Midwife of the Blue Ridge (12 page)

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
79

the mend. Naomi’s predilection to “slip down into the mulli-

grubs,” as she called it, waned with each passing day.

Careful so as not to spill any milk, Maggie took her time trav-

eling down the steep incline to the springhouse. She lifted the

latch on the springhouse door and crouched down to step inside,

for upright, her head barely cleared the ceiling rafters. The little

stone house Seth had constructed over the running stream main-

tained a cool environment on even the hottest of summer days,

and she shivered with delight at the abrupt change in tempera-

ture.

Wooden shelves lined the stone walls and provided storage for

perishables like butter, cheese, and eggs. She poured the new

milk into an empty crock and set it in a shallow trough built into

the floor along the length of the springhouse. The icy mountain

spring ran through the trough, keeping the items placed there

chilled and fresh.

She ladled the rich cream floating atop the previous eve ning’s

milking into the butter crock and then poured the skimmed milk

into one of her emptied pails. A dozen eggs and a lump of butter

wrapped in wet oak leaves went into the other pail. Before leav-

ing the cool comfort of the springhouse, she tucked the hems of

her skirt into her waistband.

A pail in each hand, she waded downstream toward the Berry

Hell—an ancient thicket groaning with ripe blackberries, and

as far as Maggie was concerned, one of the wonders of her new

world. Barefoot, she traversed the shallows, concentrating on

balancing the disparate weights she carried and maintaining

careful footing on slippery stones—so focused on her path, if he

hadn’t called out, she would have walked right past him.

“Good morning, Miss Duncan!”

Maggie startled, shrieked, and dropped her bucket of milk.

Three eggs flew from the other pail, splat open on the stones, and

washed away with the current.

“Och! Look what yiv gone and done!” Maggie tossed the

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empty pail to clatter onto the shore. “Sneakin’ up on folk with

yer thievin’ Red Indian ways . . . do y’ even ken how to greet a

body in civilized fashion?” She struggled to climb up the steep

bank, but her bare feet could not find purchase on the slippery

mud. “C’mon, lad,” she yelled, “give a lass a hand up, aye?”

“By my reckon,” Tom Roberts noted as he moseyed over to

creekside, “you were the one sneakin’ up on me.” He grasped her

by the forearm and yanked her up to dry land.

“Hmmph!” Maggie set the bucket of eggs on the ground and

stood with hands on hips, inspecting his camp. A dapple-gray geld-

ing stood hobbled, browsing on cress near a pile of gear. A

fi eld-dressed deer lay trussed near a small fire burning within a ring

of stones. His faded blue shirt hung flapping from a tree branch.

Her eyes lit back on Tom, wearing nothing but his red woolen

breechclout. Tiny droplets glistened in his dark beard and on the

curly hair sprayed cross his chest. His shoulder- length hair hung

loose, dripping wet. Maggie swallowed.

That is much man.

He had a rugged beauty about him—tight, lean—solid as a

chestnut tree. His body was allover tattooed with the marks of his

trade, the most prominent being three parallel scars slashing from

his left shoulder across his chest to his sternum. The purple- yellow

of a fading bruise wrapped his rib cage on the right side. A shiny,

circular scar, the size of a Spanish dollar, decorated the fi rm mus-

cle of his left thigh. The collection of scars added to his partic u lar

aesthetic.
He belongs here.
Standing in the wild, Tom Roberts fi t.

He drew on doeskin leggings and secured the thongs to a thin

belt holding his breechclout in place, all the while grinning.

Sheepish under her scrutiny, he noted, “If you’d come by a mite

earlier, you could have watched me bathe as well . . .”

“An’ yiv no a speck of shame, do ye? Struttin’ about half nek-

kid, like a savage . . .”

“Look who’s talkin’—bare legs . . . loose hair, laces undone . . .

like . . . like one of them gypsy dancin’ gals.”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
81

She blushed at the truth of his observations and her fi ngers

flew to tighten the laces on her bodice. “Yer a most angersome

man, Tom Roberts!” Twisting her hair into a knot at the base of

her neck, she held it there with one hand while jerking her skirt

down to cover her legs with the other. “What are ye doin’ here

anyway? If it’s on Joshua’s behalf, I’ll tell ye right off I’ll no go

back t’ Richmond with ye . . .”

