The Midwife's Tale (29 page)

Today, like other Sunday afternoons, she joined Aunt Hilda for dinner, resuming a ritual that had lasted for nearly a decade when either of their duties allowed it. She dried the last plate, set it back into the sideboard, and closed the door. “I think that’s the last,” she murmured.

Aunt Hilda chuckled. “Until we dirty more dishes with dessert. You pour the tea while I get my surprise from the pie safe.”

Martha poured tea into two mugs already on the table and tried to smile. Aunt Hilda was the undisputed queen when it came to making honey wine. There was not an afternurse more caring or qualified. Her crown slipped a bit at the stove, but when it came to baking, she was a complete and utter failure—so much so that she would have been dethroned and relegated to the dungeon in her own castle if folks had not been so fond of her.

When Aunt Hilda put a sugar-coated apple strudel on the table, Martha’s eyes widened. “That looks too scrumptious to eat!”

“You mean it looks too good to be mine. It isn’t. I stopped to see Fern and Ivy yesterday. They insisted I take this home, so I saved it for us. Not that I couldn’t make it myself,” she added. “But I’d have used honey instead of sugar. Hand me your plate. I’ll cut you a big slice, and you’d better eat every bite. You’re getting a bit thin.”

“I’ve been busy,” Martha countered.

“Delivering babies and tending to the sick is all well and good, but riding every day, searching for whoever is responsible for all that thievery, isn’t your job. That’s what I told Thomas
before he first approached you with that idea our beloved leaders concocted. Glad you set them straight, but I’m none too pleased—”

“I know. We’ve talked about this before.” Martha toyed with her strudel. She was almost grateful Thomas had confided in Aunt Hilda, if only to give Martha the freedom to discuss her attempt to find the culprits and put a quiet end to it all. Fortunately, Reverend Hampton’s status as a minister helped to temper folks’ anger and frustration. Had he not been a man of the cloth, he might very well have had to fend off angry citizens who arrived at the academy’s doorstep, ready to use force to make the boys leave Trinity.

“I’ve visited every homestead on Reedy Creek, nearly all along Double Trouble, and half of them on Candle Creek. I haven’t got an inkling so far. Maybe tomorrow will turn up something.”

“How’s Eleanor?”

Martha sighed and accepted the reprieve Aunt Hilda offered. “She’s doing well. I promised to stop and see her today on my way home.”

“And Thomas? He left the meetinghouse so quickly I never got a chance to speak with him. Then Daniel and Adelaide stopped me. That sure is one fine baby girl they showed off today.”

Martha savored a big bite of strudel and chewed slowly before she answered. “Both mama and baby are doing very well, thanks to you. Did you notice how blue Glory’s eyes are? Just like Adelaide’s.”

“You’re changing the subject. I asked you about Thomas.”

“I assume he’s fine. I didn’t speak to him, either.”

“I bet Samantha did. Foolish twit. She’s younger than Eleanor.”

Martha chuckled and nearly choked on her tea. “Her mother has grand ideas she’s been planting in that girl’s head for years. You can’t blame Samantha for trying to catch Thomas’s eye.”

Aunt Hilda sniffed. “The way she sashays up to him every time he sets foot out of the house, that man would have to be blind not to see what she’s after. Not that you mind, I suppose.”

“Mind? Why would I mind? Whatever Thomas and I shared years ago, it’s gone. Now, let’s wash up these dishes so I can be on my way. I have to stop to see Will, too.”

Her aunt waved her away. “Go on. I’ll take care of these. I don’t imagine you’d have a mind to tell me what’s happening with the boy now that he’s staying with Samuel?”

Martha shrugged her shoulders. “I’m really not sure. I haven’t seen him since Reverend Hampton left him there a few weeks back.” She rose, stopped to give her aunt a hug, and donned her outerwear. “If there’s anything astonishing to report, I’ll be back,” she teased. “If not, I’ll see you again next Sunday.”

“If not before. Melanie Palmer is ripe to deliver before then.”

