The Midwife's Choice (4 page)

S
tunned, Martha looked into the depths of her daughter's eyes. Her heart pumped so fast she clapped her hand to her breast to keep her heart from exploding.

Determination stared back at Martha.

“You're not . . . staying? What do you mean, you're not staying? Of course you're staying!”

Victoria moistened her lips, adding a sheen that made the tiny scar on her bottom lip more prominent. “I love you. I hope my poem helps you to understand how very deeply I respect you and appreciate everything you've done for me, and the sacrifices you've made, especially since Father died.” She paused, lowered her gaze, and took several breaths. When she looked up again, she took Martha's hands in her own and clasped them tightly. “I have a position in New York City with the Morgans, and they've opened their home to me as well. I want to go back to New York, and I'm asking for your blessing.”

“My blessing? How can I possibly give you my blessing and allow you to live in a city so far from home?”

Victoria squared her shoulders. “You gave Oliver your blessing
when he wanted to move to Boston with Grandfather Cade to become a lawyer.”

Martha's eyes widened with disbelief, and she had a difficult time keeping her temper in check. “That's a completely different issue. Oliver was a young man, and your father wasn't here. Oliver went to Boston to live with your grandfather so he could give Oliver the proper guidance and provide an apprenticeship in his firm for your brother. But you're . . . you're a young woman. You need your mother.”

“Mrs. Morgan is very strict with me. You'd approve—”

“I approve of having you here. With me. With friends and neighbors who have watched you grow up. In Trinity. That's where you belong. This is your home, not some city teeming with vices and dangers you can't possible avoid.”

Victoria's eyes glistened with tears. “My home. You mean here? In the confectionery?”

“That's only temporary. We'll have our own quarters again in a few months.”

“With Uncle James and Aunt Lydia?”

Martha nodded. “I hope so.”

“A room isn't a home. We haven't had a home of our own since Father died and the farm was sold. We live on people's charity. We have no home.”

Martha huffed and brushed away the echo of her own similar sentiments as she was returning home earlier tonight. “That's not true! The rewards I earned I shared with your uncle. Fern and Ivy won't allow me to do that, they're so generous, so I help them with the baking and tend to customers whenever I'm here.”

Victoria pulled her hands free, rose, and began pacing in front of the fire. “How often is that, Mother? You're always at everyone's beck and call, traveling miles to tend to others. I grew up never knowing when you'd be home and spent my days working in the tavern, alone, wanting you to be home with me,
all the while listening to everyone tell me what a blessed saint I had for a mother. Wasn't I a lucky girl?”

The bitterness that laced Victoria's words sliced through Martha's heart and underscored the very anxiety her calling had inspired. Her daughter's resentment cut even deeper. “I had no other choice. I still don't,” she murmured.

Victoria stopped and faced her mother. “I know that. Truly, I do. But I want . . . I need more now. Mr. and Mrs. Morgan have taken me into their hearts as well as their home. They've become like family. I have a real home now and an opportunity to pursue my writing. They're good people. Fine people,” she whispered.

Martha's temper finally slipped out of her control. “
Fine
people don't take in a runaway girl and allow her mother to wonder if she's dead or alive.
Fine
people,” she snapped, “don't come between a mother and her daughter! Now I'll hear no more nonsense about your going back to New York City. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever again! You're staying right here. In Trinity. And that's final.”

With her chest heaving and her cheeks burning, she set her lips in a firm line and silently dared her daughter to challenge her.

Tears coursed down Victoria's cheeks. Her shoulders slumped, and she toyed with the handkerchief in her hands. Her gaze, however, was steady. “Some things don't change, do they, Mother? You still won't listen to me, but I've already made my decision about where I want to live and what I want to do. Since you won't even consider my wishes, then I suppose there's nothing left for me to do but leave in the morning,” she whispered before she walked from the room and started up the stairs.

Martha closed her eyes and listened to the sound of the girl's footsteps. When she heard a bedchamber door open and close, she leaned forward and pressed her hand against her forehead. Her head pounded and her mind ached with the echo of her
daughter's harsh words, and she took long measured breaths of air until her heartbeat returned to some semblance of normal.

She was angry. Upset. Too upset to think beyond Victoria's vow to be disobedient, to
“leave in
the morning.”

The loving, joyful reunion Martha had anticipated had disintegrated into a disaster. A total disaster. How had that happened? “How?” she asked aloud.

