The Midwife's Choice

by Delia Parr

  “Delay him,” Martha repeated. “If I delay him, then I’ll be late, too, and I won’t be able to attend services, either. This is an important day for everyone to see Victoria and hear about her plans, for Aunt Hilda and her husband, so everyone can welcome him home. . . .”

  Nancy’s eyes welled with tears. “I’m sorry. I never meant to cause so much trouble. After all you’ve done to help me. . . .” She looked around the table at the other women. “There must be another way.”

  Martha swallowed a large lump of guilt that lodged in her throat. “No. If this is the plan, it’s too late to change it now. I’ll think of something to delay your husband.”

  Nancy brightened. “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely.” She rose from the table. “I’ll be waiting outside when services are over so I can bid you all farewell. I’ll be able to do that, won’t I?” she asked with a glance of longing at her daughter.

  Fern nodded. “And if Russell is there, too, all the better. In fact, we’d like you to make sure he’s there.”

  Martha closed her eyes briefly and took deep breaths to keep her frustration under control—frustration she would not be experiencing if she knew more about the plan to help Nancy to escape. “Let me make sure I understand this. I’m to delay Mr. Clifford so he can’t get inside to attend meeting, but I also need to make sure he’s still there, at least two hours later, waiting outside in freezing weather, when services finally conclude.”

  All heads nodded, but it was Fern who spoke up first. “Today’s service won’t last quite an hour.”

  Martha cocked her head. “You’re certain? Reverend Welsh tends to—”

  “Absolutely positive,” Ivy insisted. “We have it on the highest authority.”

  “You spoke to Reverend Welsh about this?”

  Fern gasped. “Of course not. We spoke to Sarah Welsh. She’s going to make sure her husband’s sermon just happens to disappear. He won’t be able to remember most of it. Preaching isn’t his gift, remember?”

  Apparently, the bonds of sisterhood, reinforced the day of the snowstorm when today’s plan had been hatched, had been extended to include Sarah Welsh. Of all people, Sarah was about the finest woman ever to be a minister’s wife, which was no easy lot. Martha knew Sarah well enough to be fairly certain she would never sabotage her husband’s preaching efforts. Not when he was only too aware preaching was his nemesis.

  Sarah might have told the Lynn sisters she would help, but Martha suspected Sarah had simply used her considerable influence over her husband to convince him to keep today’s sermon very short so folks could spend time welcoming Richard Seymour back home and talking with Victoria.

  Being excluded still pricked at Martha’s pride, and she had the distinct feeling she might be the only woman, other than June Morgan, who had not been made aware of today’s plan. Without further comment, she strode to the storage room to retrieve her cape and gloves. She noted Nancy’s cape, adorned with that garish ribbon, and went back into the kitchen.

  “Regardless of your plan, ladies, I’d suggest you convince Nancy to remove that ribbon from her cape or her husband will be able to spot her the instant she steps out of the meetinghouse,” she cautioned and took her leave before anyone could argue with her.

  Her steps were quick, but they did not move quite as fast as her mind, which raced from one approach she might take to delay Russell Clifford to another. As she rounded the confectionery and headed toward the covered bridge, she said a very desperate prayer, begging for some sort of reinforcements, preferably with wings and lots of good ideas.

  33

  Martha approached Samuel’s cabin, reminded of her failure to help Samuel and Will, as well as her smug approach which had led them to flee. She prayed her encounter with Russell Clifford would be more successful, although she wanted similar results—Russell’s absence from Nancy’s life.

  Smoke suddenly belched from the chimney, and a weak trail of smoke began to twirl upward. Any hope Russell might be addled and unconscious immediately faded. With both windows shuttered closed, she could not even peek inside. At the same time, the shuttered windows prevented him from seeing her approach his doorstep.

