The Midwife's Dilemma (25 page)

“It will be nice to have you all to myself,” Victoria noted and led her to the edge of the woods behind the cemetery to a rather small but lush patch of blackberries. Working side by side, they each gathered up enough blackberries to make a pair of pies and shared lighthearted conversation. When they finished, Victoria helped Martha to select a good cup's worth of healthy green leaves.

Ready to head back home again, Martha was surprised when
Victoria held her back from picking up her basket. “You might think it's none of my concern, but . . . but I'm worried about you, and since you're my mother, then I think I have a right to be concerned.”

Martha tightened her hold on her basket. “What are you concerned about? I'm perfectly fine. I've found a lovely woman to be Trinity's new midwife. I have a new home of my own that I'll be moving into in just a few days, and thanks to you and your brother, I have more than enough to live on. You and Oliver are both living back in Trinity, too, which means I have everything to make me happy.”

Victoria cocked a brow. “Everything, Mother?”

“If you're referring to Mr. Dillon and our decision not to marry—”

“Whether or not you marry him isn't the point. And I'm not worried about him, either. I'm worried about you. If you're as happy as you've insisted today, then tell me why I don't see anything but deep sadness in your eyes. Even when you're playing and laughing with little Lucy and Hannah, that sadness is still there. Most people probably wouldn't notice, but I'm your daughter. I know you, probably better than anyone else.”

Martha felt tears welling and blinked them away. For the second time that day she had to defend herself, but it was much harder to do with Victoria than it had been with Fern and Ivy. It was easier, however, to talk more openly with her daughter. “Fern and Ivy talked to me about the very same thing just a few hours ago. You're right. I'm terribly sad that Mr. Dillon and I aren't going to marry. I just . . . I just thought we'd be able to work things out, but since we couldn't, I'm trying very, very hard to accept that it's all part of God's plan. That He has another future for me, and for Mr. Dillon, too.”

Victoria hugged her mother and held her tight. “God doesn't
design a plan for any of us that will make us sad or disappointed or leave us suffering. His plan for us is always joyous and filled with His grace. Isn't that what you always taught me?”

Martha treasured being held in her daughter's arms, but she found little comfort in having her own words used against her. “I did,” she admitted. “Not that you always listened or believed me,” she added, without mentioning that Victoria never would have run away with that theatre troupe if she had taken those words to heart.

“No, I didn't, but I know better now, and you should, too.”

T
he waning days of October brought cooler air and autumn colors to the landscape, offering proof that another season had begun.

Martha had witnessed almost all of Jane's capabilities—from birthing to treating ill women and children—for long enough now to be fully satisfied that Jane was not just a midwife, she was a very, very good one. She was also younger, stronger, and possibly a bit kinder than Martha, too, which helped to reaffirm Martha's decision to pass her calling on to her and gave her confidence that the women and children here would be well served.

Jane had completely taken over Martha's place as Trinity's midwife only yesterday, and Martha was ready to begin another phase of her life, too.

Having Oliver and his little girls so near helped immensely. She spent a lot of time with Victoria, too. Although they had never spoken again about the root of Martha's sadness, Martha
was not able to match her daughter's faith and embrace what she had said, even though she had tried.

As part of her journey from dismal disappointment to eventual acceptance that she and Thomas were destined to live separate lives, Martha had started by moving her things into the cottage. After a final supper with Fern and Ivy three days ago, she had moved into the cottage and finally claimed it as her home. She had spent every night since she had moved here praying and praying for God to help her to be grateful for all that He had given her and asking Him to forgive her for resenting what He had not.

She returned from an unsuccessful walk in the woods to look for late-blooming flowers to brighten the cottage, unlocked the front door, and stepped inside wondering how she might spend another free afternoon. With a glance around the sitting room, she had to admit that the cottage finally looked like it was her own home now, instead of Aunt Hilda's. She just did not feel that way and wondered if she ever would.

She did not have to walk into the kitchen to know Bird's cage was probably empty, and she wandered from one bedroom to the other to look for the little bird.

She started in her bedroom, and she was surprised that she did not find Bird sleeping on her pillow like he had been doing lately. Freshly laundered, her mother's hand-stitched quilt lay atop the bed. She had taken the old curtains down, replaced them with new ones that were a little less lacey, and had put a hooked rug on the floorboards. As pretty as it looked, she would have been happier if the room had been plainer, as long as she shared the room with Thomas.