Her heart was so heavy with disappointment her chest ached. After all these months of daily worry, after all the sleepless nights, how could Victoria come home, only to break her mother's heart again?

Resentment flared, and all the questions she had wanted to ask Victoria clamored for answers. If Martha had not lost her temper, she might have had a chance to get those answers. Instead, she had alienated her daughter, and she was not sure how to change that.

She directed all of her ill feeling, however, toward June Morgan. She was the adult, not Victoria. But what kind of woman stole the affection of another woman's child? Exactly how had she accomplished that? What kind of woman would have the sheer audacity to come here, into Martha's home, and expect Martha to simply hand over her only daughter into the hands of a stranger?

Not a good woman.

Not a God-fearing woman.

Martha rose from her seat and stiffened her spine. No wealthy, spoiled, city-bred woman was going to lure Victoria away from her mother. Not while Martha drew a single breath.

In time, Victoria would learn to accept Martha's decision. In time, when Victoria had married and had children of her own, she would understand a mother's duty. Until then, Martha would simply have to keep a strong hold on her faith—faith in God and faith in herself.

Resolved, but still numb with disappointment, Martha cleared
her supper dishes from the table and pumped water into a basin. She washed and dried the dishes, placed them back into the cupboard, and wiped the table clean. After she banked the fire in the hearth, she doused the oil lamp and wearily mounted the staircase.

The day had begun with great sadness she had shared with Nancy Clifford, and Martha's heart ached anew for the young woman. The day was ending, however, with yet more troubles, this time waiting for Martha at home. Her legs felt heavy, like they were made of lead. Heart-weary and physically exhausted, she approached her bedchamber door. Muted light from the hall window guided her steps. Even though all was quiet, Victoria was probably still awake, and Martha was not quite sure what she would be able to say to her daughter to salvage what she could from their disastrous reunion.

She paused, took a deep breath, and reached for the door handle. She heard a door down the hall open and then close; Martha turned, ready to apologize to Fern or Ivy for waking them.

To her surprise, June Morgan approached her. She wore a loosely belted robe over her nightdress and her hair fell in waves on either shoulder. She pressed one finger to her lips. “I've gotten Victoria to sleep,” she whispered. “Come. Let's go downstairs. I'll fix us some tea.”

“Victoria's in your chamber?” Martha asked and immediately regretted not softening her voice.

“She was very upset, as I suppose you are, too. If you'd prefer to talk in the morning . . .”

Distraught anew, Martha welcomed the opportunity to put this woman in her place. Now. “No, we should go downstairs and talk.”

She followed June back down the staircase. When they reached the kitchen, Martha went ahead and relit the oil lamp. June filled the teakettle with water and set it to boil on the
cookstove while Martha set out two cups. She secured a good measure of chamomile tea leaves she put into a ball and carefully placed in the teapot.

Chamomile tea. Good for settling the nerves. Good for prompting sleep. Sleep would be a blessed release from this nightmare, but Martha knew sleep this night would be impossible. Whatever nerves she had were raw, and perhaps the tea would help ease the sheer animosity toward this woman that had Martha's mind a quagmire.

June stoked the fire back to life and set two chairs in front of the hearth. “Why don't we sit here until the water boils.”

Martha took a seat. She stared at the glowing embers and prayed her anger would subside long enough for her to speak her mind. Coherently. Firmly. And without the bitterness that soured her mouth.

When June sat down beside her, Martha studied the woman out of the corner of her eye. June was the epitome of grace and gentility, and the picture of understated elegance. She was about as opposite from Martha as a woman could be, even granting the apparent ten-year difference in their ages. She folded her hands over her stomach. Her nails were short, but neatly sculpted. Her hands looked soft, with no hint of the calluses or heavy veins Martha had in her work-lined hands.

She hid her hands in the folds of her skirts.

June let out a deep sigh. “I'm not sure where to begin.”

Martha closed her eyes for a moment. “My daughter ran off with a theater troupe. You can begin by explaining just how you came to know her.”

June nodded. When she spoke, her cultured voice was soft. “My husband, Thaddeus, was one of two investors in the troupe. When the members returned to New York City, the other investor took his share of the profits and decided not to back another tour. Thaddeus followed suit, and the troupe disbanded. Some members went to—”

“To England. The rest went to Charleston. I know,” Martha interjected. “I followed the troupe for months trying to find Victoria and bring her back. I got to New York City the day after the members of the troupe sailed off in two different directions. Apparently, Victoria didn't leave with either one as I had assumed.”