  Whatever angels had been sent to help her, in response to her desperate prayers all the way here, had yet to arrive. She knocked on the door, using the signal knock she had used with Samuel out of pure habit, but she still had absolutely no idea what she would say or do when Russell Clifford answered the door.

  No response.

  She tried again, knocking only once.

  Still no response.

  At this rate, she would not be able to do anything to delay him except stand helplessly outside while every bone in her body froze solid as she waited for him to leave for Sunday meeting. Fortunately, she was familiar enough with the cabin to know there was no back door. He would have to pass by her when he finally did leave, which gave her no choice but to stand and wait.

  That idea appealed to her even less than confronting the brute, who may not have been addled enough the other day to forget how she had slammed the door in his face at the confectionery. She tugged on the sides of her hood to nearly cover her face and protect her skin from the cold wind, one of the decided benefits to using a hood instead of a bonnet during winter.

  She thought wearing a hood might compare to a horse forced to wear blinders, which is why she never used them with Grace because it was disconcerting being unable to see. Or to be seen, for that matter.

  Actually, with her features almost completely hidden, Russell would have to get right up to her face to be able to identify her. She could use that to her advantage and surprise him, if she ever got him to answer the door.

  Mercy, it was cold! She pounded at the door again with both fists and added a kick for good measure—a painful mistake that nearly stole her breath away.

  “Go away!”

  She pounded again. “It’s urgent that I see you,” she shouted, without any idea of what she might claim to be urgent if he believed her.

  Heavy, agitated footsteps clomped toward the door. She held her breath and bowed her head until the door swung open. With one quick, sudden movement, she had her foot inside, resting against the doorframe. She offered a silent prayer. If he decided to use all his strength to slam the door closed, she would wind up with one very sore foot.

  “What?” he snarled.

  She detected no odor of honey wine, which meant part of the sisters’ plan had not worked, and lifted her face. With his face freshly shaved and his dark hair slicked back, he had also cleaned himself up. “I’ve come to . . . apologize,” she blurted.

  He leaned closer. When his gaze finally lit with recognition, his hands balled into fists, despite her claim to have come to offer an apology. He glared at her so coldly, her heart nearly stopped beating.

  “I . . . I can’t go to meeting with my heart so deeply burdened by the wrong that’s been done to you, so . . . so I came to apologize and . . . and offer my help.” She caught her breath. Where were those angels anyway? She needed help and she needed it now!

  He returned her words with a smirk. “I don’t need your help.”

  “I think you do,” she countered. When the wind gusted and tore at her cape, she tried to hold it closed. “If I could come inside, maybe I could explain.”

  He cocked a brow. “After all you’ve done to destroy my marriage and poison my wife and the rest of the town against me, give me one good reason why I should listen to anythin’ you have to say.”

  Drat. Still no angels!

  “Because . . . because I know the others are planning to help your wife to escape, and you’ll never be able to stop them. Not unless I help you,” she said, praying all the lies she had already told and would have to create during the next hour or so would be forgiven because they were well intentioned.

  He continued to glare at her. Disbelief filled his eyes and held them steady. Until a flicker of doubt, ever so small, appeared.

  �
�I’ll only take up a few minutes of your time,” she prompted. In that very heartbeat, she felt a distinct pressure in the small of her back, almost like a shove, tripped on the hem of her cape, wrenched her ankle, and fell—straight into the enemy’s arms.

  The angels had arrived. Pushy, but effective cherubs.

  Caught off guard, he apparently reacted instinctively and grabbed her shoulders to keep her from knocking him off his feet. “You are one ornery, stubborn woman,” he snapped as he set her back on her feet.

  “So I’ve been told.” She winced the instant her right foot held the slightest pressure and went down on her knee. She held her breath until the sharp pain gentled into mere throbbing. “I’m afraid I’ve twisted my ankle.”

  “Nice excuse. You can turn right around and take your leave. You’ve done everythin’ you’re goin’ to do to ruin my life. I’d be a fool to give you any more opportunity than you’ve already had.”

