The Midwife's Choice (19 page)

M
artha walked into the kitchen, where the two men were so preoccupied, they didn't notice her arrival. Dr. McMillan was standing in front of Thomas, who was seated with his back to the table. She could not see either man's face, but the moment she spied the splatters of blood on Thomas's coatsleeve, she bolted into the room. “Whatever happened?” she cried.

Dr. McMillan looked over his shoulder and smiled before turning back to his work. “Just a minor accident.”

“Ouch!” Thomas growled. “I thought you said you were finished! This was not minor, and it was not an accident!”

“Be still, or I'll have to start over,” the doctor warned.

“Not a chance,” his patient muttered.

When Martha reached Thomas's side, she saw he had both hands wrapped around the poker on his lap. He ignored her. Dr. McMillan, meanwhile, tied off and cut the last stitch of three, which created an inch-long crease that ran through the center of Thomas's right eyebrow.

The doctor eyed his handiwork and stepped back. “That
should do it. Stop by the office in a few days so I can make sure it's healing well. A week after that, I should be able to remove the stitches.”

“A week after that? By then I hope to be well on my way east,” Thomas spat. He glared at Martha. “Unless one of your friends kills me before I can get out of town. I thought you, of all people, could have convinced them to stop acting like . . . like hysterical women!”

He brandished the poker. “Couldn't you at least have hidden this away from her? She could have killed me, and she darn near killed herself!”

“Who?” Martha asked, thoroughly befuddled. The only person she had seen with the poker lately was Ivy, but she had no reason to attack Thomas.

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Miss Ivy, of course. She swung at me so hard the second time that she lost her balance and almost fell down the staircase headfirst. She would have, too, if I hadn't caught her.”

Martha was still confused. “Why on earth would she hit . . . oh, no. She didn't want to hit you, did she? She thought you were—”

“Russell Clifford,” he snapped.

Martha narrowed her gaze. “You're twenty years older than he is, and you look nothing like him at all. How could Ivy have possibly mistaken you for Russell?”

Dr. McMillan snapped his bag shut. “It might have something to do with the fact he was sneaking up the back staircase—”

“I wasn't sneaking,” Thomas argued, but his expression had turned sheepish. “I was being cautious.”

The doctor grinned. “I'd love to stay to hear the rest, but I have a patient waiting for me. He's particularly fond of molasses cookies, I understand. I'll see myself out,” he announced and promptly left.

Martha cocked a brow. “You were being cautious because . . .”

Thomas sighed. “I'd been to see Reverend Welsh, and he told me Russell had gone back to his farm to check on things. Naturally, I thought I'd better stop in here to make sure he hadn't decided to try to visit his wife before I left.”

“Naturally,” Martha repeated. “Even though you told me you didn't think Fern and Ivy had anything to worry about, that Russell would not be back before Sunday at the earliest.”

His cheeks reddened. “I just . . . all right, let's just say I haven't been completely convinced by Clifford's rather quick claim of redemption. In any case, when I got to the confectionery and entered the shop, I didn't see either of the Lynn sisters, so I called out for them. I got no answer. I checked the kitchen. It was empty. That's when I heard it.”

“Heard what?”

“Loud voices. I thought maybe it was an argument. All coming from upstairs.” He dropped his gaze and stared at the poker. “I thought maybe Russell had come and forced his way upstairs, but I didn't want to charge upstairs and make a fool of myself, so—”

“So you snuck up the stairs, quietly, hoping no one would hear you, knowing full well how upset Fern and Ivy have been and how they were guarding Nancy? It never occurred to you they just might think you were Russell Clifford, so maybe you should call out and identify yourself? Or just call out their names so they could recognize your voice?”

He looked up and his gaze pleaded him guilty. “I didn't want to alarm anyone, but I certainly didn't expect to find myself at the receiving end of this poker!” he complained.

“Poor Ivy,” Martha murmured. “She must have felt absolutely awful when she realized she'd hit you instead of Clifford.”

He winced. “It wasn't her fault. Not really. She'd seen Russell heading down West Main Street and got frightened. She thought he was headed here. Apparently, she raised the alarm upstairs, which caused the commotion I heard, and I just happened in
during the middle of it.” He looked up at the ceiling. “She's still crying. Can't you hear her?”

Martha nodded. “I should go see her. Maybe she'll have some chamomile tea and lie down. She should feel better in a few hours. You did apologize for scaring her, didn't you?”

“Twice. But I don't think she heard me. She was wailing pretty loud.”

When Martha rose to leave, Thomas handed her the poker. “See if you can't find a safe place for this, and try to get the ladies to relax. Nothing is going to happen to Nancy while she's here, and the sooner they believe that, the safer we're all going to be.”

She took the poker and let out a sigh. “I will. I've been meaning to get that bottle of laudanum, too, but I doubt I can confiscate Fern's rolling pin. She uses it every morning.”

“Fair enough,” he murmured.

When he stood to leave, she suddenly remembered what had sent her rushing home. Quickly, she explained what had happened with Samuel and Will. Minutes later, Thomas was on his way to Sheriff Myer's, and Martha had set a kettle of water on the cookstove to boil.

She headed up the stairs. “It's only me. Martha,” she cried as she neared the landing. Just in case. The way this day was headed, she wished she could go back to bed and start over. Almost. She had the sinking feeling it probably would not make a difference. She would just have to deal with the same troubles all over again.

Less than an hour later, Martha escaped from the confectionery with Victoria and left town with utter disaster still behind her.

Miss Ivy had been inconsolable. Nancy had been anguished by the whole event, and Miss Fern had closed the shop early
to remain upstairs. June Morgan was the only rational soul in the bunch, and she had promised to stay with them all until Martha and Victoria returned.

