The Midwife's Choice (17 page)

Martha would find her decision only through prayer. With
patience and with faith, and with an answer that would sit comfortably with her conscience.

She grabbed her cape, then proceeded up the stairs to tell Victoria and Fern about visiting with Aunt Hilda. Each step Martha took only made her more determined. If Russell Clifford thought he could rush her into making a hasty decision, he would quickly learn that when confronted with choosing between her duty to God and her patient and her duty to acquiesce to any man's authority, Martha Cade was one woman he could not bully or intimidate, even if he did have every single official in town on his side.

And she would not be alone.

The image of Fern and Ivy standing on either side of Martha, each with their weapon at the ready, was very real. Real enough for her to decide to keep Russell's startling confession and Reverend Welsh's intervention to herself, at least until she had time to think of how she would tell the sisters that their fears had come to fruition. Russell Clifford was staying with the minister and his wife, far closer to Nancy than anyone had imagined.

J
oy and happiness had virtually transformed Aunt Hilda's cottage from a shrine devoted to the past into a living, breathing home again.

A fire blazed in the sitting room that for years had sat cold and abandoned. Delicate lace doilies, long relegated to a trunk, once again decorated the faded upholstery on three chairs in the center of the room. The stew bubbling in the kitchen added tantalizing aromas, but they were not quite strong enough to keep Martha from detecting the subtle scent of lavender when Aunt Hilda came close and took Martha's cape.

“I'll just hang this up with mine and tell Richard you're here. Have a seat. I'll be right back.”

Martha had scarcely sat down when Aunt Hilda accompanied her long-gone husband, hand in hand, into the room. If Aunt Hilda glowed any brighter, Martha suspected the woman's face might burst into flames.

“Here she is, Richard. You probably don't recognize Martha,” Aunt Hilda said. “She was so young when you left, but
you should remember her mother, Rena Fleming. She favors her, don't you think?”

He winked at Martha. “I most certainly do. Fact is, I already told her so myself.”

Aunt Hilda looked up at her husband, then at Martha. The confusion in her gaze quickly gave way to understanding. “You knew! That's why you got young Lucy to replace me. It wasn't Victoria you brought me back to see at all!”

Martha looked to Richard for help. “Well, I—”

“And you!” Aunt Hilda elbowed her husband's stomach playfully. “You didn't tell me you'd seen Martha! Of all the things you had to tell me, how could you forget—”

He grinned and silenced her protests by smooching her lips. Eyes twinkling, he finally set her back before she swooned from lack of air. “Forgiven?” he asked.

She blushed and swatted his arm. “Forgiven.” She turned to face Martha and shook her finger, at her feigning disappointment, which did not match the merriment in her eyes. “As for you, young lady . . .”

Martha surrendered by raising both hands. “I apologize. I had only come to check on the cottage and to get some honey wine when I accidentally discovered he was here waiting for you to come home. He made me promise I wouldn't spoil his surprise.”

“That's exactly what happened,” he admitted. “Now that that's settled, suppose we all have a seat. I'm still tuckered out. . . . Long journey,” he explained.

“Thirty years long, but I'm not complaining. Not one bit. Especially now that I know. . . . Well, you tell it, dear. It's your tale, not mine,” his wife suggested before they all sat down together.

The couple, Martha noted, still held hands.

Richard Seymour toyed with his wife's fingers and rubbed the back of her hand with the pad of his thumb. “Before I do, there's
something I should say to you, girl. Hilda tells me you've been very good to her all these years, as good as our Charity would have been if she had lived past girlhood. I thank you for that.”

Martha swallowed the lump in her throat. “Aunt Hilda is easy to love.”

He smiled and pressed a kiss to the back of his wife's hand. Aunt Hilda's blush deepened, and Martha began to fear the stain might become permanent.

He sobered and let go of his wife's hand to rub his left arm a bit before entwining his fingers with hers again. He met Martha's gaze and held it. “I want you to know that I expect folks will be mighty surprised come Sunday when I show up at meeting.”

When Martha opened her mouth to agree, he raised his other hand. “Let me speak.”

She nodded.

