The Midwife's Tale (4 page)

She also learned there had been no word from Victoria, despite her fervent hopes otherwise. She was, however, as surprised
to learn Doc Beyer had gone on to his final reward as she was to find out he had been eighty-three years old.

A physician of the old school who had learned the rudiments of his trade through apprenticeship, Doc Beyer and her grandmother had worked side by side in Trinity for nearly fifty years, each respecting the other’s abilities, as well as the need for both a doctor and a midwife in Trinity and the surrounding areas.

According to Aunt Hilda, Dr. McMillan had purchased his predecessor’s home and office and opened his very first practice. A bachelor, he had even kept Rosalind Andrews as his housekeeper, an arrangement that allowed Rosalind to continue living in the home as well.

Unlike Doc Beyer, who had limited his part-time practice to treating male patients, setting bones, and treating serious illnesses beyond Martha’s expertise while earning additional income from farming, Dr. McMillan was an upstart straight out of medical school in Boston, and he had apparently made it very clear he intended to practice medicine full-time, treating every man, woman, and child in Trinity himself.

To do that, he would have to court the community of women there and convince them to let him handle all their medical needs. The best way to begin was to start delivering their children, relieving Martha of her role as midwife.

Unfortunately, Martha’s absence these past few months had given him the very opportunity he needed. Doctors had replaced midwives in most major cities, including Boston, for nearly twenty years now. It was only a matter of time before the same happened in rural towns like Trinity as well. If that happened, Martha would lose everything: her only source of income as well as her place in the community.

She snorted at the very thought he would ever replace her and rode faster until she was alongside the wagon, instead of
behind it, since she had already tolerated her own fair share of road dust on her journey home.

“There’s more news,” Aunt Hilda ventured, “but that can wait for now. Tell me what happened on your trip.”

There was no one Martha trusted more than Aunt Hilda, and she told her all about her travels with no fear anything she said would ever be repeated. By the time they crossed Reedy Creek at a shallow point, she had nearly emptied her tale.

“What exactly did Oliver suggest you do?” Aunt Hilda asked as Martha concluded with news about her visit to her son in Boston.

Martha let out a long sigh. “He wanted me to stay with him for a spell. To ‘gather my wits,’ as he put it. He has a rather analytical approach to this whole sorry mess, like this is some legal issue he’s trying to resolve,” she admitted, still a bit heartsore that he had moved east to live and work with his Grandfather Cade nine years ago when he was only fourteen years old. Her relationship with her son remained loving and constant, but they were not as close as she would have liked.

Aunt Hilda shook her head. “Oliver never did think much with his heart. That might make him a good city lawyer, but not much more. Give him time, Martha. He’s still his mother’s son.”

Martha nodded but offered no further comment. They traveled in companionable silence for another five miles before reaching Candle Creek, and arrived at the Finch homestead less than half an hour later. Light poured an invitation from the windows of the well-lit cabin, but Martha recognized the carriage hitched near the front door as the one previously used by Doc Beyer, which did not bode well for her chances of delivering Adelaide’s baby.

“We’re too late,” she murmured.

“Perhaps,” Hilda conceded as she climbed down from the wagon while Martha dismounted and tethered Grace to the hitching post alongside the doctor’s carriage. “Then again, if
that babe’s not yet come into this world, custom says the mother-to-be has the right to choose who helps her to deliver. Whether he likes it or not, the good Dr. McMillan best give sway to custom, unless he intends to practice somewhere else.”

The door swung open before Martha could respond, and three of the watchers who had been tending to Adelaide during her grinding pains gathered together in the open doorway. Melanie Biehn and Belinda Riley, Adelaide’s nearest neighbors, both wore expressions of deep concern that quickly gave way to surprise when they saw Martha. Standing behind them, Rosalind Andrews offered only a tight smile.

With relieved glances to one another, Melanie and Belinda stepped aside, forcing Rosalind to do the same to allow Martha and Aunt Hilda to enter the two-room dwelling. With a quick look around the main room, Martha was satisfied the watchers had gotten everything ready for the birth. A supply of towels and cloths warmed by the fire in the hearth. A kettle of water hissed on the cookstove, carefully watched by yet another neighbor, JoHannah Pfeifer, who returned Martha’s smile with a nervous nod of her head. She ignored the assorted foods that burdened a trestle table awaiting the customary celebration following childbirth. The mood that filled the small homestead was more funereal than celebratory, and she focused all of her attention on the expectant father, Daniel Finch.

He wore a grim expression that gave life to the ditty schoolchildren had chanted while jumping rope for as long as Martha could remember:

Once the doctor arrives,

Two never survive.

Dig the hole. Etch the stone.

Mama or baby got called back Home.

Battling the fear worrying her heart, she studied the young man, who did not take his gaze from the door that led to the adjoining bedchamber. His shoulders were rigid. His stance was almost combative, as if he were ready to slay whatever demons threatened the well-being of his wife and unborn child. He flinched when the sound of deep moaning echoed from behind the closed door.

When he finally looked at Martha, his dark eyes were moist with unshed tears. When he began to speak, his voice was as steady as it was accusatory. “Dr. McMillan is here now. Your services are not—”

“My services are not the issue right now,” she insisted. “How is Adelaide?”

