bastard choke down his own piss.”
H
Maggie marched in the lead with a large collecting basket hooked
over one arm, lackadaisical Brady Moffat and lumbering Figg in
tow. The odd threesome entered the woodlands and followed the
well-trod shady path that led to the river. Free of the oppressive
stockade wall, Maggie stopped for a moment to breathe deep the
air—rich and earthy.
“The dark season,” Moffat said, shifting the rifle on his shoul-
der. “The leaves grown so broad and thick on the trees, they
close out every bit of light, even on a bright day like today.”
They reached the sun-filled meadow and Figg broke from their
triangular formation and gallumped away. By the time Maggie
and Moffat caught up to him at river’s edge, the giant had shed
boots and stockings. He waded with breeches rolled above his
knees in ankle- deep water and with childlike pleasure pondered
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Blevins
the school of minnows nibbling his toes. As usual, Moffat laid his
rifle down and flopped in the shade of a willow. Figg splashed
back up onto shore, asking, “D’ye bring our tea, Maggie?” And
as usual, Maggie produced Tempie’s glazed jug from her basket
along with a treat—today, a pan-size piece of buttery shortbread.
“Remember, dinna tell anyone that I’m sharing the viscount’s
sweeties with yiz,” she warned Figg, breaking the sugary biscuit
in two and handing him half.
Figg nodded. “’Cause that’d be the end of th’ sweeties, aye?”
“And ye dinna want that,” Maggie confirmed, “for tomorrow
I’m fixin’ berry tarts.”
“Amen t’ berry tarts, sez I.” Like some sort of immense squir-
rel, Figg squatted on his haunches, holding his shortbread in a
two-handed fashion, nibbling away at its edge.
“Damn good tea,” Brady complimented, swilling freely from
the jug.
“Sweet lemon balm,” Maggie told him with jerk of her head
toward Figg. “Good for those plagued with the farts, if ye ken
my meaning.”
“Farts?” Brady struck a languorous pose, mimicking the vis-
count, waving the piece of shortbread she handed him in the air.
“Of course—farts! The windy escape backward—the kind more
obvious to the nose than to the ears.”
“Beg pardon, yer lordship.” Maggie giggled and curtsied. “I’m
off t’ my gatherin’ now.” She took her basket and disappeared
into the tall brush growing along the riverbank.
Moffat handed Figg what was left of the tea and lay back in the
grass. “Keep an eye on the midwife, Figgy. I’m going to catch a
nap.”
Figg nodded, several crumbs from his teatime treat stuck in the
snot leaking from his nose. He slurped down the rest of the tea,
tossed the empty jug aside, and splashed back into the water.
Maggie roamed along the riverbank to gather the wood sorrel
she purported to need. After collecting a goodly amount, she
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
327
stood upright. She could see Figg stumbling along the waterside,
sausage fingers grasping at empty air, trying to capture a yellow
butterfl y flitting about his immense head.
“Hoy! Figg!”
Maggie shouted, and caught his eye. “I’m goin’
upriver a bit.”
The big man acknowledged her with a wave. Maggie carried
on in gathering mode, meandering slowly, scanning the fl ora and
fauna at her feet as if on the prowl for something of import.
But
a few more days of this deception . . .
At first, the viscount seemed dedicated to improving his health,
abstaining from alcohol for three whole days. Maggie plied him
with sweet puddings and trifles, and brewed refreshing tonics
and
teas—sedating the man with belladonna as often as she
dared. But in battling his cravings, Cavendish convinced himself
it was only the hard liquors, like rum and brandy, that were re-
sponsible for the damage to his liver.
“A fine port,” he proposed. “A single goblet served post the
eve ning meal to aid poor digestion and build robust health.”
Maggie did nothing to disabuse him of the notion, and as she
expected—much to her delight—the drunkard could no more
stop at a single goblet of wine than a papist monk could stop at
buggering a single boy. The viscount’s one goblet led to a fearful
two-day binge.
