The Midwife's Tale (12 page)

She filled one of the bowls with water and set it into the cage. She tucked the second bowl into her apron pocket. Humming softly, she checked her image in the mirror. She looked the same. Almost. Except for just the barest hint of a smile glowing in her eyes.

While Annabelle served the patrons, Martha filled and refilled trenchers with mutton stew and kept the fire steady. Lydia sliced the bread and pies fast enough to keep the patrons content and refilled other supplies from the storeroom while James dispensed the spirits and added coins to the till when patrons had had their fill.

Spirited speculation today centered on the fate of poor Charlie Greywald. According to the latest rumor, Charlie’s hand had been freed and he had been taken to Dr. McMillan’s office, where his mangled hand was about to be amputated. It sounded logical, but so had the other rumors that had filtered in through the dinner hour. At one point, patrons argued Charlie had bled to death, had recovered after receiving ten stitches, or still remained at the sawmill with the saw embedded in his hand. And this from men all at the same table!

Even if Martha had listened with half an ear, she could not
have missed one universal factor common to all accounts. Apparently, Dr. McMillan was handling both himself and the situation well, earning the respect of all those who had come to the tavern that day.

The tragic event at the sawmill had drawn quite a crowd of spectators, so the normal lull between dinner and supper had never materialized. The arrival of six wagons filled with folks headed west would have drained the kettle dry, but Lydia had had enough foresight to start another kettle of stew earlier. All the pies were gone, and Lydia had to slice the bread thinner to make it stretch to meet demand.

By eight o’clock at night, Annabelle had been sent home. There was no room in the wagon yard for more than a mouse. The sleeping dormitory upstairs was filled to capacity with four to a bed. In the main room of the tavern, James continued to serve the half a dozen patrons still nibbling on the day’s gossip over pints of their favorite spirits while Lydia and Martha finished clearing up the last of the day’s clutter in the kitchen.

While she worked, Martha studied her sister-in-law. Nearly fifty, Lydia had little meat on her bones, which made her seem even taller. Gray mixed with the black in her hair to such an extent now that there was twice as much salt as pepper, accentuating the new wrinkles on her brow. Her complexion, however, was as clear and flawless as it had been when she was a young bride, nearly thirty years ago, and her eyes still shined with love when she gazed at her husband.

Martha could not have chosen a better companion or helpmate for her brother, which only added to the burden of guilt she already carried. “I truly do apologize for being gone so long,” she murmured, and plunged the last of the dirty trenchers into a pan of soapy water. “I know it’s been hard for you and James to handle the work at the tavern, even with Annabelle’s help.”

Lydia dried the trencher Martha handed to her. “It was easier when I was younger. That I’ll admit.” She added the trencher to the stack of clean ones on the table and covered a yawn with the back of her hand. “I can’t remember ever being so tired.”

Martha caught the yawn and returned it.

Lydia chuckled. “I’m so tired I can’t get my eyes to see straight. Can’t hear right, either.”

“You can’t hear right?”

“That’s what I said, and if you repeat what I’m going to tell you to James, I’ll deny it. Every word.”

Intrigued, Martha dried her hands on a towel. “Spit it out, Lydia. What is it you can’t hear?”

“It’s not what I can’t hear. It’s what I do hear . . . or heard all afternoon. Every time I went back into the storeroom, I thought I heard a warbler singing his heart out, and we both know most of the songbirds already flew south. Anyway, he sounded like he was close enough to be right in your room, which is a ridiculous notion—”

“Bird! I forgot all about Bird!” Martha cried. She pulled the miniature bowl out of her pocket, scanning the room for something, anything, he might eat, but the heavy crowd of patrons had consumed everything.

Almost.

She used a spoon to poke at the contents of a pail where they had scraped the remnants of meals from each trencher. She scooped out a crust of bread, scraped off the gravy, and tore the crust into tiny bits that fit into the bowl. “Your hearing is just fine,” she assured Lydia, who was watching her with concern. “Just fine. Follow me.”

Lydia followed close enough behind Martha to be her shadow. They moved from the kitchen and through the storeroom. When Martha opened the door, a shaft of light spilled into her chamber
and provided just enough light for her to guide her sister-in-law to the cage. “Byron Shaw stopped today with my reward and gave me Bird, along with two barrels of pickles he put into the storeroom.”

Lydia peered inside. “What bird? I don’t see a bird.”

Martha stooped down and looked inside, too, but Lydia was right. The cage was indeed empty. Oddly, the door to the cage hung wide open, and it appeared that the twigs and bits of cloth in the corner had been rearranged. Bird was nowhere to be seen.

“Now, how on earth did he manage that?” Martha wondered aloud. Half afraid he might lay hurt and injured somewhere in the room, she stepped cautiously as she made her way to the table. She lit a kerosene lamp to chase away the shadows, but when she looked around, she stifled a cry of surprise when she spied him.

