The Midwife's Tale (38 page)

He nodded. “I think I slept through most of Sunday and yesterday. Did you attend meeting?”

She fluffed the pillows behind his back and set his breakfast tray in front of him. “No. I stayed here with you, listening to an endless litany of arguments why my treatments reminded you of ancient remedies long abandoned by your learned teachers and colleagues at the university.”

His brows rose in surprise before he tackled the bowl of steaming oatmeal instead of responding to her complaint. “Funny. I expected you to go to meeting, but then nothing has been very normal since I took ill. I actually thought I heard a bird singing every morning, which is impossible with winter breathing down our necks. Must have been the fever,” he suggested between spoonfuls.

“That was Bird. He’s a . . . a patient of sorts. I brought him with me.”

He swallowed a mouthful of oatmeal. “You have a bird for a patient? Here?”

She sat down on the chair and nibbled at a piece of toast she took off his tray. “I have him in the next chamber. He was a rather unusual reward I received when I first returned from my long journey.”

He dropped his gaze. “Reward? I’m ashamed to admit I haven’t given your reward any thought. I’m not certain what fee you charge, but whatever it is, I’ll settle with you as soon as I get back on my feet.”

An idea popped into her head, and she latched onto it before it burst into nothingness. “I do have a fee in mind. Several, in fact. First, Doc Beyer used to let me take some wild hydrangea and some buttonbush from the front walk. I’d like you to extend the same courtesy. Second, well . . . I’d better just show you.”

She hurried to the chamber she had used since her arrival, returned with the cage, and set it onto the seat of her chair.

Dr. McMillan tried another spoonful of oatmeal, apparently uninterested.

When she cleared her throat, he looked up at her, and she pointed to Bird. “See his wing? Apparently, it healed wrong after being broken. I don’t know anything about setting broken bones and even less about birds and their wings. Do you think there’s something you could do to help him? I hate to think he’ll spend the rest of his life in a cage. If you could fix his wing, I could set him free in the spring.”

He choked down his oatmeal and stared at her. “You’re serious? You want me to treat your . . . your bird as payment of your reward?”

“If you would, yes,” she responded.

He laid down his spoon and shook his head. “I don’t believe this. You’re actually serious. You really do want me to treat your bird! I’m a doctor, not a veterinarian,” he argued. “I treat people!”

Rosalind burst into the room before Martha could properly respond. “I’m sorry. I know you’re not treating patients, Doctor, but Billy Frankel is downstairs with his father. The boy’s arm is broken. I didn’t know where to send them.”

The doctor sat up straighter. “You’re sure it’s broken? It’s not merely a bad sprain?”

She shook her head. “It’s broken. I could see that with my own eyes, even though the skin isn’t broken. What do you want me to tell them? The poor boy’s in a great deal of pain. I don’t think taking him all the way to Clarion is a good idea.”

“Where is the break? What part of his arm?”

She pointed to her forearm, halfway between her wrist and her elbow. “Here.”

Dr. McMillan lowered his gaze for a moment. When he finally lifted his eyes, he sought Martha’s gaze and held it. “Tell Mr. Frankel I’m far too weak with my illness to set the boy’s arm but that Widow Cade will be able to help him.”

Martha practically leaped out of her chair. “I’m a midwife, not a doctor. I deliver babies and treat minor ailments. I haven’t a clue about how to set a broken bone.”

“You’re reasonably intelligent and strong, but more importantly, you have a steady hand and a gentle touch. I’ll tell you exactly what to do. It’s not really that complicated when it’s a simple break, which it is, from what I’ve been told. If it’s not, whatever you do will be better than letting the bone heal as it is so the boy’s arm is as useless to him as that bird’s wing.”

He looked directly at Rosalind and ordered her downstairs. “Get the treatment room ready. You know what I usually use. Set out a splint, wrappings, and a suitable piece of cloth for a sling.”

