Midwife of the Blue Ridge (30 page)

wit’s end.” Exhibiting the expertise of a woman who’d nursed fi ve

children, Susannah poked a finger into the corner of the infant’s

mouth. Breaking the suction, she swiftly switched the baby to

nurse at her left breast, giving him no time to sputter even the tini-

est protest. “Naomi’s my good friend,” Susannah went on. “I don’t

know what it’s like over the water where you come from, but here

on the frontier, we do for one another. It’s how we survive.”

“Still, Susannah, ye ken it’s best not to make a habit of feeding

Naomi’s son.” Maggie stepped to her worktable, poured a dose

of lady’s-mantle tisane, and offered it to Susannah. “Drink this

and bind yer breasts with cabbage leaves like I tolt ye. As much

as it may ease ye for the now, nursing Naomi’s bairn will only

prolong yer discomfort.”

Susannah looked up; a tear rolled down her cheek and fell,

absorbed in the swaddled bundle clutched to her breast. “Nurs-

ing him eases my pain, Maggie . . . the pain you’ve no medicine

for . . . the awful pain in my heart.”

Maggie sat on the bed beside Susannah and wound an arm

around her shoulders. “I’ve no children of my own, but I think I

ken what ye mean. Sometimes comfort comes in old clothes,

na?”

Susannah leaned into Maggie’s embrace and together they

shared the peace gleaned from watching a baby suckle to sleepy

contentment. Afterward, Maggie changed his nappy and bundled

him to lie beside his mother.

“How’s wee Mary?” Maggie gestured to the little lump curled

beside Susannah.

“Ada made Mary a doll and she played the day long.” Susan-

nah pointed to the rag doll nestled in the crook of the little girl’s

arm. “She calls it Baby Alexander.”

“Has she pain?”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
211

“My Mary’s a strong spirit. She’s not one to complain.” Su-

sannah lay back and gathered her daughter in a cuddle in her

arms.

Maggie straightened the bedclothes. “I’d say Mary’s much like

her mother in that. Now try hard to find some sleep.” She dimmed

the lantern and closed the door.

Maggie rejoined the circle of friends making merry around the

campfire in time to see Ada pulling Duncan and Alistair front

and center. After the threesome joined heads in whispered con-

sultation, Duncan swaggered around the fire on his peg leg, ad-

dressing the audience.

“The Roundabout Players will regale you with ‘The Tale of

the Trooper’s Horse.’”

A rousing cheer rose up in anticipation of the bawdy favorite.

Maggie jumped to her feet, skirting around to better her view.

The fiddler struck up the familiar tune and Ada sang the fi rst few

lines in a fine, clear voice:

“ ’Tis a landlady’s daughter and her name was Nelly,

And she took to bed sick with a pain in her belly.

It was then a bold trooper rode up to the inn,

He’s perishing cold and wet to the skin.

The landlady put ’em in bed together

To see if the one couldn’t cure th’ other.”

Alistair stepped forward with Ada’s beribboned mobcap

perched silly on his head. He struck a girlish pose and warbled

Nelly’s part in falsetto:

“Oh my, what is this, so stiff and so warm?”

Duncan, as the Bold Trooper, draped an arm around “Nelly”

and responded in baritone:

212 Christine

Blevins

“’Tis Bald, my Nag, he will do you no harm.”

And to the delight of the spectators, they continued on with the

song, each man taking a turn singing his part in comical fashion.

“‘But my! What is this that hangs under his chin?’

‘’Tis the bag that he puts his Provender in.’

Quoth he, ‘What is this?’

Quoth she, ‘’Tis a well, where Bald, your Nag, can drink

his

fi ll.’

‘But what if my Nag should chance to slip in?’

‘Then catch hold of the grass that grows on the brim.’

‘But what if the grass should chance to fail?’

‘Shove him in by the head, pull him out by the tail.’

‘But how can you tell when your Nag’s had his fi ll?’

‘He’ll hang down his head and turn from the well.’

‘How can you tell when your Nag wants some more?’

‘He’ll rear up his head and paw ’round the door!’”

