The Midwife's Choice (26 page)

Three days later, Elaine finally arrived.

By then, Genevieve was well on her way back to full health, although it would be months before she got a complete night's rest. Twins Martha and Carrie were getting cuter by the hour, and the proud new father had a good start on building a second cradle.

With the promise of a substantial reward after harvest next fall, Martha finally headed home. By now, whatever contribution she might have made toward planning Nancy's future was no doubt moot.

Nevertheless, she urged Grace to carry her home as quickly as possible, if only to still the worries in her heart that Russell Clifford might have caused trouble while she had been gone.

L
oaded down with her bag of simples and her birthing stool, Martha trudged through the knee-high snow covering East Main Street as best she could and wished she had a place to stable Grace closer to the confectionery on the other side of the street.

Only four days after the snowstorm hit, the business side of town had undergone quite a transformation. Wagon traffic, including the mail wagon that normally arrived each Tuesday, had packed down the snow in the center of West Main Street so the roadway was now passable. The planked sidewalk had been cleared, creating a mountain range of snow lining the roadway below. Folks were gathered in small groups, either enjoying a break from their errands or simply a chance to see neighbors and friends after being stuck inside their homes for days.

The covered bridge was only a few yards away from her now and offered not only a respite from the wind, but surer footing. She had scarcely stepped inside when she heard footsteps thumping behind her.

“Widow Cade! Wait! I'll walk with you.”

Martha turned toward the familiar voice and waited for Dr. McMillan to catch up to her.

“Mrs. Andrews isn't feeling very well, so I offered to go to the confectionery to purchase the bread today so she could rest a bit,” he explained as he got closer. “It's nothing serious,” he added when Martha lifted a brow. He took her birthing stool. “Here. Let me help you. I take it you're just returning from a call?”

She smiled. “Genevieve Harper. Twin girls! Beautiful babes,” she responded and shifted her hold on her bag before they started off together.

“All are well?” he asked.

“The new mother is a little overwhelmed, but Widow Snyder is staying with her. The babes are doing very cleverly, although one is notably smaller than her sister,” she responded.

“That's fairly common, I believe,” he suggested.

Martha shrugged her shoulders. “After all these years, I've learned not to judge anything as common. As soon as I do, I'm proven wrong.” As much as she might enjoy discussing the birth of twins with him, she was more anxious to speak to him about what Russell Clifford had been doing since she ordered him out of his wife's room. She also remembered the doctor asking to speak to her about a personal matter, but she had been called out to the Harpers and had never had a chance to talk with him.

When they reached the confectionery, the young doctor followed her into the foyer. The rooms on either side both held several patrons and offered no privacy. “You mentioned the other day you had something to discuss. I have time now; then perhaps you can tell me what's been happening with Mr. Clifford while I've been gone. We can use the sitting room upstairs,” she suggested, careful to keep her voice low.

“Yes, I'd like that.”

“Follow me.” She opened the door to the front staircase that led up to the sitting room. Once upstairs, she left him in the sitting room while she took her things to her room and stored away her cape as well. With all the bedroom doors closed, she could not tell if anyone else was upstairs, but all was quiet and she assumed they were alone.

When she returned to the sitting room, she found him standing with his coat still on and his hat in his hands. “This must be a short discussion you've got planned.” When his brows knitted together, she pointed to his coat.

“Oh. Actually, I . . . I didn't think it would take very long at all, but . . .” He let out a sigh. “This is harder than I thought it would be. You're right. Maybe I should take this off.”

After he removed his gloves and coat, he handed everything to Martha. She laid them on a chair. “Shall we sit down?”

He nodded and took a seat across from the settee, where she sat down and waited for him to begin, with no small measure of anticipation pounding in her heart.

He sat very stiffly with his hands gripping the chair's arms and took a deep breath. “As you'll recall, we didn't start off on a very positive note when we first met.”

“True,” she admitted. At their very first meeting, the night she returned from searching in vain for Victoria, she and the doctor had both been summoned to the same delivery—one Martha ultimately handled. “You were quite arrogant, as I remember,” she teased.

His chubby cheeks turned a deeper shade of red. “Yes, well, I recall a certain level of disdain on your part as well.”

She chuckled. He was being kind. They had squared off as bitter combatants, each vying for the same patient, each a symbolic representative of outspoken proponents who took sides, either for doctors or midwives, in the raging debate over who better served a teeming woman. “You recall correctly.”

