The Midwife's Tale (19 page)

The sisters, as everyone knew, were too kindhearted to turn anyone away empty-handed for lack of coin or something for barter, so the system worked well for all concerned, except for Wesley Sweet, who operated the general store. He had inherited his grandfather’s talent for business and turning a coin, and had a keener eye when it came to balancing his accounts but none of his ancestor’s compassion or kindness toward folks in need.

With no sign of Fern or Ivy, Martha turned about and headed for the other door. She cringed, but she couldn’t stop her shoes from squeaking and squishing as she walked any more than she could keep the water from dripping from her cape and pooling on the wooden floor.

Inside the second room, tins of hard biscuits, crackers, and pretzels vied for space on a table along the front. Directly ahead, beyond another wrapping table in the center of the room, lay day-old baked goods. Today’s offerings, only two loaves of bread and a tray of oatmeal cookies, waited to be claimed for half the price of yesterday.

Still no sign of Fern or Ivy, but Martha knew exactly where to look for them now. She set her baskets down and wriggled her toes to try to get them warmer before heading directly to the kitchen, which was located just beyond a door in the vestibule. A second closed door in the vestibule hid a staircase leading to the living quarters on the second floor, which was private. She knocked and poked her head inside the kitchen, took one look at the sisters tugging an unsightly pink wad of taffy between them, and grinned.

“Having some trouble?” she teased.

With her face flushed the same color as the taffy, Fern looked up and promptly tossed her end to her sister. “That’s the sorriest mess I’ve ever created,” she groaned. “Mornin’, Martha.”

Ivy held the sticky mound at arm’s length, glanced at Martha, and made a visible effort not to grimace when she nodded welcome. “It’s not a mess, is it, Martha? It’s . . . it’s . . .”

“A mess. And a disaster headed straight for the trash pit,” Fern countered. She slumped her shoulders as she wiped her hands on a wet cloth. “I let it sit too long,” she explained while holding Martha’s gaze. “Are you heading over to the market?”

Martha raised a brow. “You know about that?”

Ivy plopped the disaster onto the table. “Mayor Dillon stopped by late last night. He didn’t tell us much. Just said to come to the market at eight if we wanted to see those boys held accountable for putting Dr. McMillan’s carriage on top of the market roof. From what he said, I gather most folks are
going, which is why we spent most of the night baking extra goodies.”

Fern sighed, her forehead lined with exhaustion. “Baking and trying to make taffy at the same time was a mistake. You were right, Ivy. I should have waited until we finished baking to start on this,” she admitted after she gave the gob of taffy a good poke.

“It’s probably not a total waste,” Martha suggested as she ventured into the room.

Fern snorted. “That taffy is getting as hard as a rock as we speak. We can’t salvage it, and we can’t even give it away to anyone because it’s bound to break their teeth. A pure waste of good ingredients, too. Lord, forgive me.”

Prompted to test the perception of all things, even disasters, as gifts, Martha tried not to think of the sugary confection as taffy but as something else. She offered the distraught woman an encouraging smile. “What if no one knows it was supposed to be taffy? What if you stretch it as thin as you can, cut it into really small pieces, and sell it as . . . as hard candy. It probably tastes good enough, and people wouldn’t be tempted to chew it,” she added.

When their disbelieving expressions did not brighten, she tugged off a small piece of the taffy and popped it into her mouth. She held it between the roof of her mouth and her tongue, closed her eyes briefly, and sighed. “Sweet. Wondrously sweet. And refreshing, too. Is that apple I taste?”

Ivy nodded. “That was my idea. Just to try something different.”

“And I ruined it for you,” Fern whined. “Wasted a jug of Hilda Seymour’s honey and half a basket of apples, too. At least we didn’t waste time peeling them first.”

“Well, I think the taste is delicious. Actually, it’s very soothing to the throat. If you did cut it into little pieces, it would be like . . . like lozenges. Folks can always use something like this
with winter coming on. You know how cold it can get and how it hurts to breathe when you’re outside for any bit of time.”

Fern raised a brow. “Like Harper’s Lozenges at the general store?”

“Exactly. You can call them . . . let’s see . . .”

Ivy’s face lit up. “Lynn’s Little Lozenges. We could even make more, if folks like them. You know how strict young Sweet is with his books. He always gives credit to you in the end, but he slices off a layer of a person’s pride before he does. Poor folks can’t help getting sick or suffering from the cold. We could have the lozenges here for anyone who needs them, whether or not they’re able to pay.”

“We could set plates of them in the confectionery with a sign telling folks they were free, as long as they came back and gave us their honest opinion,” Fern suggested, breathing more life into Martha’s idea. “Truth be told, we probably have enough already to supply every man, woman, and child from here to Clarion and back again for the entire winter.” She offered Martha a sheepish look as she pointed to several bowls on a side table. “That’s more taffy.”

Martha laughed in spite of herself. With the mood suddenly filled with hope instead of despair, she had to admit that Aunt Hilda might really be right. Even if the sisters’ plans for the taffy-turned-lozenges ultimately fizzled, they would find some satisfaction in their efforts. “You two start rolling this all out so I can help you cut it into lozenges. We’ll try several different sizes until you decide which is best.”

