Midwife of the Blue Ridge
319
give him sweet relief. Willow bark tea for the ache in his head.
Slippery-elm porridge to soothe his stomach. Cool compresses
laid over his eyes, an’ th’ like.”
Tempie sat back on her stool and smoothed her skirt, smiling
a wee, wicked smile. “An’ just when he gets to feeling better, you
give him somethin’ to bring him low—but not too low—and it
all begins again, the cossetin’ with remedies and so forth.”
“Yer brilliant.” Maggie concurred with the elegant cunning of
Tempie’s clearly superior plan. Though satisfying to her soul, she
would certainly be suspect if Cavendish were felled by a violent
bout of diarrhea under her watch. “I will heed t’ yer wisdom.”
Tempie sipped her tea. “As much as it will gall you, chile, today
you spend the day helpin’ that man to feel good. Gain his trust.”
A hammer beating iron rang out, calling the slaves to work.
Tempie gulped her tea, and tied a red-checked apron over her
green skirt. “We’ll talk more later. When the two of you fi nish
tidying here, come out an’ lend me a hand gettin’ breakfast out.”
She propped the door wide open with the stone kept for that pur-
pose and headed for the cookhearth.
The sun ball peeked over the spiked ends of the stockade wall
and dusty daylight streamed through the open doorway, bright-
ening the room. While Maggie helped Aurelia store the bedding,
she noticed Miz Spider had worked hard through the night to
complete her task.
The new web stretched over the corner where the canted raf-
ters met the wall—beautiful, taut, and deadly. Maggie watched a
bluebottle fly buzz in with the daylight and bumble right into the
sticky trap. The fly’s pitiful struggle to free himself vibrated
along the fine strands, and Miz Spider danced to her hapless vic-
tim over silken threads, ready to feed.
H
I will do this thing
, Maggie resolved as she crossed the fortyard.
The crockery arranged on the tray she carried rattled in rhythm
to her step, keeping pace with her heart thrumming in her chest.
320 Christine
Blevins
She came to a halt before the blockhouse door and her knee joints
went to pudding. Maggie filled her lungs and released the breath
slowly through puckered lips. The laden tray began to slip in her
grip. She shouldered the door to creak open on its leather hinges.
The windowless room reeked of vomit and urine. Castor and
Pollux sat cross- legged on the rug in the center of the room with
heads bent, intent over a game of jackstraws, the silly feathers on
their red turbans touching. They looked up as Maggie set her
tray down onto the writing table near the door.
“Massa’s asleep now,” the twins whispered.
She forced her gaze to the four-posted bed in the far corner.
Cavendish lay atop the coverlet, propped on a wedge of large pil-
lows, one arm hugging an empty chamber pot—features drawn,
eyes closed shut—a funny black velvet cap on his head. His com-
plexion was as ghostly and wan as the sun-bleached linen pillow-
slips he slept upon. The violet- gray half- moons beneath his eyes
complemented the purple silk dressing gown he wore.
The viscount’s eyes fluttered open, blinking and squinting at
the bright light streaming into the room. He questioned in a
voice dry and raspy, “Is that you, Tempie?”
The sound of him, combined with the malodor of rum-laced
puke, caused Maggie to turn and gag back a stream of sick that’d
rushed up her throat. She took a moment to tuck stray wisps of hair
beneath her kerchief, pinch her cheeks, and knit her fi ngers beneath
her breasts as if in prayer, before stepping forward to face him.
Cavendish shaded his eyes with his hand. His brow furrowed,
then rose in surprise as he recognized her.
“Aid was sent for, m’lord.” Her voice trembled slightly. “They
say yer ill.”
A smile played across his pale visage and the hand over his
eyes slipped weakly to his side. “Not ill, per se.” He curled his
finger and beckoned her closer. “A case of
nimus bibendo appo-
tus
at most.”
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
321
“Sorry, m’lord.” Maggie bobbed a curtsy. “I dinna ken the
French tongue.”
Her apology drew a laugh, followed by a wince and a sigh. “I
but suffer once again from an overdose of ardent spirits.” Caven-
dish attempted to raise his head from the pillows, only to drop
back and pinch the bridge of his nose. “Oh, misery . . .” he
groaned. “The brains pulse.”