Rosalind quickly disappeared, leaving Martha alone to argue her case against this ridiculous idea. Before she could proffer a single objection, the young doctor grabbed her arm. “Roll up your sleeve. I’ll show you what to do and how to do it. Watch closely and don’t argue with me. There’s a little boy downstairs who needs you.”

She could scarcely breathe. Her heart galloped in her chest. “You’re serious? You really want me to set his arm?”

He tightened his hold. “You’re the boy’s only hope.”

She hesitated, torn between the fear that she might fail and the even greater fear that she might succeed, and rolled up her sleeve. “Show me what to do. While you’re at it, you might want to think about how I’m going to explain my presence here.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Tell them what you may. I’ll deal with whatever you decide. The boy’s more important right now than my pride.”

His words called a truce to the battle they had waged between them. For better or worse, she could no longer continue to fear losing her patients to a man who would put his patient before his own reputation. Though they would invariably lock horns over the proper care to be given to teeming women or over appropriate interventions during labor and delivery, he had already proven his willingness to accept her as a healer, competent enough in her own right to stand in his stead for the welfare of his patient.

She accepted the lesson as a most unexpected gift, one she would sincerely have regretted missing had she rejected His call to care for the young doctor, who would one day be a very fine physician for the people of Trinity.

“You’re a brave lad, Billy Frankel,” Martha crooned. She positioned the sling and slid his splinted arm in place. She looked
up at his father, Theodore, and smiled, even though her heart was still racing and her body was drenched in sweat. “Dr. McMillan would like to see him in a few weeks. Make sure you tell Anne to steep the boneset until it’s quite strong and give the boy some to help alleviate the pain.”

“We’re obliged to you for helpin’.”

“I’m just glad I was here visiting Rosalind when you arrived.” She prayed her little lie would be forgiven.

“How long do you think the doctor will be recuperating?”

She moistened her lips. “Another ten days at most. Lung congestion is always serious, especially with the cold weather setting in. He’s got to rebuild his strength before he travels about to call on his patients,” she said.

While only partially true, her little lies were well intentioned and close enough to the truth to not be judged as sinful. She hoped. Besides, it would serve no purpose to put the young doctor at the center of a round of jokes bound to undermine his credibility because he had had the misfortune to contract a childhood disease.

Theodore shifted from one foot to the other, and a blush colored his cheeks. “About the fee . . . I don’t have hard coin, but I slaughtered a few hogs some weeks back and have some fine hams in the smokehouse . . . if you think . . . that is . . .”

“That would be fine,” she agreed, even though she was not quite certain of the fee involved.

He brightened. “You want me to deliver the hams here or at the tavern?”

“Bring Dr. McMillan one right here when you bring Billy back. It’s his office. I used his supplies. And he’ll be checking Billy until that arm heals,” she explained when Theodore seemed a bit surprised.

“Yes, ma’am. Let’s go, son. Your mama is home worryin’ herself about you.”

“Easy,” Martha cautioned as the boy scampered off the table. She ushered them to the door with no small measure of relief. Once they departed, she closed the door, sagged against it, and offered a silent prayer of gratitude that He had guided her through the entire ordeal.

Rosalind entered the kitchen, took one look at Martha, and went right to the stove. “You look like you need some tea.”

Martha wiped her brow and noticed that her hand was still trembling. “Half a pot, at least.”

Rosalind put some water on to boil, set two mugs on the table, and measured out tea for the pot. “I gather you managed to set Billy’s arm?”

Martha nodded. “Dr. McMillan was right. It’s not a complicated procedure, but it’s not something I’d care to do again.”

Rosalind chuckled. “To be honest, I think that’s how he feels when he’s called to deliver a baby. That night with Adelaide? He was very nervous. When you arrived, I think he was actually relieved.”

“Really?” Martha joined Rosalind at the table while they waited for the water to come to a boil. “He seemed perturbed, even hostile. You weren’t very happy to see me, either, as I recall,” she ventured.

