son Crusoe.
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
189
He reached for his second acquisition. The cracked spine and
loose binding strings on the thinner volume barely held the paste-
board cover boards attached. Paging through worn,
fi nger-
stained leaves, Tom could tell it’d been well enjoyed by its previous
readers.
“Hullo.” Maggie stood at his feet, basket in hand, the sun
glowing a halo around her head. Tom noticed she’d exchanged
the borrowed silk and lace finery for her everyday clothes—plain
blouse, brown skirt, front-laced bodice. He regretted to see her
black tresses once again pulled and twisted in a utilitarian knot
at the nape of her neck.
Tom put his books aside. “How’s Mary faring?”
“She’s cleverly—sittin’ up as we speak, being spoon-fed a pos-
set by her mam.” Maggie came to kneel beside him, opposite
Friday. “What’ve ye got there?”
Tom showed Maggie his books. “I’m surprised Eileen parted
with them.”
“Eileen told me herself, when the alarm sounds, she fi rst gath-
ers her children, then gathers her books, so dear they are to her.”
Maggie shifted hips to sit with her legs curled to the side and
picked up the smaller book. “How I wish that I could read . . . I’ve
never been schooled—lassies weren’t allowed t’ attend.”
“Eileen hales from Pennsylvania, not far from my family farm.
Among Friends . . .”—he clarified—“among Quakers, both boys
and girls are taught to read and write.” He showed Maggie the
novel. “This prize is a boyhood favorite of mine,
Robinson Cru-
soe.
”
“
Robinson Crusoe
!” Maggie exclaimed. “MacGregor read
it aboard the
Good Intent
—’twas such a long crossing, he read it
through twice. The best bit was when Crusoe spied the footprint
in the sand . . .” She paused, and smiled. “Now I ken . . .” Maggie
reached to scratch Friday behind the ear. “Did ye find this wild
heathen on a Friday?”
“More like he found me.”
190 Christine
Blevins
She handed the book back and rose to her feet. “Maybe one
day ye can read to me, eh?”
“How about right now?” He held up the book she’d just
handed him. “
Hesperides, or Works both Human and Divine of
Robert Herrick.
Poetry.”
Holding up the basket, she said, “I need to gather some lady’s
mantle. I spied some by the river. For Susannah—her milk’s come
in and she needs relief.” Friday whimpered with sad eyes blinking.
Maggie bent down to give the dog a farewell scratch on the snout.
Tom’s senses were suddenly racked by the smell of scented
soap clinging to summer-warm woman-flesh and the glorious
sight of golden breasts poised to almost, but not quite overfl ow
the bounds of a tightly laced bodice. He resisted a devilish urge
to bend forward and touch his tongue to the chocolate half- moon
of her nipple peeking from above her neckline.
“I’ll be back soon, Friday-lad,” Maggie murmured.
Her voice, an erotic whir in his ear, set Tom’s heart to pound-
ing. Her fi ngers, stroking the length of Friday’s nose resting in his
lap, sent muscles twitching. Tortured, Tom clenched fi sts, squirmed
in his seat, and raised one knee to disguise the growing evidence of
his ardor. The flap of his red breechclout slipped to the side and
Maggie inadvertently brushed a molten streak along the taut mus-
cle of his inner thigh with the back of her hand. He groaned.
As if scorched by a pot boiling on the grate, Maggie snatched
her hand back and popped up erect, cheeks blazing. “I—I’ll leave
ye t’ yer books . . .” Turning on bare foot, she all but ran away.
Her scent lingered in a sweet, soapy cloud. And with much
more than tender regard, Tom sank into his barley backrest,
watching her every step, spellbound by the sway of her hips as
she passed through the station gates and disappeared.
With his index finger, he drew a narrow rectangle on his leg,
outlining every inch of skin she’d touched. He then uncorked his
flask, swallowed two big gulps, set the flask aside, fl ipped open
the volume of poetry, and read the first lines on that page:
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
191
A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness.
