Midwife of the Blue Ridge (3 page)

others—nothing more than a place to lay her pallet. She earned a

few extra pennies selling simple remedies on the street, enough

to buy a bannock and bowl of pease porridge on most days. Two

years of living a hand- to-mouth existence had brought Maggie to

the end of her tether, taking two steps backward for every step

forward, never quite able to get ahead.

At fifty paces, a slab of wood painted with a crude portrait of

a bearded man in a turban creaked on its hinge. She hurried to-

ward the Saracen Head, the coaching inn where her friend Jenny

worked as a scullery maid. She’d agreed to aid Jenny’s husband,

Angus, one of the barmen in the public room. Angus had injured

his hand, and in exchange for treatment, he promised to mend

Maggie’s sorely worn clogs.

She shouldered the heavy door open. Inside, the pub was snug

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
17

with the spice of boiled beef, cabbage, and fresh-baked bread.

Maggie waved to Angus, who was busy serving the lone cus-

tomer at the bar—and she made straight for the fire to warm her

chapped hands.

“Ho, Maggie!” Angus bellowed. “Jenny said ye might come.”

He was a broad, muscular fellow, with a head of thick ginger

hair. His cheerful smile missed several teeth—lost breaking up

one of the frequent barroom brawls. “Have a seat over by the

hearth, that’s the best light. Cider?”

“Aye, cider’d be a wonder, Angus, but I’ll also be needin’ a

dram of whiskey, if it’s no bother to ye.” She sat down on a bench

at the table he’d indicated. Angus set down a tray bearing a pint

of hard cider, one small glass, and a bottle of whiskey. He settled

into the chair opposite.

Maggie tipped her pint, taking a moment to savor her fi rst sip,

for cider was a special treat she could ill afford on her own. She

then put the drink aside, ready to tend to business.

“Let’s have a look-see.”

Angus propped his arm, palm up, on the tabletop. Maggie

untied the filthy rag wrapped around his hand, discarding it with

some disdain onto the straw-covered fl oor.

“Aye . . . yiv a nasty wound here.” She poked gently at the

angry welt slashing across the palm of his left hand. Angus

winced.

“I scratched it off-loading casks from the brewer’s cart days

ago. Ye can see how it’s festered—throbs somethin’ fi erce. Jenny

said yid fix it for me.”

Maggie examined Angus’s huge paw cradled in her small, ca-

pable hands. “Aye . . . I’ll wager yiv a sliver lodged deep. Help

yerself to a dram, lad . . . this is bound t’ hurt.” She dug through

her basket and laid a few items on the table—a darning needle, a

stubby candle, strips of clean linen, and a small clay pot sealed

with a cap of beeswax.

Angus cast a dubious eye on the needle she held in the fl ame of

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Blevins

the candle and poured a generous amount of whiskey into the

glass. “Have a dram with me, Maggie . . .”

“Och, no! The hard stuff was always meant fer you. Now hold

still, ken?”

He nodded, sucked in his breath, and averted his eyes as Mag-

gie began probing with her needle. She glanced up. Other than a

slight twitching in the muscle of his jaw, Angus bore up.

“Aahhh now, there ’tis!” Triumphant, Maggie showed him the

pus-and-blood-coated shard of wood impaled on her needle. An-

gus jerked his hand away. Maggie pulled it back. “That was the

worst of it, lad, but this wound needs dressin’.” She drizzled

whiskey onto his palm, slathered on a glob of soothing ointment,

and bound the whole thing in a clean bandage. “Take the salve

home. Have Jenny bind yer fist with a clean dressing every day—

it’ll heal quick that way.”

“Feels better already.” Angus smiled and flexed his fi ngers.

“Tell ye what—the farrier’s in the stable right now and he owes

me a favor. Give us yer clogs—I’ll have him tap on a bit o’ leather

straightaway.”

Maggie felt a bit silly, sitting alone and shoeless in the pub.

She focused on finishing her

cider—aware she was being ob-

served with some intent. The young man Angus had been serving

when Maggie first entered the pub stared rather boldly in her di-

rection. She decided to intimidate him with her best

evil-eye

glare. To her surprise and dismay, he broke into a smile and

sauntered over to her table.

