A genuine chuckle rumbled out of Samuel’s throat. “Why do you not just admit you are sweet on him?”
Despite the dimness of the room, she hoped he could not see her deep blush. It was a waste of time to lie, for Samuel knew her too well. “He is learned.”
“Oh yes.” He snorted.
She sputtered then gave up, deciding to save her strength.
“Make sure he does not teach you too much, Maggie.”
Did the man think her an idiot? Midwives must adhere to a high standard of behavior, and no one knew that more than she.
She glanced at the window. A sliver of grey light appeared under the curtain. “Oh praise God.”
Samuel opened the curtains wide. The long night had passed. A survey of the room revealed burning embers in the fireplace, the candles having sputtered out long ago. The steady breathing of Ruthie and Sarah and the more rapid breathing of the baby was a comfort. No one looking in on the scene now would ever believe what had transpired during the night.
There was much to do today. She slipped outside and around to the back to gather eggs and reveled in the fresh, crisp air. The morning melody of birdsong did much to invigorate her. She would make Sarah a posset today and send Ruthie off to Joannie’s, so they could talk.
The familiar squeak of Henry’s night soil wagon broke her reverie. She followed the smell to the front.
“Miss Maggie. Going to be a fine morning.” Henry jumped off the wagon and grinned at her as he fed their mare a wizened apple from his pocket.
George came to stand at his side and smiled, wincing a bit.
“Hello, young George.”
“Morning, Miss Maggie,” he whispered, hiding behind his father’s back.
“How are you feeling?”
He slid beside his father. “Better, ma’am.”
Henry elbowed him.
George started. “Thank you.”
Henry patted him on the back for his effort. “The apothecary, who if you don’t mind my saying, is a bit of an odd fellow...”
Maggie nodded. It was true. She was enamored of an odd fellow. She was enamored. Oh God.
“...anyway, he gave him oil of clove as you said he would and was quite kind. I will spread the word, as diligently as I spread...” He swept his hand out to show the contents of his wagon “...this.”
She laughed. “For that I thank you, for he is peculiar, but a good man.”
He cocked his head, a veiled look in his eyes. “Did you hear the latest?”
“No.”
“Old Jonas was in his cups at the Siren Inn last night talking about when he found your sister. What was he doing at the kirkyard at that hour, anyway?”
A good question, one she needed Jonas to answer today.
“He was blathering on about the ghosts. ‘The ghosts, the ghosts.’ Drunken old fool.”
“Ghosts?” A chill trickled down her shoulder blades.
He glanced behind his shoulder at George, who idly petted the horse’s mane. “George! Get the shovel out of the wagon. I’ll be right there.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“No, miss. I’d better get to work, then.” He tipped his hat, his hazel eyes gazing into hers.
After they left, it occurred to Maggie he was several days early for his scheduled visit. How curious.
****
She set about making eggs with the reassuring sound of Sarah singing a lullaby. A well-rested Ruthie perched on the side of the bed, singing along with her mother. Samuel poured water into the ewer, rubbing his face and grunting. It set Ruthie to giggling and soon her mother as well. The sound did much to enliven the room.
After a hefty breakfast, Samuel went to the shop, and Ruthie walked to Joannie’s house to see if she could be of help. By that time, Sarah had fed the babe and tucked her into the cradle.
“I am hungry.” She stretched her arms upward and yawned.
“Well, and it’s no wonder.” Maggie handed her a plate. “Remember not to eat too fast. You haven’t had solid food since...”
“Since when?” she asked.
Sarah appeared noticeably better, compared to last night. Her skin, always pale, bore a hint of rose. She moved with greater ease. She had not yet noticed that her hair, which had been wrapped in a cloth when Maggie had hastily cleaned her, was still full of grave dirt.
“What is it, Maggie?”
Oh, her sister was certainly more alert. Samuel must bring the bathtub in the house so she could wash her hair. For if she saw the grave dirt... “Nothing, my dear. Finish your breakfast and then you must rest.”