“I figure this will come as a shock to you, miss, but the sun

and the moon do not rise and set around Maggie Duncan.” Tom

plucked his shirt from the branch, pulled it over his head, and

slipped his arms into the damp sleeves.

He cocked his head and looked at her for a brief moment,

stepped forward, and pulled her hand away from her hair, releas-

ing the dark coil to roll down her back. His eyes went soft and

his voice low. “Leave it hang loose—’tis pretty thataway.”

Maggie stared at him.

Tom cleared his throat. “Where’re you off to anyway? Cabin’s

back yonder.”

“I—I was going t’ pick berries . . .” Maggie stumbled to gather

her pails. “I’ve tarried

here overlong—I better head back for

more milk.” She scooted down the bank and sloshed upstream

back toward the springhouse.

Maggie stopped and turned. Smiling, she called out, “Hoy,

Tom! I expect we’ll be seein’ ye up the brae.”

“Up the
what
?” Tom shouted.

“The hill! Come on up fer breakfast.”

H

Seth came in from his morning chores and sensed an unusual ner-

vous energy in the air. Battler was once again armed with the

broom, sweeping with great gusto. Seth skirted around the tod-

dler and settled his rifl e on the pegs mounted next to the door.

Jack struggled down the ladder from the loft with a slab of

bacon, which he tossed to Maggie. She slapped it down on the

table and carved thick slices into the three-legged fry pan setting

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over the embers. Winnie skittered in, dumped a load of fi rewood

on the hearth, and ran back out the door. Only Naomi sat se-

rene at the head of the table, wiping out her collection of treen-

ware. Seth gave his wife’s shoulders a squeeze. “Smells good.

Where’s my breakfast?”

“Maggie’s cookin’ up a company breakfast,” Naomi said.

“Tom Roberts is a-comin’ by.”

“Tom’s about?”

“Yep. Maggie met up with him near the springhouse.”

Maggie hovered at the hearth, stirring a mess of onions siz-

zling over the fire. Seth watched as she peeked under the heavy

lid on the bake kettle, and he realized she’d forced her more buxom

fi gure into a clean white blouse belonging to his wife.

“Maggie!” Naomi cautioned. “That spoonbread will never

bake proper if you keep fussin’ with the lid. I’ll keep an eye on

things here . . . you go fresh up—fix your hair.”

Maggie flashed a smile, grabbed a bucket and Naomi’s hair-

brush, and ran out the door.

Seth took his usual seat. “Why all the fuss? I never rate more

than a bowl of mush and a boilt egg—an’ why is Maggie wearin’

yer best blouse?”

“You might’ve taken notice hers is almost tatters, poor thing.

We really need do somethin’ about her clothes.”

Seth shrugged.

Naomi stood and wandered around the table, setting a wooden

trencher, bowl, and mug at each place. “I think Maggie fancies

Tom . . .”

“Mmmph.” Seth frowned.

“. . . and maybe Tom fancies her as well. Maggie tol’ me he

was havin’ a washup when she found him at the stream.”

To this Seth raised an eyebrow, but then shook his head.

“Na . . . all Tom Roberts fancies is the long hunt.”

“Maggie also mentioned Tom had warshed out his shirt as

well . . .”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
83

Winnie came in with a bucket of water. “An’ Tom tol’ Maggie

her hair was pretty, Da.”

“He said that, eh?” Seth worried. “He can be a charming ras-

cal, aye—I’d best warn the lass to keep a distance.”

Naomi said, “Seth! Is that any way to speak on a dear

friend?”

“Och, ye ken as well as I, between the whores and squaws he

beds, the scoundrel never spends more’n one night under the cov-

ers with the same woman—exceptin’ for maybe Bess Hawkins—

and that’s only cause she’s married . . .
OWW!
”

Naomi gave her husband a good clipe on the head with a

wooden plate. “You best mind that gossiping tongue, Seth Mar-

tin.”

Seth rubbed his sore head. “I dinna consider the truth t’ be

gossip.”