He stood very tall with wavy brown hair caught at the nape of

his neck in a sky blue ribbon. His linen shirt and cravat sparkled

white in the dim light. The worsted gray wool of his jacket spoke

of quality; the buttons cast silver and the cut well tailored. She

noticed the silver buckles on his leather shoes, and tucked her

dirty bare feet beneath her chair.

“May I join you, miss?”

“To be certain, I dinna have a care where ye sit, sir.” Maggie

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
19

shrugged. “I’ll be leavin’ just soon as Angus brings my shoes.”

“Are you married?” he asked, sitting down across from her.

“Married?” Surprised by his boldness, Maggie answered in

kind. “That’s no concern of yers.”

“I’ll get right to the point.” The rude young man peered inside

her basket. “I can see you have a valuable skill and I’ve a proposi-

tion for you . . .”

Maggie flipped the lid closed. “
Feich!
Proposition indeed!”

She grabbed her basket and moved to sit at the next table.

Undaunted, the man simply slid his chair over. “My name is

Ethan Hampton . . .” He held out a hand. “Just arrived from the

Colonies—Virginia to be exact. Hear me out. Let me stand you a

drink. I assure you, it’s not at all what you think.”

Maggie ignored his hand and leaned back in her chair, drop-

ping her guard but slightly now that his odd way had been identi-

fied. She’d heard Americans tended toward brash. Her curiosity

was piqued, and besides, the cider at the Saracen Head was aw-

fully tasty.

“Barman! A pint of cider for my friend and a pint of stout for

myself. Are you hungry?”

Maggie answered with a cautious nod. When the barman

brought the drinks, Ethan Hampton ordered a full supper for

two. She hadn’t eaten meat in over a year, and the promise of

supper earned this man Maggie’s rapt attention.

“I’m ship’s agent for the merchant vessel the
Good Intent
,

charged with securing cargo for the return leg, and there lies the

proposition I have for you.” The American lad settled back in his

chair, drink in hand. “Did you know, Maggie, most of the tobacco

shipped from Virginia makes port right here in Glasgow Harbor?”

“Aye,” she agreed. “Everyone kens tha’.”

Ethan Hampton refreshed himself with a pull from his pint.

“No shipmaster wants to sail home with an empty hold. There’s

no profi t in that, is there?”

Bobbing her head in agreement, Maggie hurried to gulp down

20 Christine

Blevins

the dregs of her pint. “’Tis all well and good, Mr. Hampton, but

unless ye have an ache or malady of some sort, I dinna ken how I

can be of any assistance t’ ye . . .”

“It is
I
who will be of assistance to
you
.” He flashed a brilliant

smile. “What I’m offering is a new beginning—the means by

which to start a wonderful life in the New World . . .”

“A
spirit
!” Maggie pounded a fist on the tabletop, drawing the

attention of a group of customers stumbling in off the eve ning

coach from Edinburgh. Men known as “spirits” haunted popu lar

gathering places, beguiling young people into servitude with

grandiose tales of the Colonies, and then “spiriting” them far

away, never to be seen by their families again.

Unperturbed by her outburst, Ethan Hampton signaled the

barman for another round of drinks. “Spirit!” He laughed.

“Come now . . . do you really think I have the power to spirit

you away, Maggie? Against your free will?”

“Na, I’m nobody’s fool.” Maggie punctuated her assertion

with a gulp from her pint.

“Exactly so!” Ethan banged the tabletop. “I can see you’ve a

native intelligence and you’re doubly blessed with a pretty face

and a marketable skill. Have you been trained in the healing arts,

or is it you just possess a knack?”

Maggie blushed, flustered by his compliments and the effects

of her bottomless pint of cider. “I was once apprenticed to a mid-

wife of considerable skill. She passed away, and I’ve had no luck

finding another willing to take me on.”

“You certainly seemed skilled enough . . .”

“Aye, but I’ve no repute—considered by most too young, ye

ken?”

