The Midwife's Tale (42 page)

She moistened her lips and swallowed hard. “I’m not sure I can grant you that,” she managed. “At least not right now, when I’ve yet to find a place to live. I take it you’ve decided against marrying Samantha?”

His cheeks actually reddened, and his smile was decidedly sheepish. “Actually . . . well, the truth is that Samantha decided I was a lout for suggesting she help the other women in the fire line and changed her mind about accepting my proposal. That was the first time I realized what a selfish child she is, even though Eleanor never seemed to miss an opportunity to tell me so before that night.”

Martha caught her lower lip to keep it from smiling back at him. “She’s beautiful enough to turn any man’s head, Thomas. Don’t be too hard on yourself. At least the fire broke out before you had a chance to formally announce your betrothal,” she murmured, remembering a different time and a different place when it was she who had refused his suit.

When he gave her a smile that hinted he might be sharing her private thoughts, she smiled back. “The rumors about your impending betrothal now can remain just that. Rumors. Eventually, they’ll die down. They always do.”

He gazed at her with such tenderness and yearning, she found it difficult to breathe or to think about the bonds they had shared—bonds that still beckoned and tempted her beyond all reason. Fortunately, the sound of approaching footsteps broke the spell, and Thomas quickly took his leave before Fern and Ivy entered the room through the kitchen door.

They ushered her straight to the kitchen and doted on her like a pair of mother hens.

“You poor, poor dear. Come. Sit down,” Ivy clucked.

Martha took a seat at the table.

“You need a chocolate tart,” Fern said, setting one in front of her.

Martha held up her hands and wanted to cry. “I don’t think I can manage.”

Fern held up her hand. “Wait. This should help.” She cut the tart into small pieces and handed Martha a spoon.

The first spoonful was heavenly. So was the last.

“Have another,” Fern urged. “Chocolate again or apple?”

“Apple this time.”

She polished that one off, too. “I came to ask for a favor, not eat my way through your shop,” she confessed.

The two sisters answered simultaneously.

“Anything.”

“We’ll help you, of course.”

Martha licked the last bit of sugar from her lips. “I need a place to stay. Just temporarily, until James decides whether or not to rebuild the tavern. If he does, then it may be months before the new one is finished, especially with winter here. If he doesn’t, then—”

“We have two extra rooms. You can choose whichever one you like best,” Fern assured her.

Ivy nodded approvingly. “And all the sweets you want, too.”

Martha felt her heart constrict. “I’d try not to bother you, but I do get calls in the middle of the night.”

“We wouldn’t mind, would we, Fern?”

“Not in the least.”

“I’ll be away quite a bit, too, for deliveries. If Victoria should come back and find the tavern in ruins . . .”

Fern winked. “Then we’ll just keep her right here until you get back.”

Martha’s throat tightened as she fought off tears. “I don’t know how to thank you. If it’s all right, I’d like to move in tomorrow after James and Lydia leave. I’ll . . . I’ll give you a share of my rewards, just like I did with James.”

Ivy sniffed. “Nonsense. With all you’ve lost, you’ll need every bit you earn. Come. I’ll show you the rooms. Fern, see if you can’t find some undergarments and gowns in the attic that would fit Martha.” She looked at Martha’s bedraggled gown and giggled. “This one’s a mess.”

Martha looked down at her skirts and would have chuckled, too, if she had not been on the verge of tears already. She followed the sisters upstairs. At least now she had a place to stay. It was not much, compared to what she’d had just a week before, but it was a beginning.

Martha crawled into bed, thought about saying her prayers, and snuggled under the covers. The disappointment that had been simmering all day and fueled her determination to remain in Trinity grew into flames of anger that kept her from praying.

She closed her eyes and pursed her lips, but the throbbing
in her hands did not lessen, either. “Forgive me for not praying tonight,” she whispered. “I’m not in the mood. And this is one gift You could have spared me, if You don’t mind my saying so.”

Tears welled. Unbidden. Unwelcome. “I’ll fix this myself.”

Will you?

Startled, she held very still. “Of course I will. I always do,” she snapped. Horrified because she had spoken so sharply, on the unlikely chance the voice she heard in her mind was not her conscience but the voice of God, she let out a sigh. The notion that God would speak to her was almost blasphemous, and she hoped this odd soliloquy would be forgiven. “I’m not able to think straight right now. I’m upset.”

And angry?

“Yes, I’m angry,” she admitted, hoping to quiet her conscience so she could get some sleep. “Haven’t I suffered enough? Look at my hands. They’re useless now and will be for weeks. I’m so helpless I can’t even dress myself, not that I have a single gown of my own left that isn’t ripped or charred. Not that You care.”

Very
angry.

“Very. I’ve lost my daughter, who is traipsing around somewhere all alone. I’ve lost my home. My brother is leaving in the morning, so I’ll be left here all alone with no family. But I’ll manage on my own, thank You very much. I will,” she insisted.

With her room at the Lynn sisters’, she would still be in Trinity if Victoria came home, and her patients would be able to find her quite easily. The fact that she might eat herself into sweet oblivion by living at the confectionery was only a minor problem compared to the troubles she would face by accepting Dr. McMillan’s outlandish proposal.

Help him.

