DAWIN’S WHARF
SUNDAY, APRIL 18
“Is it twins?” May asks, lying on her back, in a soft white shift.
I run my fingers across the wide expanse of her swollen belly. She is six months pregnant but looks eight.
“I feel only the one head.” I press my fingers into May’s side, just above her hip bones. “Right here. And here”—I slide my palm to the other side and cup another small mound—“its backside.” Finally, I tap the base of May’s ribs. “And little feet, right here, which I’m sure you can feel.”
“Constantly.” She laughs. “But I’m so big. There must be two?”
“No. Your belly is big. The rest of you is quite little.”
May is small and narrow, and she carries every inch of her baby out front. I think this might suggest a boy—there is some truth to the old wives’ tales—but I don’t mention it aloud. I have long since learned not to raise a woman’s hopes. If they want one thing, they’ll almost certainly get the other.
“It’s just the way you carry,” I tell her. “Your ribs haven’t spread, so you’re going out straight instead of wide.”
“Is that bad? My ribs?”
“No.” I give her a reassuring smile and continue the examination, poking and prodding. “Does anything hurt?”
“Only my back. And only sometimes. Like when I walk. Or sit. Or stand.” Another laugh, this one helpless, as if to say, What can I do?
“Roll to your side.”
May heaves herself over with a grunt, and I work my fingers across the dip of her back. “Where?”
“Lower. Nearer my…”
“Ah.” I pat the top of her bottom, the way I might with a baby, and May giggles.
“Yes. There.”
“The baby is putting pressure on your back. You might ask Sam to rub it a bit at night. If he wouldn’t mind.”
I can see only her profile, but a dimple breaks that one cheek. “It’s never taken much convincing for him to put his hands on my arse.”
I’m delighted that May is comfortable enough with me now to joke. There is nothing more important in a birthing room than trust. “I’ll make sure to tell him myself, as well, before I leave. Where is he?”
May pushes up on her elbow and blows a strand of hair out of her eyes. “The barn. Working on the yoke, I think. He wants to start training the new oxen at first thaw.”
I look out the window to the dirty, gray landscape and the pines no longer frosted white. Hallowell shows every indication of going from ice directly to mud.
“He’s optimistic,” I say.
“He’s a farmer. He has to be.”
I help May off the bed and back into her dress. Together we go downstairs, and I leave her with a syrup of goldenrod and bearberry to help reduce the swelling in her ankles.
“Only one teaspoon per day. Any more than that and you’ll be thirsty,” I instruct. “Take it just before bed so it can work overnight. But don’t be surprised if you’re up several times to use the chamber pot.”
May thanks me, then sees me to the door, and I am startled to realize the air is neither frigid nor unwelcoming. I drape my riding cloak over my arm instead of my shoulders.
Brutus is tied at the hitching post, fidgety and kicking at a dirty mound of old snow.
“Just give me a moment,” I tell him, “then we’ll go home.”
I walk around the side of the house and toward the barn. I can hear Sam inside, banging on something and cursing rather artfully. “You piece of shite! You broken, filthy cock robin.” Two loud thumps as though something heavy has been dropped, then kicked. “Dirty bastard.”
Uncertain what I might find inside, I tap the barn door with my knuckles before stepping through. I was right about the kicking. The oxen yoke lies on the barn floor, bent at a strange angle, and Sam gives it one more good whack with his boot. He’s been at it for quite a while by the looks of him. Hair askew. Jacket off. Sleeves rolled up and shirt damp from sweat along his back.
“I’ve never known a thing to get fixed by being kicked,” I say. “What’s wrong with it?”
Sam looks up, startled. Then he points at the yoke. “The beam is twisted.”
“And cursing it helps?”
“Aye. Helps me feel better about being stupid enough to leave it out all winter to get wet and warped under the snow.”
Sam shrugs then and lifts the heavy piece of wood off the ground to hang it on a rack by the stall. His forearms are bare, veined and covered with the same coarse red hair that sits on his head.
“Let me pay you,” he says, shoving his hand into his pocket. When he pulls it out there is a mishmash of things in his palm: an old button, a rusted nail, a chunk of salt, a strip of tattered lace, an arrowhead, a piece of twine, and a handful of coins. The flotsam and jetsam typical of any man who works with his hands throughout the day. He starts to count out the money.
“Save your fee until the child is born,” I tell him. “These visits are included.”
He looks at his palm and frowns, but he doesn’t argue as he returns the collection of odds and ends to his pocket. His hands are filthy from work, and when he notices my careful observation, he drags them down the front of his shirt.
“How is May?” he asks.
“Very pregnant and uncomfortable,” I say.
“She’s well, though? Nothing is wrong?”
“She thinks that she’s carrying twins.”
The look on Sam’s face is one of abject terror. “Is she?”
“Just the one, as far as I can tell. Though it does seem to be rather large. Like its father.”
“Is that dangerous?”
“Not any more than two small ones.” I smile. “But there is something she needs.”
Sam lets out a long, relieved sigh. “What?”
“A back rub. As many times a day as you can manage. A lot of the weight is against her lower spine. And she’s little to start with. There’s nowhere for the baby to go. So the discomfort might begin to move down her legs soon.”
“I can do that.”
“Good. And call for me if she’s in regular pain.”
Sam walks me to the hitching post, and as we say goodbye, someone calls my name in a tone of voice that can only be described as abject fury.
“Martha Ballard!”
I flinch because I know that voice. So I close my eyes and gather my wits because he is one of the last people I want to speak with at this particular moment.
But he repeats my name, angrier this time, and when I look up at Sam Dawin, I see that a storm cloud has gathered in his eyes and his fists are clenched. Perhaps he has grown fond of me after all. Or at least protective.
William Pierce sits astride his horse, glaring at me.
“Mr. Pierce.” I nod, as polite as I am able. “How can I help you today?”
“You can come with me.”
“I am not in the habit of taking orders.”
“Then let today be a first. Because Sally is dying. And it’s your fault.”