The Midwife's Choice

by Delia Parr

  Martha,

  In case you need a place to call your own during the next few months, use this.

  Faithfully yours,

  Thomas

  She pressed the key to her heart and closed her eyes, offering a prayer that somehow they might find a way to cross the chasm separating them. She prayed silently for several minutes, refolded the note around the key, and placed it under her pillow.

  Her head had no sooner touched the pillow when she heard the most awful commotion out in the hall. She hit the floor at a dead run, charged into the hall, and ran straight into a nightmare.

  25

  Light from Nancy’s room poured into the hall. Martha would have had a clear view, but there were so many people clustered in one area that it was hard to tell whether it was Fern or Ivy at the center of the crisis.

  “Ladies! What happened?” Martha asked. With Victoria right behind her, she rushed forward to get to the women who huddled together near the empty chair where Fern had been sitting.

  Once Ivy turned about, Martha could see Ivy was helping Fern back into the chair. “We need your help. My sister took a bad spill.”

  Eyes wide, Nancy stood alongside the chair wringing her hands. “I’m sorry. It’s all my fault,” she whimpered.

  Fern sat down and leaned back in her chair. Her nightcap had disappeared, and her long gray-streaked braid hung over her shoulder. Her face was flushed, and she cradled her right hand with the palm of her other. “It certainly was not your fault,” she insisted and caught Martha’s gaze. “I must have dozed off. I heard Nancy crying out for help. I was still groggy and tripped over my own nightdress when I rushed to help her. I’m nothing more than a clumsy, meddling old woman,” she whined.

  Ivy clucked over her sister. “Turns out Nancy was just having a nightmare. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was just an accident.”

  “An avoidable one,” Fern added sheepishly. “If I’d been in bed—”

  “Let’s have a look at you,” Martha interjected before Fern could launch into another round of blame-taking. After making sure Fern did not have any open wounds on her head from the fall and discussing her aches and pains, Martha centered her attention on Fern’s right hand and forearm. “Move your fingers for me,” she urged, while the others gathered round to watch.

  Fern pressed her lips together and managed to move each of her fingers.

  “Does that hurt at all?”

  Fern nodded. “Some.”

  Martha’s gaze focused now on the wrist area, which seemed puffy. “Try making a fist.”

  Fern complied. Barely. “That hurts a lot more, but the worst pain seems to be in my wrist.”

  “Can you bend it?”

  Fern tried, but quickly stopped. Her eyes widened and filled with tears. “No.”

  “It may be broken,” Martha cautioned.

  “It can’t be broken,” Fern wailed. “How am I going to help Ivy with the baking?”

  “I said it could be broken. At the very least you have a bad sprain. I can get you something for the pain, but you need to let Dr. McMillan take a look at it in the morning. If it’s broken, he’ll have to make sure it’s set right so it’ll heal properly.”

  Nancy began to cry. “I’m so sorry. If I hadn’t carried my troubles to your doorstep—”

  “Nonsense,” Fern snapped. “You can’t always take the blame when something goes wrong. Now you listen to me, girl. I tripped and fell. It was an accident. It wasn’t your fault. Now, if you really want to do something useful, close the door behind you before that critter of yours escapes and sends me into a sneezing frenzy.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Victoria offered, but looked at Martha for approval. “Unless there’s something you need me to do.”

  “No. You two go on. We’ll make sure Miss Fern gets back into her own bed. Ivy, why don’t you help me with your sister?”

  Victoria and Nancy quickly disappeared into Nancy’s room. With Martha on one side and Ivy on the other, Fern managed to walk back to her own room. While Ivy went inside to light a lamp, Martha held on to Fern just outside the door.

  Fern stiffened and tried to turn around. “My rolling pin. I forgot my rolling pin!”

  Martha held her tight. “You’re getting into bed. I’ll get it for you once you’re settled.”

  Fern let out a sigh. “If I’d been in bed, instead of sitting outside Nancy’s room like an old fool, this never would have happened.”