“Since then, we've seemed to reach some sort of . . . truce.
I'm indebted to you for your help, especially with the sketches and essays you've prepared.”

She cocked a brow. “I was under the impression we had developed a friendship, as well as mutual respect,” she ventured.

“Yes, well . . . that, too.” He dropped his gaze for a moment, and his fingers drummed the ends of the chair's arms.

“Whatever it is that's bothering you can't be that awful,” she prompted. “Spill it out. We'll discuss it.”

He took another deep breath. “I owe you a great deal for helping me, on a personal as well as a professional level, and for doing so confidentially. Even though you didn't accept my offer of a place to stay or a room you could use as an office after the tavern burned down—”

“What is it you're trying to say?”

“I've made an offer on your brother's property, and he's accepted. Through Micah Landis. He's handling the land transfer for Mr. Fleming—”

“What?” Martha's heart nearly leaped out of her chest. Her mind froze, and she struggled to understand what he meant. “What are you talking about?”

He paled. “I told him you'd be upset, which is why I insisted on telling you first, before any papers were signed.”

“Papers? What papers?” Her mind still refused to function. “What property? James doesn't have any property here in Trinity other than the land for the tavern.”

“Precisely. The land for the tavern. That's what I'm talking about.”

Images of her room at the tavern, with healing herbs strung from the overhead rafters to dry, blurred with images of the kitchen where she and Lydia had worked side by side, and collided with the harsh reality that come spring, there would be no tavern and no room for her. “I—I didn't know James had finally decided to sell the land,” she whispered.

“I'm sorry. Truly sorry. I never would have discussed this
with you if I thought you didn't know. According to Micah, Mr. Fleming wrote to you weeks ago to tell you he had decided to sell the property. You never got your brother's letter?”

“No,” she murmured. The doctor's distress was so genuine and his discomfort so real, Martha did not doubt his words or his intentions. “I never got James's letter, but that's not your fault. It's not James's, either. It's just that you caught me by surprise.”

He sighed. “I feel awful.”

“It's not your fault.”

“It's only because I respect you so much, as a . . . as a healer and as a friend . . . I just wanted to talk to you about this before I signed the papers. I know the property has been in your family for several generations. If you find it objectionable for me to buy the property, then . . . then I won't. There are several other parcels of land that would be nearly as suitable for investment. June looked at them with me when we went for a sleigh ride. Victoria was with us, although she had no inkling of my true mission that day. I wanted to be prepared. In case you objected,” he added.

Though stunned by the very real prospect of being without a home for good, Martha had a sudden thought burst through the fog that clouded her brain. Micah Landis was Thomas's son-in-law. Did Thomas know about James selling the land? Is that why Thomas proposed again? Because he knew she would be forced to accept the Lynns' charity indefinitely? Why hadn't he mentioned anything about James selling the land that day at the cabin on the lake? Was it because he knew how upset she would be, or because he simply did not know about the sale at all?

Too many questions, about Thomas, about her future, begged for answers she did not have, but there was no reason for Dr. McMillan to feel uncomfortable. In fact, she was quite impressed that he had thought to consult her first. “If James
is selling the land, then someone will be buying it. It's not my place to approve or object, but I appreciate your telling me about this yourself,” she began. “I'd like to hear all about your plans, but I'm also anxious to hear about Mr. Clifford.”

Dr. McMillan folded his arms across his wide paunch. “My plans are still very tentative, but I can tell you I hope to have a partner. I'm afraid nothing is settled yet, so I can't divulge his name to you. Naturally, our plans are to rebuild the tavern. We'll hire someone to operate the tavern and split whatever profits are left. It's one way to supplement my income while my practice is young and show my commitment to the town and the people here as well.”

He paused. His hands clenched into fists. His gaze hardened. “As for Mr. Clifford, I'm afraid there's trouble brewing, especially for Mrs. Clifford.”

Martha edged forward in her seat and tried to keep her heartbeat from racing so fast she would get dizzy. “What kind of trouble?”

“Apparently, neither Sheriff Myer nor Mayor Dillon were able to sway that brute's determination to take his wife back home with him. Reverend Welsh still holds out hope for the couple, but even he agrees they need time apart until Russell can get his temper in check. That's probably why Russell moved out of the Welshes'.”

