The Midwife's Choice (27 page)

She dropped her gaze and steepled her hands. “What you say rings true, I'm afraid, although I've done my best to deny it to myself.” She fought back tears. “I suppose I should be grateful Dr. McMillan has the sense to respect time-proven treatments, enough to try them before resorting to some of the new medicines that mostly put women into a stupor.”

June reached over and laid her hand on top of Martha's. “But you can do more than just share your knowledge with Benjamin. Other women can learn about the remedies and use them at
home, which would limit their need for a doctor. Other doctors, men like Benjamin, might want to learn about them, too.”

Martha sighed and shook her head. “I can't see how.”

June smiled. “Your sketches and essays. They're a veritable treasure, although the sketches need an artist's touch and the essays need to read more like prose. And if we were to put one or two in every issue of our magazine, hundreds and hundreds of women, perhaps thousands if our subscriptions continue to increase, would have a reference to guide them at a far more affordable cost when compared to the price of books—which are mostly written by men, I might add.”

As she spoke, her voice became more and more excited, and Martha's heart began to race. “You'd put my sketches and essays into your magazine?”

“Imagine the wonder of it, Martha. Women would heed your advice because of your status and experience. You would empower them, give them some sense of control over healing themselves and their families.”

“I don't know. . . .”

“Just recently, Mrs. Child published a book,” June prompted.
“
The Frugal Housewife
sold six thousand copies in a single year because so many women have either found themselves far from home without an older relative to guide them or they're isolated from other women on homesteads that are stretching further and further west or . . . or they find themselves in reduced circumstances, forced to perform chores they once assigned to servants. Depending on the response we have to the first few issues, your series might very well end up as a book that literally thousands of women would use. My husband has many contacts in the publishing industry. I'm certain he would help to find a publisher who would agree to keep the price affordable to most anyone.”

“First in the magazine, then a book?” The idea sounded preposterous, yet deep in the recesses of her very spirit, Martha felt
a surge of excitement and joy that spurred new ideas about expanding access to her store of knowledge right here in Trinity—ideas that would acknowledge the very sisterhood she had nearly forsaken.

Until she thought about Victoria.

If Martha did have a series on simples and treatments for common diseases and ailments that appeared as a monthly feature in the magazine, she would be intruding on every hope and dream in Victoria's heart. Writing and publishing were Victoria's dreams, not Martha's. She and Victoria had come too far together, as mother and daughter, to risk becoming estranged over something like this.

Martha patted June's hand. “As much as I'd like to accept your offer, I'm afraid I'll have to decline.”

June leaned back and narrowed her gaze. “It's Victoria, isn't it?”

“You're a very intuitive woman. Victoria and I have had our difficulties in the past, as you know. Partly because I failed to realize that our gifts are so very different. She's a poet. A writer. She belongs in that world. I know that now, just as I belong in mine. If I accepted your offer, I'd be intruding into her world. She'd resent it, and I wouldn't blame her.”

“No. I wouldn't. Truly. I wouldn't, Mother.”

Victoria's voice, as much as her words, startled Martha. She clapped her hand to her chest, looked over, and saw her daughter standing in the doorway to the storage room. “Victoria!”

“I'm sorry. I didn't want to startle you,” she said as she walked toward them. “Nancy's upstairs putting the extra ribbon away, but I decided to come downstairs and make some tea.” She dropped her gaze for a moment. “I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but . . . but I did. I think it's a grand idea. You should accept.”

Martha rose and faced her daughter, but June remained seated. “Are you certain you wouldn't mind?”

Victoria nodded. “We could work on the essays together. I could even polish them up a bit. I think if we make them read
more like a story, instead of an article in a scientific journal, women wouldn't be able to resist them.”

Martha cocked a brow. “You've read them?”

“Just one. Dr. McMillan left it lying in the sitting room.”

Blinking back tears, Martha took several deep breaths. “I'd like it very much if we could work on them together, but you're going to be in New York while I'll be here.”

Victoria walked right into her mother's arms and hugged her. “There's an amazing thing called the post, you know.”

Martha sniffled. “The only amazing thing I can think of right now is you.”

“I'll make sure to remind you of your own words when I begin to edit some of your essays. We have a few days left before I'm supposed to leave. Maybe we could start now and get several done.”

