MC MASTER HOUSE
MONDAY, MARCH 15
We sit outside the mill in a rare patch of winter sunshine, our feet propped up on a stump. Ephraim usually isn’t one to smoke, but ever since Percy returned in good health, he has taken to having an afternoon smoke break. I join him when I can. As for the bird, Ephraim has no plans to rebuild the mews. For now, Percy has been left to flit around the mill and roost where he pleases. I watch my husband produce an old, ornate pipe from his pocket, along with a pouch of tobacco. He lights. Puffs. Rolls the smoke around his mouth and then out again in a smooth stream. He’s not one for smoke rings given that he isn’t a pretentious man, so he doesn’t make a show of his good mood.
I am reaching for the pipe to practice the technique that Mrs. Ney showed me when I hear the heavy clomp of horse hooves coming down the lane. As I turn, the person I least expect emerges from the wood.
Grace Sewell’s mother, Mrs. Hendricks.
She of the high ideals and sour expression.
I’ve never seen a person look more uneasy on horseback. Nor a horse less pleased to be ridden. Her spine is straight. Her arms stiff. And her eyes are filled with the kind of terror that any horse could smell. It’s a wonder she’s made it here alive. Brutus would have thrown her five seconds into the ride.
“Mrs. Hendricks.” I greet her with a forced smile. “How can I help you today?”
Her teeth are clenched so tightly she has to stretch her jaw before she can speak. “My daughter Grace.”
“Is she unwell?”
“It is the child. She sent me to collect you.”
“You said your daughter called for me.” I turn an accusing stare toward Mrs. Hendricks. “You lied.”
Though today marks the Ides of March, it is still bitterly cold. Most years the river has opened by now and the ground is starting to thaw. But not this year. Winter still holds us in its bitter grip. Even though the sun is out, and shining, it gives no warmth. I look to it and frown. I am tired of winter. And I am angry at being tricked.
“If I had told you the truth, you wouldn’t have come,” she protests.
“Of course not! I want nothing to do with that man.”
“Well, his wife is going to die if you don’t go in. And I will be thrilled to tell the entire town that you left her to do so because of some petty grudge.”
“Petty grudge? Two women in this town have buried children. And my son is in jail. All because of him!”
Mrs. Hendricks straightens her back. Lifts her chin. “He is no good at this birthing business. I’ll give you that. And I will also concede that, had you not been there, my daughter and grandson would likely be dead. It’s a debt I’ll owe you for the rest of my life. But his incompetence doesn’t mean that another woman and child should be buried. Not if you can help.”
I take a step back and peer at her suspiciously. “What is any of this to you?”
“His wife and my daughter have become friends.” Mrs. Hendricks huffs out a sigh. “I will be leaving in two months. If that girl dies, Grace will have nothing.”
I would hardly count a husband, a child, a home, and a community as nothing. But I am in no mood to argue with Mrs. Hendricks. Besides, we are standing in the street and could be overheard at any moment. Yet before I can stop her, she pulls the rope beside the door and bells chime inside the house. Within seconds I hear the heavy tread of footsteps.
“Did Page call for me?”
“No,” she admits. “And perhaps he will be angry. But I’m sure he wants a dead wife less than he wants your help. That’s why I walked across the river and borrowed that demon of a horse from the tavern.”
Said horse—Beulah—is nearly as old as I am, and whatever teeth she has left are long and yellow. She’s as placid a beast as God ever made. Still, neither had seemed pleased with the other’s company, and when Mrs. Hendricks slid clumsily off her back, I didn’t know who would bite first. I was pleased to see Beulah do the honor.
I had believed Mrs. Hendricks at first. Had followed her into the Hook, where we’d put our horses at the tavern. Then walked across the river. Mrs. Hendricks remained quiet most of the way, and I thought nothing of it. Worry does that to a mother. But it wasn’t until she walked right past the chandlery and down the street that I began to suspect something was amiss. And when she stopped in front of the old McMaster place, I knew I’d been duped.
Like Beulah, I might be getting a little long in the tooth. But I am not so old that I forget basic facts. Like Samuel Coleman telling me that Dr. Page has rented the McMaster home.
I am just about to turn and walk away when the door is thrown back. This Benjamin Page looks nothing like the arrogant, well-kept physician who has plagued me for months. He is a wreck. Hair sticking on end. Sweaty brow. Glassy eyes. Clothing rumpled. Still, he musters enough animosity to insult me.