June caught her lower lip and held it for several heartbeats. “No. She didn't. The troupe's manager, Dayton Willis, had taken her under his wing.
After
he discovered she had stowed herself away in the wagon used to transport the costumes. By then they were only miles from the city, and he thought it would be better for Victoria, safer, if he allowed her to stay with the group, rather than send her home alone. It's not wise to allow a young woman as attractive and as . . . as inexperienced as Victoria to travel alone. He brought her with him to his meeting with the investors. Thaddeus brought her home to me,” she murmured.

Martha wanted to lash out, to let loose her contempt for this woman, but June had spoken earnestly, from her heart, and Martha was loath to voice a complaint. It was apparent, at least for now, that the Morgans' concern for Victoria's well-being had protected the girl, but that did not excuse them from their obligation to contact Martha. “Why didn't you write to me at once? You have children of your own. You must have known how worried I would be.”

June caressed her stomach but kept her gaze on the fire. “I wanted to write, but Victoria would never tell us exactly which town she had left behind. There were dozens. Mr. Willis suspected half a dozen she could have come from, including Trinity, but all these rural towns look alike when you're on the road for months. He couldn't be sure. And . . . and I was afraid.”

“Afraid?” Martha challenged.

“Yes, afraid. It was obvious from the moment we met Victoria that she had come from a loving home where she'd been raised well. Educated well. But she was certainly not able to survive
on her own. Not in the city. I was afraid that if we pressed her, if we demanded that she write home, she would simply run away again.” She smiled. “For all her good qualities, for all her talents, she is a stubborn, strong-willed young woman. And very determined,” she added.

She glanced at Martha. “Apparently, she's a lot like her mother?”

Highly offended, Martha opened her mouth to protest. Honesty made her clamp her lips together and think carefully before she responded to June's question. When she eventually spoke, her voice was even, although it grated to admit June had hit a nerve. “Victoria may favor her father in looks, but you're right. She's just as stubborn and determined and strong-willed as I am.”

“Truly her mother's daughter.”

“Truly,” Martha admitted. “But she's
my
daughter. Mine alone,” she insisted. She turned and looked directly at June, silently daring her to argue the point.

J
une flinched. Her eyelids batted back tears as she drew in short gulps of air. Her distress was genuine. She finally appeared composed, but when she spoke, her voice quivered. “I know Victoria is your daughter. She's subject to your will and your authority, as she should be. That's why I insisted she come home.”

Her hands curved protectively over her abdomen. “I would never do anything to come between a daughter and her mother. Please believe me.”

Moved by the woman's plea, Martha softened her gaze. Her resolve remained firm. “Then convince Victoria she must stay here. Her place is with me. Here in Trinity. I simply can't allow her to traipse back to New York City and live with . . . with strangers. I mean no offense, but I know nothing about you or your husband. I don't know exactly what position she has in your household. I didn't raise my daughter to become someone's . . . servant.”

June's eyes widened. “A servant? Is that what you think she is? My servant?”

“Most likely, just one of many,” Martha quipped.

“I have three,” June admitted. “A nanny for the children, of course, a housekeeper, and Mrs. Paulson, our cook. We also have a gardener and a young man who keeps the stable.” Her gaze hardened. “Instead of hiring our servants through an agency, I suppose you think we find it more convenient to lure runaways from the streets and never encourage them to contact their families.”

She paused and tilted her chin. “If that's true, why in heaven's name would I travel all this way in abominable weather to chaperone Victoria? Because I wanted the girl to have your blessing so she could be a mere servant?”

Properly chastised, Martha struggled to find her voice. “I just assumed—”

“You assumed incorrectly,” June countered. “Victoria is a member of our staff, a valuable contributor to the magazine my husband and I publish. Did she show you next month's issue?”

Martha blushed. “Yes. She did.”

“Thaddeus handles the advertising and the actual printing at his office. I work from our home, editing submissions, organizing the content of each volume, and corresponding with our authors and subscribers. The magazine has been surprisingly successful. By last summer, the volume of work had grown so much I was literally up to my throat in paperwork. When Victoria arrived, she was an answer to my prayers. She was able to take over almost all of the correspondence, and I've even been able to let her begin editing.”

