Midwife of the Blue Ridge (9 page)

miliar ingredients.

For the first time in a long, long time her appetite was satis-

fied. She sighed with content, sipped her tea, and paid close at-

tention to what Seth was doing. The ability to manufacture

footwear was an important skill, and she meant to acquire it.

The leather had been cut in a clever pattern requiring but two

short seams sewn at toe and heel. “Oneida style,” Seth informed

her. When finished with the sewing, he pulled a tin from the

depths of his pouch and rubbed the substance into the surface

and seams of each moccasin. Maggie held the tin to her nose and

sniffed.

“Beeswax mixed with bear fat”—Seth answered before she

had a chance to ask—“softens the leather and waterproofs the

seams—helps t’ keep yer feet dry. Ye’ll do well in Virginia, Mag-

gie Duncan, if ye remember this one thing:
always care for yer

feet.
Upon my word, there’s nothing worse than rotten feet.

There ye go, try those on fer size.”

Maggie secured the “wangs,” as Seth called them—and took a

few trial steps around the fire. She stretched onto tiptoes and

back down, extending each foot in turn to admire her new moc-

casins.

“They might be a bit stiff at first,” Seth warned.

“They’re lovely slippers! I’ve never owned a pair as fi ne.”

Genuinely pleased, Maggie showed her appreciation by dancing

a quick two-step jig. “
Losh!
I’m ready to walk the whole of Vir-

ginia. I am verra grateful to ye, Seth.”

“Och, naught but a pair of moccasins . . . not much more than

a decent way of going barefoot at best.” Seth dismissed her com-

pliments. “It’s been a trying day, lass. Ye must be done in. Take a

blanket and fix yerself a bed near the fi re.”

Maggie’s smile evaporated. “And where’ll you sleep?”

“I’m not goin’ t’ sleep just yet.” Seth slipped one of his moc-

casins onto his hand and wriggled a finger through a tear in the

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
59

sole. “I’ve mending to do.” He tossed wood to the fire and settled

back to patch the hole.

Satisfied with his answer, Maggie cleared a flat area of twigs

and stones and spread a wool blanket. She draped her plaide

about her shoulders and lay on her side, facing the fi re.

Even though she was very tired, the nocturnal babble—chirping

crickets, croaking frogs, and an odd creature sounding much like

teeth of a comb dragged across a hard edge—thwarted her at-

tempts to find sleep. Maggie propped up on one elbow. “Och, but

it’s noisy, na?”

“No noisier than the streets of Glasgow, I expect.” He glanced

right, to his big knife stuck point end in the ground. His long rifl e

rested beside it, barrel end up on a forked branch. “Yiv naught t’

fear, lass. I tend to sleep with one eye open, rifle primed and knife

at the ready.”

The sight of his loaded weapon set Maggie’s mind at ease, and

she was a little surprised to be more threatened by what lurked

beyond the glow of their campfire than by what might be lurking

in the mind of her master.

Other than his initial gruff aspect, she could only classify

Seth’s behavior as kind—almost brotherly. Still, Maggie decided

that she, too, must sleep with one eye open. She cradled her head

on bent elbow, and her eyes grew heavy as she watched the dance

of the fl ames.

H

Maggie jerked awake. She must not have been sleeping long, for

Seth was still awake, staring catatonic into the fl ames, sipping

from a leather flask and smoking a funny, long-stemmed pipe. She

heard the noise again—growling, coming from the pitch black

beyond. Seth slowly set his pipe aside and picked up his knife.

Maggie stared into the darkness, the tiny hairs raised on the

back of her neck. Something stared back. “What is it, Seth?”

The twin red lights flashed and flew toward her. Maggie

squeezed her eyes tight and screamed at the top of her lungs.

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Blevins

Seth laughed and shouted, “Friday!” He dropped his weapon

to greet the dog bounding into the light of their campfi re. “Stop

yer gallie-hooin’, Maggie—it’s but a dog!”

She opened her eyes. Here, barking and leaping, was the same

ginger dog she had befriended on board the
Good Intent
.

“Ye scared th’ bejesus out of Maggie, Friday!” Seth scrubbed

the dog’s floppy ears. “No t’ worry, lass. He’s not one of them

biting dogs.”

