31

When Martha reached the kitchen, she found Victoria and Nancy clearing sewing notions off the kitchen table while supper, obviously unattended, boiled over on the cookstove.

“Mother!” Victoria cried and rushed over to give Martha a hug, with a rather large, cumbersome sewing basket crushed between them. “We were wondering when you’d get home. Is everything all right?”

“Fine. Everyone is fine.” Martha returned her daughter’s embrace and turned toward the cookstove. Using thick cloths, she quickly maneuvered the pot of stew to a cooler place on the cookstove. “Mrs. Harper had twin girls so I needed to stay a bit longer than usual,” she said, reluctant to be overly enthusiastic out of consideration for Nancy’s recent loss.

She glanced at both girls. “It looks like you’ve both been busy,” she noted as she approached the table, where a plate of sugar cookies looked tempting.

Nancy blushed, and the pink coloring added an odd hue to the yellowish bruises that remained on her face. Her lip, however, had nearly healed. “We . . . well, we just finished. I’m sorry we didn’t notice the stew.”

Victoria opened the sewing basket she was still carrying. “Look! Mr. Sweet had several boxes of ribbon he was giving away. For free!”

Martha peered inside and saw half a dozen spools of ribbon. Nearly three-quarters of an inch wide, the ribbon was bile-green with a thick stripe of sunflower-yellow running down the center. It was simply hideous, and Martha crinkled her nose. “What could you possibly be doing with that ribbon? It’s garish, to say the least.”

Victoria’s smile widened. “You may think it’s garish, but others might argue it’s the height of fashion in New York City to wear such bright colors. I have some upstairs for you. I think there’s a dozen spools, but if you don’t want them . . .”

“No. I’ll . . . I’ll think of some good use for them,” she responded. She was always in need of some type of twine to hang her herbs to dry. Come spring, she would have to start replacing all she’d lost in the fire, but just the thought that she would have to see this awful ribbon hanging overhead sent shivers up and down her spine, until she remembered she would still be here at the confectionery in the spring. “What did you do with yours?” she asked the girls.

Nancy giggled. “We put ribbon trim on our drawers.”

“Nancy even decided to add some color to her cape and trimmed the whole thing, even the hood. Among other pieces we decided looked plain or drab,” Victoria added.

Martha chuckled and shook her head. “I probably shouldn’t ask what you mean.”

Victoria’s eyes twinkled. “You probably shouldn’t.”

Martha snatched a sugar cookie from the plate. “I just spoke to Dr. McMillan. I understand you two have been out quite a bit while I’ve been gone.”

“Just running errands,” Victoria answered.

“For Miss Fern and Miss Ivy,” Nancy added before she dropped her gaze and toyed with the scissors in her hands.

Martha polished off her cookie and brushed the crumbs from her fingers. “He tells me Russell has been around town as well. Perhaps it would be wiser if you stayed inside, at least until—”

“Martha! You’re back! Finally!”

Fern ambled into the kitchen with a broad smile on her face. Her broken wrist, still protected by a splint, rested in a sling. “All finished, girls? I’m so impressed. Why don’t you take the sewing basket and the rest upstairs, then go see Miss Ivy in the shop? She needs a little help. And be careful not to let that critter out, or I’ll be sneezing all day and half the night.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the girls replied in unison, then quickly left.

Fern eyed the pot on the stove and frowned. “I had a feeling they might forget to watch it.” She headed toward the cookstove, but Martha intercepted her.

“I’ll take care of this. You’re supposed to be resting that arm,” she cautioned.

Fern sniffed. “I have another. I’m not totally helpless.”

Martha almost rolled her eyes, thought of Will, and caught herself. She stirred the stew, checked the fire, and moved the pot back closer to the center before setting the thick cloths aside again. “Don’t tell me you had the girls use some of the ugly ribbon to trim your drawers,” she teased.

Fern’s eyes widened, then narrowed defensively. “Actually, I had them trim a petticoat for me and a few other things, too. It’s not exactly the ribbon I’d choose, but—”

“But it was free. And wearing that ribbon will remind you that Wesley Sweet had to admit to making a business mistake by ordering such awful ribbon.”

Fern grinned. “Half the women in town have gotten some free ribbon already. The other half will be sure to take the rest. I do so love it when someone like young Sweet gets what he deserves. The man has no heart. Not even for folks troubled by hard times. To see him have to take a loss and give something away just brings a smile to my heart.”

“Speaking of someone getting what he deserves, Dr. McMillan told me what Russell Clifford’s been doing while I’ve been gone. Do you think it’s a good idea for Nancy to be out and about? Given the man’s apparent obsession with his wife, how long are you all going to wait to get Nancy to someplace safe?”