June paused and caressed her abdomen. “I want to spend more time with my children, even if that means I have to give up my duties with the magazine. I can always return to those tasks later, perhaps when the children are older.”

She turned in her seat so she faced Martha. “I know it's selfish of me to ask, but I will anyway because it's so important to me. And to Victoria. Let her come back to New York City with
me. Just until fall, at the very latest. By then, the baby will be born and I can have my permanent replacement fully trained. It would be so much easier for me if I could have Victoria there to help me. I really need her,” she murmured.

“I need her, too,” Martha challenged. She did need her daughter. She did. But she could not argue against the fact that June Morgan did, too. She could not find fault with June's goals. Indeed, she lauded the woman's decision to spend more time with her children, but it did not seem fair that Martha would have to sacrifice her needs for the sake of someone else's needs. Again.

While Martha weighed her own needs to have Victoria home against June's needs, the other woman rushed ahead and continued to plead her case. “It's only for a few months. We'll see she eats well, gets plenty of rest, attends meeting every Sunday, saves a good portion of her wages, never leaves the house without a chaperone, and writes to you at least once a week. I—I brought references with me. They're right upstairs. I have a letter from our pastor, Reverend Blackstone, and another our housekeeper dictated to me since she's never been schooled in her letters.”

Overwhelmed, Martha suspected she had been out-talked and outmaneuvered, if not outwitted. June had cleverly addressed almost every concern in Martha's heart, and she just wanted to . . . to hate her.

But she could not.

She just could not.

June Morgan had not prompted the crisis tonight.

If Martha had let Victoria explain about her life in New York City, if she had treated Victoria like a young woman instead of a child, if she had only listened to her daughter, Victoria would not have left the kitchen in tears or issued her own ultimatum.

Martha herself and her all-fired pride and strong maternal emotions had driven her child straight to another woman for comfort tonight, just like she had driven her from home last June.

Truth be told, there was much more at the root of her turmoil
that nourished her determination to keep Victoria in Trinity. Her late husband, John, had turned his back on both family and social standing when he quit his studies at Harvard and moved west. He had built a good life for them all as a yeoman farmer, and it was only after his untimely death that his father, Graham Cade, had entered Martha's life.

She had steadfastly refused all of his efforts to have her move to Boston so he could see to his grandchildren's welfare, but when Oliver turned fourteen, she could not argue with his decision to go to Boston to begin studying law under his grandfather. Today, he practiced in his grandfather's law firm.

The irony never ceased to confound her. Oliver now had the life his father had rejected, but to lose Victoria to a city, too, was almost too much to bear. Her eyes filled with tears, and her heart ached with every heavy beat that pounded in her chest.

Had God blessed Martha with these two children, only to have them reject the life both she and John had wanted for them here in Trinity?

Was she being completely selfish?

Probably.

That thought did not sit well, any more than the next thought. At least she and Oliver remained close. He visited at least once a year and always left with her promise she would come to Boston to see him. If she totally alienated Victoria, if she forced Victoria to disobey her and return to New York City without her mother's blessing, could Martha ever hope to see her again?

The answer cut to the very essence of her spirit.

And if she were honest and fair, she would realize that this was an opportunity for Victoria that Martha could never give to her. She could not ever hope to match the Morgans' wealth or station. She could not help Victoria to pursue her talents, any more than she could have done for Oliver. Not without Graham Cade.

She could, however, offer Victoria what no one else could—a mother's love and understanding and encouragement to nurture the gifts the Creator had given to her.

Martha let out a deep sigh and knew what she must do. “I think the water is ready now. If you could fetch those references, I'll fix the tea. But be careful not to wake Victoria. Not just yet,” she added, just in case June thought Martha was completely ready to give in.

With a relieved and hopeful smile on her face, June rose from her seat. “I think there are some oatmeal cookies left from supper. Do you think Fern and Ivy would mind if we had some? I simply can't resist sweets.”

Martha chuckled, in spite of herself. No, she could not harbor any ill feelings for this younger woman. Jealousy, perhaps. Even a little envy that a woman who hankered for sweets like June said she did could remain so trim, even when she was teeming.

Loving sweets might be all they really had in common, save for one seventeen-year-old girl who was precious to them both.

