The Midwife's Choice

by Delia Parr

  She follows His word and brings hope to all of His children,

  When grief or sorrow arrive in one form or another.

  She is a woman of faith, a good friend and neighbor,

  But to me, she is more. She is love. She is . . .

  Mother.

  By the time Martha finished, tears completely blurred her vision. “You wrote this?”

  “For you,” Victoria responded. “It’s my first published poem. I have several more that have been accepted, too, and one by another magazine, but this is my very first. I’m glad it was this one.”

  Touched beyond measure, Martha’s heart filled with pride. “I’m so happy for you. And proud,” she added. Unable to completely express herself in words, she embraced her daughter. “Thank you, Victoria. Your father would be proud of you, too. Just wait till I show everyone. My daughter—a real poet!” she gushed. “We’ll have to have a welcome home party. I’ll speak to Fern and Ivy about it in the morning. We’ll ask Mrs. Morgan to stay, of course. She should rest before traveling home anyway. We’ll write to Uncle James and Aunt Lydia. They’ll want to come back to see you. Why, we’ll invite the whole town. Then when everyone is here, we’ll show them the magazine and have you read the poem. It’ll be great fun. And perfectly exciting. We’ll have to live with Fern and Ivy until the tavern is rebuilt, which I’m sure is what Uncle James will decide to do, then we’ll have our very own quarters again. You can continue to write of course, and send your poems to New York by post—”

  “I’m afraid I’m not staying in Trinity, Mother.” She tilted her chin. “I’m only home for a few days to visit, then I’m returning to New York City with Mrs. Morgan.”

  4

  Stunned, Martha looked into the depths of her daughter’s eyes. Her heart pumped so fast she clapped her hand to her breast to keep her heart from exploding.

  Determination stared back at Martha.

  “You’re not . . . staying? What do you mean, you’re not staying? Of course you’re staying!”

  Victoria moistened her lips, adding a sheen that made the tiny scar on her bottom lip more prominent. “I love you. I hope my poem helps you to understand how very deeply I respect you and appreciate everything you’ve done for me, and the sacrifices you’ve made, especially since Father died.” She paused, lowered her gaze, and took several breaths. When she looked up again, she took Martha’s hands in her own and clasped them tightly. “I have a position in New York City with the Morgans, and they’ve opened their home to me as well. I want to go back to New York, and I’m asking for your blessing.”

  “My blessing? How can I possibly give you my blessing and allow you to live in a city so far from home?”

  Victoria squared her shoulders. “You gave Oliver your blessing when he wanted to move to Boston with Grandfather Cade to become a lawyer.”

  Martha’s eyes widened with disbelief, and she had a difficult time keeping her temper in check. “That’s a completely different issue. Oliver was a young man, and your father wasn’t here. Oliver went to Boston to live with your grandfather so he could give Oliver the proper guidance and provide an apprenticeship in his firm for your brother. But you’re . . . you’re a young woman. You need your mother.”

  “Mrs. Morgan is very strict with me. You’d approve—”

  “I approve of having you here. With me. With friends and neighbors who have watched you grow up. In Trinity. That’s where you belong. This is your home, not some city teeming with vices and dangers you can’t possible avoid.”

  Victoria’s eyes glistened with tears. “My home. You mean here? In the confectionery?”

  “That’s only temporary. We’ll have our own quarters again in a few months.”

  “With Uncle James and Aunt Lydia?”

  Martha nodded. “I hope so.”

  “A room isn’t a home. We haven’t had a home of our own since Father died and the farm was sold. We live on people’s charity. We have no home.”

  Martha huffed and brushed away the echo of her own similar sentiments as she was returning home earlier tonight. “That’s not true! The rewards I earned I shared with your uncle. Fern and Ivy won’t allow me to do that, they’re so generous, so I help them with the baking and tend to customers whenever I’m here.”