“I've made my peace with my Shepherd and He led me back home. Now that I've made my peace with Hilda and she's forgiven me for what kept me from her side for so long, the only one who deserves to know the truth is you. Since that's what Hilda wants, that's what she'll get. Everyone else can wag their tongues till they fall off, but they don't have a right to know nothin'. I can't change what happened, but I won't have this good woman sufferin' from gossip for a single moment for somethin' she didn't do herself.”

Moved by his honesty and devotion to Aunt Hilda and touched by his willingness to share an obviously painful tale with her and trust her to keep their confidence, Martha blinked back tears. She was curious beyond measure, and even though she would have no trouble keeping the secret he was about to reveal, she loved and respected Aunt Hilda too much to question her decision to welcome this man back into her life.

She leaned forward and gazed at them both. “I'm so happy you're finally home. Wherever you've been and whatever you've
done all these years concern only the two of you and have no bearing on my thoughts. Just seeing you together, seeing how happy Aunt Hilda is, well, that's good enough for me.”

His eyes widened. He cocked his head and tugged on his beard. “You're sure?”

She smiled. “As sure as I've ever been.”

Aunt Hilda tugged on her husband's hand. “I told you she was special,” she murmured. “Just wait till you meet Victoria on Sunday. She's mighty special, too.”

Before Martha could say a word, Aunt Hilda rose and nodded toward the kitchen. “I have to check that stew. While I'm gone, you can tell him all about Victoria and where she's been and what she's got planned for herself now that she's home.”

Martha barely got to describe what Victoria looked like when Aunt Hilda returned. “Stew's fine. Just needed a little more salt. Go ahead. I don't mind hearing again about how that girl of yours landed after she ran off.”

Martha held nothing back. She detailed Victoria's adventure exactly as she had told Aunt Hilda yesterday, as well as her daughter's plans for the immediate future. When she concluded, Aunt Hilda smiled. “You've learned some hard lessons along the way, but you're still amazing. I'm proud of you. I know I already told you that, but I am. I'm proud of Victoria, too. She's proven what I knew all along,” she suggested.

Martha cocked her head.

Aunt Hilda chuckled. “After all is said and done, Victoria truly
is
her mother's daughter, isn't she?” When Martha could not find her voice to protest, Aunt Hilda scowled at her. “Don't look at me like you're all confused. Just think about it. You'll see it for yourself. I don't suppose you'd like to stay to supper?”

“No,” Martha said absently. “I promised Victoria I'd be home for supper.” With her aunt's words still begging for an explanation, Martha made her way home, wondering if this time Aunt Hilda had gone too far.

Martha could not imagine a mother and daughter who were more different than she and Victoria were. Or had Martha yet more lessons to learn about her daughter as well as herself?

More joy awaited Martha at the confectionery.

Supper was just about to begin, and they had saved a place for her at the table. No easy task, not with June Morgan, Dr. McMillan, and Thomas there, too. With Nancy resting upstairs, Victoria had come down. Fern and Ivy had even stored away their weapons.

Supper was delicious and the desserts too tempting, as usual. Conversation had been interrupted by laughter more than a few times. Whether by chance or choice, the topic of Russell Clifford and his wife had never surfaced. The mood around the table was as festive and gay as any Martha could recall, and she accepted this supper as a blessing indeed.

While Fern and Ivy took June on a tour of the shop, with Dr. McMillan tagging along to snag a few goodies for himself, and with Victoria upstairs to see if Nancy was awake and willing to try a little supper, Martha and Thomas had a moment alone. “How long will you be staying before you leave?” she asked.

“I'm set to leave sometime tomorrow afternoon. I spoke to the sheriff and Reverend Welsh. They seem to have everything under control. Actually, I have to admit I was as surprised by Russell Clifford's admission as I was relieved you won't have to get involved. The issue is pretty much settled, from what I've been told.”

Rather than protest and admit her continued interest in the situation or attempt a well-intentioned lie, which he would sense immediately, she dropped her gaze and toyed with the frayed hem on the tablecloth.

“I'm not sure what's so fascinating about the tablecloth. Would you care to enlighten me?”

When she ignored him, he sighed and tilted up her chin. “Tell me you're not getting involved. No, don't bother. You
are
getting involved. I can see it in your eyes.”

