by Delia Parr
She paused to take a deep breath. “Nancy’s arrival here, I’m afraid, brought back a lot of bad memories for Fern. The old fears and anger never really go away. They just stay tucked asleep until something rouses them. It’ll happen like that for Nancy, too.”
“I suppose,” Martha murmured. She threaded a needle and started mending the drawers, and they worked together in companionable silence. She believed Fern and Ivy were sincere in their concern for Nancy. Martha could even acknowledge that their experience, even if their accounts were not identical, made them far more competent on this issue than Martha was. She just had never been confronted with a husband who had brutalized his wife so badly.
Until Nancy actually declared her intention to leave her husband, or Russell proved he was incorrigible, Martha was hesitant to intervene and reserved final judgment about her course of action. For now, Nancy was safe here while Reverend Welsh had watch over Russell. Over the next few days, Martha had others, namely Will and Samuel, who needed her immediate attention. At least she felt fully competent and positive her ideas for each of them would come to fruition.
More important, she and Victoria had a special afternoon planned for tomorrow, and she prayed she might be granted that one afternoon without her other duties interfering.
After she got Ivy to turn over that bottle of laudanum.
20
Saturday morning dawned bright, clear, and uneventful—a good omen, Martha thought as she looked forward to finding out if her tentative plans for Samuel and Will could be finalized today.
She knocked on Dr. McMillan’s door. At her feet, buried beneath several heavy blankets, Bird squawked and fluttered in his cage. “Mind your manners, Bird,” she scolded. “This is for your own good.”
She had never managed to come up with a proper name for him, but by now, Bird seemed to fit just right, and she had finally given up any attempts to rename him.
When Rosalind answered the door and saw it was Martha, her smile drooped. “I meant to come see you yesterday. About that issue we discussed.”
Martha bent down and lifted up her noisy cargo. “No matter. We can talk as soon as I deliver this patient to the good doctor. Is he in?”
Wide-eyed, Rosalind stepped aside to let Martha enter. “He’s out with Mrs. Morgan.”
Martha strode right to his office anyway. “I’ll just set him right here,” she announced and put the cage smack in the middle of the doctor’s desk. “He’ll need fresh seeds and water every morning. I have some seeds right here.” She retrieved a small canvas sack from her cape pocket and handed it to Rosalind. “If you have a crust of bread, let him have a small piece in the afternoon. He prefers pie crust, though.”
While Rosalind stared, openmouthed, Martha unwrapped the cage, refolded the blankets, and set them aside. Bird squawked a few meager protests, but quieted the moment she dropped in a few small pieces of a molasses cookie. “He loves sweets, too,” she explained. Of course he loved sweets. Every pet she had ever owned had loved sweets, come to think of it, except for Leech. Technically, he was James’s cat, but she liked to think the tomcat would be much nicer to people if he ate a few sweets.
Rosalind backed away from the cage. “Does Dr. McMillan know about this?”
Martha chuckled. “He didn’t know I’d be bringing Bird today, but he’ll remember what he’s supposed to do, especially after I remind him.” She pulled a note written on a piece of brown paper she had taken from the shop out of her pocket and slid it halfway under the cage. “I wrote this just in case he wasn’t here. If he has any questions, he knows where to find me.”
Rosalind cocked a brow. “You’re sure he agreed to treat this . . . creature?”
“Has Dr. McMillan still got a few pox scars on his face?” she asked, knowing full well he did. She was just as sure he would not forget agreeing to fix Bird’s wing in exchange for Martha’s care when the young man suffered from an embarrassing case of chicken pox.
Rosalind nodded.
“Then he’ll remember his promise. He needs to take care of this soon, or I won’t be able to set Bird free in the spring. Now, let’s you and I chat before I head over to see Samuel and Will,” she suggested and led her friend back to the kitchen. “Did you have a chance to talk with Burton and Dr. McMillan?”
Rosalind twisted her hands in front of her. “I did. Several times. I even spoke to Reverend Welsh.”