  “We can’t change that now,” Martha crooned. When light flooded the room, she ushered her patient inside and looked around. She had never been inside Fern’s room before, and the elegance of the furnishings surprised her. Nearly every fabric, on the two windows, the bed, and the scarves on the twin mahogany dressers, appeared to be the finest lace Martha had ever seen. The entire room was done in white—walls, bedcovers, even the rug on the floor—and the effect was quite dramatic.

  Martha tried not to stare as she helped Fern to her bed, where Ivy was waiting for them. She had already turned down the bedcovers and leaned the pillows up against the ornate headboard. Concern etched her features. “Come right here and sit. I’ll go heat some water for tea as soon as I have you tucked in.”

  “I can make the tea,” Martha insisted and turned Fern over to her sister. “I have to get something out of my bag anyway to help with the pain.”

  “And my rolling pin,” Fern reminded her.

  Martha smiled. “And your rolling pin.” She left the two sisters alone, returned to the hallway, and lit the lamp on the table between Fern’s and Ivy’s rooms. She searched the area in front of Nancy’s room, but could find no trace of the rolling pin. “It must have rolled away,” she mumbled to herself as she widened her search. When she still had no luck, she decided perhaps Nancy or Victoria had picked it up.

  She could hear the two girls talking and giggling together behind Nancy’s closed door. From the sound of it, they were going to be up awhile. Martha did not know what Victoria had said or done to lighten Nancy’s mood, but it probably had something to do with a little white ball of fur, and she decided to prepare a pot of mimosa tea big enough for everyone to share, along with some sweet birch oil for Fern’s wrist.

  Martha returned to her room, paused long enough to find her robe and slippers and put them on, and got the bottle of sweet birch oil. The lamp down the hall cast scarcely any light on the staircase, so Martha made sure she had a good hold on the railing. She had only descended two or three steps when her foot landed on something hard and pointy. She yelped, heard something clatter down the steps, and would have fallen herself if she had not had such a strong hold on the railing.

  She waited until her heart stopped racing before she turned around and went back to her room to get a candle to light her way. She was almost certain the object she had stepped on was too small to be the rolling pin, and she was curious to see what it was. She stood at the top of the staircase and held the candle up high so the light fell to the bottom of the steps. To her surprise, she saw the rolling pin—or what was left of it. Both handles appeared to be splintered, but intact, and they had separated from the center pin, which lay end up against the wall.

  Apparently, this rolling pin had not been shaped out of a single piece of wood like most, which accounted for the way it had broken apart when it fell down the stairs. “Poor Fern will be so disappointed,” she murmured, then held the candle closer to glance at the steps and make sure this time she did not step on any splintered sections that may still be there.

  She gasped in disbelief and blinked several times, but the breathtaking pieces of jewelry littering the staircase remained, sparkling ever so softly in the candlelight. She made her way down the staircase, pausing to retrieve each piece and store it in her robe pocket until she reached the bottom landing. Once she gathered up the pieces of the rolling pin, she carried them to the table, where she set down the candle and inspected the center pin. It had been hollowed out to create a most ingenious hiding place for the jew
elry.

  No wonder Fern was in a near panic about losing her rolling pin! Martha did not miss the irony of Fern using the jewel-packed rolling pin as a possible weapon against Russell Clifford, either. She put a kettle of water on to boil and fixed a large tray with five teacups, spoons, and honey.

  Out of concern that Fern might be truly devastated if she knew Martha had discovered the hiding place for the jewelry, she sat down at the table, emptied her pockets, and lined up the jeweled heirlooms she had found. In addition to a ruby pendant, which is what Martha had probably stepped on, there was a pearl necklace, and two very old, diamond-encrusted rings.

  An emerald-studded choker sent shivers down Martha’s spine. She would have to be blind not to recognize the similarity between the necklace Fern must have been wearing the night her husband attacked her and the scars she still wore around her neck.

  Martha made quick work of sliding the jewelry back into the rolling pin. It took a bit longer to get the handles back on either end and push at them hard enough to make them stay in place so Fern would not suspect Martha had reassembled the entire rolling pin.

