anticipation of bidding farewell to her daughter after meeting tomorrow. “September isn’t so very far away. You’ll be home before I know it,” she murmured.

  Victoria yawned. “Perhaps sooner,” she whispered.

  As Victoria drifted off to sleep, Martha held her close and tried to capture the memory so she could revisit it often during the coming months.

  After an extra early breakfast in the morning, the dishes had been cleared away and the kitchen tidied. All five women retired upstairs to dress for meeting amid an au
ra of excitement blended with sadness that heightened the moment they reassembled in the kitchen and sat together around the table.

  “There’s still about two hours till meeting, but we need to go over the plans again, just to be sure we all understand the roles we each have to play,” Fern announced, clearly more assertive than Martha had ever seen her.

  Utterly pleased and certain that she would finally be included, Martha leaned forward in her seat.

  “Martha, Russell Clifford has made no effort to hide the fact that he expects to attend meeting and make a plea to be reunited with his wife. We want you to make sure he doesn’t attend.”

  Martha flinched. “Me? Stop Russell Clifford? I was lucky he was addled when he tried to force his way inside a few days ago, or he would have been successful. I’m not even sure where to look for him, even if I thought I could try to keep him from attending.”

  Ivy dismissed Martha’s argument with a wave of her hand. “You were right to suspect he was staying in Samuel’s old cabin. He’s been living there. With any luck, he’ll still be sleeping, especially if he drank all the honey wine we left for him.”

  Martha’s heart began to race. “You know he’s staying there, and you left him some honey wine?”

  Fern clucked an admonishment. “We’re not at liberty to reveal anything beyond what Ivy’s told you.”

  Martha got a glimpse of the determination that darkened Fern’s blue eyes and knew better than to press for more information, but using honey wine certainly confirmed Aunt Hilda’s participation in the plot. “So just exactly how do you suggest I keep him from attending, assuming that’s necessary. He’s a powerful man. I’m hardly able to tie him up. Not unless he’s completely unconscious.”

  Victoria shook her head. “You don’t have to force him to stay home. Just delay him so he’ll arrive late. Once Reverend Welsh shuts the meetinghouse door, no one gets in. We all know that, but Mr. Clifford is new. He probably doesn’t know that.”