The crowd clapped and howled with laughter. Duncan bowed

like a courtier and Alistair, at his side, bobbed and curtsied like

a maid. Ada retrieved her cap and herded her fellow players back

to their seats.

“Enough ribaldry . . .” Ada scanned the faces gathered and

pointed. “The Wallens! C’mon up and give us a ballad.”

Eileen demurred but was pulled to her feet by her husband,

Fletcher. “All right . . .” she said, “how ’bout ‘Over the Hill and

Far Away’? Everyone can join in on the chorus.”

A resounding cheer served to seal the bargain with the audi-

ence. The fi ddler sawed the melody, Eileen’s soft soprano melded

in close harmony with her husband’s strong tenor, and the duo

sang the first stanza of the well-known love song. With arms

folded across her chest, Maggie swayed from side to side and

joined in singing the chorus along with everyone else:

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
213

“And I would love you all the day,

Every night would kiss and play,

If with me you’d fondly stray,

Over the hills and far away.”

A strong hand wound around Maggie’s waist and the refrain

caught in her throat. Tom came to stand behind her, his palm

flat and fingers splayed just beneath her belly, pulling her back—a

cushion pressed against his hardness. She sighed and leaned

back. Nuzzling the curve of her neck, he breathed warm in her

ear, “Stray with me . . . beyond the gate.” And then he let her

loose.

Maggie turned to catch the last of his shadow as it blended

into inky darkness beyond the bonfire—only his scent lingered, a

distillation of hard work, leather, and green woods. She pressed

a hand to her forehead.
Such a strange affl iction
. The man held a

tether on her heart and one tug of the rope left her fevered,

wobble-kneed, with heart a-pounding.

The Wallens finished their song and drew a round of applause.

Seth stood, staggering slightly, more than a bit pickled after a

long night of celebration. Ada handed him a full tankard and he

raised it high. “A toast!” he said, with brogue extra thick. “Tae

ma wee wifi e, an ma bonnie wee laddie—tae Alexander!”

“To Alexander!”

John Springer tapped his foot and tore into a rollicking rendi-

tion of “Red- haired Boy.” Seth got hold of Ada and the pair

launched into an energetic, two-person reel around the bonfi re.

Maggie cheered and clapped along, all the while inching back-

ward, until breaking free the bounds of fire glow, she headed to-

ward the open gates at the quickstep. The full moon, briefl y

enveloped in cloud cover, cast a dark face on her escape, and she

slowed her pace, carefully navigating the tree stumps that littered

the fortyard. Just as she breached the palisade, Tom reached out

from the dark and grabbed Maggie by the arm. She squeaked in

214 Christine

Blevins

surprise and spun into his arms. Grappling, groping, and giggling,

the lovers staggered back and fell against the stockade wall.

“I’m hungry for thee.” Tom drove his tongue in deep to oc-

cupy her mouth. Maggie’s fi ngers fumbled with the buckle at his

waist. Tom’s arms flailed like a whirligig through yards of brown

wool and muslin.

Suddenly an odd voice sang out,
“Oh Tom, vas is dis, so stiff

and so varm . . .”
Young Willie and Janet Wheeler poked their

heads around the gate.

Maggie jerked away and backed into the shadows. Flustered,

she smoothed her skirt, tucked stray wisps of hair behind her

ears, and tried to catch a breath. Panting, Tom stood with fi sts

clenched, looking much like a young lad whose wagon had shed

a wheel. Laughing aloud, Willie and Janet scampered off, hand

in hand, disappearing into the dark.

“Willie Wagner . . .” Tom growled, snatching up his rifl e.

“Sorry shall be his sops when I get ahold of him tomorrow . . .”

“Ah, now, Tommy . . . just a bit of fun. No harm done.”

Tom shouldered his weapon and grabbed Maggie by the hand.

“Come with me . . .”

Song and fiddle strains grew faint on a gathering breeze. Mag-

gie tripped after Tom, walk-running to keep up with his deter-

mined stride as he cut across the cleared field surrounding the

fort. “Where’re we going?”