Martha kissed Victoria's forehead. “I'll have to get them all back from Dr. McMillan, so you can help me decide where to start this . . . this series.”

She turned back to June, ever more aware of the role this amazing younger woman had played, not only in reuniting Martha with her daughter, but also in helping them both to reestablish strong bonds. “Thank you,” she murmured. “It seems I'm going to accept your offer after all. Actually, we're
both
accepting your offer to submit a series of essays and sketches. Since Victoria and I will be working on these together, then we should share the credit as coauthors.”

June smiled. “You're very welcome.”

“Have you made all the arrangements to return to New York?”

“I spoke to Sheriff Myer just this morning. Apparently, he has some business in Sunrise and he's agreed to escort us there. After Victoria has a visit with her aunt and uncle, we can hire a driver to take us back to New York. If that's agreeable, we can leave on Sunday after meeting.”

“Sunday would be fine,” Martha responded. Was everyone
going to leave together on Sunday? If so, there was going to be a caravan, similar to those that often passed through Trinity heading west, but this one would be heading east, toward the very regions the earliest settlers in Trinity had once called home. “Sheriff Myer will get you there safely,” she added, making a mental note to tell Victoria about James's plan to sell the tavern property rather than rebuild.

When June rose to leave, Martha held up her hand. “If you'll wait, I'll walk you home so I can pick up those sketches and essays. That way Victoria and I can start working together tonight.”

Martha had scarcely donned her cape when there came a series of harsh knocks on the back door. Instinctively, she sensed yet another call to duty that would obliterate her plans to spend the evening, if not the next few days, with her daughter.

She hurried to the back door and opened it partway. The moment she recognized her caller, she braced the bottom of the door with her foot to keep it from opening any further. Instead of relief that the caller was not summoning her to duty, fear raised the hairs on the back of her neck and flooded through her body.

Russell Clifford reeked of cheap rum, and she nearly gagged at the stench of his rumpled clothing. His bloodshot eyes flashed with impatience. “I want my wife back. Now.” He belched and swayed sideways, nearly losing his balance.

Martha took the advantage, nudged the door halfway closed, and edged her body partly behind the door. “She isn't home. Even if she were, she has no intention of speaking to you. Now be off. And don't come back, or I'll be forced to send for the sheriff.”

He lunged at her so quickly, he caught her off guard and managed to catch her by her right shoulder. His grip was powerful, but he was so addled he lost his footing and had to let go to regain his balance.

Martha pulled back, slammed the door, and dropped the bar
into place to prevent him from charging in. Her chest heaved as she drew in gulps of air, and her heart whacked hard against her rib cage. As much as she did not want to wish away her last few days with Victoria, she knew Sunday could not come quickly enough—for everyone, but most especially, Nancy.

B
y late Saturday night, the shop looked more like a train station than a confectionery. Tables once loaded with hearty breads or sweet treats sat empty and forlorn, like abandoned pieces of track. The curtains on the front window had been removed, and Luther Phipps had already covered the window with a sheet of wood to prevent the curious from getting a peek at the renovations once they began.

A sign on the front door, facing outward, informed customers the confectionery would reopen by the end of February and promised new fare to complement old favorites. In the vestibule, three trunks sat end to end, one destined for Philadelphia with the Lynn sisters, one destined for New York with Victoria and June Morgan, and one for some secret destination for Nancy.

On top of Nancy's trunk, filled with her few meager pieces of clothing, which the sheriff had secured from her home, a small lidded basket lined with a piece of heavy blanket sat ready for Lucky. She had become so attached to the kitten, no one
had the heart to deny her. Similar baskets on top of the other two trunks held an assortment of sweet baked goods, a tin of pretzels, and candy to enjoy on their journeys.

Martha lay in bed, dreading the morning, yet urging it to come faster. The anticipation of saying good-bye to Victoria had formed a knot in her stomach, which kept her awake long after the rest of the household had gone to sleep.

For the next month, she would be living here alone. She had never, ever lived completely by herself, like Aunt Hilda had, a reality that troubled her. She thought of Bird. He was still at Dr. McMillan's, recovering from the doctor's efforts to reset that damaged wing. Rather than live alone, she decided she might bring him back to the confectionery while he recuperated, just for the company.