  When she finally finished, she mopped her brow with the back of her hand and set the rolling pin near the tray. By then, the water had reached close enough to a boil to allow her to fill the teapot. While the tea steeped, she went to the back door and got a cupful of snow, then carried everything back upstairs.

  She went directly to Fern’s room, where she found her patient sitting up in bed with her back against the headboard and her right forearm and hand resting upon a pillow. “I have tea for everyone and some sweet birch oil for your wrist, along with your rolling pin,” Martha announced as she set the tray on top of the dresser.

  Fern’s worried expression faded the moment she spied the rolling pin. “Put it right here under my pillow, would you, please?” she asked, pointing behind her.

  Martha complied. “That should be a safe place to keep it, although I think it’ll be a while before you can use it again. For any purpose,” she teased.

  Fern snuggled her back against the pillows. “I just feel safer having it near.”

  Ivy rolled her eyes. “I’ll pour the tea.”

  Martha chuckled, got the sweet birch oil, and gently rubbed some on Fern’s wrist. “This should help cut the edge off the pain,” she explained. When she noted the additional swelling, she placed a towel under Fern’s wrist and packed the wrist in snow. She shook her head. “I don’t think it’s broken, but I’ll fetch Dr. McMillan in the morning. He’ll know for sure.”

  Fern caressed her wounded arm. “Do you think he’d come before meeting? I’d hate to miss—”

  “You have to miss meeting tomorrow. I won’t have you trying to walk through all that snow whether your wrist is sprained or broken. What if you slipped and fell?” Ivy asked. “No. You’re staying home. Isn’t she, Martha?”

  “She is,” Martha replied.

  Fern pursed her lips. “I thought I’d have one of you take my side. I never expected you’d both conspire against me.”

  “Consider yourself under orders to stay in bed for a few days. No housework. No baking. And you’re to stay inside until that wrist is completely healed.”

  Ivy nodded. “Exactly.”

  “And just how do you think you’ll manage the baking, the cleaning, the cooking—”

  “I’ll help,” Martha suggested. “Even Nancy is up to performing a few chores.”

  Fern cocked her head and glared at her sister. “Victoria is leaving on Monday. Martha is bound to be called to duty, and Nancy may end up going home now that I can’t do much to stop her.”

  “The good Lord will provide,” Ivy responded. “He always does.”

  Martha hoped Ivy was right, especially since Martha did not have any quick solutions to offer. With Fern under Ivy’s care now, Martha carried the tray to Nancy’s room. “Victoria? Nancy? I have tea. Is anyone interested? If so, I need you to open the door.”

  She heard the scampering of footsteps before the door partly opened. Victoria looked at the tray and frowned, but her eyes danced with mischief. “What? No cookies?”

  “In the middle of the night?” Martha huffed. “This isn’t supposed to be a snack. It’s just to help settle you both down so you can go back to sleep.”

  “We’re not tired now. We’ve talked ourselves past it.”

  Martha could hear Nancy giggling, but she could not see past Victoria into the room. “Since you’re both wide awake, I guess it wouldn’t hurt.”

  Victoria eased the tray from her mother. “I’ll take this and get the cookies from downstairs. If it’s all right, I’ll sleep in here with Nancy tonight.”

  Martha nodded. “I suppose.”

  Victoria gave her a wink. “I’ll tell you all about my talk with Nancy in the morning,” she whispered and promptly closed the door.

  Rather than go back and rejoin the Lynn sisters, Martha decided to take to her bed. She really did not have any other choice. With Ivy taking care of her sister and Victoria taking care of Nancy, Martha had nothing else to do. She found the whole experience more than a little odd and traipsed back to her room praying tomorrow would be just a little bit calmer.

  26

  By midmorning on Sunday, Martha decided the day could be considered calmer, but only if she compared it to total chaos.

  The snowstorm continued, unabated, and threatened a record snowfall, in addition to forcing a cancelation of Sunday meeting for the first time in years. Ivy had also decided not to bake anything new since few people, if any, would be venturing outside today. With an abundance left from yesterday, however, the confectionery remained open, just in case someone got stranded.