Fern chewed on her bottom lip, looked around the room, and leaned closer to Martha. “We only need a few more days to get everything ready. That’s more than I should say, but I know you’ll keep this very quiet. If Russell even gets a whiff—”

“You know I wouldn’t breathe a word to anyone,” Martha insisted.

Fern patted her friend’s arm. “I do. In truth, we may need your help.”

“Anything,” Martha said, anxious to be part of the scheme, if only to reassert her place as a member of the sisterhood.

“I’ll let you know. In the meantime, maybe you can tell me what you think about my plan to resolve my own situation.” She retrieved the plate of sugar cookies from the table, added more, and nodded toward the staircase. “We can talk more privately upstairs. Ivy will be back to check on supper once the girls arrive to take over in the shop.”

Intrigued and duly tempted, Martha followed Fern upstairs. Once they were settled in comfortable chairs in Fern’s room, with the door closed and locked and the plate of cookies resting on Martha’s lap, Fern let out a sigh. “I took your advice and talked to Mayor Dillon. He’s offered to help me.”

Stunned, Martha’s hand, with a cookie halfway to her lips, froze in place. “You did? He . . . he did?”

Fern made a face. “I don’t know why you act so surprised. You’re the one who said I should talk to him. You said he would be helpful, remember?”

Martha laid her hand down, but held tight to her cookie. “Yes, I know I did, but I just didn’t expect you’d act on my advice at all, let alone so quickly, and especially considering your injury. Besides, Thomas left days ago.”

“He had to turn back when the storm hit,” Fern offered. With a shrug of her shoulders, she sampled a cookie, which she chewed thoughtfully.

Martha followed suit and ate her own.

“After fifteen years, I suppose you’re right to wonder why I’ve suddenly decided to do something about my situation. Maybe I just don’t want to worry for the next fifteen years. We’re leaving for Philadelphia on Sunday, right after meeting.”

Martha choked, coughed, and eventually managed to swallow the piece of cookie that had caught in her throat. “You’re traveling to Philadelphia? With your arm in a sling? Is that wise?”

“I’m not much help here,” Fern countered. “Dr. McMillan said I could go, and Mayor Dillon promised he’d make the trip as comfortable as possible. He was planning to leave for Philadelphia anyway. Since Eleanor is due to deliver next month, he’s coming back here before continuing on to New York so . . . so we’re making this into a bit of a holiday, too.”

Martha struggled to find her voice while her mind latched on to the memory of Thomas’s invitation to accompany him on his trip as his bride. Fern and Martha were close in age, and she wondered if either Fern or Thomas had given any thought to the propriety of traveling alone together. The subject, however, was a delicate one, and she was loath to introduce it for fear of putting a damper on Fern’s plans. “What about Ivy?” she ventured. “Is she in favor of your plans?”

Fern cocked her head, knitted her brows together, and stared at Martha like she had grown a second nose. “Ivy? She’s coming with us, of course! You didn’t think I’d go off with the mayor alone, did you? People would surely talk!”

“No. I didn’t. I just . . . If Ivy goes with you, what about the confectionery?” she asked as the exodus of folks leaving Trinity grew ever larger in her mind’s eye.

“Closed. For renovations. We’ve been meaning to make some changes anyway, so while we’re gone, Luther Phipps is going to do some work for us. When we’re in Philadelphia, we’re going to look at some new display cases, maybe even some new furniture for the sitting room. We’ll be back before folks hardly notice we’re gone.”

Martha polished off another cookie. “I doubt that. I’m not sure I can survive a full month or more without one of your cherry pies, and Dr. McMillan will be upset, too.”

Fern chuckled. “It’s cold enough to store some treats outside. You’ll just have to make them last till we get back.”

“You’re not afraid of confronting your husband? Not even a little bit?”

Fern let out a deep sigh. “Like I told Nancy, I’m just plumb tired of being afraid. Besides, I can hardly expect that girl to have the courage to start her life over again if I can’t face my past, now can I?”

June Morgan arrived unexpectedly just after the shop had closed for the day. Martha ushered her into the kitchen. “Fern and Ivy are upstairs packing. Victoria took Nancy back to the general store to get more ribbon, so I have to keep a close watch on supper,” she explained, although she still felt uneasy about letting Nancy go out. “Would you like something hot to drink? Or some cookies, perhaps?”

June shook her head. “I can’t stay long. Mrs. Andrews will have supper ready soon, too.”

“How are you feeling?” Martha asked as she stirred the leftover stew.

June removed her gloves, but only opened up her cape instead of removing it. “Very well. Thank you. I’ve been hoping to talk to you privately about a matter I think . . . I hope you’ll find appealing,” she suggested.