Maggie hastened to Samuel’s workshop to speak with him about the bathtub. He was repairing a scythe for Mr. Johnson, who squinted at her suspiciously and then lowered his eyes. The night she had sat with his daughter during the smallpox she had never seen a fever rise so high. She did not think she would make it, but toward dawn the fever broke, and she and Sarah returned daily to apply poultices to her sores. It was a miracle she had survived. Was her service to him so easily forgotten?
“Maggie, I’ll be coming in after I finish here. Go and do your business.”
Samuel would not want Mr. Johnson to know he was returning home to nap in the middle of the morning. He was not used to nightly vigils, all too common for a midwife. She couldn’t resist winking at Samuel. He scowled.
After he returned to the house, Maggie set out into a windy cold morning. It buoyed her considerably to be out near the docks, where the dark clouds loomed over the slate grey sea. The hammering of repairmen working in the shipyard and bits of their singing and shouting mixed with the cries of gulls carried on the wind. A fishing skiff fought against the whitecaps and sidled in to dock at the bay. This familiar scene did much to chase the fear of last night away.
She’d often thought if she were one of the local gentry and had nothing to do but tend to her own leisure, she would spend all day watching the ships come in. King’s Harbour had some of the most skilled craftsmen in the kingdom, and ships from other nations would even risk an encounter with the smugglers and Hawkhurst gang members to avail themselves of their skill.
She pulled her cloak around herself. She was not a lady of leisure, and her women had need of her. Icy rain began to fall. She headed for the warmth of the Siren Inn to check on little Sabine.
She opened the heavy doors to the overpowering smell of rum.
“Ach, you drunken sot,” her friend Lena yelled at the figure of her husband Josef crouching over a fallen barrel. “Five gallons of rum, on the floor. Go ahead, proceed, lick it up, waste not a drop, you dummkopf.” She towered over him with a broom in her hands.
At that, he straightened his lean, muscled back, menace in every muscle. He rubbed his hand over his pated forehead and stared at Lena with eyes in slits, body weaving ever so slightly. Lena took a few steps backward, silent now, her face red with suppressed rage.
For such a small man, his voice was surprisingly deep. “Meine Frau, do not push me too far. Mayhap I should have the magistrate wipe the rust off the scold’s bridle.”
Maggie gasped. Josef must be drunk indeed to mention the day that Lena, a new bride, was forced to walk around town, an iron mask upon her face. She was being punished for nagging and arguing with her new husband. She had just moved to town and had witnessed this short but effective form of discipline.
Lena’s face now looked whitewashed, and she grimaced, as if she could still taste the metal tab in her mouth that had kept her from talking. “Oh, you would not do that,” she said under her breath.
They stood nose to nose, both huffing and puffing. “No, I would not.” And he laughed, swaying and whispered, “For I do love your sweet willing flesh under me, Lena.”
Lena blushed and smirked. Maggie gathered that in the long run, the scold’s bridle had resulted in more punishment for Josef than Lena.
She turned away as they locked their lips in a kiss. Before meeting Ian, she would have been puzzled at their behavior. Now the memory of his tou
ch upon her skin made her yearn.
Lena pulled away from her husband. “Maggie, once again you look as if you slept not at all. Come, I have tea.” She motioned her to a table by the window.
“I really do not have time, Lena, though I do appreciate it. I’m here to see Sabine.”
“You can drink a quick cup.”
“As long as none of your ale’s in it. You heard about my shameful conduct.”
“Oh ja,” she said dismissively. “More interested I am in this man of yours.”
“He’s not my man,” she scoffed.
“All right, all right. I can see you’re in no mood to joke.”
“How is Sabine?”
“Ach! The poor child. I have gone up to check on her as often as I could, but it was very busy last night. I brought her some breakfast, and she seems improved. Whoever did this to her, I could kill with my bare hands.” Then her face softened. “The baby, she is an angel. I could hold her all day.”
She patted Lena’s hand. “You will be holding a baby of your own someday soon, Lena. The tea was delicious. Thank you for caring for the girl.”
