The Midwife's Tale (13 page)

Fern and Ivy looked at one another and then back at Martha before Fern offered an explanation. “The boys they suspect are from the Hampton Academy. It’s a sort of boarding school, I suppose. It opened up while you were gone. Late August, I believe,” Fern explained.

Ivy shook her head. “No. It was early August. Remember? We’d just finished using the last of our skyberries when the Reverend Mr. Hampton and his wife arrived with half a dozen young snippersnappers in tow. Bought every last sticky bun we had that day.” She wrinkled her brows and shook her head again. “For the life of me, I can’t remember that poor woman’s name.”

“Olympia,” Fern prompted. “You remember the old Rhule homestead, Martha. It’s right above the falls on Reedy Creek.”

She remembered it well, along with the entire Rhule family of five who lay buried in the cemetery behind the meetinghouse, victims of the same epidemic that had claimed her beloved husband, John. Still, she could not make the connection between a minister, a boys’ academy, and the homestead abandoned so long ago.

Ivy patted Martha’s arm as if to ease the quizzical expression from her face. “I thought it odd, too, but it’s true. Reverend and Mrs. Hampton brought those boys out here and settled on the Rhule place. Fixed it up the best they could for now, so I heard. I also heard they’ve got a big order in at the sawmill to make the house bigger. They’re going to do it themselves in the spring and work the farm again, too.”

Martha still found the concept confusing. “But why would anyone of means send a son to an academy that’s nothing more than a farm?”

Now Fern sniffed. “They’re not from people of means. They’re all orphans. Every last one of them. Reverend Hampton plucked them off the streets of New York City after he got the call to minister to these poor lost souls. He’s got a mighty task ahead of him, and folks are none too pleased to have the likes of those street urchins running about.”

It was completely out of character for either Fern or Ivy to be so set against anyone, let alone a group of orphans, but the women were as prejudiced against any semblance of city life invading the town as everyone else in Trinity. Martha’s own low opinion about life in the cities had only solidified during her journey, although she could not harbor any ill feelings toward children who had no control of their own fate.

Martha nodded now that it had all been explained to her.
“Do you really think the academy boys are responsible for this prank? Is there any proof?” she asked, as her mind attempted to create a list of suspects who lived right in town.

“It doesn’t matter much what we think,” Fern quipped. “The blame’s been set in folks’ minds. Mayor Dillon already left. He rode out to see Reverend Hampton. Come along, let’s go to the market. Maybe we’ll be able to learn more about it while you get what you need.”

While Martha could not condone any prank which would put someone who needed medical help during the night at risk, she did have to credit those responsible for having both the skill and the daring to carry it out. She also knew her venture into the marketplace today would invite far less interest now. There was nothing like an unhealthy dose of new gossip to replace the old. She also knew her day of reckoning had merely been postponed, and she recognized her debt to poor Dr. McMillan and the academy boys. At least no reasonable soul could blame her for antagonizing the doctor with this prank, but she feared there were enough unreasonable folks in town who might try.

“Welcome to Trinity, Dr. McMillan and Reverend Hampton,” she whispered, and made a mental note to say an extra prayer for forgiveness tonight for taking even the smallest comfort from someone else’s suffering or misfortune.

In midafternoon, bright sunshine warmed the day even more. Already blessed, Martha also had the rest of the day to herself since Lydia had Annabelle to help her with supper. After changing into a riding skirt, she checked to make sure the door to the birdcage was latched tight and nodded with approval when she noticed the food bowl she had filled earlier with seeds was nearly empty. She smiled and tapped the top of the cage. “Good,
Bird. Now, stay put,” she warned, and dismissed any notion Bird might escape again as ludicrous. “I’m still working on that name,” she added, and promised herself she would think of something better than Bird very soon.

When she went outside and passed her herb gardens, she made another promise to cut more herbs tonight before nightfall and went directly to the stable. Once she was inside, she had to stand still and wait a moment until her eyes adjusted to the dim light. When they did, she walked directly to Grace’s stall at the far end.

Grace greeted her by stomping her front foot and greedily accepted the apple Martha offered to her. “You need an outing today, too, don’t you?” she crooned, and scratched behind the mare’s ears until the entire apple had been chomped to bits and swallowed.

Martha had her hand on the latch at the end of the rope that kept Grace in her stall when she heard the distinctive sound of hissing, then a cry that came from directly overhead. More hissing. Then, “Dang brute! You bit me!”

She ran as fast as she could to get to the ladder that led to the half-loft overhead. She was only two steps up the ladder when a hissing, spitting, black-and-white ball of fur flew from the loft and miraculously landed on all four feet on the floor below.

She let out a sigh when Leech shook himself and turned to stare at her as if daring her to comment.

She could not resist. “That was your fourteenth life, unless I’ve missed a few.”

