The Midwife's Choice (12 page)

P
raise heaven, winged reinforcements held Martha's temper in check, kept her from quaking in her skirts, and even managed to whisper an idea into her ear.

She took a deep breath and let the words pour out so fast Samuel would be shocked silent, if only long enough for him to realize he had turned into a bully. “Sit down, Samuel, and make up your mind. One minute you tell me I should have been a man. In the next breath, you're spewing nonsense about how grateful I should be for
not
being a man. Seems to me you've lost more than your vision. You haven't gone lunatic on me, now, have you? Of course not. Maybe you struck your head on the ice. Or you're simply confused. Or in shock. I don't think you're still cold. Not after a second helping of soup. Not that the soup had any flavor. I tried to warn you the soup wasn't ready—”

“Enough! Be silent, woman!” Deflated as though her words had been pins that poked holes in his harangue against her, just as she had hoped, he dropped back into his seat. “I'm not sure what's happened to you. Never used to chatter like a
magpie. Take a deep breath, girl, and explain yourself in three sentences. Three. Use one more and I'll be tempted to overlook you're a woman.”

Martha grinned. “All right. Let's see,” she began. “There are several philanthropists in New York City who are funding the building of a home for aging sailors who have retired from the sea. That's one sentence, right?”

He nodded.

She gathered and rearranged her thoughts. “The home is nearly ready and though they've hired an administrator and most of the staff, they would like, no, they need someone to be a sort of resident captain, someone who could talk with the men as they arrive and see that they adapt to living in a . . . a home, and you know you could do that, Samuel.”

“I knew you'd have to take a breath eventually. That's two sentences, and I'm bein' mighty generous.”

“They would be willing to consider you for the post, provided you leave for New York within a few days and . . . provided you'd agree not to frequent the tavern next to the home after the gates are locked at ten o'clock and provided—”

“That's three,” he snapped. He ran a forefinger along the length of the serpent tattoo on his cheek. “I might be awful sorry I asked, but how in tarnation did you manage to find out about this?”

Martha's heart began to race. At least he was considering her words and not rejecting her idea outright. “Through a friend from New York, June Morgan, who's visiting.” Without embellishing the facts, she explained about Victoria's return home and her impending departure. “Thaddeus Morgan, June's husband, is one of the directors of the home. He can arrange for you to meet with the others to discuss the position.”

In truth, there had been no position. At least not until she had presented the idea to June, who, in turn, agreed the idea made such perfect sense she felt confident her husband would
not only agree, but would make sure the others endorsed the idea as well. The major stumbling block would be getting Samuel to New York, unless he agreed quickly enough to leave with June and Victoria.

“I'll consider it.”

“You will? You'll actually consider it?” she asked, surprised he would acquiesce so easily.

“I said I'd consider it. I didn't say I'd do it,” he snapped. “Man's gotta think carefully before he alters course.”

“Yes. I understand. It would be a dramatic change and the position would carry a lot of responsibility. If you weren't up to traveling or felt perhaps you were a bit too old—”

“Martha Cade, you start chatterin' again and I'll . . . I'll toss you outta here and don't think I won't. I can still find my way to the door, so don't think you can take advantage of me.”

She frowned. “I wouldn't do that,” she insisted, although she did harbor some guilt for not being completely honest and telling him she had made his position one of her conditions for allowing Mrs. Morgan to take Victoria back home with her.

“No, you wouldn't,” he admitted. “You've been a good friend to me, and I don't want you feelin' all bad for not findin' some cure for these eyes of mine. You tried your best,” he murmured. “Some things just can't be fixed.”

Unaccustomed to seeing Samuel speak so openly, Martha held in a sigh. She was going to miss this old man. A lot. With all her heart, she wished she had been able to help him. Dr. McMillan had been her last hope, and Samuel's as well. Perhaps it was a blessing that the old seaman had lost his vision gradually. Nothing else could account for his seeming acceptance of what he must have known was inevitable.

Her own acceptance would take longer. “I'll come tomorrow to check on both of you,” she suggested. She donned her cape and gloves, then spied the basket sitting by the door. “I've got some socks for Will. They're damp, so I'll set them by the stove
to dry. There's a pan of cinnamon rolls for you both. They're a little squashed, but they should taste good.”

She put the pan of rolls on his lap and laid all four socks on the chair she had been using while he sampled one of the rolls. “I suppose that's everything. Except for this.” She wrapped his hand around the bottle of honey wine.

“When you're considering the offer, I want you to keep something in mind.”

He cocked a brow, but a smile tickled the corner of his lips as he embraced the honey wine with both hands.

“I don't want to impose, and I wouldn't want you to feel obligated in any way,” she insisted, “but if you do go to New York, I'd be forever grateful if you could be there if Victoria has need for a friend. I don't expect anything to go wrong, but if it did, I'd rest easier knowing there was someone I trust she could turn to for help. She's coming back to Trinity in September, like I said. If you don't like the home, you could come back with her, and I'll think of something else.”

He nodded. “If I do go, and mind you, I said
if,
I'd ask you to return the favor and keep a close watch on that boy of mine. Make sure he's treated well.”

Martha glanced at Will. His normal color had returned, and he was sleeping peacefully. “He's not going to be happy about all this,” she warned. “Not at first. He loves you very much, and he's going to miss you.”

“Maybe.”