  It had taken Martha over forty-five minutes to battle her way to fetch Dr. McMillan to the confectionery and another forty-five minutes to return. At least she had been able to see Bird, who was nursing a rebroken wing the doctor hoped would heal correctly so the bird could fly free come spring.

  Snowball, better known today as Beast, had escaped from Nancy’s room twice. Each time, the kitten had scampered straight to Fern’s room, slipped inside, and hidden under the bed, which inspired a series of sneezing spells that betrayed her presence.

  Dr. McMillan was upstairs with Fern and Ivy putting a splint on Fern’s broken wrist while June Morgan, who had insisted on tagging along with Martha and the doctor, was with Victoria and Nancy discussing the departure for New York City, which obviously had to be postponed.

  When Martha heard someone pounding on the back door and someone else knocking at the door connecting the kitchen to the shop, she threw up her hands and accepted the fact that this day was destined to be a total loss. She had spent the past hour racing up and down the steps to rescue Snowball and bring refreshments for their guests. She had no dinner started yet, and at this rate, there was not going to be anything for supper.

  She answered the closest door, connecting the kitchen to the shop, first. When she opened the door, she was so surprised, she took a step back. “Aunt Hilda! What on earth are you doing here? You shouldn’t be out on a day like this!”

  Arm in arm with her husband, Aunt Hilda looked like a snow woman. Even her eyebrows were coated with snow. “I’ve been waiting for days for Sunday to come so we could surprise everyone at meeting. Since that’s been canceled, I wasn’t going to let a little snow stop us. I wanted Mr. Seymour to meet Victoria, of course, and Fern and Ivy, too,” she insisted, still referring to her husband in a formal way, as had been the custom in her day.

  Richard patted his wife’s arm. “Fortunately, we’re both strong and healthy. Only took us a little better than an hour.”

  “Come in,” Martha said as the pounding at the back door became more insistent. “Find a peg for your coats and get warm and dry by the fire. Let me see who else is foolhardy enough to be traipsing through this storm. I’ll be right back.”

  As she hurried through the kitchen and storage room to the back door, the pounding kept pace with her
footsteps. About the only thing this day needed to make it perfect bedlam was for her to be summoned to duty. She said a rushed prayer of apology for being selfish and thinking of herself, instead of one of her patients, and cracked the door open.

  Shivering against the cold, she kept most of her body behind the door. The moment she saw who was standing outside, she knew she had been wrong. The only thing this day needed to guarantee bedlam was the arrival of Reverend Welsh and the newest member of his flock, Russell Clifford.

  “A good morning to you, Widow Cade,” the minister offered. For the first time Martha could recall, he was actually wearing a hat. “May we come in? It’s growing awfully bitter now with the wind.”

  “I’m sorry I kept you waiting. I had someone knocking on two doors at once. Please. Come in.” She stepped back to allow them to enter. Like the Seymours, both men were literally coated with snow from head to toe.

  Russell did not meet Martha’s gaze when she looked at him, but Reverend Welsh did. “Young Russell is anxious to see his wife. You did promise he could see her today.”

  Martha nodded. “Take off your things. I’ll have to take them into the kitchen and drape them near the fire so they’ll dry.” She left them to remove their coats and rejoined Aunt Hilda and her husband.

  Unfortunately, they knew nothing about the Cliffords and their situation, and Martha did not have time to explain. Perhaps it would be better to let her aunt form her own opinion of the young man before she knew all the facts. She was known to be an excellent judge of character, and Martha would welcome her aunt’s advice should trouble arise.

  “It’s Reverend Welsh. He’s brought a new member of the congregation, Russell Clifford, to see his wife, Nancy. She’s my patient, and she’s resting upstairs,” Martha explained.

  Aunt Hilda cocked a brow. She knew Martha, like her grandmother, always went to her patients’ homes to treat them and never took them in. Before Martha could provide any further details, however, the minister and his charge joined them. Martha made all the introductions and hung the men’s coats on the chair backs to dry while the minister focused all his attention on Richard Seymour.