Midwife of the Blue Ridge (32 page)

224 Christine

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Drunker than ten Indians ye were—lyin’ there bung upward—

britches scootched ’round yer ankles. Not a pleasant sight, that.

Ye can thank me for draggin’ yer hairy arse intae bed.”

“Ada,” Alistair moaned, cradling his shaggy silver head in his

hands. “Cull an ounce of pity from tha’ withered black nubbin ye

call a heart, and fix us lads a nice cup of tea.”

“Hmmph,” Ada snorted.

“I’ll get it,” Maggie volunteered.

Duncan called, “Tea for me as well, Maggie.”

Bess Hawkins was the last to join the breakfast table. She

emerged from her cabin overdressed as usual, in a summer gown

made of sprigged lawn trimmed with Belgian lace. Her auburn

hair was covered with a frilly edged mobcap from which she’d

drawn several curls to frame her face and tickle the nape of her

neck. She twirled the long handle of a white silk parasol on one

shoulder. Bess closed her parasol with great ceremony and

propped it against the table edge. She settled next to Duncan at

the end of the bench, fussing with the arrangement of her skirts

as Maggie circled around to serve the men their tea.

“Aye, yer a true saint, Maggie.” Alistair reached inside his

shirt and produced his flask. “What d’ye say, Seth? Duncan? A

hair from the dog what bit us?” Duncan nodded, Seth grunted in

assent, and Alistair added a splash of whiskey to each cup.

“Hmmph,” Ada snorted.

“Speaking of hair, Seth,” Bess piped up, pointedly eyeing Mag-

gie’s ill-kempt, bedraggled appearance. “I must say, your servant

girl looks about as pleasant as the pains of death this morning.”

Seth was never one to pay much mind to Bess and he had no

problem ignoring her that morning, but Maggie had to bite back

the remark that flew to her tongue. Her head was pounding, her

throat ached from choking back tears, and she was in no mood

for Bess Hawkins.

“He’s gone, isn’t he?” Bess simpered in her seat. “Tom has up

and left you—it was bound to happen sooner rather than later.”

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225

Itching to grab her by the roots and slap the smirk from her

face, Maggie snapped, “Sod off!”

“So Tom HAS left you! HA!”

Alistair winced. “There’s no call t’ shout.”

“Aye,” Seth agreed, massaging his temples. “For here’s Tom

now.”

Maggie’s stomach lurched at the sight of him. Tom came

through the gate fully accoutred for the trail, leading his pack-

horse with Friday trotting at his side. After securing the gelding’s

lead to the hitching post at the blockhouse, he headed straight to

the cookhearth.

Casting about for something to do other than gawk at him,

Maggie hefted the washbasin onto the end of the table closest to

the hearth and dove in, madly scrubbing cups and crusty tren-

chers with a stiff bristle brush.

“Mornin’,” he called.

“Good mornin’, Tom,” Bess singsonged.

“Porridge, lad?” Ada asked, spoon in hand.

“Naw . . . I’m just about ready to head out.”

“Summer hunt?” Seth asked.

“Yep—meetin’ up with the Frenchman.” Tom laid a hand on

Duncan’s shoulder. “Can you fix me in powder, lead, and fl int?”

Duncan nodded. “As soon as I finish my tea.”

Slipping hat from head, Tom shuffl ed sideways to stand oppo-

site Maggie and her basin. He leaned in, one hand on the table-

top, his voice low. “Might I have a word with thee?”

She was afraid to look up—afraid he’d see the longing in her

eyes. She took a deep breath but could not mask the quaver in her

voice. “So yer taking off right now?”

Tom nodded. “I have to.”

Elbow-deep in warm water, she bent her head to her task. A

teardrop plopped into the basin.

“Aw, Maggie . . . You’ve got to hear me out . . . I
have
to go.”

Maggie cringed with wanting to stop her ears and cover her

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eyes—blot out his voice, his eyes, his smile. She was so afraid—

petrified she would not be able to keep from falling at his feet to

beg him to stay, or worse, that she would promise to wait till

kingdom come to lie in his arms once again. She fought to erase

all expression from her face and forced herself to meet his eyes—

eyes that matched exactly the summer sky overhead. “Good rid-

dance t’ ye,” she said.