Bird was fast, fast asleep in a nest of sorts that lay on top of the pillow on Victoria’s cot. She should put him right back into his cage. She just did not have the heart to do it.

9

M
arket Day always drew a lot of people to town and lured most residents out of their homes, but the crowd of people today was as remarkable as the unusually warm weather. Quite spirited, too, given the volume of animated conversation and laughter that filtered from around the bend in the roadway ahead.

With a basket swinging from each hand, Martha held her head high and her spine stiff as she walked. She dreaded the next hour, when she would face many of her friends and neighbors again for the first time, although fielding their questions about Victoria now would be a far sight better than letting gossip continue to fester. She had no desire today to see Rosalind, either.

Martha kept her gaze downcast until she passed the doctor’s home and the covered bridge at the far end of town, and prayed for the courage and fortitude to keep a smile on her face regardless of what happened this morning.

“Martha! Martha Cade!”

Good omen.

She recognized the two voices calling out from behind her and turned to greet the Lynn spinsters. Wearing long white aprons, Fern and Ivy waddled toward her like a pair of plump Christmas geese running to escape the ax. By the time they reached Martha, their cheeks were flushed the color of overripe cherries and they were panting.

“We saw . . . you. From . . . from the shop,” Fern managed while fanning her face with one hand and balancing a cloth-covered plate with the other.

Ivy mopped her brow. “You always did have a quick stride.” She gave Martha a hug and patted her back. “How are you, dearie? We’ve been so worried about you.”

With her arms literally pinned at her sides, Martha could not return the hug and relaxed in her friend’s embrace. “I’ll be fine. Truly.”

“Of course you will,” Ivy assured her. “You don’t have to tell us anything more than that, but we’re here if you need a friendly ear or a shoulder to cry upon.” She stepped aside, took the plate from Fern, and let her have a turn.

Another hug, just as powerful and just as welcome. “We’ve brought you some treats. Fresh from the oven,” Ivy explained as she set the plate into one of Martha’s baskets. “We took some to Patience Greywald earlier. Poor Charlie. He’s going to be out of work for several months, you know. Thank Providence, he’s not going to lose his hand. Nothing eases a troubled body or heart better than chocolate tarts.”

Fern nodded her head. “Or oatmeal cookies. We made some of each for you, too. Now, make sure you eat every bite.”

The smell that wafted up from the basket was heavenly, even decadent, and Martha offered a prayer of thanksgiving for her two friends along with one for Charlie Greywald.

She smiled. “I’ll savor every one.”

Judging by their ample girth, they had practiced what they preached for many years before opening the confectionery they operated from their home on West Main Street. She suspected each sister had known heartbreak, but Martha made no attempt to pry, even in the name of friendship, unlike gossipmongers who had been trying to learn about the sisters’ pasts from the moment they had arrived four years ago. As sweet as the amazing pastries they baked, and just as generous to those in need, there was not a malicious bone in either of their bodies.

“Were you going to the market today? I’d be grateful for your company,” Martha suggested.

Ivy’s blue eyes twinkled. “We’ve already been there and back, but we wouldn’t mind getting another look.”

Fern blushed. “Just one more peek. Before they take it down.”

Martha cocked her head and knitted her brows together. “Get a look at what? Take what down?”

Two pairs of blue eyes flashed with disbelief before Fern merely turned Martha about and led her down the road to the bend, where they had a full view of the crowd as well as the market itself. “There. Look up. No, all the way up. To the market roof.”

As curious as she was confused, Martha raised her gaze above the throng of people. Her eyes widened. Her mouth dropped open. She blinked several times, but the unbelievable image of a full-sized carriage straddling the center peak of the roof remained. While she watched, several men with coils of rope climbed up a ladder, and she assumed they were going to attempt to get the carriage down.

In spite of herself, she laughed out loud at the outrageously clever prank. The sisters joined in, and Martha laughed until her sides ached and her conscience reminded her this was no laughing matter. Guilt quickly sobered her demeanor, and she
realized now why the crowd was so unusually large. “What on earth is that carriage doing up there? Whose carriage is it, do you know?”

Fern shrugged her shoulders. “Can’t say for sure how it got there or why, but Dr. McMillan isn’t too pleased. Downright snippy, I heard, barking orders to have his carriage brought down. He even offered a reward—”

“To catch the culprits,” Ivy interjected. “I overheard some of the menfolk. Apparently, there must have been more than one prankster who worked through the night. Had to be, since they had to take the carriage apart and haul each piece up to the roof before they reassembled it. Well, almost all of it,” she explained, and pointed to the market roof again. “See? There’s a wheel missing.”

“And the carriage top,” Fern added. “Guess the sun came up before they finished. They got clean away, too, but most folks are already blaming the academy boys.”

Martha shook her head. Either she was losing her hearing or she had laughed her brain silly. “Did you say academy boys? Lydia didn’t mention anything about an academy opening here in Trinity.”