The Midwife's Tale (36 page)

“You have a good day to travel. I pray you’ll all be able to come back very soon. Godspeed,” she responded. She braced against the cold and wrapped her arms against her waist.

He tightened his hold on the reins. “We appreciate your
prayers most of all. Olympia is in the back with the rest of the boys. She’d appreciate a word with you.”

Martha found the minister’s wife seated on a crate. Behind her, the remaining five boys sat among the supplies they were taking with them. Will had his back to her, but the other four boys met her gaze. Olympia offered a brave smile, and her tear-stained cheeks were pale as she twisted a handkerchief in her hands. “I do hope we can come home before winter sets in,” she murmured. “I don’t know what Ulysses will do if they don’t catch the person responsible.”

Martha covered her hands with one of her own and gave a reassuring squeeze. “I’m sure it won’t be long. Is there anything I can do for you while you’re away?”

Olympia leaned forward. “Would you mind stopping by the house while I’m gone? John Wilson is tending the livestock for Ulysses, but I’d feel better if you could check on the house itself from time to time and make sure . . . We’ve left so much behind . . . You wouldn’t need a key. The front lock is broken.”

“Of course, but I’m sure everything will be just as you’ve left it.”

“Thank you.”

When the wagon started forward, Olympia grabbed the edge of the crate and Martha stepped back. “Looks like we’re on our way. Perhaps we’ll see you soon.”

“Very soon,” Martha promised. She returned Olympia’s wave before the wagon disappeared into the covered bridge. Disappointed Will had not turned around to say good-bye, she hurried back into the tavern. Convinced by Olympia’s parting words that Reverend Hampton would surely be returning to Trinity as soon as circumstances allowed, she dismissed her reservations that he might not return at all as completely unfounded.

From the front window, she watched the wagon exit from
the bridge, turn, and head directly down West Main Street. As the wagon passed by the homes and businesses, townspeople emerged. Some waved good-bye. Others stood stone-faced, observing the wagon carrying the town’s nemeses away with no small measure of contempt as a fare-thee-well. At the confectionery, the Lynn sisters hailed down the wagon and handed baskets of sweet treats to Olympia.

Once the wagon left the town proper and disappeared from view entirely, Martha returned to her room. Bird was in top form, serenading his heart out while she tidied up. She spent half an hour searching for her missing chamber slippers before giving up all hope of ever finding them. Her bruised toe was healing nicely, but she had no desire to reinjure it or spend the winter walking on cold floorboards.

She donned her cape and bonnet, checked her reticule to make sure she had a fresh handkerchief, and returned to the kitchen, where Lydia was peeling potatoes. “I’m going to the general store. Do you need anything?” she asked.

Lydia paused and held her knife in midair. “I can’t think of anything. What takes you there?”

“A new pair of chamber slippers. Mine have all but disappeared from the face of the earth.”

Lydia frowned. “I haven’t seen them. Maybe you left them somewhere along your journey.”

“No. I distinctly remember wearing them once or twice after I came home, but that’s neither here nor there. If anyone comes for me, tell them I won’t be long,” she offered before heading back outside. She walked briskly, with only a mild aching in her foot now. She arrived at the general store, where several elderly male patrons were gathered around the cookstove, smoking pipes and discussing the minister’s departure earlier.

With her reticule in hand, she approached the display case in
the rear of the shop. Just as she had remembered, a pair of chamber slippers was nestled next to a pair of shiny black satin dancing slippers and sundry female notions. When Wesley Sweet finally responded to the bell that announced her arrival and emerged from the back storeroom, he acknowledged her with a smile.

“Good mornin’, Widow Cade. Haven’t seen you in here since you got back.” He eyed the case and grinned. “What’ll it be today? Got your eyes on those dancing slippers?”

She chuckled. “Not exactly. It seems I’ve misplaced my chamber slippers.” She pointed to the pale blue slippers. “I wonder if I might see those?”

He removed them from the case and set them on top. “Straight from Philadelphia. Soft as a lamb’s ear and lined with wool, too. You want to try them on? I’ll get a chair—”

“That won’t be necessary,” she insisted. After slipping her hand inside and gauging that they would fit well enough, she nodded. “They’re fine. How much do they cost?”

The young man hesitated. He was tall and finely built, with taut muscles, and she could almost see his mind at work, carefully calculating his profits. “One dollar.”

She raised a brow. “That’s a bit steep, isn’t it?”

He pursed his lips. “Eighty cents. That’s the best I can do.”

She sighed. “Eighty cents. Check the books, will you? I think I have enough on account to cover them,” she suggested, although she was certain she had much more than that. Before she had left to follow Victoria, she had sent over a reward she had received, a barrel of flour and a large crock of butter, to be put on her account, and she had not made any purchases since then.

He turned and went directly to his desk. When he returned, he confirmed her thoughts. “You have two dollars on account. Minus the slippers, that would leave you with one dollar and twenty cents. Would you like me to wrap up the slippers for you?”

“I would.”

“Anything else today?” He glanced down at the case again. “We just got a shipment of fine Belgian lace and some hair combs. Just in time, with Uncle Thomas’s shindig next week,” he suggested. “Guess you heard about that.”

“Indeed,” she murmured, wondering what his mother, Thomas’s sister, would say when she heard about the betrothal. “Just the slippers for today.”

