Midwife of the Blue Ridge (27 page)

son Crusoe.

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
189

He reached for his second acquisition. The cracked spine and

loose binding strings on the thinner volume barely held the paste-

board cover boards attached. Paging through worn,

fi nger-

stained leaves, Tom could tell it’d been well enjoyed by its previous

readers.

“Hullo.” Maggie stood at his feet, basket in hand, the sun

glowing a halo around her head. Tom noticed she’d exchanged

the borrowed silk and lace finery for her everyday clothes—plain

blouse, brown skirt, front-laced bodice. He regretted to see her

black tresses once again pulled and twisted in a utilitarian knot

at the nape of her neck.

Tom put his books aside. “How’s Mary faring?”

“She’s cleverly—sittin’ up as we speak, being spoon-fed a pos-

set by her mam.” Maggie came to kneel beside him, opposite

Friday. “What’ve ye got there?”

Tom showed Maggie his books. “I’m surprised Eileen parted

with them.”

“Eileen told me herself, when the alarm sounds, she fi rst gath-

ers her children, then gathers her books, so dear they are to her.”

Maggie shifted hips to sit with her legs curled to the side and

picked up the smaller book. “How I wish that I could read . . . I’ve

never been schooled—lassies weren’t allowed t’ attend.”

“Eileen hales from Pennsylvania, not far from my family farm.

Among Friends . . .”—he clarified—“among Quakers, both boys

and girls are taught to read and write.” He showed Maggie the

novel. “This prize is a boyhood favorite of mine,
Robinson Cru-

soe.
”

“
Robinson Crusoe
!” Maggie exclaimed. “MacGregor read

it aboard the
Good Intent
—’twas such a long crossing, he read it

through twice. The best bit was when Crusoe spied the footprint

in the sand . . .” She paused, and smiled. “Now I ken . . .” Maggie

reached to scratch Friday behind the ear. “Did ye find this wild

heathen on a Friday?”

“More like he found me.”

190 Christine

Blevins

She handed the book back and rose to her feet. “Maybe one

day ye can read to me, eh?”

“How about right now?” He held up the book she’d just

handed him. “
Hesperides, or Works both Human and Divine of

Robert Herrick.
Poetry.”

Holding up the basket, she said, “I need to gather some lady’s

mantle. I spied some by the river. For Susannah—her milk’s come

in and she needs relief.” Friday whimpered with sad eyes blinking.

Maggie bent down to give the dog a farewell scratch on the snout.

Tom’s senses were suddenly racked by the smell of scented

soap clinging to summer-warm woman-flesh and the glorious

sight of golden breasts poised to almost, but not quite overfl ow

the bounds of a tightly laced bodice. He resisted a devilish urge

to bend forward and touch his tongue to the chocolate half- moon

of her nipple peeking from above her neckline.

“I’ll be back soon, Friday-lad,” Maggie murmured.

Her voice, an erotic whir in his ear, set Tom’s heart to pound-

ing. Her fi ngers, stroking the length of Friday’s nose resting in his

lap, sent muscles twitching. Tortured, Tom clenched fi sts, squirmed

in his seat, and raised one knee to disguise the growing evidence of

his ardor. The flap of his red breechclout slipped to the side and

Maggie inadvertently brushed a molten streak along the taut mus-

cle of his inner thigh with the back of her hand. He groaned.

As if scorched by a pot boiling on the grate, Maggie snatched

her hand back and popped up erect, cheeks blazing. “I—I’ll leave

ye t’ yer books . . .” Turning on bare foot, she all but ran away.

Her scent lingered in a sweet, soapy cloud. And with much

more than tender regard, Tom sank into his barley backrest,

watching her every step, spellbound by the sway of her hips as

she passed through the station gates and disappeared.

With his index finger, he drew a narrow rectangle on his leg,

outlining every inch of skin she’d touched. He then uncorked his

flask, swallowed two big gulps, set the flask aside, fl ipped open

the volume of poetry, and read the first lines on that page:

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
191

A sweet disorder in the dress

Kindles in clothes a wantonness.