Tom laughed, and read on. H
Maggie ran through the clearing till she reached the shade of the
canopy. Gulping for breath, she dropped her basket and fell back to
rest against the corky trunk of a sweet-gum tree, slapping herself
on the forehead. “Eidgit! Reachin’ between a man’s legs . . . och!”
’Twere mischance . . . I only meant to pet Friday . . .
She
stamped her foot.
But the simple touch that lit the spark in Tom’s eye had also set
her own blood aflame. Hands flew to cheeks. She took several
deep breaths to quash the clamor in her head. She was innocent.
Her intent had been pure. He was the guilty one.
“Aye . . . Him,” she muttered, snatching up her basket. “He’s
at fault here. He’s a rascal. He was the one wrigglin’ ’round like
a worm on a fi shhook.” Satisfied with laying blame for the inci-
dent upon Tom, she fl ounced down the path.
The woodlands opened to a lush meadow flanking the river.
Maggie stood at riverside, eyeing the cluster of lady’s mantle
growing on the opposite bank, more than twenty feet away. The
current ran strong here and seemed much deeper than the branch
back at the Martins’.
But Susannah’s milk had come in, and without a baby to
nurse, her breasts would become engorged, painful, and suscep-
tible to corruption. She glanced across the river where lady’s
mantle teased, leaves bobbing on a breeze. A tea brewed from
those leaves combined with cabbage-leaf compresses would offer
Susannah much relief.
Maggie stripped to her shift and left her togs folded in a neat
pile. She waded in with arms extended, her collecting basket
plopped on her head like a hat, glad to find the water never
higher than hip- deep.
192 Christine
Blevins
Struggling up the steep grassy bank, Maggie disturbed a host
of biting midgies to swarm about her sweaty face. She yanked up
three clumps—roots and all—dumped them into her basket, and
sloshed back into the river. She slogged against a strong crosscur-
rent, full basket in one hand, the other busy swatting tiny fl ies
flitting into eyes and ears and feeding on tiny chunks bitten from
shoulders and neck.
“Fiech!”
She jerked to slap a bloodthirsty predator on her
arm, slipped, and fell arse backward into the water. Maggie
emerged sputtering, basket in hand, sopping wet but happily rid
of the midgies. Rivulets trickled down her legs and arms as she
ran up the bank. She plopped into the grass, dropping her basket
next to her dry clothes.
“Whew!” She removed the pins in her wet hair, and let it fall
like a satin drape to her waist. Maggie rolled back to lie in sweet-
grass, sodden muslin clinging like a second skin. With hands cra-
dling her head and ankles crossed, she closed her eyes and emptied
her brain, baking in the hot sun like a corn dodger on a griddle.
The meadow hummed with the pitched pulse of cicada bugs,
and every so often, a fly buzzed loud past her ear. In the distance,
a woodpecker drummed in starts and stops. And just when the
sun blazed too hot to bear, a river breeze swept across the fi eld,
cooled her instantly, and allowed her to wallow a few moments
more.
She couldn’t be bothered to open her eyes to see whatever had
landed, tickling on her nose, and she just shooed it away with
lazy fingers. She brushed it away from her ear, and the persistent
bug moved to the hollow of her throat to scurry down the neck-
line of her shift between her breasts.
Maggie jerked up squealing, plucking at her shift, to fi nd Tom
crouched on hunkers next to her, grinning mischievous, waving a
tufted stalk of sedge grass.
“Away wi’ ye, rascal!” Blushing, she fumbled for clothes.
Knees hunched to her chest, she struggled to put on her bodice.
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
193
“Caught me nappin’ in naught but my shift . . .” She paused, no-
ticing he was unarmed, encumbered only by his pouch hanging
over one shoulder. In sudden realization, Maggie snatched up a
clump of lady’s mantle and whipped it at his head.
“Ow!”
“Yiv been skulkin’ about, haven’t ye? Sneaking ’round like a
Red Indian . . .”
Tom brushed dirt from his shirt, a wry smile on his face. “I
came to lend a hand . . .”
