Riverbreeze: Part 3 (8 page)

“How are you feeling this morning?” Rob then asked, concern in his voice.

“Tired. A little sore.” He rotated his shoulder a little while rubbing it. “You?”

“The same. But I’ll be able to care for the horses, if that’s what you’re concerned about.” He teased Jamie.

“No, no.” Jamie said. “I wouldn’t have asked in the first place if I knew you were incapacitated.” He reached for his coat and hat. He settled his hat on his head.

Robert shook his head, snorting at himself. “I’m lucky I didn’t break my hand.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t clobber old Hodgbins on the head.” Jamie said, trying to hold back a grin. He failed as he pulled on his buff coat.

Robert let out a chuckle. “That would have been a sight. He would have gone down, then Baldwin in front of him—“

“It would have been a disaster!” Jamie exclaimed. “A complete mess.”

“Good thing Neale was paying attention—“

“Unlike you.”

“—and called a halt. What can I say? I was distracted.”

Jamie squeezed his brother’s arm in understanding. He knew what it was like to be distracted by his lovely wife. “I have to go. Wish us luck today.”

“Good luck.” Rob said, as Jamie threw open the door and started jogging across the yard towards the dock.

* * *

Elizabeth had already let the dogs out and gone into the kitchen while Evelyn knocked on the parlor door. Abigail was already awake and in the process of stoking the fire. It was rather difficult sleeping through dogs barking and people running around and talking upstairs.

“Abigail?” Evelyn peeked around the door. It had been left slightly ajar.

“Good morning.” Abigail said pleasantly. “What is happening?”

Evelyn moved into the room and watched as Abigail lit several candles. “I had a dream…” She hesitated, wondering if Abigail would say anything. She didn’t, so Evelyn continued. “Hetta Turner is having her baby and if we do not help her deliver, she and the baby will die.”

Abigail stopped short and gasped. She stood frozen for a moment, thinking about that, the taper in her hand burning down dangerously close to her fingers. “Hetta Turner is having her baby? Oh no, I believe ‘tis too early. Are you sure? Ouch!” She suddenly dropped the taper when it burned her. Evelyn rushed over and holding up her skirt, stepped on it.

“Are you all right?” She asked.

“I’m fine.” Abigail said, sucking on her fingers a little. “Tell me again about your dream.”

Evelyn did, repeating what she had told Jamie and emphasizing how important it was for them to leave as soon as Jamie had the boat ready. Abigail gave Evelyn her full attention, continuing to suck absentmindedly on her forefinger as she listened. When Evelyn was finished, Abigail said, “I’ll dress immediately and gather my herbs.” She reached out to clasp Evelyn’s shoulders. “Do not worry. I’ll do my best, and you can watch and learn.”

“Thank you, Abby. You are a treasure.”

Abigail let out a little snort. She said, “I haven’t saved Hetta yet. Shoo now and let me get dressed. I’ll be ready in a trice.”

* * *

The wind was blowing up a storm and it was freezing on the water. The sun had come up just over the horizon, but it was a pale, useless winter sun. Now that it was the first of December it had cooled down significantly. Evelyn and Abigail were huddled in their cloaks and also wrapped in blankets. The blankets were Abigail’s from her previous home. When she had sold her farm after her husband had died, she had sold the farm all inclusive except for a few linens she would need on her own bed. They came in handy now, but Abigail had also thought to bring them in case Hetta or the baby needed them. She had also brought an extra linen sheet for the baby whether the baby lived or died.

They made good time because of the wind, but the trip still took them over an hour. The sail stretched full and taut as Jamie expertly navigated the boat up the river to the Turner’s small farm. Instead of taking the time to eat breakfast, they had brought along leftover ham, apples and nuts. However, poor Jamie couldn’t take the time to eat now; he was too busy steering the boat and keeping his hat on.

They arrived under a sky of gathering black clouds. Jamie said, “Looks like rain,” as he tied the boat to the dock. Then he took the blankets from the women and helped them out.