Her eyes snapped open, and she stared at the darkness that
surrounded her. Her heart began to gallop in her chest. “Help Dr. McMillan? That’s absolutely ridiculous. Out of the question,” she muttered. “I’m a midwife. He’s a doctor. Trying to work together would be like mixing oil and water. You can’t expect me to spend my time teaching him to be a better physician all by myself any more than You can make me believe this . . . this disaster can be turned into some kind of miracle.”

Like changing
water into wine?

“Precisely,” she grumbled. “But . . . but I can’t help him. I won’t. This is asking too much. I must be delirious,” she whimpered, certain she must be desperately ill to be hearing voices. She tugged off one of her bandages and felt her forehead. She could not detect any sign of fever, and slammed her eyes shut. She tossed and turned, but found no peace. No rest. No sleep. No assurances, either, as she battled her deepest fears. As her conversation with Rosalind just the other day replayed in her mind, she realized, among other things, she was a hypocrite of the first order if she did not follow her own advice and accept His will instead of forcing her own.

“Pray. I need to pray.” She crawled out of bed and dropped to her knees. Sobbing, she emptied her heart and let her faith wash over her anger and disappointment. When she was done, when she was too limp to kneel without leaning against the side of the bed for support, she bowed her head and surrendered her will to His. “I can’t do this alone,” she whispered.

I am with you. Always.

Peace. Sweet, healing peace invaded her very spirit, extinguishing all fear and doubt, as well as anger. She sniffled and wiped the tears from her face. When she crawled back into bed, she fell asleep almost immediately.

Half the town turned out to bid James and Lydia farewell the following morning. Men, women, and children gathered on the planked sidewalk along West Main Street, waving and calling out good wishes as James and Lydia rode slowly by the homes and businesses. The back of the wagon nearly overflowed with trunks of donated clothing and barrels and baskets of foodstuffs.

Martha walked alongside the wagon with the memory of their private farewell tucked next to her heart. Still, the prospect of seeing them disappear from view lay heavy on her spirit. James slowed the wagon to a halt when Webster Cabbot stepped out from the crowd and approached them. He handed James a pair of ivory-handled pistols. “Don’t expect you’ll have much use for these yourself, but they’ll bring a good value at trade. Enough to help you get started again.”

James swallowed a visible lump in his throat. “I’m obliged to you, Webster,” he managed, and set the pistols behind him.

Cabbot nodded, then looked directly at Martha. “I gave a pair to young Sweet at the general store to credit to your account,” he informed her, turned, and strode back into his shop.

Stunned, Martha barely had the wherewithal to follow along when James started the wagon forward again.

“We’ll get that rubble cleared away in no time,” one man shouted.

James smiled in reply.

Lydia moved closer to her husband. Weeping openly, she kept her gaze on the roadway ahead.

Each step Martha took was harder than the last. With fresh tears of her own threatening, she was anxious to bring this town-wide farewell to an end before she broke down in front of anyone. If her friends and neighbors learned she was planning to be a mentor, of sorts, to Dr. McMillan, folks would suspect
she had become distracted. Blubbering in front of them now would only make that suspicion seem more likely.

When Wesley Sweet ran out of the general store and hailed down the wagon, she nearly cried out in frustration. Why couldn’t everyone just let James and Lydia leave?

Panting, he held on to the horse’s bridle. “Sorry. Don’t mean to hold you up, but I just found this.” He held out a letter. “It was stuck to one for . . . well, that doesn’t matter. What’s important is that I found it in time. No charge. It’s my fault it’s been held up.”

Martha took the letter and handed it to James.

Wesley opened his mouth to speak, but James spoke first as he handed her back the letter. “It’s not my letter. It’s yours, Martha. It’s addressed to you. Best open it before we leave.”

She stared at the familiar scrawl and her heart skipped a beat. With her hands still bandaged, she was afraid to try to open it for fear of ripping the letter. She handed it back to James, almost too excited to breathe. “Open it for me. Hurry!”

He unsealed the letter, and she grabbed it back. She read the short missive twice before a flood of tears made it impossible to see a single precious word.

“It’s from Victoria. She’s coming home. She’s coming home!” she cried before she dissolved into tears. Her knees grew weak, but strong arms suddenly appeared and held her upright—arms with a strength and familiarity that echoed from long ago.

She wiped her tears away and looked up. Thomas’s gentle gaze locked with her own. His eyes glistened with an unspoken but heartfelt promise that the future held long-awaited fulfillment and love, if each of them had the will and the courage to fight for it.

Overwhelmed, she reached up and cupped the side of his face. “She’s coming home, Thomas. She’s coming home,” she whispered.

As the echo of her announcement rippled through the crowd, a round of applause began slowly, then built into a crescendo replete with whistles and cheers for a daughter of Trinity who was finally coming home.

Overwhelmed, Martha let herself relax in Thomas’s strong embrace, but she offered to Him all the accolades from the crowd for the wonderful news of Victoria’s impending homecoming—and for leading her through life’s greatest troubles, for knowing the deepest secrets of her heart as well as her faults, and for loving her. Still.

Author’s Note

Modern midwifery has made significant advances since the nineteenth century. Readers who are interested in modern midwifery techniques and their advantages are encouraged to refer to contemporary literature for information and advice rather than applying any historical midwifery practices explored in this novel. They are also advised to contact their physicians and modern-day midwives. Any decisions readers make regarding pregnancy, labor, and delivery should be based on sound, professional, up-to-date information.