Leech hissed at her, eyed the ladder, and promptly turned his back and walked out of the stable.

Overhead, a shuffle of feet continued, then abruptly stopped.

She was anxious about what she might find in the loft, but she was fairly certain the soft steps belonged to a child, possibly
one of the academy boys, since the youngsters in town knew better than to invade Leech’s territory. She turned her attention back to the ladder and climbed up until she had a clear view of the entire loft. Actually, nothing seemed amiss. Bales of hay that ran the length of the loft were lined up end-to-end against the outer wall to her left. Bags of feed grains for the horses were stacked to her right, leaving a narrow aisle between them.

“I hope I don’t have to come all the way into the loft to get you, but I will,” she warned.

No response.

“You’d be well advised to show yourself, young man. Right now.” Again, no response.

She smacked the side of the ladder with the palm of her hand. “I said
now
!” she ordered, using the same tone of voice she had always used to intimidate Oliver into obedience whenever she had been frustrated by his behavior.

That did not evoke a response, either.

Mumbling and grumbling to herself, she climbed up the rest of the ladder and onto the floor of the loft. She hunched her shoulders to keep from hitting her head on the overhead beams. She searched her way down the aisle while keeping part of her gaze on the ladder and the rest on her task.

She found the source of the footsteps at the very end, crouched behind a bale of hay.

“Cornered,” she announced, and plopped down onto the bale of hay to keep him from escaping.

A bundle of sheer defiance in the guise of a young boy she did not recognize glared back at her, issuing a challenge she hoped she was ready to meet.

10

M
artha studied the slight boy who sat with his back against the wall with his lips parted, his teeth bared as if he were about to snarl. His clothes were well-worn and a bit overlarge for his small frame. A tear in his trousers revealed a nasty set of scrapes and bruises on one of his knees.

No more than seven or eight years old, he had telltale streaks from tears that had cut a wide swath through the dirt on his cheeks. His deep hazel eyes, topped by sandy-brown brows that matched the mop of unruly hair on his head, flashed with a feral intensity that cut straight through her soul.

When she reached out to touch him and reassure him she meant him no harm, he flinched and pulled back out of reach. “Didn’t steal nothin’ but a place in the hay,” he spat. “Ain’t botherin’ nobody, either.”

She laid her hand on her lap. “It sure sounded to me like you bothered Leech, not that he’s much for socializing with folks.
He prefers horses.” The boy cocked his head and sniffled in a vain attempt to stop his nose from running.

“The cat. His name is Leech,” she explained.

His eyes widened. His gaze snapped. “Confounded beast! He
bit
me!” he complained, and held up his hand.

Sure enough, he had a nasty bite on the tender web of flesh between his thumb and forefinger. While sympathetic to the pain he must be feeling, she frowned at his rough language. Her suspicion he might be from the academy seemed more than likely, unless there were other newcomers she had yet to meet. In either case, she could not tolerate this boy’s language or surly attitude. “Your language is atrocious, sinful, and unacceptable, young man.”

He glared at her.

She glared back and quickly found herself taken by the notion that this young boy was just a younger, smaller version of the crusty old seaman she had befriended. Just as she had done with Samuel when they first met, she had tried vinegar and failed. Time for sugar. And time to put Aunt Hilda’s concept of gifts into practice again.

She softened her gaze and rolled up the sleeve to her gown all the way to the elbow. She pointed to the thin white scar that ran from her wrist halfway up her forearm. “You’re not the only one Leech has attacked. That scar is my gift from Leech. Fortunately, yours will be much smaller.”

He snorted. “A scar’s no gift.”

“I didn’t think so, either,” she admitted. “Not at first. But I do see it as a gift now because I’ve learned gifts contain all sorts of things. Some we like. Some we don’t.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Leech is one nasty cat, as far as I’m concerned, but I must give him credit,” she continued. “He keeps the stable and wagon yard free from snakes and mice. He’s got work to do, and he
does it well. That’s his gift to all of us. Every time I see my scar, I’m reminded that he’s not supposed to be a pet. That’s the gift he gave to me.”

He rolled his eyes again.

She dug in her heels. She had not been outwitted or outmaneuvered by a child for at least a few months, and she was not ready to repeat the experience, especially with this boy. “I’m Widow Cade. I live here at my brother’s tavern with him and his wife. That big spotted horse below is my mare, Grace.”

He sniffled and wiped his nose with the cuff of his sleeve. “You can call me Boy.”

“Boy?”

He narrowed his gaze. “That’s my name. Boy.”

She nodded and decided to wait until he trusted her more before pressing him to get his real name.

“I was just about to go for a ride, Boy. I can take you home if you like,” she suggested.

His eyes widened and filled with tears he battled back before they could course down his cheeks. “I can’t go back there yet.”

“Are you waiting for someone?”

Two monstrous tears managed to escape when he shook his head.