The Midwife's Choice (16 page)

A
nswers to prayer often took time. They required patience and faith, along with a willingness to accept God's wisdom when the answer finally came in an unexpected form.

That afternoon, Martha took one step into the confectionery shop and knew the instant she saw the two men coming through the door that they were not the answer she had expected or could easily accept.

She tightened her hold on the tray of bread she was carrying, plastered a smile on her face, and wondered how on earth she would get these two out of the shop before Fern or Ivy returned.

At the moment, Fern was upstairs helping Victoria bathe Nancy. Ivy had gone to the general store on an errand. As far as Martha could see, the sisters' absence from the shop was perhaps the only answer to prayer Martha had received.

“Reverend Welsh. Mr. Clifford. Good afternoon to you,” she said.

Young Russell halted a good two steps behind the minister,
removed his hat, and twirled it in his hands while he kept his gaze glued to the floor.

Reverend Welsh, hatless in all kinds of weather by custom, smiled warmly. “It's always a blessed day when I see you, Martha. I heard Victoria finally came home. As soon as I did, I started writing a special sermon for the occasion. I expect I'll see you both at meeting?”

“You will.” She set the tray down and started lining up the loaves on the table, which stretched along the outer wall. Reverend Welsh was a man of uncommon faith and a gentle shepherd for his flock. His talent for preaching, however, fell far short of gifted, but he had the wisdom to keep his sermons brief.

“The bread is still hot from the oven. Last batch of the day. Would you like a loaf to take home?”

“Actually, I was wondering if we could talk for a spell. The three of us,” he suggested.

Talking to Russell Clifford was the last thing Martha wanted to do, especially since she had yet to speak to Nancy about the incident that had landed her in Martha's care. The laudanum had worn off by midmorning, and Martha had done no more than change the woman's dressings, offer reassurances that she would recover well, and listen to Nancy's slurred, pitiful excuses for her injuries.

With time, Martha would be able to question her patient closely about the incident, but certainly not before the girl got past the painful job of healing. And most certainly not at her husband's insistence, even if he did have the minister's support.

Fern's warning that the minister would intervene and try to reconcile the young couple rang loud and clear. Curious to know precisely what role Reverend Welsh intended to play and cautious about prejudging either man, Martha could hardly refuse to listen to what both had to say.

She could not invite them into the kitchen for fear either Fern or Ivy would interrupt, and offering to take them upstairs to the
sitting room would put both men too close to Nancy. Instead, she nodded toward the side room in the shop where day-old offerings at reduced prices and tins of hard pretzels and cookies were displayed. “I'm keeping an eye on things this afternoon. Perhaps we could talk for a moment in there,” she suggested.

Without waiting for either of them to argue, she led them straight to the side room. After the minister and Russell entered and stood side by side in front of the colorful tins, she took a place in the center of the archway to block anyone's view. “Nancy is resting as comfortably as can be expected,” she offered.

Russell paled. His hands trembled, but he remained mute.

Reverend Welsh put his arm around the younger man's shoulders. “I met Russell only yesterday, but we spent a good part of the day together. Tragedy takes a heavy toll at times, especially when we feel . . . alone. Losing a child, a son, is never easy, but God's mercy and His love can sustain us if we turn to Him and when we have other followers to help us through our sorrows.”

When he paused to take a breath, Martha held silent.

“When that tragedy is compounded by another, and we try to continue alone, we often fail. And young Russell has failed,” he murmured. “He has failed his Creator. He has failed himself. And he has failed his wife, the woman he vowed before God to love and protect.”

Martha's heart began to race. Had Russell actually confessed? Was that what Reverend Welsh meant? It was impossible to even think Russell would simply admit his guilt and expect all to be forgiven so quickly and so easily.

In the next heartbeat, the impossible became reality.

“Russell has fallen from grace,” the minister continued. “He's broken God's law, but he has confessed his sins and sought forgiveness from his Maker. He's come to ask his wife to forgive him as well, so he can take her back home where she belongs.”

