The Midwife's Tale (8 page)

At the break of dawn, Martha led Grace into the stable behind the tavern. She made quick work of getting the horse settled into her stall at the very end of the structure, grabbed hold of the birthing stool with one hand, and carried her midwife’s bag and travel bag with the other. The horses James kept for his own use in the other three stalls acknowledged her presence
with little more than curious glances, although Leech, a black-and-white tomcat, offered his customary hiss from his perch on one of the horses’ backs.

Leech was as nasty to humans as he was deadly to rodents, and Martha had the feeling he would eat people, too, if he were big enough to give it a try. Strangely, he preferred horses for company, and invariably jumped on the back of one of the horses to nap. Based on personal experience, she knew he was one miserable, cranky beast of an animal, and she avoided him whenever she could, although she had to admit he was one terrific hunter and kept the stable and wagon yard free of mice and snakes.

Outside, a peddler’s wagon and three Conestoga wagons sat in the wagon yard. Martha gave wide skirt to the whole area for fear of waking the bulldogs the wagoneers typically used to guard their horses while they were tethered to troughs in the center of the yard. She hoped Leech would do the same. The last time he tried to take a nap on the back of one of the wagoneers’ horses in the yard, one of the bulldogs ended up losing an eye, along with his pride.

She had little doubt the sleeping room on the second floor of the tavern was filled to near capacity and Lydia would appreciate an extra pair of hands to prepare breakfast as well as to start the heavier meal that would be served throughout the day.

She hurried to the outside entrance to the room James had added for her at the rear of the tavern. On her way, she glanced at the herb garden and stopped. Of the six raised beds, Lydia planted and tended only two, which provided enough herbs for both family and tavern use. The remaining four belonged to Martha to grow the simples she used as remedies for both childbirth and the minor illnesses she treated.

After three months of neglect while she was away, made worse
because she had been gone during prime growing season, Martha expected to see a pitiful display of weed-choked plants too scraggly to offer anything she could salvage. Instead, healthy plants appeared to fill each bed. Pleasantly shocked, she pressed a finger to the soil. Damp and spongy. Unless it had rained recently, Lydia had watered her garden, too.

Guilt for adding to Lydia’s already heavy burden of tasks tempered her joy and erased any selfish thoughts she might have entertained about trying to steal a quick nap before helping Lydia in the kitchen. She simply added yet another debt to those she already owed to her brother and his wife.

Buoyed by the unexpected gift she had found waiting for her in the herb garden, she entered her room, shut the door behind her, and latched it closed. Argentine light filtered into the room through the single window facing the wagon yard, and Martha caught and held her breath for several long heartbeats as she scanned the single chamber she and Victoria had called their home.

Straight ahead, on the wall adjoining the main tavern, a new cast-iron cookstove, which had a small surface on top to brew a warm drink, heat water for bathing, or prepare the remedies Martha used in her work, sat at rest near the door that led inside to the storeroom at the rear of the tavern. On either side of the lone window, a trunk anchored the bottom of each single cot, each covered with patchwork quilts she had inherited from her mother.

She narrowed her gaze and let out a sigh of relief when she spied the locked box containing her grandmother’s diary resting on the bottom shelf of the small table separating the cots.

A narrow bench in the far opposite corner nudged a pine worktable, its scars covered in the center by a white cotton runner and a single glass vase waiting for wildflowers to add a
splash of color. Near the stove, a corner cupboard, a reward her grandmother had received long ago, held only a few utensils and some cookware, since Martha and Victoria regularly took their meals in the tavern itself with James and Lydia once the last of their three daughters had married and gone to housekeeping. A fireplace on the wall facing the beds provided warmth.

A shelf directly to her right is where she stored her midwife’s bag. Below the shelf, a set of brackets held the birthing stool well above the floorboards. In the corner, a water pump stood at attention next to a table holding a nest of basins and a short stack of towels. Above the table, an unframed mirror with a crack straight down the middle offered a splintered view of the room’s contents, including the bare beams overhead where no herbs hung to dry.

Her heartbeat quickened for the briefest of moments, then slowed to a heavy thud. It made no sense at all, but there were parts of her—the irrational, the romantic, the child, and the dreamer—that had been hoping to find Victoria safely tucked into her bed, the way Martha had found her so many times upon returning home from a delivery. The more rational sides of her—the adult and the realist—merely accepted Victoria’s absence as a sad reality.

The very sight of Victoria’s empty cot brought tears to her eyes. Even though she knew it had been an impossible dream, even though Aunt Hilda had told her Victoria was still missing and there had been no word from her, Martha had not really accepted that as reality until now, when the sight of that simple little empty bed made Victoria’s disappearance finally become real, so very, very real.

“Victoria,” she whispered, and struggled until she had blinked back every tear. Her mind raced in a host of directions, searching for an image of Victoria that would give her the strength
and courage to endure thinking about the horrid possibilities Victoria might be enduring during her sea travel. Those thoughts would keep her sleepless if she let them.

She chose one image, with Victoria planted at the railing of a ship. The wind freed a few dark curls from beneath her bonnet and whipped at the ribbons hanging from the bow beneath her chin, raising a healthy pink glow on her cheeks. With her hazel eyes dancing, Victoria studied the open sea, and her lips gently eased into a smile. She exuded health and happiness, an image Martha claimed, dashing all other images—shipwrecks, epidemics of shipboard diseases, and a lascivious crew, not to mention scalawag traveling companions—to the netherworld where they belonged.