“If she calls for me,” Martha murmured, and slipped out the door. A brisk wind greeted her outside, whipped at her cape, and stung her cheeks as she covered the short distance to Thomas’s home. She bunched her shoulders to keep the cold air from blowing down her neck, and bounded up the front steps. She had her hand on the brass knocker when the door swung open and Eva Clark urged her inside.

“Come in. Come in. Before you get blown away.”

Martha wiped her slippers on the mat and scooted inside. “Mercy! We’ll have snow before long.”

Eva closed the door. “Go on into the sitting room and get warm by the fire. Do you want me to take your cape and bonnet now or after you stop shivering?”

“I’m not staying very long. I’ll keep them on.”

“Eleanor will be so happy to see you. I’ll just go and tell her you’re here,” she gushed.

While Eva climbed the ornate center staircase, Martha entered
the sitting room and glanced around. She had visited Thomas and Sally in this home many times, and his parents before their deaths, but she still caught her breath at the sheer opulence that surrounded her.

Beneath her feet, a thick carpet splashed the room with jeweled color, a blend of ruby, emerald, and sapphire blue. Cushioned chairs and a matching settee sat in front of a hearth faced with green marble. A row of heavy silver candlesticks of altering height stretched across the mantel, paying homage to the portrait of Jacob Dillon. French wallpaper, with stripes of color matching the carpet, adorned the walls.

In essence, it was a room fit for royalty, if not the founding family of Trinity.

She never felt quite at home there. More out of place. Like a cornhusk doll might have felt if it had been sitting on the settee instead of the elegant china doll that adorned one of the seats.

She went directly to the fire, removed her gloves, and held her hands out to warm them. When she heard footsteps approaching, she turned around and met Eleanor as she entered the room. After a heartfelt embrace, she stepped back and let Eleanor place her hand atop the younger woman’s stomach. “He’s very active today. Can you tell?”

Martha waited, then felt a solid thump against the palm of her hand and pulled away. “I should say he is! Or she is,” she admonished as she followed Eleanor to the settee.

“I told Micah the same thing.” Eleanor giggled as she picked up the china doll, sat down with the doll on her lap, and patted the seat beside her. “I thought if I set out one of my old dolls, he might consider the possibility of a daughter this time.”

Martha sat down and studied Eleanor from head to toe. “You’ve gained some weight. Your cheeks are rosy. I’d say you’re doing very well, young lady. How are you feeling?”

“Much, much better. I still take my naps, one in the morning and one in the afternoon, just like you suggested. I’m not as strong as I’d like to be yet, but I’m very content. And very, very grateful to you,” she murmured. “It’s helped a great deal to be with Father, and I feel closer to Mother here at home, too.”

“I’m so glad. Have you ventured out yet?”

“Micah wasn’t sure I should.”

Martha cocked her head. “What do you think?”

“I think I’d like to try. Maybe just a short visit with some old friends. Or a walk to the confectionery,” she teased.

“Then I think you should. Don’t go alone, of course. And make sure you come home before you get tired. Next Sunday,” she urged as she rose, “I hope to see you at meeting.”

Eleanor’s smile drooped into a frown. “Must you go? Micah and Father should be home soon. They’d both love to see you.”

“I’ll come again during the week. I have another stop to make. Sit. Don’t get up. I can show myself out. Give Micah my best. Your father, too,” she added before venturing back out the same way she had come in.

If anything, the wind had gotten stronger and the air had grown colder. She crossed through the empty plot where the meetinghouse had once stood to cut through the cemetery. When she was just beyond the old chestnut tree, she caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of her eye that made her stop to get a better look.

A blue neck scarf, caught by a gust of wind, blew up toward the overcast sky like a wayward kite struggling for the freedom of flight, then fell down to drape one of the headstones. A woman who was huddled nearby tending to a grave site was either unaware or unconcerned that she had lost her scarf.

Martha could not see the woman’s face, but she knew it had to be Rosalind because the grave she tended marked the burial
place of her daughter, Charlotte. Martha hesitated to intrude. Lord knew, she had wanted privacy when she visited the grave sites of her husband and young sons when her grief was still raw and blistering her heart. She also had little time to spend with Samuel and Will if she hoped to return home before dark.