Friday circled the fi re twice and flopped with a grunt at Mag-

gie’s side. “I know this dog,” she said. “He was on the ship this

morning. Where’s yer master, pup?” She stroked one fi nger along

the velvet space between Friday’s eyes and a moon-cast shadow

loomed over her.

“C’mon, lad . . .” Seth waved Tom Roberts into their circle.

“Yer always welcome t’ share my fire.” Tom stepped around

Maggie to pump Seth’s outstretched hand and slap him several

times on the back. He settled next to Seth, immediately removing

wet moccasins and stockings and stretching his feet to the fi re.

“Nothing worse than rotten feet, eh?” Maggie observed,

amused at the attention these rough men lavished on their feet.

The hunter ignored her.

Seth splashed whiskey from his flask into a tin cup and handed

it to his friend. “Och, ’tis good t’ see ye, Tommy! Naomi’ll be

pleased t’ hear yer still walking among the living.”

Naomi?
Maggie scooted closer to the fi re.

“Hmmph . . . tell me, friend, how pleased will Naomi be when

she sees what twenty-three pounds buys in Richmondtown these

days?” Tom jerked a thumb Maggie’s way.

“Ahhh . . .” Seth smiled and relit his pipe with a brand from the

fire. “A braw man such as yerself would never stoop t’ work fer a

horse’s arse of an Englishman . . . my best guess is the smitten sailor.

Aye, he’s the one who set the likes of Tom Roberts on my trail.”

Tom tossed back his whiskey, gasped, and hammered chest

with fi st. “
Whooo-wee!
Your whiskey sure drinks fi ne. Kisses

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
61

like a woman yet kicks like a mule.” He poured himself another.

“Yup, Josh Stark’s an old friend of mine. He fancies himself head

over heels with this servant gal. He’s sent twenty-five pounds for

her paper and I’m to fetch her back.”

“If I were selling—and mind, I’m not—I wager I could get fi fty

from the Englishman.” Seth tugged on his pipe. “Truth is, Tommy,

I canna believe my good fortune. This lass is a godsend—an an-

swer to a prayer.”

Tom shook his head. “This gal’s trapped you in her wicked

snare along with Josh Stark, and most of the men aboard that

ship. Why sane men behave like such fools over a woman . . .”

“Och, Tommy—ye dinna ken . . .”

Tom looked at sleep-tousled Maggie, her dark eyes shining

bright with curiosity, her face flush with warmth from the fi re.

“No, friend, I do ken. I’m the first to admit the gal’s prettier than

a new-laid egg . . .”

Seth snickered. “D’ye hear that, Maggie? Sounds to me like ye

managed t’ capture this crafty rascal in that evil snare of yers.”

Maggie giggled.

“What’s gotten into you, Seth Martin?” Tom’s voice rose and

Seth grinned with the satisfaction of seeing his barb hit its mark.

“You’ve got a fine woman tending your hearth and offspring, and

here you sit, mooning over a bondwoman like a lovesick calf.”

Maggie bristled at the way he spat out the word
bondwoman
.

This man discussed her as if she were no better than a dockside

prostitute.

Tom went on. “I’d not be much of a friend to either you or

Naomi if I did nothing to discourage this foolishness . . .” He

reached inside his shirt and drew out a stack of pound notes. “I

keep my ear pressed to the ground and I know for a fact you’ll be

needing this cash money sooner rather than later. Now sign over

the gal’s paper or I’ll have to throttle you.”

Seth leaned forward. “What’ve ye heard, Tom?”

“I heard the Irish surveyor y’all hired to file your claims didn’t

62 Christine

Blevins

do such a good job.” Tom reached for the flask. “Fact is, your

claim sets in the middle of a land grant deeded by King George

himself to the Duke of Portland back in ’51.”

“Aye.” Seth’s shoulders slumped. “That sums it up. Drunken

Irish bastard! If he’d have filed proper I would have learned

straight off I had no right to settle that land.”

“What do you intend to do about it?” Tom handed the fl ask

back.

“I’ve no chance winning a dispute in court. I’m going to wait

it out—in time I can—”

“There is no ‘time,’ Seth. Portland’s already sent an agent to

see to his holdings.”