She huffed and moved her chin far enough away that he was forced to drop his hand. Thomas had known her intentions simply by looking at her, and she bristled. “Of course I'm involved. Nancy is my patient. Are you suggesting she'd be better tended by . . . by Dr. McMillan?”

“That's not what I meant, and you know it!”

She met his gaze and held it. “Exactly what did you mean? That I should simply patch her up and send her back to that man and simply accept his promise he'll never beat her again? Or bow to Sheriff Myer, who hasn't yet ever held a man accountable on charges like this when I suspect he should have? Or maybe you think I should have the same faith as Reverend Welsh and just trust Russell Clifford to follow the Word and act like a responsible husband instead of a brute. Do I look that naïve? Doesn't my experience count for anything? Do you honestly think I would endanger any of my patients, just to keep the town officials happy? I thought you knew me. I thought you were different from how you were twenty-five years ago. Kinder. More supportive.”

He flinched. “I didn't mean to be unkind or to imply that I'm questioning your judgment. I'm concerned about you, that's all. I know you'll do what's right.”

Indeed, he had changed. She barely caught a grin before it escaped, as her heart well knew. Now if she could only get him to agree to stay for just a few more days. . . .

T
he shift from joy to concern took Martha only as long as it took her to carry Nancy's supper tray upstairs and convince Victoria that she needed some time away from her nursing duties.

She found Nancy sitting up in bed. The snow-cold towels had done their job and greatly reduced the swelling in the young woman's face, but only time would gently fade and erase the bruises. “You must be feeling better,” Martha suggested as she set the tray on top of a chest of drawers. “You're hungry, I hope.”

Nancy's eyes lit up, adding a sparkle to the center of the dark hues that blackened her face. In the next heartbeat, she lifted her hand and gingerly touched her lips. The sparkle disappeared.

“I know it won't be easy for you, but you need some nourishment. We'll just take our time about it.”

Nancy's gaze never left Martha as she pulled the chair a little closer to the bed and covered Nancy's chest with a large towel. She smiled. “I expect we'll spill a good bit, but don't you worry about making a mess,” she said and returned the lopsided smile she got with a tender one.

Martha settled the tray on her lap. “Everything is cool to the touch so you won't burn your mouth. I'll help you, if that's all right.”

A relieved glance. A quick nod.

“We'll start with some of Miss Ivy's chicken broth.” She offered a spoonful to Nancy, being careful to avoid touching her swollen lips. Most trickled out of the corner of Nancy's mouth. Martha chuckled. “Half in. Half out. That's pretty good!”

For the next half hour, Martha worked patiently, offering spoonfuls of nourishment and even bigger doses of encouragement. When the bowl of broth and the small cup of custard she had thinned with milk was empty, she wiped Nancy's chin, removed the towel, and set the tray on the floor. “You did very well. It'll get easier, I promise.”

Nancy's eyes welled with tears, and she gripped Martha's hand. “Th-thank you.”

The girl's words were slurred, since she had to talk as best she could without moving her lips, but Martha had nursed enough patients to be able to understand her perfectly. “You're very welcome.”

Nancy glanced at the door. “-ussell?”

Martha took a deep breath and prayed for wisdom. “Russell came to see you today. He's staying in town with Reverend and Mrs. Welsh.”

A raised brow. Beneath, a flicker of fear flashed through dark brown eyes glistening with fresh tears.

“I told him you were still recuperating. If you want, we can send for him in a few days when you're feeling stronger.”

Nancy closed her eyes for a moment. Her breathing became quick and shallow. She trembled.

Martha squeezed the girl's hand. “You don't have to see him at all. He's told me what really happened. You don't have to be afraid. He can't hurt you here.”

Nancy's eyes snapped open. Tears coursed down her cheeks.
She stared at Martha, shook her head, and tugged on Martha's hand. “He'll come. He'll hit me. Again.”

“No. He won't ever hit you again. Not here. Not anywhere,” Martha assured her.

Nancy pulled her hand free and curled into a ball. She sobbed so deeply, Martha thought her heart would break. Clearly, the girl was frightened, but was she frightened enough to want to leave her husband forever? Or would she vacillate and change her mind the moment her injuries had healed? How much influence would Reverend Welsh have in the matter? More important, could Russell truly change, or was his brutish behavior too ingrained?