Curious, Martha led her to the two chairs resting in front of the fireplace, where they each took a seat. “I presume this would concern Victoria.”

June blushed. “Actually, no. It concerns you, rather the sketches and short essays on different herbs and treatments you’ve prepared for Benjamin. He shared them with me. I hope you don’t mind.”

More befuddled than curious now, Martha shook her head. “Mind? I shouldn’t think so, but why would you have any interest in them?”

June toyed with her gloves for a moment before she gazed at Martha with great intensity. “May I speak frankly?”

“Of course.”

“With Benjamin here now, how much longer do you think you’ll be able to continue your work?”

Martha’s spine stiffened. “We’ve managed to find a way so we can both provide for our respective patients without infringing—”

“That’s now. What do you suppose it will be like in five years or ten? Midwives have all but disappeared from the largest cities, save for the few who tend to the desperate or the very poor. New laws are being written, even as we speak, limiting what midwives can and cannot do. Doctors are taking over, leaving women no choice but to accept their care, as well as their treatments, no matter how debilitating or dangerous they might be.”

“That won’t happen here,” Martha protested.

June’s gaze softened. “Benjamin is a good doctor, and he’s better than most because he listens to his heart as well as his head. Unlike many other doctors, he has respect for the work midwives do and the treatments they use—treatments that have been passed down from one generation to the next. All because of you.”

Martha felt her cheeks warm. “That’s very kind of you, but you overestimate—”

“Little by little, his practice will expand and yours will diminish,” June continued. “Women here in Trinity will grow to rely upon him more and more, just like most women have done back East, where midwives are scrambling for ways to survive. In the end, all of the knowledge you and women like you have acquired will be lost or appropriated by doctors for their exclusive use.”

Martha wanted to argue that June was wrong. Completely wrong. Maybe doctors had replaced midwives in large eastern cities, but she hoped Trinity would always have room for both a midwife and a doctor. But change, it seemed, was as inevitable as the shift in seasons each year. She could see it in the town’s landscape. She could see it in the shifting tide of people who came to Trinity to make new futures for themselves and the people who were leaving to do the same. She could even see it in the faces of women who were turning to Dr. McMillan to deliver their babies. Although that number was small now, it would increase. She had the feeling she would not have to worry about finding her own replacement. He was the town doctor, already in place, and as age slowed her down, the number of patients who called for her would also shrink.

She dropped her gaze and steepled her hands. “What you say rings true, I’m afraid, although I’ve done my best to deny it to myself.” She fought back tears. “I suppose I should be grateful Dr. McMillan has the sense to respect time-proven treatments, enough to try them before resorting to some of the new medicines that mostly put women into a stupor.”

June reached over and laid her hand on top of Martha’s. “But you can do more than just share your knowledge with Benjamin. Other women can learn about the remedies and use them at home, which would limit their need for a doctor. Other doctors, men like Benjamin, might want to learn about them, too.”

Martha sighed and shook her head. “I can’t see how.”

June smiled. “Your sketches and essays. They’re a veritable treasure, although the sketches need an artist’s touch and the essays need to read more like prose. And if we were to put one or two in every issue of our magazine, hundreds and hundreds of women, perhaps thousands if our subscriptions continue to increase, would have a reference to guide them at a far more affordable cost when compared to the price of books—which are mostly written by men, I might add.”

As she spoke, her voice became more and more excited, and Martha’s heart began to race. “You’d put my sketches and essays into your magazine?”

“Imagine the wonder of it, Martha. Women would heed your advice because of your status and experience. You would empower them, give them some sense of control over healing themselves and their families.”

“I don’t know. . . .”

“Just recently, Mrs. Child published a book,” June prompted. “The Frugal Housewife sold six thousand copies in a single year because so many women have either found themselves far from home without an older relative to guide them or they’re isolated from other women on homesteads that are stretching further and further west or . . . or they find themselves in reduced circumstances, forced to perform chores they once assigned to servants. Depending on the response we have to the first few issues, your series might very well end up as a book that literally thousands of women would use. My husband has many contacts in the publishing industry. I’m certain he would help to find a publisher who would agree to keep the price affordable to most anyone.”

“First in the magazine, then a book?” The idea sounded preposterous, yet deep in the recesses of her very spirit, Martha felt a surge of excitement and joy that spurred new ideas about expanding access to her store of knowledge right here in Trinity—ideas that would acknowledge the very sisterhood she had nearly forsaken.

Until she thought about Victoria.

If Martha did have a series on simples and treatments for common diseases and ailments that appeared as a monthly feature in the magazine, she would be intruding on every hope and dream in Victoria’s heart. Writing and publishing were Victoria’s dreams, not Martha’s. She and Victoria had come too far together, as mother and daughter, to risk becoming estranged over something like this.