“So it’s come to that . . . I s’pose we’ll just have to begin anew

somewhere . . . we’ll just have t’ move on.” He drained the fl ask,

heaved it into the darkness, and buried his face in his hands.

“Damn it, Seth!” Tom waved the cash in front of his friend.

“You need this money more than you need that gal. Take the

money and go home to Naomi.”

Seth lifted his head and shoved the notes aside. “Naomi’s dy-

ing, Tom.”

“No . . .” Tom shook his head. “That can’t be,”

“Aye, she’s withering away before my very eyes.”

“She can’t be dying,” Tom said, hoping there was more whis-

key than truth in Seth’s assertion. “Last I saw, she was fi t, happy,

and getting ready to birth that new baby.”

“Born dead. Born too soon. I helped her as best I could, but

Naomi lost so much blood—I was grateful t’ have but one wee

grave to dig on that day. She grieved terribly, and now she’s

a-childing again. Weak in body, unwell in spirit—I fear this time

I will lose her.” Seth swiped a tear escaping the corner of his eye.

“I’m at wit’s end, Tom. I went to auction willing to spend all I

had for a woman to take on the heavy chores to give Naomi a

chance to regain her strength. Maggie’s strong, and she’s a

midwife—the answer to my desperate prayer.”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
63

“Brother Seth, I’m truly sorry for your trouble. Believe me, I

know how much you care for Naomi, and so I was fl ummoxed as

to why . . . well, it don’t matter none.” Tom placed his hand on

his friend’s shoulder. “You know best what needs

doin’—but

mind—this bondwoman only claims to be a midwife. These

people tend to bend the truth to suit their own end.”

“We need help, Tom.”

“Maybe Naomi’d be better off with the aid of an older woman.

How ’bout I take this one back and fetch a—”

“Awright! Tha’s th’ bloody end! I can no longer hold my

tongue.” Maggie leaped to her feet. “Yer an eidgit, Tom Roberts!

Whether ye choose to believe it or no, I
am
a midwife.” Maggie

planted fists to hips. “Seth says his wife is in dire straits. Even if I

were th’ worst excuse for a midwife, any help for the poor woman

is better than naught. If ye truly are th’ good friend ye claim to

be, yid see th’ truth in tha’.”

Maggie turned to speak to Seth. “My foster mother was

skilled—considered by many the best midwife in the glen. I was

but a wean when I began training and she trained me well. I

swear to ye, Seth Martin, I will work hard and do all I can to

help Naomi get well and birth a healthy bairn.”

“Aye, that’s fine, lass. That’s fine.” Seth squared his shoulders and

took a deep breath. “Ye can start by helpin’ me find my flask in the

morning. Can ye believe I’ve done chucked away my best fl ask?”

Tom did not relent. “Seth, do you s’pose I can tell Josh that

maybe . . . after the new baby’s born . . .”

Seth shrugged. “Maybe . . . we’ll see how it goes—”

“Seth,” Maggie interrupted. “Joshua Stark is a good man and

a fi ne friend, but there’s nothing more between us . . . not on my

part, anyway.”

“What do ye mean, lass? Ye dinna want the sailor- lad?”

“My contract is yers to sell—but truth is, such a marriage—a

body bought and paid for like some sort of . . . well, it’s . . . it’s

not right is all. If ever I marry, I’ll give my heart to a man of my

64 Christine

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own choosing. For now, I’m happy for a place where my skills

will be of use.” She turned to cast an evil-eye glare at Tom, sur-

prised to find him smiling at her.

“Well, I did my best, but I guess Josh is plumb out of luck.”

Tom returned the money to his pouch and drew out a bottle.

“Peach brandy.” He uncorked the bottle, took a swig, passed it

over to Seth. “Not near as fine as your dram whiskey, but it does

in a pinch.”

Maggie rolled her eyes. She understood the two men were a

bottle of brandy away from bedding down for the night, but she

was exhausted. “I bid good night t’ yiz both.”

“Aye, get a good night’s sleep, lass,” Seth said. “We’ve a long

road ahead.”

Maggie nodded and settled down in a comfortable cuddle

with the warm dog.

“Friday! Git over here.” The hunter slapped his thigh.

With a canine I-can’t-see-you-so-you-can’t-see-me reasoning,