Tom fl inched and she was glad to see she’d caused him to suf-

fer a small measure of the awful pain enveloping her own heart.

His face went hard. “There’s naught for me to do if you won’t

listen to reason. I won’t beg, Maggie.” He fi t his hat on his head.

“Duncan, I’ll meet up with you at the smithy.” He stalked off.

Duncan gulped his tea and limped after Tom.

Maggie hugged the edge of the basin to keep herself from run-

ning after Tom as well.
I love him so.
Every step he took was a

hard blow to her chest. How easy it was for him to leave her be-

hind.
I hate him.

“Maggie!” Bess called sweetly. “Can you give me a nice cup of

tea?”

Her head spun and Maggie snarled. “What I’d like t’ give ye is

the back of my hand.” She gritted her teeth and tossed a stack of

wooden bowls into the washbasin.

“Leave Maggie be.” Ada handed Bess a cup. “Ye can see how

she’s in a thin skin today.”

Bess aped wonderment. “Oh . . . what with her being sweet on

Tom, and Tom leaving and all . . .”

“Keep yer pug nose out of my business, Bess Hawkins,” Mag-

gie warned.

“Don’t lose heart, Maggie.” Bess’s tone was ever so cloying.

“There are plenty of fish in the sea. I heard tell Charlie Pritchard’s

mama was lookin’ t’ buy him a wife. Hoy, Seth! You might be

able to get a good price.”

Seth looked up from his tea and slid sideways, away from

Bess, scooting closer to the end of the table where Maggie had

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
227

stationed herself. Clutching his cup with both hands, Alistair fol-

lowed suit. Maggie refused to rise to the bait; biting her lip, she

churned up suds with her vigorous scrubbing.

Bess did not let up. “You didn’t really expect a night or two

between your legs would serve to tame a man like Tom, did you?

Why, you’re as common as a penny—Tom’s bedded a score

better’n you.”

Maggie scrubbed harder. “Yid better just shut yer sorry

hole . . .”

Bess tsked. “Such ire! It’s true what they say—hell hath no

fury like a woman—”

Maggie whipped the scrub brush across the table, hitting Bess

with a thunk, square on the head.

“Ha!” Seth slapped his knee.

Bess popped to her feet, greasy dishwater sprayed over the fi ne

lawn of her gown and dribbling from her cap. Maggie rushed

around the table with murder in her eye, fi sts clenched.

Screaming, “Stay away from me, you filthy slut!” Bess

snatched up her parasol like a club and scrambled backward.

Tripping on her skirts, she toppled arse end into the dirt.

Seth said, “I’ll stake three to one Maggie knocks the snot out

o’ Bess.”

Shaking his head, Alistair took a gulp from his flask. “Two to

one we’ll sight a pair o’ bubbies afore it’s over.”

“Bedlam!” For a large woman, Ada proved quick to react; in-

sinuating herself between the two women, she pushed sleeves to

elbows. “Draw in yer horns, ladies. I willna allow yiz t’ brawl

like mongrels after the same bone.”

“Keep that madwoman away from me, Ada.” Bess scrambled

to her feet, batting at the debris clinging to her rear end. She un-

furled her parasol and fl ounced off.

Ada wound an arm around Maggie’s heaving shoulders.

Maggie sputtered, “She wouldna stiek her gob—”

“Aye, she’s a knack for pokin’ at raw wounds. But Bess

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Hawkins is not the root of yer trouble. Take my advice, lass—

make peace with Tom afore he makes for the mountain, other-

wise ye’ll be miserable for months.”

Maggie shook her head. “I canna . . . he . . .”

“Swallow yer pride, lass.”

“It’s too late,” Maggie sobbed.

“Nonsense. Open yer eyes. A careless watch invites a thief.”

Ada grabbed Maggie by the shoulders and gave her a little shove

toward the blockhouse. Bess Hawkins was standing there with

Tom.

“Aye.” The sight put a bad taste in Maggie’s mouth and a rod

in her spine. She swiped the tears from her cheeks, smoothed

back her hair, and marched a beeline for the blockhouse.

H

Tom held a translucent amber flint up to the light.

“French,” Duncan said. “You’ll find none fi ner.”