  Victoria pulled her hands free, rose, and began pacing in front of the fire. “How often is that, Mother? You’re always at everyone’s beck and call, traveling miles to tend to others. I grew up never knowing when you’d be home and spent my days working in the tavern, alone, wanting you to be home with me, all the while listening to everyone tell me what a blessed saint I had for a mother. Wasn’t I a lucky girl?”

  The bitterness that laced Victoria’s words sliced through Martha’s heart and underscored the very anxiety her calling had inspired. Her daughter’s resentment cut even deeper. “I had no other choice. I still don’t,” she murmured.

  Victoria stopped and faced her mother. “I know that. Truly, I do. But I want . . . I need more now. Mr. and Mrs. Morgan have taken me into their hearts as well as their home. They’ve become like family. I have a real home now and an opportunity to pursue my writing. They’re good people. Fine people,” she whispered.

  Martha’s temper finally slipped out of her control. “Fine people don’t take in a runaway girl and allow her mother to wonder if she’s dead or alive. Fine people,” she snapped, “don’t come between a mother and her daughter! Now I’ll hear no more nonsense about your going back to New York City. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever again! You’re staying right here. In Trinity. And that’s final.”

  With her chest heaving and her cheeks burning, she set her lips in a firm line and silently dared her daughter to challenge her.

  Tears coursed down Victoria’s cheeks. Her shoulders slumped, and she toyed with the handkerchief in her hands. Her gaze, however, was steady. “Some things don’t change, do they, Mother? You still won’t listen to me, but I’ve already made my decision about where I want to live and what I want to do. Since you won’t even consider my wishes, then I suppose there’s nothing left for me to do but leave in the morning,” she whispered before she walked from the room and started up the stairs.

  Martha closed her eyes and listened to the sound of the girl’s footsteps. When she heard a bedchamber door open and close, she leaned forward and pressed her hand against her forehead. Her head pounded and her mind ached with the echo of her daughter’s harsh words, and she took long measured breaths of air until her heartbeat returned to some semblance of normal.

  She was angry. Upset. Too upset to think beyond Victoria’s vow to be disobedient, to “leave in the morning.”

  The loving, joyful reunion Martha had anticipated had disintegrated into a disaster. A total disaster. How had that happened? “How?” she asked aloud.

  Her heart was so heavy with disappointment her chest ached. After all these months of daily worry, after all the sleepless nights, how could Victoria come home, only to break her mother’s heart again?

  Resentment flared, and all the questions she had wanted to ask Victoria clamored for answers. If Martha had not lost her temper, she might have had a chance to get those answers. Instead, she had alienated her daughter, and she was not sure how to change that.

  She directed all of her ill feeling, however, toward June Morgan. She was the adult, not Victoria. But what kind of woman stole the affection of another woman’s child? Exactly how had she accomplished that? What kind of woman would have the sheer audacity to come here, into Martha’s home, and expect Martha to simply hand over her only daughter into the hands of a stranger?

  Not a good woman.

  Not a God-fearing woman.

  Martha rose from her seat and stiffened her spine. No wealthy, spoiled, city-bred woman was going to lure Victoria away from her mother. Not while Martha drew a single breath.

  In time, Victoria would learn to accept Martha’s decision. In time, when Victoria had married and had children of her own, she would understa
nd a mother’s duty. Until then, Martha would simply have to keep a strong hold on her faith—faith in God and faith in herself.

  Resolved, but still numb with disappointment, Martha cleared her supper dishes from the table and pumped water into a basin. She washed and dried the dishes, placed them back into the cupboard, and wiped the table clean. After she banked the fire in the hearth, she doused the oil lamp and wearily mounted the staircase.

  The day had begun with great sadness she had shared with Nancy Clifford, and Martha’s heart ached anew for the young woman. The day was ending, however, with yet more troubles, this time waiting for Martha at home. Her legs felt heavy, like they were made of lead. Heart-weary and physically exhausted, she approached her bedchamber door. Muted light from the hall window guided her steps. Even though all was quiet, Victoria was probably still awake, and Martha was not quite sure what she would be able to say to her daughter to salvage what she could from their disastrous reunion.