  She tried to get up and nearly toppled over. This time, he left her to her own devices and offered no help. She latched on to the edge of the door for support. “I’ll limp all the way home, if that’s what you want, but you’ll just make it harder on yourself.”

  He laughed at her. “I doubt that.”

  “Suit yourself,” she snapped, thoroughly disappointed in both the timing and the manner of her so-called reinforcements. “All the good Lord requires is that I tried to make amends. I can go to meeting now and not be judged a hypocrite. If and when you ever decide you want to hear more, let me know. I wouldn’t wait too long, though. For every moment you wait, Nancy will be that much further beyond your reach.”

  With her head held high and her backbone stiff, she pivoted on her left foot, grabbed the doorframe, and limped forward. The pain was surprisingly bearable, although she could feel her ankle swelling. She scanned the area just beyond the front door, but the snow covered up anything she might have used for a makeshift crutch.

  More than slightly irritated, she looked back over her shoulder and cast him a withering look she had not used since castigating Will for his bad language. “You might offer me something to use for a crutch, considering I hurt myself attempting to reconcile our differences.”

  Finally he had enough left in his sorry spirit to respond like a man with some character. “I just started a fire. You may as well sit down and warm up for a few moments before . . .”

  She eyed him suspiciously.

  “Just come in. Before I lose the little heat I’ve got left, since you’ve had me keep the door open for so long.”

  She limped inside, more certain than ever she had not imagined that none-too-gentle nudge in the small of her back. She even accepted Russell’s help so she could make it to one of the chairs in front of the Franklin stove. She sank into her seat, shook the hood back and off her head, and slid her hand into her pocket to check her watch while he went to the corner of the room for more wood.

  Still an hour and a half until meeting.

  Well, she had gotten inside. Now all she had to do was keep him so preoccupied that he lost track of time and it would be too late to get inside the meetinghouse to attend services. Beyond that, her town sisters would be in charge.

  She hoped they had been assigned angels who were a tad more gentle.

  Nearly an hour and a half later, using a tree branch for a crutch, Martha made slow, painful progress as Russell Clifford led her through a trail in the woods toward the meetinghouse. Apparently, he had been using this trail, for the snow had been packed down on the pathway, a decided blessing considering Martha’s weakened ankle. She had wrapped it tightly, grateful the injury only appeared to be a mild sprain that should heal within a few days.

  She deliberately slowed her pace and allowed him to get a few yards ahead so she could check her watch. Three minutes until services began. She looked around and realized they were just passing the rear of Dr. McMillan’s property, which meant they would never make it on time, even if Russell abandoned her and ran the rest of the way.

  The tension that had stiffened her shoulders and wrapped a tight band around her forehead so that her head ached melted away. Until Russell stopped and turned around. “We have to go faster than this or we’ll be late.”

  She stopped and waved him on with her crutch. “Go ahead, then. I can meet you there.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He closed the distance between them and glared at her.

  She nearly took a step back, but locked her knees and refused to let him intimidate her. “What are you talking about?”

  “If I go ahead and leave you behind, what guarantee do I have that you’ll eventually show up and talk to the congregation on my behalf like you promised?” He hooked her arm in his and never gave her a chance to answer him. “We’re goin’ together.”

  She trembled. “It’s getting colder. If you insist on escorting me, then let’s not waste time arguing or we’ll both get a good dose of frostbite.”

  With his support, she actually did make faster progress. The moment they approached the rear of the meetinghouse, she could hear the congregation, their voices lifted in the opening hymn. She offered a quick prayer of thanksgiving and another asking for protection when he realized the door was locked from the inside.

  “There’s no door in the back. We’ll have to go around to the front.”

  He paused to stop and stare at the back of the log structure and shrugged his shoulders. He did not seem the least bit upset they were late. Victoria had been right. He was indeed too new to the congregation to know the minister’s habits.