Tom laughed, and read on. H

Maggie ran through the clearing till she reached the shade of the

canopy. Gulping for breath, she dropped her basket and fell back to

rest against the corky trunk of a sweet-gum tree, slapping herself

on the forehead. “Eidgit! Reachin’ between a man’s legs . . . och!”

’Twere mischance . . . I only meant to pet Friday . . .
She

stamped her foot.

But the simple touch that lit the spark in Tom’s eye had also set

her own blood aflame. Hands flew to cheeks. She took several

deep breaths to quash the clamor in her head. She was innocent.

Her intent had been pure. He was the guilty one.

“Aye . . . Him,” she muttered, snatching up her basket. “He’s

at fault here. He’s a rascal. He was the one wrigglin’ ’round like

a worm on a fi shhook.” Satisfied with laying blame for the inci-

dent upon Tom, she fl ounced down the path.

The woodlands opened to a lush meadow flanking the river.

Maggie stood at riverside, eyeing the cluster of lady’s mantle

growing on the opposite bank, more than twenty feet away. The

current ran strong here and seemed much deeper than the branch

back at the Martins’.

But Susannah’s milk had come in, and without a baby to

nurse, her breasts would become engorged, painful, and suscep-

tible to corruption. She glanced across the river where lady’s

mantle teased, leaves bobbing on a breeze. A tea brewed from

those leaves combined with cabbage-leaf compresses would offer

Susannah much relief.

Maggie stripped to her shift and left her togs folded in a neat

pile. She waded in with arms extended, her collecting basket

plopped on her head like a hat, glad to find the water never

higher than hip- deep.

192 Christine

Blevins

Struggling up the steep grassy bank, Maggie disturbed a host

of biting midgies to swarm about her sweaty face. She yanked up

three clumps—roots and all—dumped them into her basket, and

sloshed back into the river. She slogged against a strong crosscur-

rent, full basket in one hand, the other busy swatting tiny fl ies

flitting into eyes and ears and feeding on tiny chunks bitten from

shoulders and neck.

“Fiech!”
She jerked to slap a bloodthirsty predator on her

arm, slipped, and fell arse backward into the water. Maggie

emerged sputtering, basket in hand, sopping wet but happily rid

of the midgies. Rivulets trickled down her legs and arms as she

ran up the bank. She plopped into the grass, dropping her basket

next to her dry clothes.

“Whew!” She removed the pins in her wet hair, and let it fall

like a satin drape to her waist. Maggie rolled back to lie in sweet-

grass, sodden muslin clinging like a second skin. With hands cra-

dling her head and ankles crossed, she closed her eyes and emptied

her brain, baking in the hot sun like a corn dodger on a griddle.

The meadow hummed with the pitched pulse of cicada bugs,

and every so often, a fly buzzed loud past her ear. In the distance,

a woodpecker drummed in starts and stops. And just when the

sun blazed too hot to bear, a river breeze swept across the fi eld,

cooled her instantly, and allowed her to wallow a few moments

more.

She couldn’t be bothered to open her eyes to see whatever had

landed, tickling on her nose, and she just shooed it away with

lazy fingers. She brushed it away from her ear, and the persistent

bug moved to the hollow of her throat to scurry down the neck-

line of her shift between her breasts.

Maggie jerked up squealing, plucking at her shift, to fi nd Tom

crouched on hunkers next to her, grinning mischievous, waving a

tufted stalk of sedge grass.

“Away wi’ ye, rascal!” Blushing, she fumbled for clothes.

Knees hunched to her chest, she struggled to put on her bodice.

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
193

“Caught me nappin’ in naught but my shift . . .” She paused, no-

ticing he was unarmed, encumbered only by his pouch hanging

over one shoulder. In sudden realization, Maggie snatched up a

clump of lady’s mantle and whipped it at his head.

“Ow!”

“Yiv been skulkin’ about, haven’t ye? Sneaking ’round like a

Red Indian . . .”