She paused and checked her watch. “I don’t have much time, but while we work, I’d like to tell you what I learned about the academy last night before I head off to the market.”

Martha left the confectionery alone at a quarter to eight. The rain had reverted back to a cold drizzle that covered the town like a blanket of fog, but the atmosphere in the confectionery was bubbling with warmth and excitement. Both of her baskets now were nearly overflowing, thanks to a generous donation from the sisters.

With her spirit heartened by having Fern and Ivy as her allies in her plans to support Reverend Hampton’s endeavor, she crossed back to the other side of Dillon’s Stream. When the rain began to fall in heavy sheets again, she waited just inside the covered bridge to protect her cargo as well as herself. If she tried to get to the market around the bend in this downpour, she would be drenched to the skin before she took as few as four steps.

From behind, she could hear the sounds of horses and wagons traveling down West Main Street as the town stirred to life. By looking ahead, she had a clear view of Dr. McMillan’s home, although the rain made it nearly impossible to see the sign out front, let alone read it.

She watched with curious fascination as several people arrived, knocked on the doctor’s door, and were ushered inside. Stanley Pitt, the owner of the gristmill, arrived first, followed by Sheriff Myer and Reverend Welsh, who had apparently returned from Clarion. Each time the door opened, she got a glimpse of Rosalind. So far, Dr. McMillan remained out of view, although she distinctly heard his voice at least twice.

Surprisingly, none of the callers remained in the house for more than five minutes, which made her wonder whether Dr. McMillan was going to attend the event. She rechecked her watch. Eight o’clock. She scanned up and down East Main Street. No sign of any activity yet, let alone Reverend Hampton or the boys, but the rain might have slowed them down a bit.

The sound of wagon wheels clicking on the bridge behind her inspired her to turn around, but she was completely unprepared for the parade of wagons that appeared to be waiting to enter the covered bridge at the opposite end. Convinced she must be mistaken, she went back to the opening at her end of the bridge and peered down West Main Street. Sure enough, there was a line of wagons approaching that extended halfway down the street!

With the sound of the wagons already on the bridge growing louder and closer, she instinctively nudged her baskets closer to the wall and put her back against it, although the canvas bag kept her from getting as close as she would have liked.

One by one, the wagons entered the bridge, approached her, and finally began to pass her by. Abner Sparks and his family led the brigade, the second bad omen for the day. He waved at her. “You lookin’ for a ride? Got some room in the back.”

She waved back, but shook her head. “No, thank you. Where’s everyone going?” she asked, half hoping there was some other event that had lured half the town out on such a miserable day.

“The market,” his wife chimed in her singsongy whine. Her face crinkled into a scowl. “Those boys need to find out we won’t tolerate the likes of them here,” she spat. She tightened her hold on her two dour-faced sons, sitting on either side of her.

Fortunately, the wagon never halted and passed by before Martha could think of an appropriate response, but as the rest of the wagons passed by and she greeted the others, she found Priscilla Sparks’s attitude to be the most prevalent.

Trying hard to keep the few more understanding folks in mind, she decided to follow the last wagon. She stooped to pick up her baskets and barely had a grip on them when a pair of strong hands snatched them away from her. Startled, she stood
up, only to find herself nearly cornered with her back to the wall of the bridge. A very masculine body blocked her way forward and a pair of familiar gray eyes glistened with amusement.

With her heart pounding, she clapped her hand to her chest. “Mayor Dillon! You frightened me half to death!”

His dazzling smile slipped into a frown. “
Mayor Dillon?
You used to call me Thomas,” he murmured while hefting each basket to get a firmer grip.

He was close. Too close.

She sidestepped to put several feet between them. “You used to be more of a gentleman,” she charged. “What . . . what are you doing here?”

His frown deepened. “I was just leaving Dr. McMillan’s when I noticed you standing inside the bridge. I thought I might be able to help you carry these,” he offered while lifting the baskets. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Forgive me. My intention was to be helpful. Truly,” he added, as if he might be able to talk away the disbelief she knew etched her features.

Reminded of how persuasive and charming he could be, she sniffed. “I can handle everything quite nicely.”

He ignored her comment, offered her his arm, and chuckled. “You’re as stubborn and petulant as ever. Since I’ve got both baskets, you’ll have to carry the umbrella. Now, take my arm. The roadway is very slippery.”

She spied the umbrella leaning up against the wall just inside the bridge. When she hesitated, he swung one of the baskets toward the umbrella. “We’ve got to hurry if we’re going to get to the market in time. While we walk, you can tell me all about your trip. I’m sorry Victoria didn’t come home with you.”

This time his smile was sincere.

Still, she peeked around him, studied the roadway where mud was oozing up from below the cinders, and retrieved the
umbrella. She had to hold it very high to accommodate his height and reluctantly took his arm.

Appearing at the market with Thomas as her escort was bound to unleash a round of gossip. More gossip. That was why she was weak in the knees and why her stomach was flip-flopping and why shivers raced down her spine. Certainly not because she cared a whit about the feel of his arm beneath her fingertips, offering strength and support, or the sound of his laughter that still echoed in her mind, or the sense of being safe and protected when he was so near. Certainly . . . not.

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