“No doubt.” Evelyn said, refraining from rolling her eyes at him. It was quite obvious that it was going to rain…or snow. It felt cold enough to her.

“We better hurry.” Abigail said, clutching her bag of herbs under her cloak and eyeing the sky. She ducked her head and turned her back to a particularly strong gust of wind. It nearly knocked her off her feet. Evelyn too, for that matter.

They ran to the house, the wind pushing at their backs. Jamie kept his arm around Evelyn’s shoulders while she clutched the two edges of her cloak together to keep it closed. At the door, Jamie pounded his fist several times on the rough hewn boards. The first big drops of rain were starting to pelt their backs and splatter against the clapboard siding.

They waited less than a minute and then the latch rattled and the door flew open. George Turner stood there gaping at them for a split second, before their names burst from his mouth. “Jamie!” He exclaimed. “Evelyn, Abigail! Oh God! Oh Jesus! Thank God you’re here. Come in; come in.” He started to cry as he grabbed Jamie’s arm and took Evelyn’s hand and yanked them into the house. Abigail followed without any help. And just in time. The clouds opened up and the rain came down in sheets. Abigail slammed the door shut behind her, but not before a shower of rain wet the floorboards.

George didn’t notice. He was blubbering like a baby. Now that he wasn’t alone anymore and help had come, he lost control of all his emotions. “My wife…something is wrong.” He sobbed. “She’s in trouble. The baby…the ba—baby…”

A terrible noise, a guttural moan, came from the far corner of the small house, and indeed, it was a very small house. It was only one room, almost a square, twenty feet by twenty-one feet in size. All eyes immediately went to that corner where a bedstead was located. Simple green, wool bed hangings surrounded the bed only on the sides open to the room.

With a desperate cry, George hastened to his wife, dropped onto the stool that was beside the bed and took up her hand. He clutched it to his chest, crying, “Help has come, my love. Thank you, dear Lord, thank you.”

Abigail immediately went into action. She had a look on her face that reminded Evelyn of one of the most efficient and imposing nuns she remembered from the church orphanage. She meant business and there was only one thing on her mind.
Birth this
baby
. “Jamie,” She said briskly as she pulled her pouch from under her cloak and put it on the table. Then she took off her cloak and spying a peg on the wall close to the door, hung it up. She didn’t need the apron which was hanging on a nail by the fireplace because both she and Evelyn had worn their aprons from home. “Put the blankets on that chest at the foot of the bed…” She was pointing to the chest. “…then take him somewhere else.” She started taking out her little bags of herbs.

“Where should I take him?” Jamie said, looking uncomfortable.

“I do not know! Just somewhere else! Away from Hetta. Bring him back to this table. It doesn’t matter. Now take the blankets to the chest, please.”

He went but he didn’t look happy about it.

“What can I do?” Evelyn said, taking off her own cloak and hanging it on a peg. She wanted to help as much as possible, even if she had no idea what to do. She was good at sitting with sick children, wiping their fevered brows or spooning broth into mouths, but she was completely out of her element here.

She looked around the small space. The Turners weren’t as poor as the Billings were, but their home was just as sparsely furnished. There was a bedstead in the corner, a chest at the foot of the bed, a table in the middle of the room used for dining, a bench, one chair, two stools, a sideboard and shelves filled with their kitchenware. And a small cradle sat ready at the head of the bedstead.

The fireplace was large but had been built outside the wall so it wouldn’t take up space inside the room. There were the usual iron pots and brass kettles, spider skillets and cauldrons. And many wrought iron utensils hung from the lintel.

Presently, a roaring fire burned and crackled in the hearth. Two iron pots and a brass kettle were suspended over the fire. Water simmered in the larger pot and presumably there was water in the kettle also. (There was steam coming from the spout.) There also appeared to be some kind of broth in the second pot.