Victoria rode behind her mother on Grace, with a basket of cookies strapped in front. They had stopped at half a dozen homesteads already and searched for miles along the western shores of Reedy Creek for Samuel and Will, all in vain.

After an hour in the peaceful quiet Martha remembered only too well from her days as a farmer's wife, she could almost feel the tension of the day slipping away. As they neared the property where Martha had lived all of her married life, Victoria leaned closer. “I'm getting excited. Are you?”

“I am. The day your father came to see your great-grandfather Poore to ask to court me, we came out here. All four of us.”

“You did? Why?”

Martha chuckled. “Your father insisted on showing me and my grandparents that he intended to take good care of me, so out we came. I had only broken my betrothal to Thomas some months before, and I think your father was worried whether the house he'd built would be grand enough to suit me.”

“I guess he was wrong,” Victoria commented.

Fond memories rushed to be embraced. “Oh, indeed,” Martha whispered. “We were married as soon as the banns could be announced, and I went to housekeeping the same day your father gave me his name.”

Victoria tightened her arms around Martha's waist and laid her head against her mother's back. “Did you ever regret marrying Father instead of Mayor Dillon?”

Martha shifted the reins to her left hand so she could take her daughter's hand. “Not for a single moment. Besides, if I hadn't married your father, you and Oliver wouldn't be here.”

“True. But . . . but what made you decide Father was the one you wanted to marry? Why not Mayor Dillon? He's old now, but he was probably passably handsome years ago.”

Martha huffed. “Very much so. But I thought your father was very handsome, too.”

“Mayor Dillon was well educated. Probably the wealthiest man for miles.”

“He wasn't the mayor then, but the rest is true.”

“Then why didn't you marry him?” Victoria asked.

Martha was unaccustomed to having such an intimate discussion with her daughter, but she sensed the girl was not so much searching for answers for curiosity's sake but for guidance. Now that Victoria was on the verge of womanhood, the day was fast approaching when she would have to choose her future husband.

Perhaps the Clifford fiasco had prompted Victoria to be worried about making a wise choice, to avoid the same mistake that Nancy had apparently made. “Thomas is a good man,” Martha explained, shoving aside the memory of his more recent proposal. “He would have treated me well. To be honest, his wealth made me uneasy. We were very young, and Thomas had certain ideas about . . .”

She paused to reframe her thoughts. Some things were private and better left unsaid. “As Jacob Dillon's son, Thomas had his place in this community preordained, and there was a role his wife would be expected to play. I didn't see that as something I wanted.”

“Because of your work?” Victoria prompted.

“That was part of it,” Martha admitted. “I didn't devote myself fully to being a midwife until after Great-grandmother Poore died, but I always knew I would. Someday. I just didn't think Thomas would be happy if I did. As it turned out, I married your father, and Thomas married, too. The best advice I can give you is to know yourself very well before you begin to consider marrying anyone. Then stay true to yourself.”

Victoria nuzzled closer. “You're both alone now,” she said, apparently still focused on Martha and Thomas. “Mrs. An
drews told me he's been very attentive for the past few months, ‘rekindling the old spark,' I think she said.”

Martha stiffened and tugged the reins so Grace would turn down a narrow roadway to her right. Thomas's recent proposal echoed in her mind again, but she was unprepared and unwilling to discuss the matter with anyone right now, especially her daughter. “Rosalind Andrews should know better than to spread gossip,” Martha quipped. “Now . . . look around and see if you can tell me where we are.”

Victoria sat up. Martha brought Grace to a halt and looked around herself. A narrow band of snow-freckled pine trees lined either side of the road and filled the cold air with a heady scent. Snow blanketed the earth, obliterating any sign of the trail Victoria and Martha were hoping to find.

“There! Over there!” Victoria cried. She scrambled down from the horse and trudged to the left. When she reached a blue spruce tree with a double trunk, she stopped and waved to Martha, then pointed to the ground. “The trail starts here!”

Martha dismounted and led Grace, trailing the reins behind her. “You're sure?”

“Positive. I remember the tree. Oliver used to tie my boot laces to each trunk, then run away and leave me there to try to undo the knots.”

Martha scowled. “I never knew he did that!”

“I got even. I—”

“I don't want to hear this,” Martha protested. She tethered Grace to the tree, patted her neck, and removed the basket of cookies. “We'll be right back. Don't get into any trouble.”

Martha followed Victoria through the woods, grateful both she and Victoria had worn heavy boots. Gradually, the forest thinned, but Victoria never faltered and made her way unerringly. When they reached a break in the trees, Martha spread out the blanket well back from the edge of a low cliff. She and Victoria sat down, with the basket of cookies in front of them,
and surveyed the farm below, snuggled on the banks of Reedy Creek.

Ribbons of smoke from the chimney decorated a gray winter sky above a white clapboard farmhouse. Now barren, a wide front porch that extended around to the side of the house waited for summer and pitchers of mint tea and rocking chairs. A few yards in front of the steps, a snowman sported a bright yellow scarf.

Memories wrapped around Martha's heart. She handed Victoria a sugar cookie. “The Pratts added the porch some years back. Your father always talked about doing that.” She nibbled on her own cookie and pointed to several outbuildings. “He built that barn all by himself. The smokehouse, too. It looks like they've added an icehouse. See how it's built into the side of that low hill?”

Victoria nodded. “The house looks different with the porch,” she whispered.

“It's natural for things to change. Even the land changes over time. So do people. They come into our lives and sometimes, sadly, they leave far too soon. But our memories—of our loved ones and our lives together—are ours to keep. Sometimes they fade a bit and we lose little details, or we might even forget whole incidents. Until something prompts us to remember. But the goodness, the warmth, the love our memories contain—that's what will always stay in our hearts so we can carry our memories wherever we go. And there's always room to add more,” she whispered.