Martha shook her head, as if to make sure she had heard
Reverend Welsh correctly. She refused to accept a word of the minister's claims until Russell at least spoke for himself. “Forgiveness? You've come to ask for forgiveness for . . . for your wife's accidental fall?” she asked. “Or are you taking responsibility for her injuries?”

Russell paled. His eyes welled with tears. His hands, cupped as if in prayer, trembled. “I . . . I take responsibility,” he whispered. His voice was hoarse and his expression was penitent. “I can offer no excuses for what I did. I was wrong. I hate what I did. I love my wife. I never should have hit her, but . . . but I did. God forgive me, I did.”

The young man's tears fell freely now, and his lips quivered as he visibly struggled for control. “I love her so much. I need her. I know what I did was wrong, but I swear I'll never lay a hand to her again. Please, you must believe me,” he pleaded. “It's just been so hard since we moved here. Then when we lost Peter, I . . . I just don't know what came over me.”

Moved by the man's honesty as well as his plea, Martha kept a tight hold on her compassion. “It wasn't the first time you hit her, was it?”

Surprise flashed in his eyes, followed by just the barest glint of anger, which he extinguished so quickly she almost missed it. His cupped hands briefly clenched into fists, and he dropped his gaze. “No. It wasn't.”

“And you've squeezed her hands so hard, two of her fingers have broken.”

His shoulders shook. “I never meant to—”

“And the day she bore your son, she didn't trip of her own accord, did she?” she charged, pressing him hard.

When he looked up again, deep sorrow filled his gaze. “Yes, I have hit my wife. But this time will be the last. By all that's holy, I swear it will be the last time. All I want to do is see my wife and beg for her forgiveness. On my knees if that's what it takes, and I'll spend the rest of my life treating her properly. But
I need to see her today. I have to convince her to let me prove I can be the loving husband she deserves.”

Reverend Welsh had been nodding as the younger man pleaded to see his wife; he spoke before Martha could fully comprehend the enormity of what she had just heard. She would not have believed it if she hadn't witnessed it herself.

“As Christians, we must be people of compassion,” the minister urged. “We must all do our share to help Russell and Nancy,” he admonished, as if he sensed Martha's reluctance. “Under the circumstances, Sheriff Myer has agreed not to pursue the matter. I'll continue to counsel both Russell and Nancy, of course. And they'll both be joining the congregation, too. With their prayers and faithful attendance at meeting, along with the congregation to provide guidance and support, I'm convinced this young couple can overcome their difficulties and remain together, united as one by faith and fellowship.”

Stunned by the minister's support and Sheriff Myer's reluctance to intervene, Martha was momentarily speechless. Any relief she felt for not having to testify and give an official statement was short-lived. The whole scenario had unfolded almost precisely as Fern and Ivy had predicted it would. Did Thomas know what had transpired? Did he approve?

Regardless of Thomas's involvement, Martha had to be ever mindful that her responsibility was first and foremost to her patient. She also needed time to be sure of what to do. “You may see your wife, of course, but not today. She's still groggy from medications,” she cautioned.

Russell stiffened. His eyes flashed once more, and this time Martha recognized his anger as a challenge she was ready and willing to meet, if only to give herself time to talk to Nancy and decide how to proceed. “Nancy needs to regain her strength. At least wait until Sunday after meeting. By then, her lip should be better healed so she can actually talk to you without causing further damage. I'm sure you'll agree
to wait a few days . . . if you truly have your wife's best interests at heart.”

Russell's shoulders drooped a bit lower. His face was troubled. Clearly disappointed, he looked to Reverend Welsh to support him against Martha.

To the minister's credit, he patted the young man's shoulder, then released him. “He can wait. If there's one thing I've learned over the years, it's to trust your judgment, Martha.”

A modicum of guilt shadowed her conscience. She nudged it aside.

Though the minister started forward to leave, Russell held his place. He locked his eyes with Martha's, and she could see he was torn between roles. The domineering man determined to get his own way battled with the penitent one, while his sense of natural superiority as a man reared against her place as a woman, his inferior.