“Lend a hand . . . hmmph!” Maggie sneered, tightening the
laces on her bodice with a fi rm tug.
“C’mon, Maggie . . .” Pulling
Hesperides
from his pouch,
he said, “I brought a book to read.”
He seemed contrite, and for some reason she was happy he
had followed after her. “Well, all right,” Maggie relented, pat-
ting the grass. “Read to me, then.”
Tom reclined beside her. Up on one elbow, he opened to a page
marked with a finger length of blue ribbon. “Lie down . . .” He
gave her a gentle shove to the shoulder. Stretching back to lie
with arms tucked under her head, Maggie closed her eyes. Tom
cleared his throat, and read:
“Bid me to live, and I will live
Thy protestant to be;
Or bid me love, and I will give
A loving heart to thee.
A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
A heart as sound and free,
As in the whole world thou canst fi nd,
That heart I’ll give to thee.
Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,
To honour thy decree;
Or bid it languish quite away,
And ’t shall do so for thee.
194 Christine
Blevins
Bid me to weep, and I will weep,
While I have eyes to see;
And having none, yet I will keep
A heart to weep for thee.
Bid me despair, and I’ll despair,
Under that cypress tree;
Or bid me die, and I will dare
E’en death, to die for thee.
Thou art my life, my love, my heart,
The very eyes of me;
And hast command of every part,
To live and die for thee.”
“Oh, Tom . . .” Maggie sighed, turning toward him. One hand
slipped about his neck, she grabbed his leather belt tight with the
other hand and pulled him close.
Tom tossed the book aside and wrapped her in his arms. Their
hungry mouths blundered then met in an urgent, deep kiss. Arms
and legs entwined, they rolled slowly and Maggie found herself
flat beneath him, legs parted.
With one arm entangled in her hair, Tom buried his face in her
neck. He groaned, pressing large and hot, a forged iron rod
straining against damp muslin and soft belly. A tiny, wobbly
whimper escaped Maggie’s lips and she pushed against his chest.
Tom pulled up on elbows, his hair hanging wild, distressed
brow furrowed. Breathing heavy, he hovered there.
Maggie bit her lip, hands still pressed to Tom’s chest. She
looked into his eyes for a moment, then smiled and slipped her
hands down to unbuckle the belt about his waist.
Tom laughed and rolled to lie beside her. He kissed her soft on
the lips. Sky blue eyes intent on hers, he loosened the bow and
tugged, one by one, the laces from the eyelets on her bodice.
“Maggie Duncan, I mean to ravish thee . . .”
“Aye, lad . . .” she breathed. “. . . Get on with it.”
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
195
H
Strands of rosy-gold light wove a horizontal pattern across the
twilight sky. Down on one knee, Tom fiddled with the laces on
his moccasins while Maggie waited at his side, swinging her bas-
ket, shifting weight from one bare foot to the other.
Maggie studied the sky. “The gloaming’s comin’ quick upon
us. We tarried overlong.”
“I like ‘tarrying’ with you.” Tom glanced up with a wicked
smirk. “And I think we ought ‘tarry’ more often.”
Blushing, Maggie gave him a playful bump with her hip. “Och,
but yer a cheeky lad!” She turned on heel and marched a quick-
step toward the trailhead.
Tom hopped to his feet, scurried to pluck a fistful of fl owers,
and ran to catch up. “Maggie, I’ll carry that . . .” He pried the
basket from her hand and offered her the nosegay. “None-so-
pretties—like you.”
Tickling fingertips over the petals, Maggie buried her nose in
the cluster of purple flowers, pleased by the offering. “What a
clever name, none-so- pretty . . .”
“That’s what my mother called them, anyway.” Tom slid his
arm about Maggie’s waist and she slipped her arm about his.
Together they strolled down the woodland path toward Round-
about.
“You know, back home in Glen Spean, I could put a name to
almost every growing thing—wood or field. But here . . .” Mag-
gie heaved a sigh.