Heartened, Martha smiled. “What did you decide?”
The look of pure distress that suddenly pained Rosalind’s face provided a clear hint that the answer that was forthcoming would be a great disappointment. “You don’t want to adopt Will, do you?” Martha asked.
“Dr. McMillan said it didn’t matter to him. He’s out so much, he probably wouldn’t notice the added noise and activity, but Burton felt it would be an imposition on the doctor.” She paused and took a deep breath. “It’s not that we don’t want to do our duty and help an orphaned child, but Burton thinks . . . he thinks we’re just too old to start over with a young boy so set in his ways, especially since we don’t even have our own home.”
“What did you think?” Martha asked. She had no intention of trying to change the Andrews’ decision, if only because Will deserved a mother and father who truly wanted him. Martha sensed, however, that her friend was disappointed, too, and needed someone to listen.
Rosalind tilted her chin. “I think it’s probably wise if you try to find him a different home. With a younger couple. It’s going to take a firm hand and lots of patience to mold that boy into something decent, assuming it can be done at all.”
Rosalind’s words were clipped, as if she had been parroting her husband’s refusal instead of talking out her own feelings.
“I understand. Truly,” Martha murmured. “You would have been a good mother to Will, just like you were to Charlotte.”
When Rosalind caught Martha’s gaze and held it, her dark eyes misted. “I think so, too, but it’s . . . it’s probably best for all concerned if we don’t take him.”
Martha embraced her friend. “Thank you for thinking it over. I’m sorry if—”
“Don’t be sorry. It makes me proud to know you asked us first.”
Martha gave Rosalind another hug. “As much as I’d like to stay and chat, I’d best leave. I need to check on Samuel and Will, then Victoria and I are riding out to the old farm.”
They talked their way back to the front door. “I hear the Pratts have kept the farm up nicely.”
“I hope so,” Martha admitted. “We’ll see you at meeting?”
“We’ll be there,” Rosalind assured her as she opened the door. “Wait! I almost forgot!” She hurried away and returned with a large wrapped package. “It’s not much. Just a few more pairs of socks and an old shirt of Burton’s I cut down for the boy. Will you take it to him?”
Martha tucked the package under her arm and stepped outside, even more certain that Rosalind would have loved to have taken Will into her home, as well as her heart. When Martha reached the end of the front walkway, she turned, gave Rosalind a final wave, and headed straight down East Main Street on her way to Samuel’s cabin.
Rather than take a chance of running into anyone, which might delay her, Martha turned around and retraced her steps to enter the woods behind Dr. McMillan’s house, taking a trail few even knew about. Oddly enough, someone else had already traveled on the path and packed down the snow. It was a tad slippery underfoot, but it was a lot easier than traipsing through a half foot of virgin snow.
Though disappointed in the Andrews’ decision, which put a quick end to her plans for Will, Martha had no qualms anticipating Samuel’s answer. He had come close enough to consider taking the position in New York the last time they spoke that Martha was fully confident he would agree. At least half of her plans for the two of them would work out. Two days from now, when June and Victoria left Trinity, Samuel would go with them. What other choice did he have?
None, she decided, although she w
ould have to take Will home with her until she found a family for him. The closer she got to the cabin, the more convinced she was that Samuel would agree to her plans. He might be stubborn, strong-willed, and independent, but he had survived a lifetime at sea by being realistic and accepting nature’s authority over all of mankind.
When she reached the cabin, she shifted the package to her other arm and carefully knocked the signal.
No response.
She tried again, knocking heavier this time, and felt the door move. When she pressed her palm to the door and applied pressure, the door swung completely open. The moment she stepped inside, she knew she had been totally and unquestionably wrong.
There was no sign of Samuel or Will and nothing indicated they expected to return. No fire warmed the one-room cabin. No kindling or logs had even been stacked inside. Beneath the hammocks still tied in place, trunks once brimming with treasures Samuel had collected in his travels were lying open, the remaining contents in visible disarray.