“Where is he now? Mr. Clifford, I mean.”

“Word's spread about what happened to his wife, and he's been spotted all over town. By more than just a few folks. I wouldn't have thought he'd find any kind of welcome with anyone, but he must have. If his wife leaves the confectionery, he follows her. If she doesn't, he goes into the shop and buys something, just to let her know he's close by.”

“He thrives on intimidation,” she snapped. Like the doctor, she suspected no one in town would harbor Russell Clifford now that they knew what he had done. As unlikely as it might appear
at first glance, the possibility that Russell had found Samuel's cabin, claimed squatter's rights, and was temporarily nesting there felt logical the longer she thought about it.

And the vulture was probably just waiting for the right moment to swoop in and snatch up his wife.

Martha was more than a little concerned about Nancy, and she knew Fern and Ivy were, too. Why did they allow Nancy to go outside at all, especially in this weather? Her bruises were bound to invite questions, which obviously must account for word spreading so quickly. Without knowing the plan that had been hatched to help Nancy to escape, however, Martha withheld judgment.

“I'm afraid something has to be done. And soon,” the doctor advised.

She could not have agreed more. She only prayed her friends would act before Russell Clifford did.

Dr. McMillan promptly took his leave by the front staircase. Martha followed him down and locked the staircase door from the inside, then went back upstairs and used the back steps to go looking for Fern and Ivy to make sure they were going to do something soon.

Very soon.

W
hen Martha reached the kitchen, she found Victoria and Nancy clearing sewing notions off the kitchen table while supper, obviously unattended, boiled over on the cookstove.

“Mother!” Victoria cried and rushed over to give Martha a hug, with a rather large, cumbersome sewing basket crushed between them. “We were wondering when you'd get home. Is everything all right?”

“Fine. Everyone is fine.” Martha returned her daughter's embrace and turned toward the cookstove. Using thick cloths, she quickly maneuvered the pot of stew to a cooler place on the cookstove. “Mrs. Harper had twin girls so I needed to stay a bit longer than usual,” she said, reluctant to be overly enthusiastic out of consideration for Nancy's recent loss.

She glanced at both girls. “It looks like you've both been busy,” she noted as she approached the table, where a plate of sugar cookies looked tempting.

Nancy blushed, and the pink coloring added an odd hue to the yellowish bruises that remained on her face. Her lip, however,
had nearly healed. “We . . . well, we just finished. I'm sorry we didn't notice the stew.”

Victoria opened the sewing basket she was still carrying. “Look! Mr. Sweet had several boxes of ribbon he was giving away. For free!”

Martha peered inside and saw half a dozen spools of ribbon. Nearly three-quarters of an inch wide, the ribbon was bile-green with a thick stripe of sunflower-yellow running down the center. It was simply hideous, and Martha crinkled her nose. “What could you possibly be doing with that ribbon? It's garish, to say the least.”

Victoria's smile widened. “You may think it's garish, but others might argue it's the height of fashion in New York City to wear such bright colors. I have some upstairs for you. I think there's a dozen spools, but if you don't want them . . .”

“No. I'll . . . I'll think of some good use for them,” she responded. She was always in need of some type of twine to hang her herbs to dry. Come spring, she would have to start replacing all she'd lost in the fire, but just the thought that she would have to see this awful ribbon hanging overhead sent shivers up and down her spine, until she remembered she would still be here at the confectionery in the spring. “What did you do with yours?” she asked the girls.

Nancy giggled. “We put ribbon trim on our drawers.”

“Nancy even decided to add some color to her cape and trimmed the whole thing, even the hood. Among other pieces we decided looked plain or drab,” Victoria added.

Martha chuckled and shook her head. “I probably shouldn't ask what you mean.”

Victoria's eyes twinkled. “You probably shouldn't.”

Martha snatched a sugar cookie from the plate. “I just spoke to Dr. McMillan. I understand you two have been out quite a bit while I've been gone.”

“Just running errands,” Victoria answered.

“For Miss Fern and Miss Ivy,” Nancy added before she dropped her gaze and toyed with the scissors in her hands.

Martha polished off her cookie and brushed the crumbs from her fingers. “He tells me Russell has been around town as well. Perhaps it would be wiser if you stayed inside, at least until—”

“Martha! You're back! Finally!”

