The Midwife's Tale (9 page)

7

M
artha walked into the kitchen later that day, glanced around, took a good whiff, and smiled. At least some things had not changed.

A huge kettle of mutton stew simmered on the hearth. A parade of fresh loaves of bread cooled on wooden racks, while apple pies laced with cinnamon and butter baked in the oven, creating even more tantalizing aromas that had begun to spread throughout the tavern.

In the lull between the departure of last night’s guests and new arrivals, including townspeople anxious for a hearty meal, James was outside tending to the wagon yard and stables while Annabelle helped Lydia tidy the second-floor sleeping dormitory. Martha had used the time she had to herself, now that Annabelle was there, to bathe and change into a fresh gown before trying the milk remedy for her face.

When she checked her complexion in the mirror, she did not see any change at all and decided the milk should be put to far
better use. She washed the empty bowl and rinsed out the cloth she had used before storing them both away and returning to her room. Feeling refreshed, but still weary, she sat down at the worktable in her room. She added two new entries to her diary, and in the process, felt a familiar sense of order return to her life, a necessity since nothing much else in Trinity had stayed the same:

She was satisfied she still had enough room on the last line to record her reward when it was paid, but as an afterthought, she added one additional line to the entry:

Met the new doctor, Benjamin McMillan.

Gazing at her two entries, she swallowed hard. There was nothing she could do now to change all she had failed to do between the birth of Captain Tyler’s son and the arrival of Glory Finch. There was nothing she could do about the three-month gap between entries, either. She had been faithful to her promise to her grandmother and had kept a diary of her work for the past ten years. She had never had a lapse of more than a few days. Until now.

She would not find a three-month gap in her grandmother’s diary, either. That diary was actually a collection of papers kept in chronological order, as opposed to the bound book Martha used. Someday, perhaps, Grandmother’s papers and Martha’s
diary would become part of the official town records since they contained accounts of all the births in Trinity since its founding in 1770.

The chain linking past to present for all those who lived in Trinity now, as well as for future generations, had been broken. Disheartened, she set her diary aside.

She was far beyond exhaustion at this juncture, but pent-up nervous energy would never let her sleep until she got rid of it. Rather than waste the energy, she put on her old canvas apron, garden gloves, and a wide-brimmed straw hat. She slipped her hand into one of the two wide pockets lining the front of the apron, felt the old pair of scissors, and went outside to her herb garden.

With the smell and feel of autumn in the air now, she needed to dry enough herbs to last until next summer. The first frost was probably several weeks away, but she never knew when duty might call her away or for how long. Touched by the full light of day, however, her herb garden looked far less bountiful than it had earlier that morning.

In the first bed of herbs, the wormwood had grown to nearly three feet high this year, although some kind of insect had attacked the silver-green leaves on many of the plants with a vengeance. Out of the entire planting, she barely had enough to line the bottom of her basket.

Battling for dominance in the same bed, hyssop, with purple-flowered spikes, added grace and color but had apparently not held the same appeal to the bugs that had eaten the wormwood. She cut several dozen stalks, especially pleased with the size of the leaves this season. She turned her attention next to a graceful but sparse display of lady’s thumb. Clusters of small pink flowers lined the reddish stems, but at least half of the plants had been eaten clear down to the roots. She added a single layer
to her basket and made a mental note to treat the soil before winter set in.

She slipped the scissors back into her apron pocket, got back to her feet, and slipped the basket onto her arm. When she turned to go back to her room, she saw the mayor, Thomas Dillon, riding past the rear fence with Sheriff Myer.

Her heart leaped in her chest. Instinctively. Before her mind could control the affection for Thomas she thought she had buried long ago.

She rubbed her brow with the back of her free hand and shook her head. She must be truly exhausted to have let that happen.

She held very still while her heart continued to race. It was probably too much to hope the men would not see her, but she hoped for just that. With any kind of luck, Thomas would be too engrossed in his conversation with the sheriff to take any notice of her. For several very long moments, she had the opportunity to observe him as he rode by.

Memories washed over her—memories made more vivid now that he was no longer married. Following his wife’s death over a year ago, Thomas had become the most eligible widower between Clarion, in the west, and Sunrise, some thirty miles to the east. Remarkably fit at forty-five, he was not only the wealthiest man in Trinity, but probably also the most handsome, too. He topped six feet by four inches, had a thick head of black hair without a single touch of gray, and could sweet-talk a woman like no other man she had ever met.

Another huge wave of emotion washed away the past twenty-five years, sweeping her back to a time when they both were young and filled with the optimism of the future that lay ahead, their untested hearts vulnerable to a passion that was consuming. So consuming Martha almost accepted his proposal of marriage before she realized making her life with Thomas, a man also
destined to play a leadership role in their community, would leave no room for anything else in her life.

Her sense of duty to her grandmother and her future as a midwife had prevailed.