While he took the slippers to wrap them, she heard the bell tinkle again. She turned and saw Rosalind enter the store. She walked directly toward Martha, but her troubled expression did not raise any hopes that Webster Cabbot had dropped the charges against Burton Andrews.

“I wonder if we might talk. Privately,” she whispered.

Martha took her package and nodded toward the door. “I was just leaving.” Curious as well as concerned, she followed Rosalind outside.

Instead of pausing to explain, Rosalind simply said, “Please. Come home with me. I can’t discuss this here, where someone might overhear us.”

Fearful that Rosalind had somehow learned about the discovery of the watch and Martha’s role in returning it to Webster Cabbot, however impossible that might be, Martha did not relish explaining what she had done or why, or offering Rosalind any rationale for not coming to her at once so she could clear her husband. Martha was still confident she had done the right thing by going to Cabbot directly. Whether or not he would reward that confidence was still an issue that had Martha praying about it daily.

Once they reached Dr. McMillan’s house, Rosalind ushered Martha into the kitchen and bolted the front door closed. “It’s Dr. McMillan. He’s very ill,” she gushed in a whisper.

Martha was so surprised she could scarcely find her own voice. “Dr. McMillan? Ill? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. He’s been upstairs for several days now. He won’t come out of his bedchamber, not even to eat. I leave his trays at his door with clear broth and tea, just as he asked, but he barely touches them. Beyond emptying his chamber pot, I just don’t know what else I can do for him. I thought maybe you could . . . well, maybe you can talk to him. Find out what’s wrong and make sure he’s all right.”

Relief that she had misjudged the purpose for Rosalind’s invitation to talk was short-lived. “Does he know you came for me?”

Rosalind’s eyes widened. “No.”

“I don’t normally treat men. It’s not entirely proper,” Martha ventured.

“But there is no one else,” Rosalind argued. “I’m very worried about him. He wouldn’t even answer my knock this morning, and he hasn’t touched his tray and he could be very ill. If not, I know he’ll be upset with me for fetching you, especially if this isn’t something serious, but what else could I do? I can’t just let him lay in there, not knowing for sure—”

“I’ll try,” Martha offered. She was as concerned about Rosalind’s frazzled state as she was about Dr. McMillan, although she was reluctant to step over the boundary that separated her calling from that of the physician. She removed her outerwear and laid everything on a chair next to the table, along with her package. “Where’s his bedchamber?”

“At the top of the stairs. The room is all the way at the front of the house.”

“At the very least, I’ll see if he will take some tea. Can you heat some fresh water?”

“Right away. Is there anything else?”

“No. I’ll have to see him first.” Martha left the kitchen and
mounted the stairs. She would not be able to explain away her visit as just a neighborly call, not if she appeared at his bedchamber door, and there was little she could do to protect Rosalind. Right or wrong, Rosalind had every reason to be concerned, a point Martha intended to stress to the doctor if he became upset with either one of them.

When she reached the door to his bedchamber, she took a deep breath, knocked on his door, and called his name.

No response.

She tried again. Harder. Louder.

Still, no response.

Growing more alarmed with every thud of her heartbeat, she turned the knob and eased the door open. The room was too dark to see much of anything beyond the muted shadows of the figure abed. The distinctive scent of illness was strong, but it was the sound of his labored breathing that shoved aside her reticence and pulled her into the room.

“Dr. McMillan? It’s Martha Cade,” she offered as she entered.

He groaned. “I’m sick. I can’t . . . can’t help you. Not . . . today.”

“I’m here to help you,” she countered, and tied back the drapes covering both the front and side windows. Daylight flooded the sparsely furnished room. There was little furniture beyond the bed, a single dresser, and a chair.

The young doctor covered his eyes and burrowed his face against his pillow before she had a chance to really see him. “Go away. I’m a doctor. I can treat myself. I don’t need a . . . a
midwife
,” he spat. His vehement protest set off a coughing spell that racked his body.

She approached the bed and put her hand on his shoulder. “Sometimes it helps to get a second opinion. Just tell me what’s wrong. Maybe I can help.”

When he dropped his arm away from his face and turned toward her, she caught her breath and held it. Of all the illnesses she might have envisioned, she would never in the space of two lifetimes have suspected this. When she leaned closer, he pulled back against his pillow.

“Take a good long look, if you must,” he murmured. “Then leave me in peace.”

29

M
artha leaned closer, but even with a clearer view, her original diagnosis stood firm. A swarm of angry red blisters covered his entire face as well as his hands. His eyes were swollen shut, and even his eyelids bore the telltale blisters. Some were quite fresh; others had cracked open and dried into crusty scabs.

Though she had treated few cases like this in adults, she had no doubt about the illness that was ravaging his body. “You have the chicken pox,” she exclaimed.

“I do
not
,” he argued. “I had them as a child. This is . . . this is just a severe case of impetigo. Nothing more. Now, if you’ll just leave . . .” He wheezed again and again, unable to argue further.

“You may or may not have had the chicken pox as a child, but you certainly have them now. How long have you been coughing and wheezing like that?” she asked, fearful he had developed lung congestion as a complication.

“Since yesterday. It’s nothing serious,” he assured her. “Now, if you’d be kind enough to get out of my chamber—”

“What medications are you taking?”

He turned away and presented her with his back before scratching at his arms. “They’re on the dresser, not that it’s any of your concern.”