  She paused, took a deep breath, and reached for the door handle. She heard a door down the hall open and then close; Martha turned, ready to apologize to Fern or Ivy for waking them.

  To her surprise, June Morgan approached her. She wore a loosely belted robe over her nightdress and her hair fell in waves on either shoulder. She pressed one finger to her lips. “I’ve gotten Victoria to sleep,” she whispered. “Come. Let’s go downstairs. I’ll fix us some tea.”

  “Victoria’s in your chamber?” Martha asked and immediately regretted not softening her voice.

  “She was very upset, as I suppose you are, too. If you’d prefer to talk in the morning . . .”

  Distraught anew, Martha welcomed the opportunity to put this woman in her place. Now. “No, we should go downstairs and talk.”

  She followed June back down the staircase. When they reached the kitchen, Martha went ahead and relit the oil lamp. June filled the teakettle with water and set it to boil on the cookstove while Martha set out two cups. She secured a good measure of chamomile tea leaves she put into a ball and carefully placed in the teapot.

  Chamomile tea. Good for settling the nerves. Good for prompting sleep. Sleep would be a blessed release from this nightmare, but Martha knew sleep this night would be impossible. Whatever nerves she had were raw, and perhaps the tea would help ease the sheer animosity toward this woman that had Martha’s mind a quagmire.

  June stoked the fire back to life and set two chairs in front of the hearth. “Why don’t we sit here until the water boils.”

  Martha took a seat. She stared at the glowing embers and prayed her anger would subside long enough for her to speak her mind. Coherently. Firmly. And without the bitterness that soured her mouth.

  When June sat down beside her, Martha studied the woman out of the corner of her eye. June was the epitome of grace and gentility, and the picture of understated elegance. She was about as opposite from Martha as a woman could be, even granting the apparent ten-year difference in their ages. She folded her hands over her stomach. Her nails were short, but neatly sculpted. Her hands looked soft, with no hint of the calluses or heavy veins Martha had in her work-lined hands.

  She hid her hands in the folds of her skirts.

  June let out a deep sigh. “I’m not sure where to begin.”

  Martha closed her eyes for a moment. “My daughter ran off with a theater troupe. You can begin by explaining just how you came to know her.”

  June nodded. When she spoke, her cultured voice was soft. “My husband, Thaddeus, was one of two investors in the troupe. When the members returned to New York City, the other investor took his share of the profits and decided not to back another tour. Thaddeus followed suit, and the troupe disbanded. Some members went to—”

  “To England. The rest went to Charleston. I know,” Martha interjected. “I followed the troupe for months trying to find Victoria and bring her back. I got to New York City the day after the members of the troupe sailed off in two different directions. Apparently, Victoria didn’t leave with either one as I had assumed.”

  June caught her lower lip and held it for several heartbeats. “No. She didn’t. The troupe’s manager, Dayton Willis, had taken her under his wing. After he discovered she had stowed herself away in the wagon used to transport the costumes. By then they were only miles from the city, and he thought it would be better for Victoria, safer, if he allowed her to stay with the group, rather than send her home alone. It’s not wise to allow a young woman as attractive and as . . . as inexperienced as Victoria to travel alone. He brought her with him to his meeting with the investors. Thaddeus brought her home to me,” she murmured.

  Martha wanted to lash out, to let loose her contempt for this woman, but June had spoken earnestly, from her heart, and Martha was loath to voice a complaint. It was apparent, at least for now, that the Morgans’ concern for Victoria’s well-being had protected the girl, but that did not excuse them from their obligation to contact Martha. “Why didn’t you write to me at once? You have children of your own. You must have known how worried I would be.”

  June caressed her stomach but kept her gaze on the fire. “I wanted to write, but Victoria would never tell us exactly which town she had left behind. There were dozens. Mr. Willis suspected half a dozen she could have come from, including Trinity, but all these rural towns look alike when you’re on the road for months. He couldn’t be sure. And . . . and I was afraid.”

