The Midwife's Tale (33 page)

With her heart pounding, she turned about. She made a hasty retreat, so hasty she collided with Dr. McMillan as she rushed out the door. “I’m so sorry,” she gushed. She held her breath while he struggled to regain his balance. “I nearly knocked you off the walk and into the street!”

His cheeks reddened. “No harm done. I was preoccupied myself,” he offered, and pointed to the confectionery next door.
“I had my mind dead set against it, but I found myself unable to resist since I practically had to pass by on my way home.” He patted his ample stomach. “Sweets are my nemesis. I’m afraid I don’t have an ounce of self-control.”

She chuckled. “I’ve been known to skip supper and down an entire pie, instead. Cherry pie that is. Thank heavens cherries are out of season now. I was headed to the confectionery myself, actually, although I shouldn’t. Lydia told me Fern and Ivy were making fritters today, and I promised myself I wouldn’t buy more than one.”

“Yes, well, perhaps we should go together. For moral support. I won’t let you buy more than one if you help me to do the same.”

“Agreed.”

They entered the confectionery shop together. By the time they left, they had consumed several fritters apiece, but carried home only one.

“We don’t seem to be very good as one another’s conscience,” he commented with a chuckle.

“No,” she agreed, “but Fern and Ivy aren’t much help, either.”

As they walked toward the covered bridge, his expression sobered. “We do seem to be rivals, at least where some of our patients are concerned. I suppose that’s to be expected.”

Surprised by his candor, she caught her breath. “I suppose it is, especially when it comes to treating women and children.”

He nodded. “I trained for a very long time to become a doctor. There are treatments. Modern treatments I can offer that I know surpass the old traditional ones.”

She held her silence and matched her stride to his. They entered the bridge and crossed over to the other side of the street. “I wonder if I might ask your opinion about something . . . something professional.”

“Opinion?” she asked, too shocked to say more.

“You know about the accident at the mill with Charlie Greywald.”

“I spoke to Patience earlier. She said there had been some kind of infection.”

He moistened his lips. “That’s true. His hand was healing well, then last week one section of his wound became very red and swollen. I lanced it open, cleaned out the infection, and stitched it closed again.”

“And today?”

He shook his head. His steps slowed. “The infection appears to be spreading. If I don’t do something soon, he may lose his hand after all.”

He looked so very young, so dispirited, so disheartened, she could not help but sympathize with his concern. Her admiration for him, despite their different views, rose a notch. “Try leeches. Set them along the entire wound and wherever you see bruising or red lines streaking across the flesh.”

He rocked to a halt.

She backed up to be alongside him.

“Leeches? That’s . . . that’s medicine from the Dark Ages,” he sputtered.

When she held fast, failed to take the bait and respond to his charge, he rubbed his brow. “My mentor at the university would probably have my license revoked if he heard I used leeches.”

She nodded. Along with her patients, she found using leeches unnerving, even barbaric, and limited their use for circumstances that called for extraordinary measures. “On the other hand, you might be able to save Charlie from losing his hand and being crippled. Perhaps you should keep that in mind when you’re weighing the issue of whether you’re practicing medicine to prove yourself or to help your patients.”

“Of course I want to help them,” he argued. “Why else would I be here?”

“I wouldn’t know the answer to that,” she murmured. “If you want to try the leeches, stop by after supper. I’ll have some ready for you, even though it already may be too late. You have nothing to lose by trying, but Charlie does.”

26

D
r. McMillan didn’t appear until the following morning. The poor man was as pale as a winter moon. The dark circles under his eyes did not do much for his appearance, except to give silent testimony that he had spent a sleepless night coming to his decision. She handed him the jar of leeches, but decided against making any comment at all.

He stepped through the doorway into the outer yard and stopped. When he turned around, his gaze was troubled. “You won’t mention my coming here?”

Still some pride left, she supposed, but his heart was in the right place. “No.”

“Thank you.” He drew in a long breath, nodded, and shut the door.

She did not waste time brooding about him, any more than she took pleasure in having him come to her for advice. The only thing that truly mattered was getting that infection cleared in Charlie’s hand.

At the moment, she had a full plate for the day. She wanted
to stop to see Jenny Ward. On the way, she could ride along the rest of Candle Creek, skirt around the lake, and travel the other side of the creek on her way home.

With only two days until the town meeting, and growing reports of stolen property outside the town limits, she had little time left if she had any hope of turning the tide of public opinion that was threatening to flood the meeting with demands the academy be closed and its boarders run out of the county, for starters.

Anxious to keep her vow to aid Reverend Hampton’s worthy cause, she saddled Grace and headed out of town. The weather had turned fair for this time of year, but the sun was too weak to offer much warmth. The promise of winter bleached the glorious display of autumn color from the landscape, as if nature itself had slipped into a deep sleep. Fields lay fallow. Where livestock grazed, their breath created warm clouds that hovered close to the earth. Wispy plumes of smoke from chimneys carried the familiar smell of burning wood, inspiring visions of families tucked snug in their homes.

