by Delia Parr
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. Andrews 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 wai
ted 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.
Victoria stared at their old home for several more moments, then bowed her head. When she finally spoke, her voice was low and soft. “I need to apologize for all the hurtful things I said that first night I was home. I know it was hard for you to leave here and take us to live with Uncle James.”
“Come here.” Martha urged her daughter into an embrace. “We can’t let the past shadow any of the days we have together, fill our hearts with bitterness about what might have been, or let it sharpen our tongues. I love you, girl. And I know you love me, too.”
They held one another for endless moments, letting a full reconciliation heal old wounds.
When Martha finally looked overhead, she set Victoria back. “I don’t like the looks of that sky. There’s more snow coming. We should get home. We’ve got enough word spread about Samuel and Will, and I have an idea they didn’t head this way anyway,” she murmured as she suddenly remembered that snow-packed path that led to Samuel’s cabin. Knowing of Will’s fascination with the sea and Samuel’s former life as a seaman, she thought it more likely they had gone to Clarion, a small port on the Faded River.
“Maybe we’ll find them both in town when we get there,” Victoria suggested.
Martha did not bother contemplating that wishful thought. Not on a day like today when everything had gone wrong.
They retraced their steps, mounted Grace again, and rode back to the main road. Grace wound up with several molasses cookies, much to Victoria’s delight, and Martha urged Grace into a quicker pace as the clouds thickened overhead.
Fortunately, Grace was heavy and strong enough to handle most anything winter could produce. In the distance, Martha spied a rider heading their way. Once they drew closer to one another, Martha recognized the rider as Alexander Stern.
The harried expression on his face told her she would not be going directly home, and she feared she might be headed into yet another failure for the day.
22
Alexander Stern was a large-boned man with muscles brawny from a life of farming. As he drew up next to Martha and Victoria, she saw her bag and birthing stool strapped behind him. “Widow Cade! I went to town to fetch you for Lena. Miss Fern said you’d come up this way. She said to take your bag and stool with me to save time.” He nodded to Victoria. “Good to see you back home.”
“Lena’s a good month away from her time. Are you sure you need me?” Martha asked, although the women attending Lena would not have sent for her unless they were certain the pains were not going to stop, as they often did with this much time left before the actual delivery was expected.
He laughed. “Early or not, Lena’s set her mind on havin’ this one on her mother’s birthday. Since that’s today, looks like she’s gonna get her way. Miss Dorie said to tell you to hurry, though. This one’s comin’ faster than the last.”
Mention of Dorie Fisk’s name gave added credence to his request. As well, slightly more than a year ago, Lena had given birth to her fifth child with a mere three hours separating the first from the last pain. Martha’s heart began to pound. “Mercy! Faster? How long ago did her pains start?”
He grinned. “By now? ’Bout two hours. Give or take.”
Martha turned at the waist to speak to her daughter. “I’m sorry. There’s no time to take you home first.”
“It’s all right. Hurry. We don’t want to be too late.”
“I’ll follow you,” Martha told him.
As they started off together, he hunched his shoulders against the wind. “I saw Sheriff Myer on my way out of town. He said to tell you not to bother about searching up here for that old recluse and the boy.”
Martha leaned back and stared at him. “Not bother? Why?”
“Apparently, Stan Pitt, from down at the mill, saw the pair of them buildin’ some sorta sailin’ raft in the pond behind the mill for the past coupla weeks.”
“A sailing raft?” Martha snorted. “Every stream and creek for miles is frozen solid. They can’t sail a raft on ice.”
Stern cocked his head. “Pitt claimed it wasn’t like any raft he’d ever seen. It was flat with small logs lashed together like you’d expect, but he swore he saw wooden runners underneath, like you’d see on a sleigh.”
Martha was tempted to roll her eyes, but resisted. “You’re telling me the two of them made a sailing sleigh? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Guess that’s about what you’d call it. Pitt said whatever it was, he noticed it was gone a few days back.”
She sighed. If her instinct was right, Samuel and Will had been testing the sailing sleigh last Thursday when something went wrong and they wound up taking a dunk in the pond. When she showed up unexpectedly, Will had concocted the ice-fishing tale to cover up what they’d really been doing, an easy task for the former street orphan from New York City who was quite talented at deception.
In all likelihood, the quirky vessel was now resting on the bottom of the pond.
Martha, however, suspected otherwise. If she closed her eyes, she could almost see Captain Samuel with Will serving as first mate, and as Samuel’s eyes, as they pushed the craft below the covered bridge before raising the mast and sailing out of town, right down Dillon’s Stream. They would end up, eventually, on the Faded River, where future possibilities were only as limited as Samuel’s blindness would make them. Given his amazing ability to forge an escape, Martha could only pray his luck would hold and he would find a haven for himself and Will. She prayed he would one day write and let her know they were safe and well.
In the meantime, she had a more urgent prayer to offer for Lena and prayed hard the woman’s pains would stop. Although her babe was closer to being born at full term than little Peter Clifford had been, Martha knew only too well the dangers attached to an eight-month babe. More often than not, they were blue babies, unable to take in any air, and they usually died within a few days of birth.
The sad prospect of losing two babes in a row wrapped around her troubled heart. Her confidence wavered again, but sheer determination kept her riding tall in the saddle, straight to the woman who depended on Martha’s skill and experience to make this a day of joy for them all.
If anyone deserved a miracle today, it was Lena Stern, and by sheer association, Martha prayed she might receive a blessing or two for herself.
Lena Stern was short by any standards, matched her husband in weight, and had an earthy sense of humor that blessed everyone she knew.
Victoria volunteered to take the five Stern children out to the barn so they could show off the litter of kittens, a rarity at this time of year. Alexander Stern, who once again declined to participate in the birthing, busied himself with stabling the horses. Neighbors Isabel Fallon and her sister, Louisa Terwell, were in the kitchen working on the food for the groaning party that would take place after the birth.
Marth
a stopped in the kitchen only long enough to remove her cape and gloves, wash her hands, and make sure there was water on the cookstove.
“Is that you, Martha? For mercy’s sake, get in here! I feel like an overripe melon about to split wide open!” Lena cried.
Martha chuckled, in spite of her concern, and carried her bag and birthing stool into the small room behind the kitchen. Most of the time, the room was used for storage, but once a year, for six of the past eight years now, the room had been converted into a birthing room. She found Lena pacing about, with Dorie Fisk and Melanie Biehn on either side of her. Food stored in barrels and tins, along with sacks of staples, lined all four walls, leaving only a narrow walkway. In lieu of birthing sheets, a square of canvas had been set on the floor in front of a single bed at the far end of the room, which had been cleared out to make room for the birthing stool, the expectant mother, and her assistants.
Lena’s face lit up the moment she saw Martha. “Hurry and set up that stool before I drop this baby girl right where I’m standing,” she teased. “I thought you would have been here every few days to check on me.”
“You’re a good month ahead of schedule,” Martha countered as she squeezed past the three women.
“Doesn’t matter. Little Lavinia has her mind set on to— . . . today.”
While Lena gritted through another pain, Martha positioned the stool in the center of the canvas square. “Dorie? Melanie? Let’s get her seated so I can check on how things are progressing. I’d sure feel better if those pains would stop.”
Lena’s eyes widened. “Stop? They’d better not!”
The two women helped Lena to sit down. Dorie knelt in front, to her left. Melanie took her place standing behind Lena. Martha knelt down and eased Lena’s nightdress up to her knees as another pain hit. By the time it was over, Martha had her bag open and her birthing apron tied into place.
Martha positioned her hands at the birth canal and Lena yelped. “Your hands are freezing!”