“Wouldn’t you like for your friend to find true love?”

“True love!” Seth laughed.

“Aye—true love! Maggie’s a wonderful

gal—strong and

smart—just the right sort of woman to make a man like Tom

settle down. I don’t recollect you bein’ too keen on marriage, but

you warmed up to it in the end, didn’t you?”

“Aye . . .” Seth nodded. “Now I recall . . . yer belly bein’ round

and full o’ Winnie had naught to do with it.” He dodged the cup

his wife sent fl ying in his direction. Winnie giggled.

Jack poked his head through the door and shouted. “Tom’s

a-comin’ up the hill!” He ran off and Winnie shot out behind

him. Maggie rushed in, her hair braided into a demure crown

around her head. She hurried to get the breakfast on the table.

“Feich!”
Seth grumbled. “Yid think the bloody king of bloody

England were on his way.”

Naomi shook a finger at her husband. “You’d do well t’ re-

member that a certain Mr. Seth Martin would not be counted

among the living if not for a certain Mr. Tom Roberts. I, for one,

am goin’ out to greet the man proper.”

84 Christine

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Chastised, Seth accomplished a neat two-step maneuver in

order to dodge Battler and his broom. He gallantly offered an

elbow to his wife and escorted her out to the dooryard.

“Och, woman, maybe yiv got the right of it after all. Would ye

take a look at tha’—th’ poor bastard’s done shaved his beard.”

Sure enough, Winnie held a clean-shaven Tom Roberts by the

hand, tugging him up the slope. Jack, proudly sporting Tom’s

broad-brimmed hat, trotted behind with Friday.

“It’s good t’ see you returned safe.” Naomi welcomed Tom

with a hug. She reached up on tiptoes and touched fi ngertips to

his beardless cheek. “It’s been overlong.”

“I’m sure glad t’ see you so fit.” Tom turned to greet Seth.

“Hullo, brother! On my way to th’ station at Roundabout and

thought I’d stop by and see how y’all are farin’.”

“I didna expect t’ see ye so soon . . .” Seth said, greeting Tom

with a handshake. “And I certainly never expected t’ see ye with-

out yer pelt.” He laughed and slapped his friend on the back. “I

forgot what a baby- face lad ye are . . . it’s a mite odd.”

Tom stroked the lower half of his face. “Feels odd—but a

beard is bothersome. Too hot and itchy for summer wear.”

Seth led the way toward the open door. “Let’s eat.”

“Hope you brung yer appetite, Tom,” young Jackie chimed in.

“Why, I’m so hungry, Jack, I could eat the scraps off’n a buz-

zard’s beak! I’ll be right along after I tend to this horse.”

Jack and Winnie bolted to the table and began to tussle over

who would be sitting where. Naomi put a quick end to the argu-

ment, grabbing each child by an ear and plunking them down

side by side onto the same bench. Seth settled onto his stool at

the head of the table and Naomi at the foot. Maggie circled

around plopping a steaming scoop of spoonbread onto each tren-

cher.

Tom came through the open door, ducking his head so as not

to bang it on the lintel piece. “Hello again, Miss Duncan.”

It was plain Maggie needed a moment to form the link be-

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
85

tween the voice and the clean-shaven face. She tossed the spoon

into the bake kettle and settled her hands at her hips.

“Losh! Yiv scraped away yer whiskers! Why, I would never

have recognized ye! Who’d a thought such a well-favored lad lay

beneath all that fur?”

Everyone laughed, and if Seth had not seen it with his own

eyes, he would never have believed

it—Tom Roberts blushed

crimson. The tall hunter shuffled from side to side, reaching to

tug at his non exis tent beard. Feeling sorry for his friend, Seth

rose up from the table to take Tom’s rifle. “I’ll set yer weapon out

of Battler’s reach.”

“Come and sit next to me, Tom.” Winnie patted the empty

spot beside her.

“Tom don’t want to sit near a puddin’ head like you.” Jack

stuck his tongue out at his sister. “Tom wants to sit beside Mag-

gie. She’s got pretty hair.”

Flustered, Tom stumbled forward, tripped over Battler, got

tangled up with the broom handle, and flailing for balance, fell