The Midwife's Tale (41 page)

The pain that pulled Martha from her sleep was centered in her fingertips. When she opened her eyes, she found a familiar pair of dark eyes staring back at her.

Will grinned. “Thought you mighta died.”

She moistened her lips. “I might have said the same to you when Samuel brought me back to his cabin to care for you,” she croaked.

Was that raspy sound really her voice?

When she tried to sit up, Will urged her back down with a gentle shove. “Dr. McMillan said you gotta lie still. Just till he comes to check you. I’ll tell him you’re awake.”

When he turned to leave, she pulled him back. Wincing, she dropped her hold and noticed the bandages on her hand. Both hands, she realized, when she tugged her other hand free from beneath the covers. “Wait. Tell me what . . . what day is it?”

He eyed her suspiciously. “Monday. Why?”

“Monday?” Had she really slept for two days?

He nodded and dropped his gaze. “Guess I got here too late.”

“Too late to warn us?” she asked, hoping to confirm her assumption that Will had refused to participate in looting the town.

He nodded again.

“Then I was right,” she murmured, although being right brought her little joy or satisfaction. “Did they take much of value?”

“Lotsa stuff.” When he lifted his gaze, his eyes lit with subdued excitement. “Didn’t get the treasures, though. Samuel told me where you hid them.”

“Did they catch anyone?”

He shook his head. “Naw. Reverend Hampton had a couple of rafts waitin’ just south of town. Floated right down Dillon’s Stream to Clarion, then probably had everything in the ship before anyone suspected much of anything.”

She let out a long sigh. Being right about Reverend Hampton’s evil intentions, albeit belatedly, offered little consolation now. She was still confused about Olympia’s role in the whole affair, but she did not have the energy right now to consider why a woman would be so devoted to her husband she would follow him in a life mired in sin and deceit. In point of fact, she had encountered more than a few women who put their own lives, if not their souls, in danger in order to please their spouses. Perhaps Olympia Hampton was just one of those women, instead of a wicked woman who took pleasure in her husband’s evil endeavors. She liked to think so, anyway.

Martha’s mind was nearly numb now and clogged with too many other troubling thoughts, save one that branded her guilty at being caught in Reverend Hampton’s net. “I guess you weren’t the only one who was too late.”

“Sheriff Myer came for me this morning, but Dr. McMillan sent him away. He’ll be back, though.” He cocked his head. “Think you might talk to him for me? I got here late, but I tried. I really tried to help.”

“You were very brave and loyal, in the end, but you do have
some explaining to do,” she insisted. “Once the sheriff knows how hard you tried, I’m certain he’ll let you stay.”

“With Samuel?” he asked, his expression hopeful.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “You also owe me a pair of new slippers, young man. I expect you to work off the debt.”

He blushed, and the color in his cheeks added an odd look to his already bruised features. “Reverend Hampton said I had to prove I could sneak into somebody’s house and steal somethin’ without gettin’ caught. I knew you wouldn’t do nothin’ if you caught me,” he murmured before his lips shaped an irascible grin.

“Oh, you did, did you? Pray tell, why wouldn’t I do anything if I caught you stealing?”

He squared his shoulders. “’Cause you’d believe me when I told you I was only stealin’ ’cause he said I had to.”

When Dr. McMillan entered the room, Will took a step back from Martha’s bed.

“I thought I heard voices,” the doctor said. He looked at Will and frowned. “Didn’t I ask you to tell me when Widow Cade woke up?”

Will rolled his eyes. “She just did. We had somethin’ important to discuss first.”

“Sir. We had something important to discuss first,
sir
.”

Will rolled his eyes again. “We had somethin’ important to discuss first, sir.”

“That’s better. Now, head downstairs. Slowly. Mrs. Andrews has some supper waiting. Eat first. Then I want you to head out to the stable and clean Grace’s stall. I need to change the dressings on Widow Cade’s hands.”

Will eased out of the room, and Dr. McMillan shut the door. Although his color was good, he still bore a few scabs on his cheeks and several scars were visible. “I still can’t believe how
quickly children can heal. Stubborn women take much longer,” he admonished.

She ignored his taunt and studied her burns after he removed the bandages. Quite miraculously, the damage done by the fire was not as extensive as she had feared, although she had a number of angry blisters on the palms of both hands and several fingers. “I thought this would be worse,” she admitted as she flexed her fingers.

“The miracle of modern medicine,” he explained. He covered her hands with a pale yellow ointment and wrapped them again. “I won’t bore you with the details about the ingredients, but this ointment is relatively new. Heals burns much faster than butter, which is what I suspect you’d have used.”

She sniffed. “Actually, I prefer lily-of-the-valley.”

“An antiquated home remedy, but not entirely without merit,” he admitted.

“I assume this . . . this ointment is rather expensive,” she ventured, reluctant to admit his treatment was probably superior to anything she might have used.

“Very. As a matter of fact, it’s far too expensive for your purse.”

She laughed sardonically. “My reticule, no doubt, is long reduced to ashes, along with my simples and . . . and my birthing stool,” she murmured. Tears misted her eyes. She had completely forgotten about the collapsible stool Grandmother Poore had brought with her all the way from Maine.

“I have your stool downstairs, along with your treatment bag, which Samuel left here,” he assured her. “Your sister-in-law saved your birthing stool from the fire for you. It’s an interesting design. Somewhat archaic for today’s use—”

“Archaic?” She pulled her hands free and narrowed her gaze.