Martha leaned down and pressed a kiss on the old man's forehead. “I'll see you tomorrow.” The sight of the tears welling in the corner of each of his opaque eyes silenced the rest of the words and captured her heart. Without prolonging her departure any longer, she left him there sitting by the stove with a pan of cinnamon rolls on his lap and the bottle of honey wine in his hands, while the heart he tried so hard to keep hidden from the world was breaking.

She left the angels behind to comfort him and prayed that God would send a few to stay with Nancy Clifford to help her as she grieved the loss of little Peter.

Finding her way back through the woods in the dark without falling again was no easy accomplishment. Once Martha reached the cemetery, lights in one of the two mansions on either side of the meetinghouse grounds provided all she needed to head home feeling more secure in her steps.

Inside the Sweet home, all would remain dark and quiet for several more weeks until Thomas's sister and her husband returned home. In the other home, Thomas's daughter, Eleanor, had her husband to help her now that Thomas had left town, and Martha made a mental note to stop to see the girl tomorrow. Eleanor's pregnancy had been difficult, and she hoped Thomas's departure had not complicated matters.

Thinking about Aunt Hilda, at home reuniting with her husband in their small cottage at the far end of East Main Street, lifted Martha's spirits. She hurried home, anxious to find one more place today that was not troubled. It was so late she had probably missed supper, which meant she owed an apology to all. Her stomach growled, reminding her she had missed dinner at midday.

More important, she had not spent much time with Victoria today, but there was nothing to be done about that now. To her chagrin, her duties today had once more come at great personal cost, an ever-present difficulty she had balancing her responsibilities as a mother with her duties as a midwife, friend, and neighbor.

She passed Dr. McMillan's home and glanced up. The second floor was well lit. He was no doubt spending the evening with his old friend. Martha still needed to talk to him about several
issues, but they would have to wait. The third floor, where the Andrews had their own quarters, was dark, save for light coming from the front room they used as a sitting room. Hopefully, Rosalind was discussing Martha's idea with her husband this very minute.

Martha whispered a prayer, made her way through the covered bridge, and approached the confectionery. The second floor was not lit. The shop was dark. Another day's business was done, although she wondered how the two sisters managed to make a profit. They gave away almost as much as they sold, charged a pittance for their baked goods, and gave credit without bothering to make any attempt to have folks settle up.

Just where the sisters had lived before they landed in Trinity four years earlier remained a mystery. Their utter goodwill and generosity, however, had stilled gossip about them long ago. Folks simply accepted Fern and Ivy for what they were—good, honest women who loved the Word and practiced it. And made scrumptious confections.

As soon as Martha cut to her left to walk alongside the building to get to the back door, light from the kitchen gave her hope. Supper, though later than usual, must still be in progress. She quickened her steps and formulated a proper apology. If supper was late, it was because Fern and Ivy had held it hoping Martha would make it home in time to join them.

Martha stomped her feet clean, slipped inside, removed her cape and gloves, and set them aside. She entered the kitchen. “I'm so sorry for being late,” she said. “I had so much to do, but I truly thought I'd—”

Her apology died on her lips. She stared at the scene before her and glanced from one figure to another trying to make sense of it all. Shock rendered her speechless and immobile. Alarm sent her pulse pounding at her temples. She blinked several times, but the scene remained the same.

Thomas stood in front of the hearth. Exhaustion and worry
etched his features. Fern and Ivy stood across from each other at the table. Between them, bloodied cloths lay next to a basin of water and an assortment of salves and ointments. Martha's bag of simples lay open. Victoria was nowhere to be seen.

Ivy rushed over to Martha and clasped her hand. “Thanks heavens you're finally home! We practically searched the entire town looking for you.”

“Victoria. Where's Victoria?” Martha croaked. “She's been hurt, hasn't she? What happened? How badly is she hurt?” Without waiting for answers, she swirled, about to head upstairs to find Victoria.

Ivy yanked her back. “Victoria is fine. She's not hurt at all. She's right upstairs.”

Relieved, Martha blinked back tears. “She's fine? Then what happened here? Someone's obviously been hurt.”

Thomas rubbed his forehead. “There's been an . . . an accident,” he offered.

Fern snatched up the cloths from the table and bunched them into a ball. “You've got to be dumb and blind to think that what happened was some sort of accident!” she snapped. “It was deliberate.”

“You don't know that,” Ivy protested.

When Fern glared at her, Ivy dropped her gaze.

Martha looked at Thomas and felt her heart leap. “An accident? You've been hurt! Why didn't you go to see Dr. McMillan?” she cried. She rushed to him, visually searching for any sign of injury, but braced to a halt when he held up his hand.

“I'm fine. I just happened to be at the right place to be able to help. As for the doctor, the fewer people involved right now, the better.”

When Martha cocked a brow, he sighed. “We've only been here an hour or so. If you hadn't come home soon, we would have sent for him.”

Martha looked from Fern to Ivy to Thomas and back again. “Will somebody please tell me what's going on?”

Fern and Ivy clamped their mouths shut and looked to Thomas.

He nodded, took Martha's arm, led her to the table, and packed the salves and ointments back into her bag. “Let's go upstairs. Fern and Ivy did the best they could, but I think you should look in on your patient.”

“My patient? I still don't know who my patient is, let alone what happened.”

“I'll explain everything later,” he assured her. “First, I want you to see your patient. Assess the injuries. Then we'll talk. You can decide for yourself if this was an accident or not.”

Martha was still mystified, but too concerned about the patient waiting for her upstairs to waste time arguing. Thomas led her up the steps to the guest chamber where June had stayed. He handed Martha her bag and knocked softly.