In the other bedroom, Bird was still nowhere in sight. Her grandmother's diary and her record book were lying on a small table she had purchased to sit between the pair of cots her grandchildren had used while they had been here.

She swallowed hard. Turning that diary over to Jane would be one of the hardest things she would ever have to do, but it would not be fair or right to keep it. The diary belonged to Trinity, and Grandmother Poore and Martha had only been its guardians—an obligation that she really should have passed on to Jane yesterday. She decided to do that tomorrow.

She turned and walked back to the sitting room. She could still detect the scent of the beeswax she had used to make the floorboards nearly as shiny as the trim on Aunt Hilda's furniture. Bird was not here, either, which meant he must have made himself at home in the kitchen.

She still had not set him free, in part, she admitted, because once she did, she would be living here totally and utterly alone. How sad to think that she was living here now, only to discover that living alone with her independence intact was not going to be as satisfying as she once thought it might be.

She left that thought behind when she walked into the kitchen. She had hung a number of plants and herbs from the rafters to dry, including the blackberry leaves she had picked with her daughter, and they would stay there until Jane made room for them at Dr. McMillan's.

Finally she spied Bird. He was perched rather happily on a bunch of pine branches she had hung up just the other day. She pulled a chair over, stood on the seat to lift him off, and then changed her mind. “I don't think you'll be here with me at the cottage for very long, so you may as well get used to sleeping in branches again,” she said. She put the chair back, removed the embroidered cloth from atop the ancient kitchen table to safeguard the elegant stitching, and glanced over at the hearth.

She had stacked more firewood by the hearth, just in case of a chilly spell, and there was enough to fuel the cookstove
for a few weeks, too. The rocking chairs in front of the hearth gleamed with fresh polish.

She opened the pantry door and stood face-to-face with happy memories of Aunt Hilda. The jug of her honey wine sat in a place of honor in front of enough sweets from the confectionery and staples to keep her cottage well supplied for a few weeks. She tucked the key to the cottage into the tin where she had stored the document Micah had given her, which made the cottage legally hers—as well as the letter Aunt Hilda had left for her—and closed the pantry door.

With nothing left to do that interested her, she had just decided to take a midday nap when there was a knock at the kitchen door. Praying neither Fern nor Ivy had come to pester her again about talking to Thomas to see if they could resolve their differences, she opened the door and practically gasped. “Samuel?”

“Thought I'd see if I could find my way to you out here.”

“By yourself?” she exclaimed.

“Fancy walked me as far as the path up near Main Street. Managed the rest by myself. You gonna keep askin' questions or let a man inside to rest a spell?”

“Come in, of course. There's a table straight ahead. Here. Let me help you,” she gushed and managed to get him seated without incident. “You're my first official visitor. Did you know that?” she asked as she took a seat across from him.

He shrugged. “Don't see much reason for folks to walk all the way out here, other than curiosity.”

She was glad he could not see the disappointment she knew was written on her face. “Is that why you came? Because you were curious about where I lived now?” she asked.

“Some. Had a hankerin' for some of that honey wine you gave me a while back. Considerin' you've been too busy to visit lately, I figured I'd come to ask if you had any more.”

“I'm sorry. My days have been a little hectic,” she offered with no small measure of guilt. “I've got a jug in the pantry you can take home.”

He shrugged. “Wouldn't turn down a sip now, if you offered it. Otherwise, a glass of water would suit.”

“I'm not a very good hostess, am I?” she said by way of apology. She left the table and put a small glass of honey wine into his hand when she returned.

He took a sip and set the glass on the table. “Not sure I understand why you're livin' out here all by yourself instead of marryin' that young fella Dillon whose been chasin' your skirts for almost a year and managed to win your heart.”

His words nearly knocked her clear off her seat. “You know about Thomas? How on earth could you possibly know anything about him? Or . . . or us?”

“I just do. Well? You got an answer for me instead of a question?”

She huffed, too annoyed to mince words. “A very simple answer. He doesn't want to marry me, and before you ask how I know that, it's really very simple. He told me so.”

He chuckled. “And you believed him?”

“Of course I believed him. And even if I didn't, there isn't anything I can do about it, because he's already told me he wasn't interested in listening to anything I had to say on the matter. Besides, he's moved out of Trinity to his cabin on Candle Lake.”