Rosalind bowed her head. “I’m ashamed to admit I wasn’t. I apologize. I wasn’t very cordial at the cemetery, either,” she murmured.

“You’ve been having a difficult time. We all know that,” Martha suggested to ease her friend’s distress.

“That’s no excuse,” she countered. When she looked up at Martha again, tears misted her eyes. “I should have had more faith in Burton, more faith in my friends . . . more
faith
.” Her bottom lip trembled. “I’ve made a proper mess of things. Now . . . now I’m not sure what to do or say. . . .”

“Now?” Martha repeated. Her pulse began to race.

Rosalind dabbed at her eyes with the hem of her apron. “Sheriff Myer came by early this morning. Webster’s dropped the charges against Burton. He claims he found the watch lodged between the floorboards. It must have fallen off that peg on the wall in his shop. It was all a mistake,” she whispered.

Martha did not have to feign surprise, although it was Cabbot’s timing, not his actions, that widened her eyes. “That’s wonderful news! So wonderful, I’d expect you to be grinning from ear to ear instead of weeping.”

Rosalind’s smile was tepid. “I’m happy, and I’m relieved, of course, and I know Burton will be, too, when I write to him, but . . . but . . .” Her hands shook as she twisted the corner of her apron. “I don’t think he’ll be very proud of how I behaved while he was gone. If I’m not proud of myself, why should he be? I acted like he was guilty and shut myself off from everyone, letting my loneliness and my shame turn me into a bitter, angry woman.”

Martha moistened her lips. “Quite true. You did.”

Rosalind flinched, but Martha smiled and covered her friend’s hands with one of her own. “There’s not a woman in Trinity who wouldn’t admit she might have done the same. Not if she’s honest with herself. But Burton should share the burden of this awful experience, too. He ran off instead of staying to defend himself. He left you to do that for him, and I suspect some of your anger is directed at him. Rightfully so.

“Still,” she continued, “right prevailed in the end. For that, you should both be grateful. I’m sure it wasn’t easy for Webster to admit his mistake. No one, not Burton, not even Webster, will find it easy to put this matter aside easily, but you can and you must.”

Rosalind wrapped her hands around Martha’s. “I’m not as
strong as you are. People will be gossiping again, asking questions about what happened or where Burton has gone. I won’t know what to say.”

Martha chuckled. “You’re stronger than you think. Just hold your head high and smile if anyone asks you details that are none of their concern. It might help to see the past few months, as difficult as they’ve been, as a gift. An opportunity to test your faith in God as well as your husband and your friends.”

Rosalind’s eyes widened and filled with new tears. “But I failed them all,” she gushed. “I failed everyone, especially God. I stopped going to meeting. I couldn’t even pray anymore without becoming angrier. Why would God reward me with Burton’s vindication? Why did I deserve this . . . this miracle?”

“Because He loves you. Because He wanted to give you another opportunity to see that He loves you even when you turn from Him, so that in the future, when your faith is tested again, you will remember what happened this time and turn to Him, not away from Him. Pray for forgiveness, Rosalind, but know He has forgiven you already and welcomes you back into His arms because you are His creation. If you do, finding peace with your husband and your friends will come to you as well.”

Rosalind dropped her gaze. “I’m not sure I can do that. I’m too ashamed.”

“Would you prefer to spend the rest of your life as unhappy as you’ve been the past few months?”

“No, but—”

“Pray, Rosalind. He’ll listen. We’ll pray together,” she suggested. “Between the two of us, we’ll find the right words. When we do, perhaps you might be able to help me ask Him for some help, too.”

Rosalind sniffled. “For you? Or for Victoria?”

“Both of us. For starters,” she responded. “Somehow, I must
find the words to ask for forgiveness for myself for not having faith enough that He would help me keep my calling and make room for Dr. McMillan, too,” she whispered. “It took a simple case of chicken pox and a little boy with a broken arm to remind me how weak my own faith has become,” she admitted.