  They made quick time walking along the side of the meetinghouse. When they rounded the corner, he rocked to a halt and forced Martha to do the same.

  The yard in front of the meetinghouse was packed with wagons and sleighs, all oddly parked side by side to form two large circles with the horses and mules huddled together in the center. She had not seen this before; neither had she seen this many vehicles at meeting since . . . since ever!

  He grinned. “Must be packed inside.”

  She could almost see his mind working, anticipating the moment she would step forward, endorsing his redemption, as well as his reunion with his wife, as she had promised. It had not been easy convincing him of her change in heart, until he heard her tale of Nancy’s plea for a reunion. It would be far more difficult for both Nancy and herself to escape his wrath once he realized he had been played for a fool.

  “You’re sure Nancy is at meetin’?” he asked as he changed his position and gripped her upper arm.

  She yanked free. “Of course I am. I spoke to her right before I left. She’s expecting you to be there, too.”

  When he turned her toward the door and hooked her arm again, her heart began to pound. “Let’s not keep her waitin’,” he suggested.

  Before she had taken a single step, a familiar, beloved voice rang out. Not exactly an angel’s voice, but one that reassured her that gentler, more competent reinforcements had arrived.

  34

  Martha? Is that you?”

  She turned to look back over her shoulder, nudged her hood back, and flashed the biggest smile of her life. “Thomas!”

  When Russell Clifford turned about, he also loosened his grip, enough to allow Martha to free herself so she could face Thomas. As he hurried toward them, she leaned on the branch for support.

  He locked his gaze with hers. Concern etched his face. “What happened?”

  “Just a silly accident. I turned my ankle.”

  “You shouldn’t be walking on it,” he countered. He took her arm to help support her and acknowledged Russell with a cold stare.

  Clifford offered a curt nod, but did not extend his hand. “Mayor Dillon. Looks like Widow Cade and I aren’t the only ones arrivin’ late for meetin’.”

  “Indeed. And properly locked out as well,” Thomas noted.

  “Locked out?” Clifford turned and tested the door. With a grunt, he put his shoulder to the door, but it would not budge.
He raised his hand to knock.

  “Don’t,” Thomas cautioned. “Apparently Reverend Welsh is not having one of his better days. You knock and interrupt the service, and he’ll have you down in front listening to a diatribe so fierce you’ll wish you had listened to me.”

  Clifford kicked the door and spun around. He glared at Martha, but dared not approach her with Thomas as her protector. “I have to get inside. We both have to get inside.”

  “Obviously, that’s not going to happen now,” she argued. “We can . . . we can slip inside the moment the service is over and catch everyone before they leave. Or . . . or if not, don’t forget that Nancy will have to come out that door. When she does, we’ll both be here waiting for her. I know it’s not exactly what you wanted, but . . . but at least you’ll be with your wife again. Isn’t that what you want more than anything?”

  Before Russell could respond, Thomas scooped her up into his arms and nearly stole her breath away. “I have to wait for the Misses Lynn. We’re leaving for Philadelphia as soon as the services end. If you insist on staying, then you’ll wait in the sleigh with me. At least there are blankets to keep you warm and you’ll be off that ankle. Mr. Clifford, you wait by the door. As soon as Nancy comes out, bring her over. Widow Cade is in no condition to stand and wait, especially in this weather.”

  He gave Clifford no time to argue, or Martha, for that matter. He simply carried her off toward his sleigh and left the younger man standing at the door. She snuggled close and laid her head on his chest. “Thank you.”

  He looked down at her and smiled. “I had a feeling you might need rescuing. Is your ankle really sprained or is that just a ploy, part of the ladies’ plan, too?”

  “Plan? What plan?”

  When he chuckled, again and again, the sound in his chest rumbled against her ear.

  She swatted his arm. “No, it’s not part of the plan. I fell and twisted my ankle,” she admitted, although she was careful not to tell him she thought an angel had pushed her.