She had not had an opportunity to speak with Rosalind since that day at Dr. McMillan’s when she had returned his lancet. Rosalind kept to herself, rarely leaving home, and had not been to meeting since her husband had left town.

Then again, Martha had an opportunity now. Unexpected. Unplanned. Inconvenient. But perhaps a gift that gave her the chance to offer Rosalind the friendship she so desperately needed. With a prayer for courage, she retrieved the scarf and approached the woman slowly, hoping to not frighten her.

When Martha was a few headstones away, Rosalind packed up her small garden tools, stood, and brushed the dirt from her cape. She turned to leave, took one look at Martha, and clapped her hand to her chest. “You gave me a start!”

Martha closed the distance between them and handed her the neck scarf. “I’m sorry. You lost your scarf. I guess the wind blew it away while you were weeding. I found it over there hanging on Abe Chesterfield’s headstone.”

Rosalind tucked the scarf into her basket. “I hadn’t noticed. The . . . the weeds have nearly overtaken Charlotte’s plot. I didn’t take care of her this summer like I should have . . . what with all that’s happened.”

“We’ve missed you at meeting.”

Rosalind’s gaze hardened. “I pray at home, where I don’t have to tolerate hypocrites and fools who go to meeting on Sunday and spend the rest of the week gossiping.”

“You have friends there, too. People who care about you and Burton.”

Rosalind snorted and let loose bitter, angry words that gusted out with a fury. “Like Sheriff Myer? I’m sure the only thing he cares about is sending Burton off to the county prison, whether he’s guilty or not. And he’s not. He’s an innocent man. A good man! But no one believes that, except for me. Webster Cabbot is Burton’s friend! Or we thought he was. And now . . . and now the only place I have left to go where I know someone who believes in Burton like I do is here, a miserable, cold plot of ground where my daughter lies. But she can’t talk to me or hold me or promise me someday the truth will be told and her papa can come home.” She choked back a sob and put her fist to her mouth. Her chest heaved, and the basket in her hand shook as she battled for control.

Shaken, Martha attempted to reach out to comfort her.

Rosalind stepped back and squared her shoulders, but her words were plaintive now instead of angry. “Please. Leave me alone. I don’t want your pity or your platitudes about God’s will. Right now, I’d settle for nothing short of a miracle. That’s what it’s going to take to clear Burton, and I’m afraid God has no miracles to spare. Not for me. Not for Burton. Because if He had, He would have saved my Charlotte instead of letting her suffer and waste away until she was too weak to draw her next breath.”

Martha shivered and pulled her cape tighter at the neck. “I can’t give you a miracle, any more than I can truly understand the depth of your suffering, but I can offer you friendship. I can even promise not to tie a mouse to the end of your braid again.”

Tears trickled down Rosalind’s cheeks. Her hand shook when she swiped them away. Her lips shaped a tentative smile, and her gaze grew wistful. “That was so long ago.”

“Would you have time for a cup of tea? I could get a good fire going—”

“No. I—I have to get back and start something for Dr. McMillan’s supper. Another time. Perhaps,” she murmured, and hurried away.

“Another time,” Martha whispered, but she feared there would not be another time. Not unless by some miracle Burton was cleared of the charges against him. With a troubled heart, she waited and watched until Rosalind had disappeared from view before she wove her way through the rest of the cemetery, following a path that led deep into the woods. Naked trees, stripped of life and color, huddled together, pale and weak next to lush evergreens that helped to block the wind.

The ground beneath her slippers was hard and rocky, and the silence there, where no horses or wagons ever ventured, was thick, save for the sound of her ragged breathing and her footsteps. Chilled to the bone, she greeted the sight of the small cabin ahead with longing for relief from the cold and hurried her steps.

She had no idea what she would find waiting for her inside. Failure had as much a chance to be there as success. She had faith enough to be happy with a little of each, and knocked on the door using the signal Samuel insisted she use—three short taps and a long one.