Without warning, she heard the rustle of bedcovers, followed by several quick footsteps before she felt Victoria slip into bed beside her. Martha wrapped her arm around her daughter's shoulders.

“Mother? Did I wake you? I'm sorry.”

Martha chuckled. “It was easier to sneak into my bed when you were little. What's the matter? Having trouble sleeping?”

“I'm too excited about tomorrow to sleep. I'm a little frightened, too,” she admitted.

“Frightened?”

“For Nancy. What if our plan fails? What if her husband tries to stop her . . . and succeeds?”

Martha let out a long sigh and stroked the top of her daughter's head. “Well, it's hard for me to say for sure, since I don't know the particulars of the plan to help Nancy escape him, but I suspect all of you came up with a plan that would be hard to defeat. In which case, the best thing you can do is ask the good Lord to bless your plan and keep Nancy safe by giving her His protection. I like to think He's got some angels trained for that very purpose. They protected you, didn't they?”

Victoria snuggled closer. “I . . . I could tell you the plan. Nothing could happen between now and tomorrow—”

“I don't need to know the plan,” Martha assured her. “I trust you. I trust the others.”

“If our plan fails, then we'll just have to think of another, I suppose.”

“It's not going to fail.” Martha yawned. “I do have some news from Uncle James I wanted to share with you before you left.”

Victoria stiffened. “He's not going to rebuild the tavern, is he?”

“No. Apparently not, but that shouldn't truly be a surprise to either one of us. Your uncle has been talking about selling out and moving up to Candle Lake for more than a few years. I'm sure he'll tell you all about his plans when you're in Sunrise visiting.”

“But that means . . . What are you going to do? You're truly going to be without a home,” she whispered.

“We're both welcome to stay here for as long as we like,” Martha ventured. “But I'd like to pray on it a while. I have this craving for my own home again. For our home,” she added. “We have time. You won't be home till fall. By then, the good Lord will have decided where we should be.”

“But what if—”

“Now, don't you worry about a home for us. Not now. We only have a few hours left together.” She pressed a kiss to her daughter's brow. “I hope I've told you how much it's meant to me to work with you on the essays these past few days.”

A giggle. “Only a hundred times.”

Martha returned the giggle. “I guess I've overdone it.”

“Just a little.”

“There's so much I thought about saying while you were gone. I was actually writing everything down in a daybook I bought in Clarion, but the fire claimed it, along with everything else. I decided later it would be better to just tell you how I felt, rather than have you read something.”

“I would have liked the daybook. Can you tell me what you wrote?”

“There was so much, but basically, I wanted you to know that I admire you for many reasons, but most of all because you are the kindest person I've ever known, besides your father, and second, because you have such a strong commitment to the truth. You're an exceptional person, dear heart, and I can hardly believe I am so blessed to have you as my daughter.”

Martha continued, and the words poured straight out of her heart. By the time she finished, both she and Victoria were weeping, and the tears of joy and love that flowed between them strengthened their bond even more.

Victoria cupped her mother's face. “I still have so much to learn, but I will be forever grateful to God for giving me such a good mother.”

Martha's heart swelled, but her stomach ached anew with the anticipation of bidding farewell to her daughter after meeting tomorrow. “September isn't so very far away. You'll be home before I know it,” she murmured.

Victoria yawned. “Perhaps sooner,” she whispered.

As Victoria drifted off to sleep, Martha held her close and tried to capture the memory so she could revisit it often during the coming months.

After an extra early breakfast in the morning, the dishes had been cleared away and the kitchen tidied. All five women retired upstairs to dress for meeting amid an aura of excitement blended with sadness that heightened the moment they reassembled in the kitchen and sat together around the table.

“There's still about two hours till meeting, but we need to go over the plans again, just to be sure we all understand the roles
we each have to play,” Fern announced, clearly more assertive than Martha had ever seen her.

Utterly pleased and certain that she would finally be included, Martha leaned forward in her seat.

“Martha, Russell Clifford has made no effort to hide the fact that he expects to attend meeting and make a plea to be reunited with his wife. We want you to make sure he doesn't attend.”