“I see . . . even though you’ve a skill, you’re not well off. Life

for you is a daily struggle . . .”

“Och, aye . . .” Maggie sighed, and toasted her host with a tip

of her tankard.

“But, I ask you, who can expect to get ahead here? Only

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
21

those of proper lineage, that’s who! Those lucky enough to be

born into the right class.” Ethan Hampton hit his stride. A few

of the other patrons edged close to listen in, and he raised his

volume.

“Tell me if I’ve the right of it—no matter how hard you are

willing to work, no matter how smart or how pretty you are,

Maggie, you are only allowed to go so far in this life. And when

you can’t find steady work, what will you do to fill your empty

belly? Sell your beautiful hair . . . your teeth—or resort to even

more desperate means? Do I speak the truth?”

Maggie found herself nodding, and the others who’d gathered

around also grunted in agreement. Ethan reached into his pocket

and pulled out a document, which he unfolded with great care

and set on the table.

“I offer you Opportunity.”

Maggie shook her head. “I canna read.”

“It says this—” Ethan smoothed the folds of stiff parchment.

“You will receive transport and victuals aboard the
Good Intent

leaving two weeks from this day, heading for Richmond, Vir-

ginia. You’ll be bound for four years’ labor to whoever purchases

your contract from the ship’s captain . . .”

“And if no one purchases my contract?”

“Not much chance of that, Maggie. There’s such a shortage of

domestic servants, I’m certain you’ll obtain a fine position . . .”

“Ah, no . . .” Maggie shook her head again. “I dinna possess a

Character . . .” She’d been deemed unqualified for domestic ser-

vice for lack of a “Character”—the referral document necessary

to obtain such a position.

“You don’t need a Character in Virginia. They’re clamoring

for

girls—Scottish girls especially are in high demand. And,

Maggie . . .” Ethan edged the contract toward her. “You will be

well cared for—three hearty meals a day, a clean, warm bed at

night, clothes and shoes whenever you need them.”

“Aye? Clothes, ye say?” Maggie bunched a handful of her

22 Christine

Blevins

threadbare skirt in her fist. She spent much of her spare time

repairing the worn odds and ends of her meager wardrobe.

“After four short years, you’ll receive your Freedom Dues. It’s

all listed right here, see?” Ethan pointed out a section on the pa-

per. “At contract’s end you’re promised three pounds ten shil-

lings, one suit of clothes, stockings and shoes, two hoes, one ax,

and three barrels of corn.”

“Ha! And why would I be needin’ an ax?” Maggie pushed the

parchment away. “To protect myself from the Red Indians what

come to hack off my hair?”

“Wild tales!” Ethan laughed. “I’ll admit there are one or two

savage tribes deep, deep in the backcountry, but the few docile na-

tives remaining in Virginia are very tame. No”—he slid the docu-

ment back toward Maggie—“the tools and such are for starting

out on your own. There is land for the taking in the New World.”

“A wee bit of land to call my own . . . tha’ would be fi ne.”

Maggie began to plan the herbs she would plant in her garden. “I

could make a living from tha’, na?”

“Three pounds ten shillings—an enticing dowry for some young

man looking for a wife.” Ethan winked. “You’re a beautiful girl,

and I would be remiss not to warn you—there is no shortage of

marriageable young men in Virginia. Be prepared to have your

pick . . .”

“Aye . . .” Maggie nodded. “Someone once told me good men

are to be found in the Colonies . . .”

“Not only good men—the best men! Strong and handsome—

rich . . . oh, Maggie, they’re waiting for you . . . a better life is

waiting for you! All you need do is sign here . . .”

H

When Angus returned with Maggie’s clogs, he found her huddled

over the table with the American lad, struggling with a quill to

make her mark on a sheet of paper.

“Maggie! What have ye done?”

Maggie looked up, her smile wide. “I’m off to America!”

3

A Region of Calm

As Captain William Carlyle mounted the stairs to the aft quar-

terdeck, the last curve of the sun slipped behind the horizon. The

captain caught himself doing something he rarely did—question-