While spewing yellow bile into the pisspot Maggie held for
him, Cavendish vowed to God with weak fist raised, “I forswear
strong drink!” and for two days now, the viscount again suffered
the throes of withdrawing from his reliance upon alcohol.
Never had she encountered a human being with mood so
foul—his every utterance saturated in vitriol. The man was so
exceedingly ill-tempered, nothing could be said or done to please
him. Harboring not an ounce of pity for the man, and loath to
aid him in any way, Maggie was sorely tempted to feed him a
rum toddy and set him again on the road to ruin.
Soon I’ll be away from tha’ spawn o’ th’ devil . . .
328 Christine
Blevins
She had given up on the notion of rescue. Maggie just couldn’t
fathom how Seth would be able to penetrate the station’s de-
fenses. The very moment Cavendish agreed to allow Maggie the
freedom of the forest to gather the simples she needed, she began
to contrive her escape.
Since she was now responsible for preparing the viscount’s
meals, she gained access to the stores. Even under Connor’s gim-
let eye she managed to filch pocketfuls of cornmeal and strips of
dry cured beef. A two-point woolen blanket found its way into
her basket. A tinderbox, complete with flint and steel that some-
one had left behind at the cookhearth, crossed the fortyard hid-
den in the folds of her skirt. While Cavendish snored off his
excess in a belladonna stupor, she slid under his bed and retrieved
Simon’s dagger still lying there. And today, as the sparrows trilled
in the dawn, she snicked a hatchet from the woodpile.
Maggie ceased foraging upon reaching a rotten tree stump
overgrown with moss and sprouting mushrooms. She checked
over her shoulder. Moffat still napped. Waist-deep in water, Figg
stalked the river, trying to noodle a trout from the water using
naught but his huge ham hands. Maggie crouched down, reached
under her skirt, and slipped the knots in the strings securing the
recently acquired hatchet to her calf, adding it to the blanket,
knife, and tinderbox she’d cached inside the stump.
Almost ready . . .
Within the week she would set out on one of
their jaunts into the woods with a jug of special tea in her basket.
And after the bastards nod off
—she smiled—
I’m away.
She’d
keep to the river.
Like a Red Indian, leavin’ no tracks
. . . By the
time any alarm was raised, she would be long, long gone.
Maggie cocked her head, noticing a clutch of bell- shaped
brownish-yellow flowers growing at the base of a large beechnut,
no more than five yards away. She drew closer. Veined petals . . . the
leaves hairy and toothed . . . She fell to her knees, not touching the
plant.
Henbane!
A potent sedative, perfectly suited for her pur-
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
329
pose. She produced the hankie kept tucked between her breasts,
and used it to protect her fingers as she plucked the leaves.
“Psst! Maggie!”
Startled, she looked up. Tousle-headed Jack Martin peeked
out from behind the beechnut. Like one of the brownies from the
old tales, the lad’s sun- browned face and walnut-dyed clothing
blended right into his surroundings.
“I canna believe my eyes.” Maggie blinked back tears. “
Jackie!
Is it truly you?” She began to rise to her feet.
“Stay as you are,”
Jack whispered.
“Listen careful like.”
The lad’s impish grin cheered Maggie to no end, but she fought
the urge to hug him tight to her breast and kept at her task as if
he weren’t there.
“Push your basket closer.”
Jack placed a coil of knotted rope
into it. The lad kept his voice low and spoke slowly. “Set your
water barrel near the chimney and wait for the dark of the moon
to night . . .”
“This night?!”
Maggie glanced up, her heart afl utter.
“Mm-hmm. ’Cause the moon’s on the wane,” Jack explained,
then reverted back to reciting the message. “At the dark of the
moon, climb up the barrel, onto the roof . . .”
Maggie pictured the pitched roof of her cabin; its clapboards
sloped upward from just above the door’s lintel piece to meet the
stockade wall at a point three- quarters of the way up. She should
have no problem scaling the wall from that vantage.