  “Afraid?” Martha challenged.

  “Yes, afraid. It was obvious from the moment we met Victoria that she had come from a loving home where she’d been raised well. Educated well. But she was certainly not able to survive on her own. Not in the city. I was afraid that if we pressed her, if we demanded that she write home, she would simply run away again.” She smiled. “For all her good qualities, for all her talents, she is a stubborn, strong-willed young woman. And very determined,” she added.

  She glanced at Martha. “Apparently, she’s a lot like her mother?”

  Highly offended, Martha opened her mouth to protest. Honesty made her clamp her lips together and think carefully before she responded to June’s question. When she eventually spoke, her voice was even, although it grated to admit June had hit a nerve. “Victoria may favor her father in looks, but you’re right. She’s just as stubborn and determined and strong-willed as I am.”

  “Truly her mother’s daughter.”

  “Truly,” Martha admitted. “But she’s my daughter. Mine alone,” she insisted. She turned and looked directly at June, silently daring her to argue the point.

  5

  June flinched. Her eyelids batted back tears as she drew in short gulps of air. Her distress was genuine. She finally appeared composed, but when she spoke, her voice quivered. “I know Victoria is your daughter. She’s subject to your will and your authority, as she should be. That’s why I insisted she come home.”

  Her hands curved protectively over her abdomen. “I would never do anything to come between a daughter and her mother. Please believe me.”

  Moved by the woman’s plea, Martha softened her gaze. Her resolve remained firm. “Then convince Victoria she must stay here. Her place is with me. Here in Trinity. I simply can’t allow her to traipse back to New York City and live with . . . with strangers. I mean no offense, but I know nothing about you or your husband. I don’t know exactly what position she has in your household. I didn’t raise my daughter to become someone’s . . . servant.”

  June’s eyes widened. “A servant? Is that what you think she is? My servant?”

  “Most likely, just one of many,” Martha quipped.

  “I have three,” June admitted. “A nanny for the children, of course, a housekeeper, and Mrs. Paulson, our cook. We also have a gardener and a young man who keeps the stable.” Her gaze hardened. “Instead of hiring our servants through an agency, I suppose you think we find it more convenient to lure runaways from the streets and never encourage them to contact their families.”

  She paused and tilted her chin. �
��If that’s true, why in heaven’s name would I travel all this way in abominable weather to chaperone Victoria? Because I wanted the girl to have your blessing so she could be a mere servant?”

  Properly chastised, Martha struggled to find her voice. “I just assumed—”

  “You assumed incorrectly,” June countered. “Victoria is a member of our staff, a valuable contributor to the magazine my husband and I publish. Did she show you next month’s issue?”

  Martha blushed. “Yes. She did.”

  “Thaddeus handles the advertising and the actual printing at his office. I work from our home, editing submissions, organizing the content of each volume, and corresponding with our authors and subscribers. The magazine has been surprisingly successful. By last summer, the volume of work had grown so much I was literally up to my throat in paperwork. When Victoria arrived, she was an answer to my prayers. She was able to take over almost all of the correspondence, and I’ve even been able to let her begin editing.”

  June paused and caressed her abdomen. “I want to spend more time with my children, even if that means I have to give up my duties with the magazine. I can always return to those tasks later, perhaps when the children are older.”

  She turned in her seat so she faced Martha. “I know it’s selfish of me to ask, but I will anyway because it’s so important to me. And to Victoria. Let her come back to New York City with me. Just until fall, at the very latest. By then, the baby will be born and I can have my permanent replacement fully trained. It would be so much easier for me if I could have Victoria there to help me. I really need her,” she murmured.

  “I need her, too,” Martha challenged. She did need her daughter. She did. But she could not argue against the fact that June Morgan did, too. She could not find fault with June’s goals. Indeed, she lauded the woman’s decision to spend more time with her children, but it did not seem fair that Martha would have to sacrifice her needs for the sake of someone else’s needs. Again.