Tom nodded. “Give me a dozen . . . and a quarter barrel of

powder, and two dozen bars of lead.” The small lead bars weighed

in at half a pound each. Tom would melt the bars down once he

reached the hunting camp, and mold a supply of round ball to the

precise caliber required by his weapon.

Duncan peered over Tom’s shoulder. “Seems to be some sort

of a fracas among the women . . .”

Tom turned to see Ada planted like a bulwark between

Maggie—who stood with fists raised to do damage—and a

shrieking Bess. Snapping open her parasol, Bess turned on her

heel and headed straight for the smithy.

“Hurry and count out those bars, Duncan, and meet me by

my horse.” Tom tucked the packet of flints into his shirtfront and

hoisted the cask of gunpowder onto his shoulder. “Goddamn it!”

he swore, seeing Bess alter her course to match his.

“Tom!” she called, meeting him at the hitching post.

Tom found a length of rope in one of the panniers. “I’m busy,

Bess.” He lashed the cask to one side of the packsaddle. He

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
229

looked up from tying a sloppy knot to see Duncan hobbling

along with the crate of lead bars.

Bess closed her parasol and leaned it against the post. “I know

you’re in a hurry.” She glanced over her shoulder and stepped

close. “But I wanted to bid you farewell and wish you luck on

your hunt.” Quicker than a finger snap, she laced her hands at the

back of his neck, jerked him down, and pressed her mouth to his.

Caught off guard, Tom floundered for a moment, but she

clung tenacious, like a possum in a peach tree. He grasped her

about the waist. At once pushing her away and pulling himself

back, he broke free, and swiped his mouth with the back of his

hand. “What’s gotten into you?”

Bess didn’t answer. Standing with her hands on her hips and a

grin on her face, she watched Maggie run into one of the empty

cabins.

“Thee’s an evil bitch, Bess Hawkins.” Tom grabbed the crate

from Duncan and whistled for Friday.

H

Though it was only a glimpse—for a glimpse was all her eyes

could bear—Maggie could not shake the image from her mind’s

eye. Tom’s hands caressing Bess’s tiny waist. Bess pressing to

Tom’s hard body—his lips on hers . . . Maggie sat at the table

with her head cradled on her arms, suffering the mother of all

headaches.

Ada bustled around the hearth preparing the eve ning meal.

“I’ve allowed ye t’ wallow in despair the day long, but ye must

set yer heartache aside now and be about yer business.” She

dropped a full tray on the tabletop. “Naomi and Susannah need

their tea and wee Mary’s pate needs tending.”

Maggie lugged the tray to the blockhouse and pushed open the

door. Naomi was trudging back and forth across the room, jostling

her screaming baby. “He’s so fussy, Maggie . . .” she complained.

“I’m at wit’s end. He’s been nursing in fits and starts for hours.”

Maggie was surprised to see little Mary fully dressed, wriggling

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like a worm on a fishhook while Susannah braided the hair that

had escaped the scalping knife into two golden plaits. Blue eyes

clear and bright, Mary announced, “Ma says enough lyin’ about,

Maggie. We’re gonna have our tea at a proper table today.”

“I coated her head with the balm y’ give me,” Susannah ex-

plained, “and changed the dressing. It’s scabbin’ over nicely, so’s

I saw no harm . . .”

“It’s a fine idea.” Maggie set the tray down on the worktable

and wrinkled her nose at the fetid air of the windowless room.

“It is a mite close in here . . .” She gathered the writhing baby

into her arms and sniffed his bottom.

Naomi sighed in relief and dropped to sit on her bed. “He’s

hungry all the time and I’ve so little for him . . . I’m deep bone

tired and my head aches so . . .”

Maggie offered Susannah the screaming baby. “Would ye

mind givin’ th’ lad suck one time more?”

Susannah glanced down at the wet patches staining the front

of her bodice and loosened her laces. “We’d sure rather feed the

little fella than listen t’ him squawk, right, Mary?” Mary hud-

dled close to watch the baby nurse.

His eyes squeezed tight, red-faced Alexander worried his fi sts,

snorting and rooting for his breakfast. Susannah brushed her

nipple to his cheek. With the instinct born in every babe, he

turned to food and latched on. Muscles relaxed and the boy