He snorted. “I haven’t been allowed near her for the past hour.”

She was not surprised that the doctor had taken such preemptive control by excluding Adelaide’s husband from the birthing process.

“Carrie’s with Adelaide and the doctor,” JoHannah offered, as if she knew Martha would take heart from knowing one of her trusted assistants was with her patient.

As if privy to the concerns of all who watched and waited for the impending arrival of the firstborn Finch, a man she assumed to be Dr. McMillan emerged from the bedchamber. Almost twenty years younger than Martha, he was uncommonly short. Although she stood an average five and a half feet, Martha was a full head taller than him. He carried a paunch around his middle large enough that, if carried by a woman, it might cause observers to suspect her teeming state would last only another few months.

Pale blue eyes and light hair accented fine, delicate features set between pudgy cheeks, but his thin lips formed a pout when quick introductions identified Martha as a midwife.

“So you’re the
midwife.
” If his sarcasm had been vinegar, there would have been enough for a year’s supply for the entire town. “As you can see, Mrs. Finch is my patient. You’re not needed here.”

Unaccustomed to being publicly dismissed by anyone, even a doctor, Martha should have expected no less from this newcomer. Instead of responding to the challenge in his words, she glanced behind him into the bedchamber where a forlorn cradle sat empty in the corner.

Adelaide lay in bed, motionless. Carrie was seated by her side, gently wiping Adelaide’s brow, and she gave Martha an unspoken, plaintive plea for help with a troubled gaze. Turning her attention back to Adelaide, Martha quickly noted the paleness of her face and the lines of exhaustion that etched her features, but it was the small bandage on her arm that set Martha’s blood to a quick boil and quickly evaporated her reluctance to intervene.

“You bled her?” Surprised by the curtness of her own words, she charged the doctor, then stopped and clamped her lips shut before completely losing control of her temper and saying something she would later regret.

The young physician blanched. Bright splotches of red mottled his pale cheeks. Indignation flashed through his eyes. “I’ve been well trained to handle all aspects of the birth process for my patients, especially difficult ones,” he spat.

Before Martha could fashion a reasonable retort, Aunt Hilda stepped up to him. Nearly eye-to-eye, she spoke to him quietly and calmly. “Bleeding a woman during her labor saps her strength. It doesn’t help her or the baby.”

The doctor sputtered, apparently flabbergasted that anyone would challenge his competency or his treatments. Aunt Hilda ignored him and turned her attention to the expectant father, who seemed paralyzed and unable to intervene. “If you want
that babe of yours to enter this world and suckle at his mama’s breast tonight, you’d best leave this to Martha,” she suggested. “Unlike the good doctor, she knows exactly what to do because she’s done it hundreds of times, not because she read some books or attended a few lectures.”

At that moment, Dr. McMillan finally found his voice. “I beg your pardon! My credentials are—”

“Impeccable, I’m sure,” Martha assured him. Reluctant to completely alienate the man who could very well threaten her position within the community, especially if he succeeded in convincing her neighbors he was better trained to deliver their babies than she was, she followed Aunt Hilda and kept her own contempt at bay.

As much as she wanted to intervene and take care of Adelaide, Martha knew she could not simply usurp the doctor’s position.

He had been summoned first.

He had arrived first.

Like it or not, Adelaide was his patient, and until Martha was asked to intervene, she had no right to do so.

She turned to fully face Daniel, and the pained expression in his eyes made it clear he was too upset about his wife and the possibility of losing her or the babe she carried to choose between having a doctor or a midwife tend to her.

Unearthly silence filled the cabin with tension that mounted as the standoff continued . . . until Adelaide moaned and cried out for her husband. “Daniel. Daniel? Please, Daniel . . .”

He rushed past everyone to her side.

Martha moved into the bedchamber.

Dr. McMillan quickly joined her.

Daniel knelt by his wife’s side and pressed a kiss to her forehead while he kept her hands folded within his own. “I’m here, love. I’m here,” he assured her.

She managed a weak smile, one that broadened the moment her gaze locked with Martha’s. “I knew you’d come . . . in time.” She gritted her teeth as a forcing pain claimed her breath. She raised her head from the pillow, grimaced, and let out a sharp cry. When the pain subsided, she lay back down. Perspiration covered her face and damp ringlets of auburn hair splayed across her pillow.

“I don’t know what to do,” Daniel murmured. He stroked her cheek and pressed his forehead to hers. “Tell me what to do. Tell me who you want to help you deliver our son,” he rasped as his voice cracked with emotion.

Martha tried to remain calm, but she could not keep her palms from sweating or her heart from racing. As hopeful as she was that Adelaide would want her to take over with the birthing, she also knew Dr. McMillan had spent enough time with his patient to have established some type of bond between them.

She quickly said a silent prayer, knowing full well that her future in Trinity very much depended on the answer Adelaide would give them all.

4

H
elp me. Will you help me, Martha? Please?” Adelaide whimpered, then turned her tear-filled eyes from Martha to the man standing just inside the doorway. “I’m sorry, Dr. McMillan. I appreciate all you’ve tried to do, but . . . Martha!” she cried as she nearly doubled in pain.