Tom brushed dirt from his shirt, a wry smile on his face. “I

came to lend a hand . . .”

“Lend a hand . . . hmmph!” Maggie sneered, tightening the

laces on her bodice with a fi rm tug.

“C’mon, Maggie . . .” Pulling
Hesperides
from his pouch,

he said, “I brought a book to read.”

He seemed contrite, and for some reason she was happy he

had followed after her. “Well, all right,” Maggie relented, pat-

ting the grass. “Read to me, then.”

Tom reclined beside her. Up on one elbow, he opened to a page

marked with a finger length of blue ribbon. “Lie down . . .” He

gave her a gentle shove to the shoulder. Stretching back to lie

with arms tucked under her head, Maggie closed her eyes. Tom

cleared his throat, and read:

“Bid me to live, and I will live

Thy protestant to be;

Or bid me love, and I will give

A loving heart to thee.

A heart as soft, a heart as kind,

A heart as sound and free,

As in the whole world thou canst fi nd,

That heart I’ll give to thee.

Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,

To honour thy decree;

Or bid it languish quite away,

And ’t shall do so for thee.

194 Christine

Blevins

Bid me to weep, and I will weep,

While I have eyes to see;

And having none, yet I will keep

A heart to weep for thee.

Bid me despair, and I’ll despair,

Under that cypress tree;

Or bid me die, and I will dare

E’en death, to die for thee.

Thou art my life, my love, my heart,

The very eyes of me;

And hast command of every part,

To live and die for thee.”

“Oh, Tom . . .” Maggie sighed, turning toward him. One hand

slipped about his neck, she grabbed his leather belt tight with the

other hand and pulled him close.

Tom tossed the book aside and wrapped her in his arms. Their

hungry mouths blundered then met in an urgent, deep kiss. Arms

and legs entwined, they rolled slowly and Maggie found herself

flat beneath him, legs parted.

With one arm entangled in her hair, Tom buried his face in her

neck. He groaned, pressing large and hot, a forged iron rod

straining against damp muslin and soft belly. A tiny, wobbly

whimper escaped Maggie’s lips and she pushed against his chest.

Tom pulled up on elbows, his hair hanging wild, distressed

brow furrowed. Breathing heavy, he hovered there.

Maggie bit her lip, hands still pressed to Tom’s chest. She

looked into his eyes for a moment, then smiled and slipped her

hands down to unbuckle the belt about his waist.

Tom laughed and rolled to lie beside her. He kissed her soft on

the lips. Sky blue eyes intent on hers, he loosened the bow and

tugged, one by one, the laces from the eyelets on her bodice.

“Maggie Duncan, I mean to ravish thee . . .”

“Aye, lad . . .” she breathed. “. . . Get on with it.”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
195

H

Strands of rosy-gold light wove a horizontal pattern across the

twilight sky. Down on one knee, Tom fiddled with the laces on

his moccasins while Maggie waited at his side, swinging her bas-

ket, shifting weight from one bare foot to the other.

Maggie studied the sky. “The gloaming’s comin’ quick upon

us. We tarried overlong.”

“I like ‘tarrying’ with you.” Tom glanced up with a wicked

smirk. “And I think we ought ‘tarry’ more often.”

Blushing, Maggie gave him a playful bump with her hip. “Och,

but yer a cheeky lad!” She turned on heel and marched a quick-

step toward the trailhead.

Tom hopped to his feet, scurried to pluck a fistful of fl owers,

and ran to catch up. “Maggie, I’ll carry that . . .” He pried the

basket from her hand and offered her the nosegay. “None-so-

pretties—like you.”

Tickling fingertips over the petals, Maggie buried her nose in

the cluster of purple flowers, pleased by the offering. “What a

clever name, none-so- pretty . . .”

“That’s what my mother called them, anyway.” Tom slid his

arm about Maggie’s waist and she slipped her arm about his.

Together they strolled down the woodland path toward Round-

about.

“You know, back home in Glen Spean, I could put a name to

almost every growing thing—wood or field. But here . . .” Mag-

gie heaved a sigh.