Martha had no answers to her questions, but she did take comfort in knowing that her decision to keep Russell from seeing his wife had been a good one. Until Nancy recovered fully and could make a clear and rational choice, Martha had every intention of making this sickroom off-limits to anyone other than herself, Victoria, and the two women who had given this young woman a safe haven.

Martha got out of her chair, sat down on the bed, and urged Nancy into her arms. “We'll find a way through this. Together,” she promised. She caressed the girl's head and crooned words of encouragement until Nancy fell asleep.

Gently, Martha laid Nancy back on her pillow, dampened some clean cloths, and sponged the girl's face to remove the tearstains and the fresh blood that was still oozing from her bottom lip. Martha looked down at her bodice and sighed. There was nothing to be done now for the bloodstains; instead, she sat back down in her chair, watching. Waiting. Ready to offer comfort as soon as Nancy awoke, even as her mind replayed all that had just occurred.

If Nancy was able to admit being afraid of her husband, Martha counted that as an important first step toward resolving the question of Nancy's future. Martha was not quite sure
how to proceed, but she certainly knew two women who could offer practical advice, assuming they would put their weapons aside long enough to talk.

When Victoria slipped back into the sickroom a few hours later, Martha put a finger to her lips and rose from her seat. Exhaustion had added a few years to her daughter's youthful face. “I thought I told you to rest yourself tonight,” she admonished in a whisper. “You can sit with Nancy tomorrow.”

Victoria knitted her brows together. “Then who is going to sit with her during the night?” she asked, keeping her voice soft.

Martha feigned a hurt look. “I hope you aren't suggesting I'm too old for the task!”

Victoria chuckled. “I know better. I'd just like to be with Nancy tonight. I can sleep in the chair. Otherwise I'll be afraid I won't hear her if she wakes up and needs something.”

Martha studied her daughter's earnest expression. Although Victoria was a caring, sensitive girl, she had always been uncomfortable helping Martha with her duties, whether the patient was a woman who was ill or about to give birth. Perhaps witnessing others suffering was simply too much for her, and Martha did not want to force Victoria to remain for fear her daughter might become too distressed. “You don't have to stay. I know how hard it is for you.”

Victoria chewed on her lower lip. “I know, but . . . but I really want to stay.” She looked at Nancy and sighed. “Did you know she only just turned nineteen? We're almost the same age.”

Taken aback, Martha skewed her gaze. “Are you sure?”

“She told me today.”

Martha sensed her daughter had made a personal connection to this patient. Perhaps because they were so close in age, Nancy would be more open with her, rather than Martha. “Her
husband told me they were from somewhere in New Jersey and that she missed her family. Did she mention any family to you?”

Victoria snorted. “Such as it is. Nancy told me she lost her parents years ago. She lived with a relative, an uncle or cousin, I'm not sure which.” She blushed. “It's a little hard to understand her, and I didn't want to keep asking her to repeat herself.”

Martha nodded.

“Anyway, she said this relative was very good to her, at first. Then he got sick. The sicker he got, the nastier he became.” She shook her head. “She said it was her fault. Why would she say that?”

Mindful of the similarity between Nancy's relationship with her husband and her relative, Martha shrugged her shoulders. “I'm not sure,” she murmured, certain now that sending Nancy back to her relative was not a good option.

“Well, it couldn't have been her fault,” Victoria argued, clearly mystified by Nancy's attitude. “She was teaching school when she met Mr. Clifford. She thought her life would get better when they married. But it didn't, did it?”

Martha briefly embraced her daughter. “No, sweetheart, it surely doesn't appear so.”

Victoria sniffled. “You told us he came to see her today, but you wouldn't let him. Not until Sunday. What will happen then? Miss Fern and Miss Ivy said they won't let him—”

“If Nancy wants to see her husband, we shouldn't stop her,” Martha cautioned. “Right now, though, she seems very afraid of him.”

“He can't force you to let him see her, can he?”

Reluctant to let Victoria know how worried Martha was about just such a possibility, she chuckled. “With Miss Fern and Miss Ivy on guard duty?”