Martha flinched. “Me? Stop Russell Clifford? I was lucky he was addled when he tried to force his way inside a few days ago, or he would have been successful. I'm not even sure where to look for him, even if I thought I could try to keep him from attending.”

Ivy dismissed Martha's argument with a wave of her hand. “You were right to suspect he was staying in Samuel's old cabin. He's been living there. With any luck, he'll still be sleeping, especially if he drank all the honey wine we left for him.”

Martha's heart began to race. “You know he's staying there, and you left him some honey wine?”

Fern clucked an admonishment. “We're not at liberty to reveal anything beyond what Ivy's told you.”

Martha got a glimpse of the determination that darkened Fern's blue eyes and knew better than to press for more information, but using honey wine certainly confirmed Aunt Hilda's participation in the plot. “So just exactly how do you suggest I keep him from attending, assuming that's necessary. He's a powerful man. I'm hardly able to tie him up. Not unless he's completely unconscious.”

Victoria shook her head. “You don't have to force him to stay home. Just delay him so he'll arrive late. Once Reverend Welsh shuts the meetinghouse door, no one gets in. We all know that, but Mr. Clifford is new. He probably doesn't know that.”

“Delay him,” Martha repeated. “If I delay him, then I'll be late, too, and I won't be able to attend services, either. This is an important day for everyone to see Victoria and hear about
her plans, for Aunt Hilda and her husband, so everyone can welcome him home. . . .”

Nancy's eyes welled with tears. “I'm sorry. I never meant to cause so much trouble. After all you've done to help me. . . .” She looked around the table at the other women. “There must be another way.”

Martha swallowed a large lump of guilt that lodged in her throat. “No. If this is the plan, it's too late to change it now. I'll think of something to delay your husband.”

Nancy brightened. “You're sure?”

“Absolutely.” She rose from the table. “I'll be waiting outside when services are over so I can bid you all farewell. I'll be able to do that, won't I?” she asked with a glance of longing at her daughter.

Fern nodded. “And if Russell is there, too, all the better. In fact, we'd like you to make sure he's there.”

Martha closed her eyes briefly and took deep breaths to keep her frustration under control—frustration she would not be experiencing if she knew more about the plan to help Nancy to escape. “Let me make sure I understand this. I'm to delay Mr. Clifford so he can't get inside to attend meeting, but I also need to make sure he's still there, at least two hours later, waiting outside in freezing weather, when services finally conclude.”

All heads nodded, but it was Fern who spoke up first. “Today's service won't last quite an hour.”

Martha cocked her head. “You're certain? Reverend Welsh tends to—”

“Absolutely positive,” Ivy insisted. “We have it on the highest authority.”

“You spoke to Reverend Welsh about this?”

Fern gasped. “Of course not. We spoke to Sarah Welsh. She's going to make sure her husband's sermon just happens to disappear. He won't be able to remember most of it. Preaching isn't his gift, remember?”

Apparently, the bonds of sisterhood, reinforced the day of the snowstorm when today's plan had been hatched, had been extended to include Sarah Welsh. Of all people, Sarah was about the finest woman ever to be a minister's wife, which was no easy lot. Martha knew Sarah well enough to be fairly certain she would never sabotage her husband's preaching efforts. Not when he was only too aware preaching was his nemesis.

Sarah might have told the Lynn sisters she would help, but Martha suspected Sarah had simply used her considerable influence over her husband to convince him to keep today's sermon very short so folks could spend time welcoming Richard Seymour back home and talking with Victoria.

Being excluded still pricked at Martha's pride, and she had the distinct feeling she might be the only woman, other than June Morgan, who had not been made aware of today's plan. Without further comment, she strode to the storage room to retrieve her cape and gloves. She noted Nancy's cape, adorned with that garish ribbon, and went back into the kitchen.

“Regardless of your plan, ladies, I'd suggest you convince Nancy to remove that ribbon from her cape or her husband will be able to spot her the instant she steps out of the meetinghouse,” she cautioned and took her leave before anyone could argue with her.

Her steps were quick, but they did not move quite as fast as her mind, which raced from one approach she might take to delay Russell Clifford to another. As she rounded the confectionery and headed toward the covered bridge, she said a very desperate prayer, begging for some sort of reinforcements, preferably with wings and lots of good ideas.