She made her way upstairs. Fortunately the willow bark had given poor Sabine some relief; the pinched look had eased, and she seemed more alert, flashing Maggie a smile of recognition, displaying a set of dimples on each side of her mouth. The babe lay in her arms dressed in a white embroidered gown that no doubt had come from Lena. An empty bowl lay on the bedside table, a napkin tucked under the girl’s chin. Thank God her good friend had been administering to this girl. Maggie sat for a minute with her hand upon Sabine’s and spoke with her, knowing she could not understand.
“Hello, Sabine. I am going to examine your privities, so I might make you feel better. Let’s see how you are progressing.” She hoped the girl could sense the comfort she tried to convey in her voice. She placed the baby in the cradle and pulled Sabine’s bedcoverings down.
The girl gazed, toffee eyes glistening. She cried out as Maggie gently touched the area around her birth passage and took a deep breath through her nostrils to conceal a growing rage. When Edward Carter pulled the baby out, he had torn the outer area of her birth passage. She did not know what kind of damage he had done inside with his forceps.
Where had this poor girl come from? How did she happen to be in this Gerard Blanc’s possession, and why would Edward Carter bring the child forth early? Merely to be brutal or so she could return to work? She applied a cool compress of lavender and seaweed on the young mother’s privities. Sabine started and then sighed with relief.
“Leave this on for as long as you wish, the longer the better,” Maggie said, knowing she could not understand. How to communicate with her? How was she to build a case against Carter if they could not communicate? She must find someone that spoke her language...perhaps Ian. How easily he came to mind, as if he were already there, waiting. If she ever slept, he would probably be in her dreams.
She gave Sabine a dose of willow bark and settled her in bed once again. Where was Gerard Blanc? Lena said he hadn’t been seen since last night. How had a young, beautiful girl come to such a pass? Only time would tell if her injuries would fully heal.
She stopped downstairs to give Lena instructions on the medicines. From the sound of Josef’s whistling and the glow of Lena’s plump cheeks, it was clear what they’d been up to.
Around midday, Maggie ventured out into a hard, driving rain. She would visit Ian to ask him for his help in unearthing information about the strange figurine in her pocket and Sabine’s strange language.
If she’d not known the way to the apothecary shop by heart, she would have been in danger of getting lost in the blinding gusts of rain from the channel. Salt water stung her eyes, and bits of dirt and pebbles flew into her face. She reached the shop with relief.
One would think he would have heard when the wind slammed the door behind, but he was oblivious, crouched over a teardrop-shaped string instrument. The fingers of one hand wrapped around the narrow upper neck of the instrument, while the other hand strummed lightly on the strings. He looked down, as if he sang to it in his rusty and rumbling voice, one eyebrow raised and the other hidden behind a lock of hair that had fallen into his face.
“No, you dolt,” he muttered, stopping to glare at the offending instrument. Completely ignorant of her presence, he tapped his foot on the stool and began again. His fingers lightly caressed the strings on the neck. How would they feel upon her skin, pressing, searching? She closed her eyes, the better to feel his voice.
But the spell was broken when he shook his head and growled. “No! Utter rot!” He sighed and began again.
She could not speak, could not move. The note rose into the air, floating, liquid, sweet, and settled upon her. His voice slipped inside to fill her emptiness.
“Maggie.”
She opened her eyes to find his gaze intent upon her.
“I feel quite foolish,” he murmured. “I had hoped to finish this song before you heard it, and now you have ruined the surprise.”
Before she could take a breath, he appeared at her side. He put his hands on her upper arms.
She cleared her throat. “You are writing a song for me?” She leaned into him without thought.
He nodded. “That is sometimes what men—smart men, I say—do when they want to court a woman.”
“Court me?”
He slid his hands down her arms to clasp her fingers in his. “Yes, Maggie. I am asking Samuel tonight for his permission to court you.” He brought her hands to his mouth, kissing them.
“You don’t have to ask him; I am of age.”
“But I want to show him that I respect him and you, of course.”
