The Midwife's Tale (11 page)

Rosalind’s gaze hardened. “I don’t need any help, and I don’t have time for idle gossip.”

Martha flinched. “I didn’t intend to gossip. I only wanted you to know how badly I feel that Burton still hasn’t come home. I know how hard it is for you,” she murmured.

“Do you?” Her eyes glistened. “How could you possibly know what it’s like to have a husband who runs off when he’s wrongly charged with a crime, leaving me behind to defend him to friends and neighbors who are all convinced he’s guilty of stealing that watch? I can’t go to the general store or the confectionery without people staring at me or hearing them whisper behind my back.”

“Not everyone believes—”

“Oh, please spare me your misplaced sympathy and your insufferable optimism!” she cried. “I’m not deaf, any more than I’m blind or stupid. And neither are you. I hope you’re stronger than I am, because you’ll need to be, now that you’ve come home without your daughter.”

Rosalind nodded. “The only good thing about having you home is that maybe, just maybe, the gossipmongers will leave me in peace now and focus on you and Victoria instead of me and my husband. At least my poor Charlotte is in her grave and will be spared any more shame, which is far less than you can expect for your own daughter. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a room to get ready for the doctor’s patient,” she snapped, and marched off to the adjoining treatment room.

Martha flinched. Her cheeks stung as if she had been slapped. She stared at the doorway through which Rosalind had disappeared and debated whether or not she should follow Rosalind to confront her or run home.

8

M
artha gripped her reticule with both hands and clamped her knees together. The greater part of her wanted to storm into the next room and throttle Rosalind until her bones ached and her bitter heart snapped in half. Maybe then she would be willing to listen, to understand that she was not alone, that she was not responsible for what her husband had done.

Martha’s conscience, if not her faith, reminded her that there was nothing she could do for Rosalind unless the woman opened her own heart. At one time, they had been friends. Close friends. It hurt deeply to be rejected, but it hurt more to feel utterly helpless and to stand by, watching her former friend become so bitter.

When she stood up, her legs were shaking. She squared her shoulders, and her steps grew steadier as she passed through to the kitchen and out the front door. She forced herself not to run all the way home, but the echo of Rosalind’s bitter words did not fade. Frightened by the depth of her own emotions, Martha slipped into her room and closed the door behind her.

She collapsed back against the door and stifled deep sobs with a clenched fist. Oh, how she hurt. So deeply her chest ached with the struggle to keep her heart from bursting. So completely her mind could fashion not a single thought. She could only feel and react, completely defenseless as anger, resentment, and fear fought bitterly against hope, trust, and faith on the battleground of her soul.

The skirmish was fierce but quick.

As her sobs eased into gentle whimpers, she was as weak as a newborn babe. A glance at the mirror startled her, and she let her shoulders slump. “I feel ninety, and I look ninety,” she groaned. She quickly removed her bonnet and set her reticule on the table.

After she moistened a facecloth in cold water, she wiped the tears from her face. She rinsed the cloth, folded it into a long rectangle, and pressed it across the bridge of her nose and both eyes. Each time the cloth warmed, she repeated the process and then checked her progress in the mirror.

After half a dozen tries, she gave up and accepted the puffiness around her eyes and the red streaks that remained. She leaned closer to the mirror and brushed damp hair away from her face. “I was right before. I do look ninety,” she grumbled.

She ignored the traitorous streaks of gray at her temples, traced the lines at the outer corners of her eyes with her fingertips, and caressed the sun-kissed flesh on her cheeks. Still firm. But those blasted dimples still looked ridiculous on a woman her age. She studied, really studied, her features, searching for an answer as to why she appeared to have aged so much in the course of only three months.

The answer stared back at her from the depths of her dark brown eyes. Once sparkling and filled with the joy of life, her eyes were now opaque and listless, dulled by the pain of loss
and failure, and there was no way the light of her spirit could shine through.

Unless she was wrong. Unless her spirit itself had dulled, devoid of hope, lacking faith strong enough to rebound from Rosalind’s verbal attack.

“Not lack of faith,” she whispered. “I have faith, but I’m only human. I’m—”

A harsh pounding at her door interrupted her slide into self-pity. She flinched and whirled about. She managed to open the door before her bear of a caller broke it down.

To her surprise, Byron Shaw stood just outside her door holding what appeared to be a large box wrapped in canvas that was secured by twine. Two squat barrels rested on the ground next to his feet. When he grimaced, she realized she must have a mighty frown on her face.

“Sorry,” he blurted, and the rest of his words tumbled out in a rush, as if he believed that if he talked quickly enough she might forgive him. “Had to use one of my feet to knock. Sam Ward told me you passed the tollgate late yesterday afternoon.” He blushed. “Actually, his son Aaron told me,” he admitted.

She nodded. The Shaw and Ward homesteads shared a common boundary, which explained how quickly news of her arrival back home had spread.

“I wanted to settle my debt with you, so I left at first light. Didn’t have a chance before, what with . . . with all that happened.”

His pale cheeks flamed. “Me and Libby are right sorry about Victoria. We’re both praying hard she’ll come back home soon,” he managed, before pausing to draw in a long breath.