“I’ve brought remedy for such.”
“Then be quick and apply it.” Cavendish threw an arm over
his face. “It stinks confoundedly in here!”
“He nastied the bed,” Castor whispered, and Pollux pointed.
Maggie followed the finger to a mound of soiled bed linen shoved
beneath the writing table. She touched a toe to the bundle. “Lads,
get this mess to Aurelia.” The twins hopped to their feet and
asked Cavendish for leave. He dismissed them with a feeble wave
of his hand.
Maggie returned to her tray. She poured hot water over the
powdered willow bark she’d spooned into a big clay mug, added
a pinch of belladonna, a splash of rum, and a good penny’s
worth of honey. Stirring the hot drink with a shard of cinnamon
bark, she carried the toddy to bedside.
Cavendish pushed himself to sit upright, heavy dark brows knit
and lax spine suddenly rigid. He took the steaming cup in both
hands and sniffed. “This concoction differs from Tempie’s brew.”
Maggie met his suspect squint with a level gaze. “’Tis mine
own receipt, m’lord—an auld Scots remedy.”
“Scots, eh?” Cavendish sniffed the brew again. “One might
presume skulduggery after our last encounter. List your ingredi-
ents.”
“Boilt water. Willow bark powder for th’ ache in yer head.”
She skipped over the
sleep- inducing belladonna powder.
“Honey—t’ cut th’ bitterness.” The burr in her accent intensi-
fi ed. “An’ a wee bit o’ the hair o’ the dog that bit ye.”
322 Christine
Blevins
An eyebrow rose. The viscount took a small sip. “Rum?”
“For lack of good whiskey—aye.”
“To the Scots!” Cavendish raised the cup in toast and drank
freely. His features instantly relaxed as he leaned back in bed.
Maggie began to fuss with straightening the bedclothes.
“Keep a distance,” the viscount ordered curtly, and she stepped
back. “My suspicious nature is not entirely at ease in the com-
pany of women prone to wielding daggers.”
Cavendish proved himself no fool with this remark, and Mag-
gie determined she must abandon her meek and mild demeanor
for a more honest approach—an approach a man like Cavendish
might be willing to accept.
“I willna feign a liking for ye, m’lord,” Maggie said, “but I’ve
come t’ ken such is my loathsome lot in life—to serve ye. Should
I risk my neck to twist from a hempen necklet in order to do ye
some harm? Na . . .” She shook her head. “On that account, ye
need no help from me.” She strode over to the table and came
back carrying a plate of toasted cornbread.
“Take that rubbish away.” Cavendish turned his head in dis-
gust. “This slave fare I am forced to consume has ravaged my
gut. If I never see another kernel of Indian maize, I will die a
happy man.”
“Leave it, then, if yid rather be heavin’ into yon pisspot.”
Maggie set the plate on the mattress next to him. “Willow bark
can be caustic on an empty belly,” she warned, “and from the
stench of this place, I’d say yiv emptied yer belly.”
Cavendish relented, took a piece of toast, and nibbled. “This
harm I do myself—you refer to my intemperance?” He held out
his empty cup to be refi lled.
“Drunkenness—aye—’twill be th’ end of ye.” Maggie took
the cup back to the table.
Cavendish sighed, gesturing with toast to the portrait of the
beautiful woman hanging on the wall opposite. “My dear
ma-
man
, she ofttimes worried the same for me.”
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
323
“Ye can list me as one more hopeful than worried,” Maggie
boldly retorted as she mea sured another dose of powders into the
cup. “I doubt yer mam will cheer huzzah as I will on the day yer
carried off on six men’s shoulders.”
“My doom!” Cavendish laughed. “And when do you estimate
that day to arrive?”
“By th’ look of ye, within the year I’d say.”
“A cold calculation that has been foretold by others. But to
contemplate the alternative,” he said with a shake of his head.
“. . . to abandon spirits . . .” He shrugged and reached for an-
other piece of toast. “Since my dear father has seen fit to banish
me to this back of beyond, I find in drink my only solace.”