He held up his hands and grinned at her. “I was only teasing.”

“I don’t find you amusing at all. Fairly competent and earnest.
Even decent. But you have a lot to learn, young man. Or unlearn,” she added.

He raised one brow. “I have plenty of room here. You could convert one of the treatment rooms into an office. I don’t suppose you’d consider the offer, in exchange, perhaps, for sharing some of your treatments and showing me how they work?”

Her eyes widened, but she rejected his offer without giving it more than a heartbeat of thought. “Certainly not! I have my own duties, which keep me quite busy, and my own methods, which have been passed down to the women in my family for generations. I’ll not squander that knowledge by sharing it with someone bound and determined to put me out to pasture like a . . . like a broken-down mule too decrepit to earn his keep.”

She ignored the disappointment that laced his entire expression. There was no way, in this lifetime or any other, that she would help him learn enough to replace her. Never. He would simply have to muddle through on his own. After all, he had a wall full of diplomas and university training. Let that suffice.

Amen.

33

S
hock and grief numbed Martha’s soul and tempered her anger so that only despair remained.

With James and Lydia by her side, Martha stood in front of the charred shell that once had been Poore’s Tavern. Only the front wall remained. Through the doorway, she could see clear past the rubble to the scorched stable and the wagon yard, now littered with debris.

“It’s a total loss,” James whispered. His voice was still hoarse from fighting the fire. “Everything we owned is gone, except for the horse and wagon and the land.”

She swallowed hard and fussed with the skirts of her gown. “What are you going to do?” she asked, wondering if he would use this disaster as an opportunity to fulfill his dream and settle along Candle Lake.

His shoulders sagged, and he clasped Lydia’s hand. “I’m too old to start over. Even if I did have the funds to rebuild, I’m not sure I want to.”

“We’re going to Sunrise to say with Clara for a spell,” Lydia
murmured. “Come with us, Martha. At least until we decide what’s best.”

Martha dropped her gaze. Leaving Trinity and living with her niece was not an option that appealed to her. “I need to stay here.”

“Where?” Lydia asked.

Martha swiped at her tears with her bandaged hands and stared at the destruction before her. Accepting Dr. McMillan’s offer to remain at his home was another option she dismissed. Again. Aunt Hilda would probably welcome Martha into her small home, but she hesitated to impose on someone so elderly. “I don’t know. I’ll talk to Fern and Ivy. They might let me stay with them until . . . until you decide whether or not you’re going to rebuild the tavern.”

“And if we don’t?” James asked.

“Then I’ll think of something more permanent.”

When he looked at her, his gaze was troubled. “You’re always welcome, wherever we settle. You know that.”

She smiled. “Thank you, James. I do. But my work is here. My life is here. I can’t simply abandon all the people who depend on me, and I can’t leave Trinity, especially not now. What if Victoria comes home? How will she know where to find me?”

Fear raised her voice to a shrill pitch. “I can’t go. Not without Victoria.”

He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “Victoria knows you’d be with family, and folks here would know where to send her to find you.”

She pulled away and squared her shoulders. “No. I’m staying here. When . . . when did you plan to leave?”

“First thing in the morning. Sleep on it, Martha. You can still change your mind and leave with us. We want you to come,” Lydia urged.

Martha took in a deep breath, swallowed the lump in her throat, and smiled through her tears. “I’d like to see you off. Right now, I think I should go to see Fern and Ivy.”

Lydia nodded. “We’re still staying with Reverend Welsh. If you change your mind today . . .”

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Martha responded. “Don’t worry. I’m sure God has His own plan in mind. For all of us.” She turned and walked away. Her steps were a bit unsteady. Her mind was awash with a thousand questions about her future, and her spirit was too burdened with disappointment to hand her troubles over to Him.

She had rebuilt her life more than once. She would simply do it again. With grit and hard work, she would dig out of the ruins of her life and start over. One step at a time.

As she walked down West Main Street toward the confectionery, townspeople stopped to wave across the way. Their expressions were sober and sympathetic, but their concern did little to assuage her grief or mitigate the guilt she carried for having staunchly defended the academy.

She entered the confectionery, but barely managed to take more than a few steps inside the door when she had to stop immediately or run smack into the packages Thomas held in front of him.

Fortunately, he managed to avoid disaster with a quick sidestep.

She clapped her hand to her chest and felt her heart pounding beneath her fingertips. “I’m so sorry,” she gushed. Her cheeks grew hot, and she did not have to look in a mirror to know they were probably cherry red.

He chuckled and held the packages off to the side. “Not as sorry as I would have been when I had to go home and explain to my daughter how I managed to drop the very last strudel and she had to settle for something else.”

Despite the jovial words he used, his gaze was uncommonly clouded with trouble. He usually kept such things hidden from the rest of the world. She had not seen him at all since he rescued her treasured diaries from the fire and sensed he was suffering a private tragedy of his own. “I’m . . . I’m sorry the fire ruined your party. I don’t remember everything from the other night, but I hope I remembered to thank you properly for saving my diaries.”

“Indeed, you did, but I was more concerned you might have sustained injuries far worse than did your diaries. As for the party . . .” He cleared his throat. “I’m tempted to think the fire was actually a blessing that eventually saved me from making a terrible mistake.” He looked at her and shook his head. “You’re probably the only woman alive who might not berate me for being insensitive by finding some sort of blessing for myself in a tragedy that spelled disaster for her and her family.”