She wanted to say the work horse does not get courted. She might get ridden, sold or bought, but courted? She bridled her tongue instead.
His eyes searched hers with intent. “Do I have your permission?” He grinned, showing the dimple right below his eye. “Of course, I will court you whether you say yea or nay.”
“Oh, you will, will you?” She turned from him, to hide her smile. “You have a high opinion of yourself.”
“I only know that you are rare, my Maggie, and I will not lose you.” He turned her toward him, touched his lips to her forehead, and tucked wisps of hair under her cap. Then he moved away, handing her a cloth to dry herself. He settled her upon a stool to watch him work.
“Are you comfortable, sweeting?”
She nodded, blushing. He busied himself around the shop, pouring liquids, repositioning vials and bottles behind the counter at lightning speed. He sat, he rose, he talked, he sang, foreign songs and folk songs and bits of nonsense. What ailed the man? Was he always like this? His vitality both buoyed and annoyed her, and she smiled despite herself.
The wind blew sleet against the window, a reminder of her purpose here. The fool man was so distracting.
“I need more willow bark and feverfew.”
He touched her sleeve. “Do you?” His eyebrows rose. “Are you certain? Could it be you merely wanted to see me again?” He waggled his sun-bleached eyebrows.
She sputtered and snatched her arm from him. “No! I have more pressing things to do than waste time here with you.”
Her words had no effect on him. He grinned, edging close again, and stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “I am happy to provide you with whatever you need.”
“I must ask a favor of you, then. Would you visit Sabine and see if she speaks a language you know?”
“Of course.” His breath swept across her face. She could not stop the pull of her lips toward him.
He stepped away, once again humming and darting about, polishing the already spotless counter. “Willow bark? Here we go.” He wrapped up the herb with a flourish and gathered the other medicines she had mentioned.
Without warning, she felt the heat of the craven object burn in her apron. When she reached in to retrieve it, she found a hole in the pocket.
“My Lord!�
� She examined the burnt spot.
He rushed over. “What is wrong?”
She put it into his hand.
He shifted it from one hand to the other. “It’s hot.”
“Yes, this strange object is always warm, but never this hot before.”
He turned it over in his hand, examining the curious bent shape of an old woman, with her hawk nose, slanted cat eyes and a snake coiled upon her head. “Where did you get this?”
“I found it underneath Sarah’s bed a few nights ago. Do you know what it is?”
“No,” he said, absorbed in his examination. “But...”
“What?”
“I have seen something similar to it, I don’t remember where. It may be a talisman of some sort. Let us go into my parlor, and we will peruse one of my books.” He took her hand, raised his brows in invitation, and pulled her along before she could think about the wisdom of such a venture. If anyone should see her alone with a man in his parlor, her reputation would be ruined for certain.
But it doesn’t feel at all wrong, she mused. The warmth of his hand made her feel she had entered a sanctuary, where she could breathe in the peace and forget herself. But never had her body felt like this in church.
Is it a sin for me to desire a measure of peace and comfort in my life? No one with any sense would be out in this weather; why should I worry so? And I need someone’s help. Why not this man?
She followed him through the narrow hallway to his private quarters. He stopped up short. Her bosom pressed against the long bands of muscles in his back.
“Oh, pardon me,” he said, with such an obvious lack of sincerity she snorted with amusement.
He set the figurine on a table, lit some candles, and stoked the fire. The small room was unadorned by knickknacks or art. Lutes and other string instruments were lined up against the wall. Pipes, flutes, and what looked like an organ grinder’s machine sat on the chairs. While the shop had been without a speck of dust, the tables and mantel of the sitting room were covered with a layer of dust. The bricks in the fireplace needed scrubbing, and the fire grate was black with soot. All in all, it lacked a woman’s touch.
“Please excuse the sad state of this room,” he said sheepishly. “I have not had sufficient time or indeed a reason to tidy it.” He flopped down on the settee and patted the space beside him. Aware she might not be able to control the consequences of such proximity, she sat just the same.
Mercy of the Moon Page 10