Martha finished her third cup of tea and read through all the references again. She reached for another cookie and found it hard to believe the plate was empty. Empty? She groaned and found little solace in what she had read, either.

If she believed only half of what each person had written, she would be forced to put a halo around June Morgan's head. No one could possibly be that saintly. Or kind. Or generous.

Being skeptical, even with all the references that lay before her, was being cautious, not unfair, and Victoria was too precious, too priceless to risk.

She looked at June and pointed to the letters. “All this is well and good, but references can be . . .” She almost said
forged
, but
caught herself. It would serve no purpose to offend the woman, especially if she were all the references claimed her to be. “The references can be considered, but I'll have to confirm them, of course. Since we're so far from New York City, it will take time.”

“Of course. Write to any or all of the people who provided the references. Except for Mrs. O'Malley. She relies on me to do that for her.”

“Beyond that, I still have reservations,” Martha countered.

June wiped the corner of her lips with a napkin. “Please. Go ahead. I'd be happy to answer any questions you have.”

Did the woman have to be so . . . so sweet?

Martha folded her hands and laid them on top of the table and decided to cut right to the vortex of her concern. “How can I be certain you won't hire Victoria as your permanent replacement so she'll want to stay in New York instead of returning home to Trinity in the fall?”

“I give you my word,” June responded. “Victoria shows great promise, but she's still relatively inexperienced. It would be several years before she would be qualified—”

“But she might want to stay on as an assistant, like she is now,” Martha argued.

“I'll make it clear that staying in any capacity is not an option.” She smiled. “You and I are very much alike, you know. I don't think Victoria truly realizes that yet.”

“We are,” she insisted when Martha's mouth dropped open. “We're both capable, efficient women with a strong sense of duty and faith. We're both blessed with good constitutions and a strong will that's both a blessing and curse.”

Martha huffed. “Nevertheless, our worlds couldn't be more different.”

“True, but it's what we each do with the gifts we have been given that matters. I was raised to believe that wealth and position are gifts that should be used to benefit many. That's why I started the magazine. I admire the work you do. Helping sick
women and children and delivering babies are gifts, but they're not mine. And they're not Victoria's. They're yours. But each of our gifts is equal in His sight because He chose to give them to us, and we must all use our gifts to His glory. That's the message I hope my magazine carries to women everywhere.”

It was a message that touched Martha's heart and eased some of her reluctance to admit June might be all she had presented herself to be. And more.

An urgent series of knocks at the back door interrupted their conversation, reminding Martha that only that morning Russell Clifford had knocked at that door, summoning her to duty. Fearful that Nancy might have taken a turn for the worse and Russell had returned to summon Martha again, she rushed to the door. Much to her relief, she found young Dr. McMillan shivering outside.

“I s-saw the light and hoped it was y-you. S-still up,” he chattered. “I . . . I hope I'm not disturbing you.”

An uncommonly short man with a wide girth, he must have been out in the cold for some time to have gotten so chilled. His plump cheeks were chafed from the wind and cold, and his nose was the color of ripe summer cherries. He bore a few scars on his face from scratching at the chicken pox, a recent, embarrassing malady, although he had resented Martha's nursing more.

At least at first.

“Come in. Come in. You sound half frozen and you look even worse. Come in, but get that snow off your boots, first. I'll get you some hot tea to warm you up. I think we still have some oatmeal cookies around.” She stepped aside to let him enter.

“Nothing to eat. Just something hot, then we need to talk,” he responded. He stomped his boots to knock off the snow, then came inside.

Concern quickened her heartbeat. He had come to her before with concerns about his patients, but he had never turned down something to eat before, especially some of Fern and Ivy's treats.
She followed him into the kitchen and prayed whatever errand had brought him here so late could either be settled quickly or resolved later.

After she had resolved her dilemma about what to do with Victoria.

As she followed him, she remembered that June was in the kitchen, dressed in her nightclothes. Before Martha could ask him to wait so June could slip upstairs, the doctor was already in the kitchen.

He took one look at June and braced to a sudden halt.

Martha nearly collided with him. “I'm sorry. I forgot to tell you—”

“June? Is that really you?”

She chuckled. “Benjamin! I almost didn't recognize you. I'm . . . I'm afraid you've caught me in my nightclothes. You look frightfully cold. Come. Warm yourself by the fire.”