Everything peaceful. Everything calm.

It was hard to imagine that here, amid such beauty, among such hardworking, God-fearing people, a thief had stolen more than sacks of grain or baskets of eggs. He had stolen the town’s pride, pierced the peace of mind that came from trusting neighbor and traveler alike and having that trust rewarded by honesty and goodwill. To rectify that injustice, to reclaim the town and its people, Martha traveled on, long into the early hours of twilight.

She neared the outskirts of town at the end of the day no closer to discovering the real culprits, but duly concerned about the number of people who complained about having things stolen. At most, folks reported some chickens or some baskets of produce missing from their root cellars or meat from the smokehouse.

Every muscle in her body ached. Due to the hospitality of her
friends and neighbors, she had eaten enough to keep her satisfied for days. She passed the rear of the cemetery and tugged on the reins. Rosalind was scurrying off, apparently after another visit to Charlotte’s grave.

Although Rosalind had her back to Martha, Martha really had to battle with herself not to cry out and tell Rosalind her husband might be able to come home soon. Since Webster had stubbornly refused to take any action, telling Rosalind now would only make matters worse, especially if he decided to use the watch as evidence against Burton instead of to clear him.

Disappointed and disillusioned with her day, she sorely needed good news. The only place she might find it would be at Samuel’s. At this hour, Will should be back at the academy, which would give her a chance to speak with Samuel openly about the boy’s progress. She dismounted and walked ahead of Grace to cut through the woods to get to the path that led to Samuel’s cabin.

Once she arrived, she tethered Grace to a nearby tree. “I won’t be long,” she promised, and rewarded Grace with a carrot before knocking on Samuel’s door.

“Welcome aboard,” he bellowed as she entered. “Somethin’ wrong? Can’t say I ever had you visit twice in the same week before.”

She chuckled and took a seat in the chair alongside him. “What if I told you that you’re simply irresistible?”

He snorted. “I’d say you were gettin’ as blind as I am.”

“Still no improvement? I was so sure the new drops would help you.”

“You tried your best.”

“Why don’t you let me bring Dr. McMillan with me next time?”

“No doctors. Bring that up again and I’ll be apt to change my mind about that lad you’re so fond of,” he warned.

“How’s he doing? Really?”

He tugged on his beard, scattering a bunch of crumbs left behind from his supper. The glob of gravy never budged. “You tell me. You saw him here not two days ago.”

She shifted in her seat. “I think you’ve worked wonders with Will. His language is . . . well, it’s getting better.”

He laughed. “That’s the horseradish root. Cures all sorts of ills. You ever do anything with that watch?”

She told Samuel about Burton Andrews and recounted her visit with Webster Cabbot. “I think he’ll come around. Eventually.”

“There’s no fool like a woman, thank God. Leave it to a man, he’ll break her heart every time.”

“A woman might help redeem her man,” she teased.

“Thought that’s what kept ministers busy. Speakin’ of which, how much do you know about Reverend Hampton?”

Her pulse quickened. “Only what he’s told me. Why?”

He chewed on his bottom lip. “Just wonderin’. That boy’s got a back covered with scars thicker than rope. Claims his pa had a heavy hand.”

She nodded, but she could not stop a chill from racing up and down her spine. “He’s told me a little about his father. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. He never even called Will by his given name. He told me his name and he told you, but I don’t think he’s told Reverend Hampton yet. Or at least he hadn’t the last time I saw him.”

“Will’s got a quick mind. Knows when to trust the right folks. Guess that comes from livin’ on the streets for so long. Still . . .”

His voice trailed off. His fingers continued to work the end of his beard. “Guess I’m just naturally suspicious. Don’t pay me any mind.”

Samuel was suspicious, even distrustful, of most people, which had made pairing him with Will all the more unlikely. Because of his failing vision, if not his career at sea, where a
man learned to survive by accurately judging others and trusting only those whose skills could mean the difference between life and death, Martha knew Samuel had finely tuned instincts. She trusted them now more than her own. “Is it something Will said about Reverend Hampton that troubles you?”

“It’s what he doesn’t say. Never talks about him or the other boys, for that matter. He gets downright defiant if I press him.”

“Give him time,” she urged, quite certain now that Samuel’s concern just reflected his growing attachment to the boy.

“You give any thought to what you’re gonna do with him later? He’s gonna hit rough seas when my eyes give out completely.”

“Which is why you need to see a doctor. So I don’t have to worry about later, and Will doesn’t have to—”

“Tarnation, woman! You must have something better to do with your time than badger a poor, defenseless, old man who can’t see much past his own nose. Go on! Get yourself home and don’t be comin’ back here any time soon. I used to have peace and quiet till you showed up, smellin’ like a field of English lavender, meddlin’ where you don’t belong.”

She rose and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I’ll be back soon,” she teased, and quickly backed away. She managed to get to the door before he bellowed at her again.

“You got so much time to waste, go bother that minister and his passel of trouble.”

She shut the door. “Maybe I will,” she murmured, and led Grace home.