Martha patted June’s hand. “As much as I’d like to accept your offer, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.”

June leaned back and narrowed her gaze. “It’s Victoria, isn’t it?”

“You’re a very intuitive woman. Victoria and I have had our difficulties in the past, as you know. Partly because I failed to realize that our gifts are so very different. She’s a poet. A writer. She belongs in that world. I know that now, just as I belong in mine. If I accepted your offer, I’d be intruding into her world. She’d resent it, and I wouldn’t blame her.”

“No. I wouldn’t. Truly. I wouldn’t, Mother.”

Victoria’s voice, as much as her words, startled Martha. She clapped her hand to her chest, looked over, and saw her daughter standing in the doorway to the storage room. “Victoria!”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to startle you,” she said as she walked toward them. “Nancy’s upstairs putting the extra ribbon away, but I decided to come downstairs and make some tea.” She dropped her gaze for a moment. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but . . . but I did. I think it’s a grand idea. You should accept.”

Martha rose and faced her daughter, but June remained seated. “Are you certain you wouldn’t mind?”

Victoria nodded. “We could work on the essays together. I could even polish them up a bit. I think if we make them read more like a story, instead of an article in a scientific journal, women wouldn’t be able to resist them.”

Martha cocked a brow. “You’ve read them?”

“Just one. Dr. McMillan left it lying in the sitting room.”

Blinking back tears, Martha took several deep breaths. “I’d like it very much if we could work on them together, but you’re going to be in New York while I’ll be here.”

Victoria walked right into her mother’s arms and hugged her. “There’s an amazing thing called the post, you know.”

Martha sniffled. “The only amazing thing I can think of right now is you.”

“I’ll make sure to remind you of your own words when I begin to edit some of your essays. We have a few days left before I’m supposed to leave. Maybe we could start now and get several done.”

Martha kissed Victoria’s forehead. “I’ll have to get them all back from Dr. McMillan, so you can help me decide where to start this . . . this series.”

She turned back to June, ever more aware of the role this amazing younger woman had played, not only in reuniting Martha with her daughter, but also in helping them both to reestablish strong bonds. “Thank you,” she murmured. “It seems I’m going to accept your offer after all. Actually, we’re both accepting your offer to submit a series of essays and sketches. Since Victoria and I will be working on these together, then we should share the credit as coauthors.”

June smiled. “You’re very welcome.”

“Have you made all the arrangements to return to New York?”

“I spoke to Sheriff Myer just this morning. Apparently, he has some business in Sunrise and he’s agreed to escort us there. After Victoria has a visit with her aunt and uncle, we can hire a driver to take us back to New York. If that’s agreeable, we can leave on Sunday after meeting.”

“Sunday would be fine,” Martha responded. Was everyone going to leave together on Sunday? If so, there was going to be a caravan, similar to those that often passed through Trinity heading west, but this one would be heading east, toward the very regions the earliest settlers in Trinity had once called home. “Sheriff Myer will get you there safely,” she added, making a mental note to tell Victoria about James’s plan to sell the tavern property rather than rebuild.

When June rose to leave, Martha held up her hand. “If you’ll wait, I’ll walk you home so I can pick up those sketches and essays. That way Victoria and I can start working together tonight.”

Martha had scarcely donned her cape when there came a series of harsh knocks on the back door. Instinctively, she sensed yet another call to duty that would obliterate her plans to spend the evening, if not the next few days, with her daughter.

She hurried to the back door and opened it partway. The moment she recognized her caller, she braced the bottom of the door with her foot to keep it from opening any further. Instead of relief that the caller was not summoning her to duty, fear raised the hairs on the back of her neck and flooded through her body.

Russell Clifford reeked of cheap rum, and she nearly gagged at the stench of his rumpled clothing. His bloodshot eyes flashed with impatience. “I want my wife back. Now.” He belched and swayed sideways, nearly losing his balance.

Martha took the advantage, nudged the door halfway closed, and edged her body partly behind the door. “She isn’t home. Even if she were, she has no intention of speaking to you. Now be off. And don’t come back, or I’ll be forced to send for the sheriff.”

He lunged at her so quickly, he caught her off guard and managed to catch her by her right shoulder. His grip was powerful, but he was so addled he lost his footing and had to let go to regain his balance.

Martha pulled back, slammed the door, and dropped the bar into place to prevent him from charging in. Her chest heaved as she drew in gulps of air, and her heart whacked hard against her rib cage. As much as she did not want to wish away her last few days with Victoria, she knew Sunday could not come quickly enough—for everyone, but most especially, Nancy.