After storing away her midwife’s bag and the birthing stool, she placed her travel bag and gloves on top of the trunk at the foot of her cot. She hung her bonnet and cape on wooden pegs on the wall. Working quickly, she took a fresh gown from the trunk, changed, and then pumped a basin of water so she could wash.

She chanced a look into the mirror, grimaced, and unpinned her hair. Several quick brush strokes were all she needed to clear the tangles. She twisted her hair into a knot and pinned it at the nape of her neck. When she glanced back at her image in the mirror, she studied the stranger looking back at her. Gray hair at each temple now streaked gently through her auburn hair. A frightening number of new lines etched the corners of her dark brown eyes. The generous number of freckles that were sprinkled across the bridge of her nose and spilled down her cheeks were darker, her naturally pale skin had tanned, and the deep dimples in her cheeks now appeared to be bottomless caverns.

She leaned closer to the mirror, tilted her head to catch more of the light, and sighed, but there was nothing she could do
now to prevent wrinkles from forming on her sun-drenched face. “And I’m getting gray now, too. I suppose I’ll look like Grace before long.”

Dismayed to find herself preoccupied with her appearance, she looked herself straight in the eye, squared her shoulders, pursed her lips, and turned away from the mirror.

Met by sounds emanating from the storeroom, she hurried to the connecting door, threw the bolt, and opened the door.

James turned around so fast he nearly dropped the cask of rum in his arms. “Martha! Land sakes, you just took five years off my life!” he complained, but the tender look in his dark eyes gentled his reprimand. Although they shared the same coloring, they were a contrast in shapes, even given their gender. Martha was near average in height and carried enough weight to have the abundant curves most men admired. James was overly tall and decidedly angular, to the extent he carried his childhood nickname, Stick, even to this day.

“I’m sorry,” she gushed. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought you knew I was back.”

He set the cask down on the floor, brushed his hands off on his overalls, and pulled her into a crushing embrace. “Dillon thought you’d have been here long before him. Once Aunt Hilda left and you didn’t come home during the night, I figured you met up with her at some point and wound up at the Finches’.”

She squeezed him back before breaking free. “Indeed. I got there just in time to help Glory Adelaide Finch arrive safe and sound. Her mama’s doing just fine, too,” she added, and made a mental note to add this most recent birth to her diary.

He placed one of his hands on her shoulder. “But what about you? How are you, Martha?”

She reached across her chest to cover his hand with her own. “I’ll be fine. I’m just . . . disappointed I couldn’t bring Victoria
home,” she murmured, and quickly shared some of the details of her ill-fated travels.

His eyes deepened, changing from a gentle shade of brown to almost black. “I should have stopped her. Somehow, I should have known she might run away. I should have paid closer attention to her that night. Maybe if I had—”

“You can’t blame yourself. The good Lord knows I’ve learned that lesson over the past few months. Victoria made her choice. As hurtful and as reckless as it was, she has to bear responsibility for what she’s done. All we can do is pray she’ll be safe and come home soon.”

She paused and took a deep breath. “I know it hasn’t been easy for you or for Lydia. Aunt Hilda told me you have someone here to help you,” she murmured, still hurt by his decision to hire a replacement for Victoria, yet aware now it had been necessary once she noted the lines of exhaustion that lined his narrow forehead.

His gaze grew more troubled. “It’s not that we don’t think Victoria will be back soon or that we don’t want her back—”

“I know. You did the right thing to hire Annabelle,” she admitted, seeing her disappointment now as pure selfishness.

“You’re not cross with us?”

She patted his hand. “I’m not cross. You and Lydia welcomed me and my children into your home for too long for me to ever be cross with you. Besides, you’re my big brother. We’re family,” she teased. Her heart swelled when relief filled his eyes and brought a smile to his lips.

He nodded and swallowed a visible lump in his throat. “Let’s see about getting breakfast ready. Lydia’s anxious to see you. And there’s lots of news here at home. You’re . . . you’re not going to like some of it,” he warned as he led her out of the storeroom.

She followed him into the kitchen without comment and
found Annabelle kneading bread at the kitchen table with her sister-in-law. Martha was grateful Aunt Hilda had warned her in advance and twice as grateful she had been able to purge her selfish feelings before this moment.

Lydia looked up and dropped a mound of dough she had been working to the table. “Martha!” she cried. She wiped her hands on her apron as she rushed straight over to embrace her. “It’s so good to have you home, but I’m so sorry Victoria isn’t with you,” she gushed.

She set Martha back, took a good look at her, and frowned. “Just as I feared. You’ve gotten too much sun again. After breakfast, we’ll see about getting some milk to bathe your face.”

Martha laughed. “We’re going to need gallons this time, I’m afraid.” She looked past Lydia to catch Annabelle’s gaze and noted how Lydia nervously twisted the hem of her apron with her fingers.

The girl blushed and dropped her gaze, along with the dough she had been kneading. Her hands began to tremble. “Good morning. Welcome home,” she murmured.

Touched, Martha smiled. “Aunt Hilda tells me you’re doing a fine job here at the tavern.”

When Annabelle looked up, her eyes were open wide with distrust. “I’m only helping till Victoria comes home.”

“I know,” Martha assured her. “We’re all blessed to have you here.” Her words were truly heartfelt and her smile was genuine. Praise God. She rolled up her sleeves and went directly to the pump to wash her hands. She looked over her shoulder again and smiled. “I’ll help with the bread and let you all tell me what’s been happening in Trinity while I’ve been gone,” she suggested, curious about James’s warning that some of the news might not be easy to hear.