“What the hell is she doing here?” he demands.
If you had asked me in December if there would ever be a scenario in which I would thank the Almighty for Mrs. Hendricks, I would have laughed. And yet, all those months ago I’d never seen her in her true form. As a Boston matriarch. The sort of woman who can intimidate a Harvard-educated man. That is the version of herself that she presents to the petulant, frightened Dr. Page.
“Stand back, young man!” she orders. And her voice is so loud and so sure that he stumbles two steps backward into the dark hall. “I called for this woman, and you will do exactly as she says.”
“But I—”
“Shut up. Take us to your wife.”
He is flummoxed. So beside himself that, for once, the man doesn’t argue. We follow him down the dark hall. Up the dark stairs. Into a bedroom so dark that I can barely see the hand in front of my face.
“Where is she?” Mrs. Hendricks demands.
“There. On the bed.”
I see only a shadow surrounded by other shadows.
“Why is it so dark in here?” I ask.
Dr. Page snorts. “Because, science has proven that a dark room relaxes the patient. If you knew anything about medicine, you would know—”
A whimper from the bed silences him.
“How long since her pains began?”
“Yesterday. Early.”
“And how long since she was last up and moving?”
“She hasn’t been up. She must keep her strength!”
If he was closer, I’d slap him. “And since she last ate?”
I can see only the outline of his face in the darkness, but I hear the disdain in his voice clearly enough. “As I’m sure you well know, Mistress Ballard, a full stomach will cause indigestion in a laboring woman. She’s eaten nothing since her first pain.”
The man’s an idiot, that much is clear. And I will not argue with him. “Do you want me here?” I ask.
“No.”
“Does your wife want me here?”
“She has no say in the—”
Mrs. Hendricks has finally had enough. She grabs his ear and twists so hard he lets out a howl that would rival that of a dying dog. Dr. Page swats at her hand as she hauls him to his wife’s bedside. When she releases him, he plops to the mattress like a marionette that’s had its strings cut.
Mrs. Hendricks leans over the bed, and I must squint to see her put her palm to the young woman’s cheek. “Hello, dear,” she says. “We’ve come to help. Would you like that?”
There is a muffled answer that sounds affirmative.
“Very good. This woman here is a midwife. Her name is Martha Ballard. And she saved my daughter’s life. If you would like, she will help you get this baby into the world.”
Again, the affirmative.
“Excellent,” Mrs. Hendricks says. Then she turns to Dr. Page and says, “Go find a chair and sit somewhere out of the way. Perhaps you will learn something.”
I am still standing near the door, medical bag in hand, when she waves me forward. “Martha. If you don’t mind.”
I go to the window instead of the bed and throw the curtains open. Afternoon sunlight floods the room, and I can finally see the doctor’s wife. She is curled into a ball in the middle of the bed. Pale as a ghost. Half asleep. Sweating.
“Mrs. Hendricks?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Can you stay?”
“I can.”
“Good. The first thing I need you to do is go to the kitchen and get this woman something to eat.”
“How will that help?”
“If she is to deliver a child today, she must wake up. And there are only two things in all of creation that wake a human. Sunlight and food.”
Dr. Page snorts. “That is preposterous. Coffee—”
“Only increases heart rate,” I tell him. “But if you have some, by all means go make it. She’ll need that too.”
When Mrs. Hendricks reaches for his ear again, he jumps off the bed and speeds from the room. She follows. Only then do I approach the girl.
“Hello, Mrs. Page,” I say, sitting beside her.
“Hello.”
She is young. Eighteen or nineteen perhaps. And small boned, like a girl. It does not surprise me that Page chose a diminutive wife. Someone he could intimidate. But that fact will not make my job any easier. If she is as small of hip as she is of shoulder, we might well be in trouble.
“I am here to help. I have delivered many hundreds of babies. Would you like my assistance in delivering yours?”
She nods. Then groans.
“Good. But before I can help you, I must ask one thing of you.”
She looks at me, eyes wide. “What is that?”
“You must give me your trust.”
“How do I do that?” she asks.
“You do everything I say. No matter if it doesn’t make sense or if your husband argues with me.”
“And what do you want me to do?”
“Only two things for now: eat what Mrs. Hendricks brings you, and then get up and walk the room. I will help you with every step.”