“. . . Secure the end and fling the rope over the wall. Tuck up
yer skirts afore ye commence t’ shimmy over.” Jack continued
methodically. “Bring naught with ya. Mind the night patrol. Stay
out of the clearing and keep to the tree line. A shuttered lantern
will await at Mam’s grave. Use it only if you have to. Meet up
with us at the Berry Hell. Can you do it?”
“Aye.” Maggie nodded.
“MAGGIE!” Figg bellowed.
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Blevins
Keeping her head down, she reached out and grabbed Jack’s
hand. “How does everyone fare?”
“’Ceptin’ fer worryin’ over you, we’re all of us just fi ne,” Jack
assured her with blue eyes glimmering excitement. “Best git,
afore them fellas come a-lookin’ fer ya.”
She popped upright to see Figg splashing through the shallows
toward her; hands cupped to his mouth, he hollered again,
“MAG-
GIIEE
!” Moffat was also on his feet heading her way,
shading his eyes. She cast a glance to Jack, crouched behind the
beechnut, white knuckles gripping his ancient musket. Waving
madly, she called to Figg, “Dinna fash the water so, Figgy, ye’ll
frighten all the wee fi shies.”
A look of horror crossed Figg’s features and he stopped stock-
still. “Brady’s ready t’ turn back.”
“Aye—” She waved to Moffat and halted his progress. “Tell
him I’ll be there in a tic.” She turned back and whispered,
“To-
night!”
sending Jack away with a smile. The boy scooted like a
rabbit, from tree to tree, disappearing as suddenly as he had ap-
peared.
Maggie eyed the sturdy rope he’d left in her basket. Henbane
forgotten, she snapped off more than a dozen large burdock
leaves, arranging them to conceal the rope before hurrying back
to the meadow.
“I don’t like you wanderin’ that far,” Moffat chastised. “Have
you what you need?”
“Aye that.” Maggie turned on her heel and skipped to the
path. Moffat whistled Figg in, shouldered his rifle, and followed
after her.
The weight of the hemp rope in her basket pleased her so,
Maggie had to restrain from bursting into song as they hiked
back to the station. Seth’s message was heaven-sent, and the
prospect of joining up with them filled her heart so’s to over-
flow the brim of it with joy. Rushing through the station gates,
she didn’t stop at the cookhearth to speak to Tempie—hard at
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
331
work preparing the eve
ning fare—but made straight for the
cabin.
Aurelia sat on a bench outside the cabin door with a tin wash-
tub between her legs, busy scrubbing wine stains from linen with
a stiff bristle brush.
“Come in, Aurelia,” Maggie said, crossing the threshold. “I’ve
somethin’ t’ show ye.”
Wet linen was shoved under soapy water. Aurelia dried her
hands on her apron and stretched the muscles in her aching back.
“With speed!”
Both hands clenched tight on the basket han-
dle, Maggie waited in the center of the room, barely able to con-
tain her glee when Aurelia entered the cabin. “I’m leavin’
to night
!
D’ye ken what I’m sayin’?”
“Shhh!”
Aurelia cast a worried glance over her shoulder and
dropped her voice. “You oughtn’t be telling me this . . .”
“Look here.” Maggie lifted the layer of burdock leaves and
revealed the rope. “From Seth . . . I’m goin’ over the wall at the
dark of the moon tonight.”
Aurelia quickly pushed the leaves back to cover the rope. “Are
you crazy?” she hissed.
“I’m leaving this wretched place! Och, lass, I wish yid come
with me . . .”
“Maggie?” A thick voice questioned, startling the two young
women so intent on their conversation, neither of them noticed
Figg’s massive frame darken the doorway. He didn’t enter, but
was crouched down, peering inside. He held out Tempie’s jug,
saying, “Ye left this behind.”
Maggie pressed the basket into Aurelia’s hands and stepped
forward to accept the jug from the giant’s hand. “Thanks, Figgy,”
she said, forcing a giggle. “I swan, I might forget mine own head
if it weren’t attached.” Figg shuffled backward and she stepped
out the door.
“Maggie’ll be needin’ this jug, sed I.” He snuffl ed and
snorted.
332 Christine