When she spied the note nailed to the back of one of the chairs in front of the Franklin stove, her heart began to pound. She walked toward the chair. Her steps were unsteady, and her mind kept trying to argue against the impossible as her gaze kept scanning the room, as if miraculously Samuel and Will would appear.
With her hand trembling, she removed the note and read it silently:
Martha,
The boy and I are together. That’s what he wants. That’s what I want. We’re obliged for your kindness to us both. Don’t worry about Will. I took some horseradish with me.
Samuel J. Meeks
She read the note again. The spelling was perfect, the grammar was flawless, but the penmanship, though bold, was shaky, as if penned by a young hand—but the message still made no sense.
Samuel and Will had run off together? Impossible. How on earth could a blind man of advanced years and a seven-year-old boy run anywhere? How far did Samuel think they could go? Where would they go?
No. There had to be another explanation. Samuel could not have taken that boy and just left. Not after the long talk she had had with the man. Samuel had admitted he could not care for the boy any longer. Mercy, the man could not take care of himself now that he was blind. He had even talked about how important it was for Will to have a real family. He had . . .
She paused as the light of truth shined on her thoughts and then she knew. Samuel must have been preparing for this very possibility for months, knowing that his blindness was inevitable. He had said everything she had wanted to hear the other day because he knew her well enough to anticipate she would insist that Will be put out to another family for adoption.
“That sly, manipulating, conniving . . . ,” she snorted. At this moment, she wondered if she had really known Samuel at all, or if he had only played the role of a reclusive old seaman for her benefit, just as he had done for the townspeople. The words themselves did not come from a man barely literate, as Samuel had claimed to be, yet he must have dictated the note for Will to write down.
Assuming he had used his real name, just who was Samuel J. Meeks? Truly?
She crumpled the note and sank into the chair, thoroughly defeated. She set her package on the floor. How had her plans come undone so completely? How could she have failed Samuel and Will so badly?
She had never felt so thoroughly incompetent. Discovering that she had forced Samuel and Will to run off only added to the frustration and uncertainty she had been experiencing these past few days with Nancy and her situation, undermined her confidence, and made her question whether she could do anything right.
Maybe Thomas had been right. Maybe it was time to withdraw from the public role she had treasured and retire to a quieter, more private life, if only to keep from making another series of blunders that could spell disaster for people who depended on her for help.
Images of Thomas and his cabin on Candle Lake brought a smile to her lips. The temptation was so sweet—just not sweet enough to eradicate the bitter taste of failure and disappointment in herself that rankled her very nature.
She squared her shoulders and stiffened her spine. She was not ready to pass her bag and birthing stool to another. Not yet. Not until she mended the mistakes she had made with Samuel and Will and helped Nancy Clifford resolve her predicament.
Though feeling daunted, Martha rose and strode from the cabin, letting anger build just hot enough to incinerate self-doubt, and—in the ashes—letting sparks of determination rekindle her faith in herself.
She marched down the path and headed straight home to change before going to Thomas’s house. Since he was not set to leave until later in the day, he would have to stay long enough to notify Sheriff Myer about Samuel and Will’s disappearance. The sheriff could then raise the alarm so folks would be on the lookout for one ornery cuss of a seaman and his equally ornery young partner.
Even though Samuel and Will were not exactly town favorites, folks would be willing to help. She just knew they would. For her part, she had her plans with Victoria for this afternoon—plans Martha refused to change. Just alter. She and Victoria were heading up Reedy Creek anyway, so they could search there while the sheriff searched elsewhere.
She had talked to Samuel on Thursday, which meant he could have at least a two-day start. He and Will were probably long gone, but she could not take the risk they had somehow gotten lost and might be freezing to death in the woods.
She almost wished they would. It would serve them right for frightening her like this. She shook her head. For a day that had begun so well, things had soured pretty quickly, and she could hardly imagine how the day could get any worse.
Until she arrived back at the confectionery and found disaster waiting to greet her with open arms.
21
Martha 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 li
ke 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?”