Martha hardened her expression to one she reserved for situations that demanded one and all to accept the authority that her status gave her.

Reverend Welsh paused and turned to the young man. “Come along, Russell. We'll go back to the house. I know I have an extra Bible or two somewhere. Mrs. Welsh can help me find one you can keep. We'll look at some Bible verses together till supper. I have a meeting with the church elders tonight. Perhaps you'd like to come along.”

Russell covered his reluctance to leave well. “I don't want to impose—”

“Nonsense, son. Mrs. Welsh enjoys having someone to fuss over besides me, and the elders will be anxious to meet the newest member of our congregation.”

Apparently, Russell realized he had nothing to gain by antagonizing either the woman who stood between him and his wife or his earnest intermediary. He donned his hat. “You'll tell her I was here, won't you?” he asked Martha.

The minister answered for her. “Of course she will.”

They approached Martha together. “We thank you for your time,” the minister murmured. “If Nancy is able to see her husband before Sunday, just send word to my house. Russell will be staying with us until he can take his wife home.”

She stepped aside to let them pass. Long after she heard the shop door close behind them, she was still standing there, so lost in dark, troubled thoughts that she never heard the door open again.

“Oh, there you are! I was hoping you'd be here. I have such news! And you simply have to be the first to hear it!”

Hearing Aunt Hilda's voice at that moment was as joyous as hearing a babe cry for the first time in this world. Martha swung around, barely in time to ready herself for a bone-crushing embrace.

“He's come home. He's here!” Aunt Hilda whispered. “Come. I want you to—”

“Who's here?” Martha asked. Obviously, Richard Seymour had not told his wife of Martha's complicity in his scheme to surprise her, and she had enough control of her wits to feign ignorance about his return.

Beaming, Aunt Hilda looked up at Martha. Her eyes danced with a gentle reprimand. “Who's here? Why, my Richard, of course.”

Martha's eyes widened. “He's here? In Trinity? He's really come home?” she asked. She did not want to spoil her aunt's enthusiasm with a confession about the role she had played in summoning Aunt Hilda home. Later, she would have to confess, but not now. Judging by the level of her aunt's excitement, whatever fears Richard Seymour had harbored about being well received had been for naught.

“He's here. Back in his very own house. Just like he promised. Now get your cape. I want you to see him for yourself, but you can't tell everyone else he's here. They're just going to have to
wait till Sunday when we both show up for meeting. That'll be some surprise!”

Aunt Hilda shook her head. “Poor man's as thin as a sapling. While I'm waiting for you, I'll just wrap up a few goodies. I did manage to get a good stew to pot, though. We've just been so busy. Talking and . . . and such, I haven't had a moment to bake a thing.”

Martha gazed down at the elderly woman. Her cheeks were stained pink, but not from the cold. She was blushing! “And such,” Martha repeated.

Aunt Hilda gave Martha's shoulder a playful swipe. “We're old, but we're not so old we've forgotten how to . . . to . . .” She sputtered and mumbled something under her breath. “Go get your cape. If you think Victoria could keep a secret, you could bring her along. We'll have a double reunion.”

Rather than tell her that Victoria was upstairs with Nancy, which meant Martha would have to explain the entire situation, she decided nothing should dampen Aunt Hilda's joy. “I think we should surprise Victoria on Sunday, too,” she suggested.

“Then get your cape!” her aunt-by-affection repeated.

Chuckling, Martha did as she was told. Sunday's meeting was going to be one the town would never forget. First Victoria. Now Richard Seymour. Prodigal daughter and prodigal son. The folks here would have quite a bit to say about their both coming home to Trinity. Perhaps enough to overshadow another homecoming of sorts, especially if Russell Clifford had come home to his faith and planned to attend meeting, hoping to garner the congregation's support. That possibility merely strengthened Martha's resolve to see that did not happen.

Not until Martha was able to fully make up her mind about whether to support Russell in his attempt to reconcile with his wife or to support Nancy and convince her she might lose her life if she returned home with her husband.