“I thank you. For your prayers,” she murmured as memories flooded her mind, sweeping her back to June, when she had delivered the newest baby Shaw and left late the following day to tend to Captain Tyler’s wife, a call to duty that had kept her
fifty miles away when the theater troupe came through Trinity and left with her precious daughter.

“Come in. Please,” she urged, eager to dispel her painful memories with more heartening news about Libby Shaw and her new son, who had joined three female siblings.

When she stepped aside, he carried his oversized package into the room, looked around for a moment, set it atop the trunk at the foot of Victoria’s bed, and put his hat on top of it.

She tried not to let her imagination conjure up anything too bizarre in terms of what he had made for her. His reputation as a fledgling inventor was well known, and his attempts to fashion any number of household aids had fueled many a humorous anecdote told by patrons over pints of rum at the tavern. Whatever it was, it squeaked, inspiring visions of some kind of contraption sorely in need of oiling.

Without offering any explanation, he walked back outside and hoisted one of the barrels to his shoulder. “Pickles. We had a good crop this year. Libby’s been busy in the kitchen,” he added.

“Let’s put that in the storeroom. This way.” She crossed the room and opened the connecting door.

He followed, set the barrel down, and within moments had the second barrel on top of the first. While he performed his task, he assured her that Libby had completely recovered and baby Joshua was growing bigger every day.

“Libby said to tell you the pickles need to soak a few more weeks before they’ll be at full flavor.”

“I’ll be sure to tell Lydia.”

He grinned. “Good. Now I’ve got somethin’ else to show you. Somethin’ really special for you,” he teased, and walked back into her room.

She followed him, and her curiosity grew stronger with every step she took. Certainly the barrels of pickles were more than
enough to settle his debt for her services as a midwife, but it was not uncommon for fathers celebrating a firstborn son to offer her extra, especially when there had been an exceptionally good harvest. She promised herself that no matter what he had made for her, she absolutely must reward his efforts with a smile that most definitely could
not
erupt into laughter.

He set his hat aside. Almost tenderly, he loosened the twine and began to peel away the canvas covering. He blocked most of her view, and while he worked, the contraption inside squeaked again and sounded like it was moving around, although the box itself appeared to be stable as it rested on top of the trunk.

She half held her breath when he stepped aside, but when he waved his arm with a flourish and her gaze settled on his invention, she caught her breath completely and held it.

Instead of a box, she saw a wooden cage that was exquisitely detailed. Inside, peering back at her, was something no man could ever create. Awed, she let her breath out slowly and approached the most unique reward she had ever received.

Her fingers trembled when she ran them over the contours of the vertical band of carved spokes. The round cage stood nearly three feet tall. There was a sturdy latch on the tiny door. Inside the cage, there were three perches, each at a different height, and a haphazard collection of twigs and cloth filled one corner.

Unable to speak with emotion choking her throat, she peered inside and stared at the creature cowering in the corner. Small and yellow, the warbler stared back at her. He fluffed his feathers, distorting the chestnut streaks on his chest, and snapped his beak up and down while issuing a squeaky protest. When he flapped his wings, one hung at his side, twisted in a most unnatural position. Saddened by his plight, she did feel relieved. She did not like to see wild animals restrained for the selfish enjoyment of the folks who fancied having an unusual pet.

Byron poked a finger through the wooden bars and petted the bird’s head until he quieted. “Libby and the girls found him in August when they were picking berries, and brought him home. Poor fella. With that busted wing healed the wrong way, he’ll never be able to fly again. He keeps tryin’, but it’s pitiful. He won’t be able to migrate south with the few songbirds that are left, either.”

“No, I don’t believe he would,” she admitted.

“If we set him free, he’ll either die from the cold that’s comin’ or starve to death, if he even lasts that long. He can sing, though. We thought . . . well, knowin’ how good you are with treatin’ all kinds of folks, we thought you might be able to take care of him. He’s very tame, and he’s good company, too.”

Martha could not take her eyes off the bird. “He’s the sweetest reward I’ve ever received. Ever,” she repeated. “And the cage, well, it’s simply grand. You’re a talented man. I’ll treasure it always.”

Byron smiled. “Thank you, ma’am.” He cleared his throat and pointed at the bird. “He’ll need a name.”

“Oh? What did the children call him?”

He chuckled. “Elsa and Kate called him Bird. Pamela, she’s two now, she just called him Mine.”

Now Martha chuckled. “Well now, I suppose he wouldn’t mind having another name. I’ll have to think about it, though.”

“Yes, ma’am. I—I best be headin’ home. Oh, I almost forgot.” He pulled a pair of miniature wooden bowls out of his pocket and handed them to her. “Fill one with water; the other one is for his food. He’s partial to berries, of course, but he’ll snap up as many insects as you can find in your herb garden. I’m not sure what he’ll eat all winter—”

“I have plenty of seeds,” she assured him, even though she had no firm idea in mind about what to do with the creature
when she was called away for several days or more. “Tell Libby I’ll stop by soon. And hug all four of those babies for me.”

He plopped his hat back on his head and grinned. “Yes, ma’am. We’ll be lookin’ forward to your visit.”

After he left, she peered into the cage again. “Well, Bird, we’ll have to see about that name, but not till I help Lydia and Annabelle with dinner. When you trust me enough, I’ll take a closer look at that wing, too, and see if something can’t be done to set it right.”