“Solace!” Maggie picked up a hand mirror lying on a small
table near the easy chair and handed it to him. “Look . . . pasty
as a floured dumpling, ye are—the white of yer eye as yellow as
old ivory. Yer no more’n fi ve and thirty with veins webbed about
yer nose like a man of sixty . . .”
“I’m but eight and twenty,” Cavendish clarified with injured
vanity.
“Eight an’ twenty!” Maggie exclaimed, then clucked her
tongue. “Youth is wasted on ye. I’d wager yer bowels are costive
most days. Yer loath t’ take nourishment—ye seem much fa-
tigued . . .”
“You’ve left off the worst of it,” Cavendish reminded with an
evil grin and an obscene up-and-down movement of his hand
that sent Maggie’s heart to her throat. “My manly functions are
compromised at times . . .”
“Aye.” Maggie cast her eyes down to the tea she prepared.
“That as well.”
“Your diagnosis?”
She turned and looked him straight in the eye. “Yiv a bilious,
fatty liver, overcharged with liquor, and if ye dinna effect a cure,
ye’ll die sooner rather than later.”
“And the cure?” Cavendish sat up.
324 Christine
Blevins
Maggie poured a double mea sure of rum into his tea. “They
say the drinking of yer own piss—at least two cups a day . . .”
“Pah!” Cavendish fell back against the pillows. “If that is the
cure, then I must die.”
“One thing’s certain, naught will cure ye unless ye abstain
from activities taxing t’ the humors—such as drunkenness and
debauch.”
“Abstain from quaff
and
quim?” he said, incredulous. “That
suits your purpose.”
“Aye.” Maggie handed him a second cup of tea. “Ye must also
partake in bed rest and sound diet. I think a good purge to
cleanse yer organs, followed by a series of healthful tonics to re-
store strength t’ the blood. Heal yer liver, sir, and in time ye can
pick up yer habits once again, in moderation.”
Cavendish raised his cup to the portrait of the bewigged man
hanging beside his mother. “A toast to my dear father—God rot
you, you hard- hearted blackguard.” He guzzled down his tea in one
long gulp, then leaned back against the pillows, thoughtful for a
moment. His eyes seemed heavy, and he yawned. Maggie stood by
with hands clasped until at last he pulled to sit upright and speak.
“Let us summarize. One—” Cavendish looked Maggie straight
in the eye and ticked off on his fingers. “I am mortally ill with
but a Scots midwife for succor—a woman more apt to plunge a
knife in my heart than effect a cure.”
Maggie laughed. “Yer a canny devil, I’ll give ye that.”
“Two—I should drink of my own piss and set aside the only
two things in life what give me any pleasure in this pestilent hell-
hole to which I’ve been assigned.”
Maggie shrugged. “There’s aye a-somethin’ . . .”
“Three—I must then be
purged
.” He yawned again and rubbed
his eyes. “I suppose I should be grateful there has been no men-
tion of bloodletting.”
“Ye asked for a cure. Bloodletting is the tool of butchers.”
“Well, there’s our silver lining. The midwife works on princi-
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
325
ple.” Cavendish held out his empty cup. “Very well, then, Miss
Duncan. Though there will be no drinking of piss, and I must
contemplate the purge, I will otherwise accede to your ministra-
tions, but in doing so, I say to you
primum non nocere.
”
She took the cup and placed it on her tray. “I’ve tolt ye afore, I
have no French.”
“Latin, my dear,” Cavendish chided. “The physician’s creed—
primum non nocere
—‘first, do no harm.’ Abide by it, and in
turn, no harm will come to you.” He flopped onto his back,
crossed one leg over the other, and nestled into the pillows, the
cap on his head cocked over one eye. “Are we met?”
“Aye,” Maggie agreed. “Well met, I’d say.”
“I am much fatigued.” He waved her away with a flick of his
fingers and closed his eyes. “Be about gathering your simples and
attend to my cure.”
Maggie crossed back to her cabin with her tray. Pleased with
the outcome of her meeting with Cavendish, she broke into a
grin. “Bloody hell! It would have done me some good to see th’