Fern ambled into the kitchen with a broad smile on her face. Her broken wrist, still protected by a splint, rested in a sling. “All finished, girls? I'm so impressed. Why don't you take the sewing basket and the rest upstairs, then go see Miss Ivy in the shop? She needs a little help. And be careful not to let that critter out, or I'll be sneezing all day and half the night.”

“Yes, ma'am,” the girls replied in unison, then quickly left.

Fern eyed the pot on the stove and frowned. “I had a feeling they might forget to watch it.” She headed toward the cookstove, but Martha intercepted her.

“I'll take care of this. You're supposed to be resting that arm,” she cautioned.

Fern sniffed. “I have another. I'm not totally helpless.”

Martha almost rolled her eyes, thought of Will, and caught herself. She stirred the stew, checked the fire, and moved the pot back closer to the center before setting the thick cloths aside again. “Don't tell me you had the girls use some of the ugly ribbon to trim your drawers,” she teased.

Fern's eyes widened, then narrowed defensively. “Actually, I had them trim a petticoat for me and a few other things, too. It's not exactly the ribbon I'd choose, but—”

“But it was free. And wearing that ribbon will remind you that Wesley Sweet had to admit to making a business mistake by ordering such awful ribbon.”

Fern grinned. “Half the women in town have gotten some free ribbon already. The other half will be sure to take the rest. I do so love it when someone like young Sweet gets what he deserves. The man has no heart. Not even for folks troubled by
hard times. To see him have to take a loss and give something away just brings a smile to my heart.”

“Speaking of someone getting what he deserves, Dr. McMillan told me what Russell Clifford's been doing while I've been gone. Do you think it's a good idea for Nancy to be out and about? Given the man's apparent obsession with his wife, how long are you all going to wait to get Nancy to someplace safe?”

Fern chewed on her bottom lip, looked around the room, and leaned closer to Martha. “We only need a few more days to get everything ready. That's more than I should say, but I know you'll keep this very quiet. If Russell even gets a whiff—”

“You know I wouldn't breathe a word to anyone,” Martha insisted.

Fern patted her friend's arm. “I do. In truth, we may need your help.”

“Anything,” Martha said, anxious to be part of the scheme, if only to reassert her place as a member of the sisterhood.

“I'll let you know. In the meantime, maybe you can tell me what you think about my plan to resolve my own situation.” She retrieved the plate of sugar cookies from the table, added more, and nodded toward the staircase. “We can talk more privately upstairs. Ivy will be back to check on supper once the girls arrive to take over in the shop.”

Intrigued and duly tempted, Martha followed Fern upstairs. Once they were settled in comfortable chairs in Fern's room, with the door closed and locked and the plate of cookies resting on Martha's lap, Fern let out a sigh. “I took your advice and talked to Mayor Dillon. He's offered to help me.”

Stunned, Martha's hand, with a cookie halfway to her lips, froze in place. “You did? He . . . he did?”

Fern made a face. “I don't know why you act so surprised. You're the one who said I should talk to him. You said he would be helpful, remember?”

Martha laid her hand down, but held tight to her cookie.
“Yes, I know I did, but I just didn't expect you'd act on my advice at all, let alone so quickly, and especially considering your injury. Besides, Thomas left days ago.”

“He had to turn back when the storm hit,” Fern offered. With a shrug of her shoulders, she sampled a cookie, which she chewed thoughtfully.

Martha followed suit and ate her own.

“After fifteen years, I suppose you're right to wonder why I've suddenly decided to do something about my situation. Maybe I just don't want to worry for the next fifteen years. We're leaving for Philadelphia on Sunday, right after meeting.”

Martha choked, coughed, and eventually managed to swallow the piece of cookie that had caught in her throat. “You're traveling to Philadelphia? With your arm in a sling? Is that wise?”

“I'm not much help here,” Fern countered. “Dr. McMillan said I could go, and Mayor Dillon promised he'd make the trip as comfortable as possible. He was planning to leave for Philadelphia anyway. Since Eleanor is due to deliver next month, he's coming back here before continuing on to New York so . . . so we're making this into a bit of a holiday, too.”

Martha struggled to find her voice while her mind latched on to the memory of Thomas's invitation to accompany him on his trip as his bride. Fern and Martha were close in age, and she wondered if either Fern or Thomas had given any thought to the propriety of traveling alone together. The subject, however, was a delicate one, and she was loath to introduce it for fear of putting a damper on Fern's plans. “What about Ivy?” she ventured. “Is she in favor of your plans?”