Her marriage to John Cade the following year was not based on romantic passion but on mutual respect that grew, over the years, into an affection they shared that was both companionate and satisfying. It was a marriage in which Martha also found unyielding support for her work with Grandmother Poore.

Eventually, Thomas had married, too, and from all accounts, his marriage to Sally Moore had been a good one.

But John was gone now, and Martha still missed him. Ten years of widowhood had softened the blow of his untimely death as only one of many victims of an epidemic that had claimed too many of Trinity’s citizens. With his death, she had lost her safe haven, and she had rebuilt her life the only way she knew how—by focusing her love on her children and her energies on her calling.

Sally Dillon was gone now, too. With Thomas’s mourning period nearly over, Martha’s heart beat a little bit faster when he was near, opening the window to dreams that belonged to the past.

“Older is not necessarily wiser,” she grumbled as her heartbeat continued to race. Although she knew the barriers that separated them now were just as real as they had been twenty-five years ago, her heart refused to listen and beat even faster, demanding her attention and forcing her to face her feelings for Thomas again.

She held her breath until the two men passed by on East Falls Road. Miraculously, neither man had taken any notice of her. She kept her place for several minutes after they disappeared from view, and waited until her heartbeat returned to normal.
With pure strength of will, she closed the window in her heart and concentrated all of her efforts on reclaiming the path she had chosen for her life so long ago.

With sure steps, she returned to her room. After removing her hat and gloves, she spread the herbs on the worktable and inhaled, enjoying the blend of distinctive aromas that began to fill her chamber and steadied her resolve to put Thomas out of her mind as well as her heart.

She worked efficiently but carefully, loosely tying thin twine to the stems and stalks before securing a ladder from the storeroom and hanging her harvest from the overhead beams. When she was finished and had restored the room to order again, the fragrant and colorful canopy overhead also restored her spirit.

Her work had used up all her nervous energy, and her body now demanded rest. She lay down on her cot and savored a long view of her herbs overhead, but her heart and mind refused to quiet and find peace. Worry for Victoria inspired a fervent prayer before she replayed snippets of her earlier conversations with Lydia and Annabelle in her mind.

Martha had spent most of their time together describing her recent travels and the arrival of the Finch baby. Annabelle listened rather than offered much by way of town news. Lydia did tell her about the new sidewalk being constructed on West Main Street and the planned construction of a new meetinghouse, but little else, since she appeared to be obsessed with providing all the details surrounding the death of Doc Beyer and the arrival of Dr. McMillan.

As tired as she was, Martha’s thoughts kept leading her straight back to Rosalind. Since she still had to return the doctor’s lancet, there was no question she would see the woman again very soon.

Rather than prolonging the inevitable or letting her mind exaggerate the problem, Martha prayed for patience and understanding while she freshened up. Before she left her room, she rewrapped the lancet in cloth, slipped it into her reticule, and tried to not think about the irony that she was about to return a weapon to one of her opponents. En route, she would have an opportunity to see some of the changes Lydia had described before a rush of patrons demanding breakfast had interrupted their conversation.

East Main Street had a fresh bed of cinders, thank goodness, but little traffic even at midday, and Martha walked down the middle of the street under a clear blue sky and gentle sun.

On the opposite side of Dillon’s Stream, several wagons and carriages rested outside the row of homes and businesses on West Main Street where workers continued to cut and hammer the new planked sidewalk into place, exactly as Lydia had described. Six or seven women with young children in tow had gathered outside the general store, too preoccupied to pay any attention to Martha as she strode toward her destination.

Normally, she would use the covered bridge at the other end of town and cross over to visit with the other women and talk to the children, most of whom she had helped to deliver. Today, however, she had a mission that kept her focused only on the task at hand.

The farther she walked, the more the activity at the sawmill and gristmill behind her receded into muted testimony that almost half the workday had already been spent. She had to hurry if she expected to return and help Lydia and Annabelle before the mill workers broke for their midday meal or wagons en route to Clarion arrived to fill the tavern to near capacity.

She quickened her steps as she passed the mayor’s home and once more blocked out any thoughts of Thomas, but she rocked to a halt when she reached the site where the meetinghouse had always stood. Even though Lydia had tried to warn her, she was still unprepared for what she beheld with her own eyes. Only the foundation remained of the log structure where generations had gathered to worship as a community of believers each Sunday morning. She could see clear through to the cemetery, once hidden by the meetinghouse, and rows of tombstones weathered by time paid silent homage to so many loved ones who rested beneath them.

She shook her head and felt her heart constrict with grief for the loss of the familiar meetinghouse, but she also understood the need for a larger building. According to James, who had attended the elders’ meeting in July, when the final decision had been made, the old meetinghouse had been removed from its foundation and rolled to the far end of East Main Street, next to the market, where it sat waiting to be converted into a new schoolhouse.