“My camp,” he said, pointing to the tree line where the dark

forest began.

“Yer camp? Why d’ye camp in the open with the station right

there?”

“Station’s too crowded for me,” he said, and Maggie laughed.

The wind picked up; racing across the open field, it tore

through the treetops with a rumble akin to a coach and six roll-

ing along a cobbled street. Ahead, the black wall of trees loomed,

swaying from side to side—giant hands warning them to stay

away.

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
215

Maggie hesitated. “D’ye think a storm’s brewin’?”

“Just windy, is all.” Tom’s hand tightened on hers. “Camp’s

just ahead.” He tugged her forward, into the woods.

The breeze, in concert with the moonlight keeking through

the veil of silver leaves, cast a mottled pattern of moving shadows

on their path. Friday trotted up to greet them with tail wagging

as Tom led Maggie to the spartan camp he’d pitched on a level

patch within a crown of white birch. A pale wool blanket banded

with three black stripes lay in a rumple near a ring of stones con-

taining chunky embers throbbing red on the breeze. Tom’s pos-

sibles pouch, leather panniers, and half a dozen birch logs were

piled next to the fire ring. Hobbled in the shadows, the gelding

huffed and shuffl ed his hooves.

Tom let go of Maggie’s hand and slipped his rifle from his

shoulder, propping it barrel end up on the fi rewood. Maggie

ruffl ed Friday’s ears and held him rapt with a good scratch.

“Go ’n lie down now!” Tom commanded.

Maggie startled, and for a ridiculous instant, she thought

Tom’s terse order had been directed at her. But Friday knew bet-

ter; breaking away from Maggie, he spun in three tight circles

and fl opped down with a grunt.

Tom hefted a pair of logs onto the embers, sending a brilliant

whoosh
of sparks to swirl up like a host of fi reflies into the night.

He smiled at Maggie and unbuckled his waist belt, dropping it in

a muffl ed clank with the rest of his gear.

A gust of wind twirled in through the trees, fanning the em-

bers to flames. Maggie stood a bit uneasy, fumbling with her

laces, awkward in the brighter light. Exasperated, she turned her

back to Tom’s wry smile and slipped free her bodice, carefully

hanging it from a nearby birch branch. She reached back to undo

her hair.

“Let me.” Tom came up from behind. He pulled the pins from

the knot she’d twisted at the base of her neck, sending her hair

tumbling over her shoulders like a freshet over a cliff after a hard

216 Christine

Blevins

rain. His fingers traveled through her hair down to untie the knot

at her waistband. Pushing her skirt down past her hips, Tom bent

his head, nosed her hair aside, and sang soft in her ear:

“And I would love you all the day,

Every night would kiss and play,

If with me you’d fondly stray,

Over the hills and far away.”

Maggie turned in to his embrace. Dressed in nothing but her

muslin shift, she pulled him close, his full measure pressing a

warm ridge into her belly. She slipped tentative hands under his

frock shirt. He pulled back and tugged the shirt off over his

head.

Tom stood before her in the fl ickering firelight in naught but

breechclout and doeskin leggings, his moccasined feet planted as

if ready to spring—exuding a raw force Maggie found both fas-

cinating and frightening. A breeze coursed the treetops with a

whistling moan and she shuffled back a step, irrational dismay

welling up in her throat.

“Maggie . . .” Tom reached out to her with one open hand. “I

couldn’t sleep for hurtin’ t’ have thee naked in my bed.”

The stark, rough hunger of his admission stole her breath

away. Maggie’s shift drifted into a puddle at her feet and she

stepped into his arms, molding to him like wet linen laid to dry

on a sun-warmed stone.

They sank to the ground and he covered her body with his

own, pressing her into the cloud of crumbly humus carpeting the

forest floor—their whispers and moans lost to the crackling blaze

and the rustle of birch leaves trembling on the breeze.

16

A Nice Cup of Tea

Tom slipped out from under the leg and arm she’d thrown over

him and trotted, stark naked, to a huge oak ten yards from camp.

Piss-proud member in his right hand, feet spread wide, he