Fern cocked her head, knitted her brows together, and stared at Martha like she had grown a second nose. “Ivy? She's coming with us, of course! You didn't think I'd go off with the mayor alone, did you? People would surely talk!”

“No. I didn't. I just . . . If Ivy goes with you, what about the
confectionery?” she asked as the exodus of folks leaving Trinity grew ever larger in her mind's eye.

“Closed. For renovations. We've been meaning to make some changes anyway, so while we're gone, Luther Phipps is going to do some work for us. When we're in Philadelphia, we're going to look at some new display cases, maybe even some new furniture for the sitting room. We'll be back before folks hardly notice we're gone.”

Martha polished off another cookie. “I doubt that. I'm not sure I can survive a full month or more without one of your cherry pies, and Dr. McMillan will be upset, too.”

Fern chuckled. “It's cold enough to store some treats outside. You'll just have to make them last till we get back.”

“You're not afraid of confronting your husband? Not even a little bit?”

Fern let out a deep sigh. “Like I told Nancy, I'm just plumb tired of being afraid. Besides, I can hardly expect that girl to have the courage to start her life over again if I can't face my past, now can I?”

June Morgan arrived unexpectedly just after the shop had closed for the day. Martha ushered her into the kitchen. “Fern and Ivy are upstairs packing. Victoria took Nancy back to the general store to get more ribbon, so I have to keep a close watch on supper,” she explained, although she still felt uneasy about letting Nancy go out. “Would you like something hot to drink? Or some cookies, perhaps?”

June shook her head. “I can't stay long. Mrs. Andrews will have supper ready soon, too.”

“How are you feeling?” Martha asked as she stirred the leftover stew.

June removed her gloves, but only opened up her cape instead
of removing it. “Very well. Thank you. I've been hoping to talk to you privately about a matter I think . . . I hope you'll find appealing,” she suggested.

Curious, Martha led her to the two chairs resting in front of the fireplace, where they each took a seat. “I presume this would concern Victoria.”

June blushed. “Actually, no. It concerns you, rather the sketches and short essays on different herbs and treatments you've prepared for Benjamin. He shared them with me. I hope you don't mind.”

More befuddled than curious now, Martha shook her head. “Mind? I shouldn't think so, but why would you have any interest in them?”

June toyed with her gloves for a moment before she gazed at Martha with great intensity. “May I speak frankly?”

“Of course.”

“With Benjamin here now, how much longer do you think you'll be able to continue your work?”

Martha's spine stiffened. “We've managed to find a way so we can both provide for our respective patients without infringing—”

“That's now. What do you suppose it will be like in five years or ten? Midwives have all but disappeared from the largest cities, save for the few who tend to the desperate or the very poor. New laws are being written, even as we speak, limiting what midwives can and cannot do. Doctors are taking over, leaving women no choice but to accept their care, as well as their treatments, no matter how debilitating or dangerous they might be.”

“That won't happen here,” Martha protested.

June's gaze softened. “Benjamin is a good doctor, and he's better than most because he listens to his heart as well as his head. Unlike many other doctors, he has respect for the work midwives do and the treatments they use—treatments that have
been passed down from one generation to the next. All because of you.”

Martha felt her cheeks warm. “That's very kind of you, but you overestimate—”

“Little by little, his practice will expand and yours will diminish,” June continued. “Women here in Trinity will grow to rely upon him more and more, just like most women have done back East, where midwives are scrambling for ways to survive. In the end, all of the knowledge you and women like you have acquired will be lost or appropriated by doctors for their exclusive use.”

Martha wanted to argue that June was wrong. Completely wrong. Maybe doctors had replaced midwives in large eastern cities, but she hoped Trinity would always have room for both a midwife and a doctor. But change, it seemed, was as inevitable as the shift in seasons each year. She could see it in the town's landscape. She could see it in the shifting tide of people who came to Trinity to make new futures for themselves and the people who were leaving to do the same. She could even see it in the faces of women who were turning to Dr. McMillan to deliver their babies. Although that number was small now, it would increase. She had the feeling she would not have to worry about finding her own replacement. He was the town doctor, already in place, and as age slowed her down, the number of patients who called for her would also shrink.