“Oh. So that's it. You're gonna let a good man walk right outta your life. Just like that. I guess what I heard about you lovin' him weren't right. 'Cause if you did, I know you'd be stubborn enough to put up a fight and get him back instead of mopin' out here feelin' sorry for yourself.”

“I'm not moping around. I like living out here,” she argued, and her pulse quickened. “But I will admit I'm sad. But only
because I'm trying to accept that we're not meant to be together and that God's plan for us is something else . . . something we each have to discover,” she said, repeating the same argument she had used with Victoria.

“Guess you know what you're doin' then,” he said and got up to leave. “I'll get Fancy to show me the way to the confectionery and set Miss Fern and Miss Ivy straight.”

She bolted out of her seat and held on to his arm to keep him right where he was standing. “You know Fern and Ivy? You
talked
to them?” she asked, surprised the recluse had talked to anyone in town other than her.

He snorted. “I ain't been blind forever,” he argued. “Just 'cause I don't like livin' close to folks don't mean I don't know most of them in Trinity, except for the ones crowdin' in lately. I weren't too keen on lettin' those two women inside when they came callin' a few days ago askin' me to convince you to talk to Dillon, but I smelled that bag of sweets they had with 'em and decided it was worth listenin' to what they had to say.”

Martha was getting annoyed. “Fern and Ivy mean well, but they had no right to involve you in something so . . . so private and personal,” she argued, her heart pounding now.

“Don't get your skirts all twisted up. Like I said, I'll set 'em straight. Shudda known they had everythin' backwards. Women usually do, 'cept for you, of course. Never knew you to wobble about anythin', 'specially somethin' you wanted or needed to do. Shudda remembered that. Now, you got that jug of honey wine you promised me?”

“Yes, I do,” she said and made sure the cork was tight before she handed it to him. “You're a good friend, Samuel. I'm sorry if I didn't act that way with you just now.”

He shrugged. “You got a whole army of friends ready and waitin' to help you any time. Family, too. All you gotta do is
ask.” He took a few steps and turned around to face her again. “I'm not much of a church-goin' man. Never have been. Don't claim to know much Scripture, either, but I know enough 'bout God to believe in Him. And I sure don't think He filled two people's hearts with love for each other if He didn't mean for 'em to hold on to it.”

Martha was too wound up to take a nap after Samuel delivered his faith lecture and left her standing at the back door.

She had a good mind to march back to town, sit Fern and Ivy down, and set them straight herself. Instead, she left that for Samuel to do and paced around the cottage, walking from one room to the next and back again. Over and over again. Until her frustration with those two meddling sisters was under control.

Her visit with Samuel, however, still haunted her, and she knew that until she made some sort of peace with all that he had said, she would pace a hole in the floorboards in every room of that cottage. And while she was at it, she may as well try to make peace with what Victoria had said to her, too. Since that might take a while, she walked around the outside of the cottage for fear that if she walked any farther away and meandered through the woods, she would only end up getting lost.

“I'm living out here in the cottage because I want to be here. I do,” she insisted. When her conscience argued back, she ignored it and spied several curved pinecones lying on the ground, which would make a remedy for congestion. Out of habit, she bent down and selected just one, since the others were damaged, and carried it along with her as she resumed her way.

Unfortunately, her conscience was wholly dissatisfied with her answer. “All right, fine,” she admitted. “I don't really want
to be alone or to live here alone, but that's the way it is, and I'll just have to learn to accept it,” she grumbled.

In frustration, she balled her hands into fists, but the edges of the pinecone pricked her flesh, and she tossed it away, “Drat it, Thomas,” she cried, leveling deeper disappointment at the real source of her misery as she rounded the side of the cottage. “You made a mess of everything with your demands, Thomas. You stubborn, stubborn man!”

With her chest heaving and tears blinding her eyes, she stopped in her tracks. It was pointless and futile to point blame at everyone else when she deserved blame for the way things ended between them, just as much as he did. Was she the only one who had thought their love and their future together was a gift from God, or had he felt that way, too? Or had they both been wrong, misled by broken dreams when God had other plans for them?

She brushed away her tears and walked away from the cottage and into the woods. In her heart, she knew there was only one way to end the confusion and the torment that was tearing at her soul.

She kept walking until she finally found a grassy clearing where the tree canopy that surrounded her could not keep the sun from shining down upon her. She dropped to her knees and began to pray that God's grace and His peace would be able to find her, too.