“Nothing yet,” Abigail said, “But stay with me.” Quickly, she walked to the shelves and took down two tankards and three crockery bowls, two small and one large which she lined up on the table. With a large iron ladle she took from a hook on the lintel she dipped out some of the broth into one of the tankards. “I’m going to put the dittander roots into the broth and let them steep for a few minutes. The dittander will hasten and ease her labor.” She explained, and she did just that, placing several slices of the root into the broth. Then she measured out a precise amount of each herb into the remaining tankard and bowls using a pewter spoon she found on the sideboard. As she worked she explained each herb and its purpose to Evelyn while glancing back at the bed to monitor the situation there. “Raspberry leaves…” She spoke softly. “…for cleansing the afterbirth from the system and to enrich the flow of milk. Vervain to produce sedation. Angelica expels the afterbirth and pea broth with parsley for cleansing the impurities which remain.” She showed Evelyn what each herb looked like before placing the ingredients in each vessel. Evelyn gave her all her attention, but doubted she would remember anything once this crisis was over.

Jamie was talking to George in a gentle voice, trying to persuade him to leave his wife’s side as Abigail had instructed him to do, but it appeared that George didn’t want to leave his wife or his wife didn’t want George to leave her side.

“Should I go help Jamie?” Evelyn asked.

Abigail glanced towards the bed. “No, give him another minute. We have time, besides I have to cover the herbs with boiling water and let them steep.”

She used the ladle to fill the bowls, her focus so sharp she didn’t spill one drop of water. Once she did that she dipped some boiling water into the large bowl, then added cold water from a barrel to lower the temperature enough so she and Evelyn could wash their hands.

“We wash our hands now.” She said, finding a bar of lye soap. They washed their hands thoroughly and dried them on their aprons. Evelyn wasn’t fond of lye soap—it stung her skin—but she wouldn’t dare disobey Abigail.

The rain continued to pound on the roof and the fierce wind rattled the windows. Raindrops found their way down the chimney and sizzled and hissed on the fire.

Evelyn cried out when she saw water start to drip faster and faster from a crack in the ceiling. Luckily the leak wasn’t near the bed and George ignored it. He was much too intent on staying with his wife.

Instead Jamie took care of it, finding a large pail and putting it under the leak. And then much to everyone’s surprise, he said he was going to go out and try to fix it! Evelyn thought he was crazy to want to go out in this weather and said so, but with a look that said,
please let me go
, she understood his need to be elsewhere.

Hetta let out another long, pain-filled groan just as the first lightning strike lit up the little cottage. Evelyn and Abigail hastened to her side. Evelyn didn’t know what she could do. She stood behind Abigail, feeling rather useless at the moment. Her only consolation was the knowledge that because of her dream, they were here now to help Hetta, to save her life and the life of her unborn child.

Very gently Abigail put her hands on George’s shoulders. Then she spoke to him as if he were a child. “Mr. Turner, I’m here now. Evelyn and I are going to help your wife deliver her baby. If you will please step aside…”

“She’ll be all right, won’t she?” He asked, hope in his eyes.

“I’ll try my best.” Abigail answered truthfully.

He was silent for a thoughtful moment, then he nodded and rose from his position beside the bed. “Thank you.” He said softly, first to Abigail, then to Evelyn.

“Do you have any olive oil, butter or lard?” Abigail asked.

He looked surprised to be asked such a thing—Evelyn was equally as surprised—but he quickly answered, “Yes, we have all three.”

“Will you please get me a spoonful of olive oil in a cup? I will need it to massage and stretch her opening when the time comes.”

Aah, Evelyn thought.

“I’ll get it right away.” He said, returning to the kitchen area.

Evelyn and Abigail finally got their first look at Hetta. They hadn’t realized she was unresponsive. When George Turner was speaking to his wife, they had assumed she could hear him.

But she wasn’t dead yet. Even so, Evelyn nearly swooned and Abigail had to put her arm around Evelyn’s waist to steady her. The poor woman was as pale as a ghost with dark circles under her listless eyes. Her hair was soaked in sweat and plastered to her head just like her thin linen chemise was soaked and clinging to all the hills and valleys of her weakened body. She barely looked strong enough to breathe.