“But I’m so tired.”
“I know. Did your husband give you medicine? Laudanum perhaps?”
She nods. “Yesterday.”
My guess is that it was a lower dose than he gave Grace. Otherwise, she’d be dead. But I don’t dare hope the man has learned anything about messing with the natural order of a birth.
“It probably hasn’t fully worn off. But there is one thing I can promise you. If you stay in this bed, if you eat nothing, you and your child will die. It will be slow and painful. Exhaustion will swallow you both. And there is nothing I will be able to do for you.” I grab her hands. “But now? Now is not too late. So. Will you trust me?”
It is easy to assume that for a birth to go badly, something specific must go wrong. A breech presentation. A hemorrhage. An infection. I have faced all these difficulties, and more, but it is often the mortal threat of exhaustion that can cause a woman’s life to ebb away. There is no condition on earth more draining than that of labor, and few ways to rouse a woman once she has succumbed to exhaustion.
Mrs. Page listens to me. I watch her think for a moment and then she nods. “I can do that.”
I push her pale blonde hair back from her face. I press my palm to her forehead. She is warm but not feverish.
“I have to touch you now,” I tell her. “To see how far along you are in this labor.”
“Okay.”
“But there is something very important I must know before I can do that.”
“What?”
“Your name.”
“Mrs. Page.”
“No,” I tell her. “Page is your husband’s name. And missus is the thing you became on your wedding day. What is the one you were given at birth?”
“Melody.”
“It is very nice to meet you, Melody. My name is Martha. And I will help you through this.”
Melody Page has to walk the room for five grueling hours before she hits transition. And it takes another full hour of pushing before her tiny daughter makes an entrance into the world. Even then, it is ten o’clock before the work is done. And eleven before I have finally packed my things.
Mrs. Hendricks joins me at the bedroom door as I am leaving. “I do not like you,” she says, apropos of nothing.
It makes me laugh. “Nor I, you.”
This earns the first real smile I have ever received from the woman.
“But I do respect you,” she tells me. “And I am sorry for the trouble I gave you with Grace.”
“That is more than enough for me,” I say. Then I look behind her to the bed where Melody is cradling her little bundle. “You will stay with her?”
“Through the night.”
“Thank you. Call for me if you have any concerns.”
“I will,” she says, then returns to Melody’s side without another word.
I am turning for the door when Dr. Page calls out. “Mistress Ballard?”
A sigh.
“Yes?”
“Let me walk you out.”
I nod. We walk in silence down the hall, the stairs, and to the first floor. He opens the door and leans against the frame, blocking my exit.
“What is your fee?” he asks.
“I do not want payment.”
“I cannot allow you to leave here without coin,” he says. “I refuse to be in your debt.”
“You have no say in the matter. I will accept nothing from you but an apology.”
“You are a stubborn old bitch, aren’t you?”
Suddenly I find myself missing Mrs. Hendricks. She’d likely rip his ear clean off at those words.
“Is that what you really think of me? After today?”
“I think you are full of yourself. A country woman bloated with the idea of your own skill.”
I nod sadly. “And yet you still want to pay me?”
“It is the right thing to do.”
“Let me ask you a question,” I say.
He looks at me but doesn’t respond.
I stick my finger in his face. “Have you ever successfully delivered a child?”
“In medical school I assisted any number of doctors in—”
“No. That is not what I mean. On your own?”
“I don’t see how that—”
“So the answer is no. And the result is two of Hallowell’s children dead born. Such things might not matter at Harvard. But here they matter immensely.”
Page lifts his chin. “You do understand that they call it the practice of medicine for a reason, don’t you? The consequences of such practice can be unfortunate. But no doctor expects less. Nor should the citizens of any town.”
“And yet you are willing to practice on your own wife. Shame on you.”
He says nothing.
“Here is what I require for payment. You stick to doctoring. I will do the delivering.”
His eyes are blank. Uncomprehending.
“You will never attend another woman in childbirth. Not in this town. If you are too arrogant to call for me, then call someone else. I care not. But I do not ever want you to set your hand to a laboring woman ever again. Do you understand?”
The young Dr. Benjamin Page grows still. Then pale. I see his jaw tremble with rage. But he steps aside to let me pass, and before he closes the door, he nods. Just once.
And that is enough.