Victoria grinned and leaned toward Martha to whisper in her ear. “They look rather silly carrying that poker and rolling pin around with them all day.”

“Never underestimate the power of a determined woman or a pair of them,” Martha teased. “Which reminds me. Is there anything special you want to do before leaving on Monday? I'm sure Miss Fern or Miss Ivy wouldn't mind staying with Nancy for a few hours. I have a few errands to take care of tomorrow morning, but after that . . .”

Victoria's face lit up. “Can we go back to see Father's farm? I haven't been there for so long.”

Martha cupped her daughter's cheek. She was not surprised. The farm was the only home of their own they had ever known as a family. “Neither have I. We can leave right after dinner and be home before dark. We could even ride double, like we used to do when you were little. I'll get Miss Fern to pack some sweets. We'll have a picnic,” she suggested, remembering Thomas's invitation only days ago.

Victoria giggled. “A picnic, Mother? With only sweets to eat? And it's winter. There's snow on the ground!”

“I have just the place in mind. If you think hard enough, you'll know right where I mean, and since we have plans now, you'll really need your rest tonight. Are you sure you won't let me stay with Nancy?”

Victoria marched her mother to the door. “Stay here,” she ordered. She retrieved the supper tray, handed it to Martha, and turned her around to face the door. “Good night, Mother.”

Martha looked over her shoulder, back at Victoria. “Are you sure?”

Victoria kissed her mother's cheek. “If Nancy needs you during the night, I'll get you. Don't worry. I'll be fine.”

Martha's throat constricted. “Yes, I believe you will, sweet girl. I believe you will.”

As Martha made her way back downstairs, she could not help but wonder at the difference in her daughter. She was much more self-assured and confident than before she ran away, and she certainly seemed much more comfortable in the sickroom.

When Martha reached the kitchen, so many lamps were lit the room was as bright as midday, even though it was well past seven at night. She found Ivy, poker and all, at the worktable, where clothing lay sorted into piles sitting on either side of an open sewing basket.

Ivy laid down a petticoat she had apparently been mending. “How's our patient?”

“Better.” Martha set the supper tray down near the sink. “Where's Fern?”

“Upstairs. In bed.”

“Already?”

Ivy picked up the petticoat and started restitching the hem. “I'm staying up until one, then Fern will keep watch.”

Martha sat down across from Ivy, took a pair of lady's drawers, and inspected them. She found a split seam along the side. “You really don't have to worry about anything happening.”

Ivy pursed her lips. “He's right here in town. That should make you worry, too.”

Ivy did not have to use Russell's name for Martha to know exactly who she was referring to. “He promised to wait until Sunday.”

Ivy cocked a brow. “And you believed him?”

Martha tossed the drawers aside. “He promised in front of Reverend Welsh. Of course I believe him.”

Ivy's gaze softened. “That's your first mistake,” she murmured. “The next one may cost Nancy Clifford her life.”

Both hurt and confused, Martha felt the blood drain from her face. “Mistake? How can you say that? You don't know Russell Clifford. How can you be so sure he won't keep his promise?”

“Because I made the same mistake! I believed Bartholomew Pennington when he promised never to hurt my sister again. I know it's hard to believe, but men like Fern's husband and Russell are almost too easy to love.”

Martha nearly dropped her sewing. “Easy to love?”

“Too easy. After an episode, they're utterly devoted. Charming. And so remorseful, they make women fall in love with them all over again. Then one day, without warning, they strike again. Just like Russell did to Nancy. Just like Bartholomew did to Fern. The last time, he nearly killed her.”

She paused to blink back tears. “And he would have killed her if I hadn't been there to stop him.”

Martha moistened her lips. “You must have been very frightened.”

Ivy sighed and leaned against the back of her chair. “I was petrified, but I was also outraged. I vowed Fern would never spend another night in that house. Ever.”

“Fern told me you both ran away that night.”

Ivy looked off into the distance, as if she could see the past unfold. “Yes, I know. She told me you'd talked, but I'm quite sure she didn't tell you that days later, after she started healing, she begged me to take her home again.”

“Back home? Why on earth would she have wanted to go back to her husband?”