Midwife of the Blue Ridge (39 page)

“Yer burn healed fi ne, na?”

278 Christine

Blevins

He turned in to her touch, thick dark brows arched over wary

green eyes fl ecked with bits of gold.
Hannah had eyes like that.

“Hang on now—” he advised, attention drawn back to the

trail. Maggie clinched him tight. Simon steered the gelding be-

tween two lichen- spattered boulders and down a steep, slippery

incline. Pointing out a patch of blue sky through the trees, he

said, “Looks like the weather’s fairin’ up.”

The storm had abated, reduced to sporadic raindrops shaken

free by the wind and the rustle of emerging birds and squirrels.

Sunshine penetrated the overstory and the trees began to glisten.

The air was rich with a savory blend of fresh-washed leaves and

sweet, wet decay crushed beneath hooves.

“Mind your head,” Simon warned. In tandem they ducked be-

neath a low-slung limb. He snapped off a branchlet in passing,

plucked a shiny green leaf to chew, and offered the rest to Maggie.

“Sourwood—slakes your thirst. G’won—it’s good medicine.”

She took one of the smaller leaves and popped it into her

mouth, surprised by the refreshing flavor, likening it to the crisp

bite of not-quite-ripe apple. She held the branch to her nose and

sniffed. “What kind of medicine?”

“They say sourwood makes for a strong heart.”

“Who says? Red Indians? The Indians what raised ye?”

He didn’t answer, and but for the low thud of hoofbeats on the

forest floor, they rode out the stretch of flat trail that curved

along the top of the ridge in silence. She chewed sourwood leaves

and wondered what to make of the friendship Simon Peavey

seemed to be offering. She could use an ally where she was head-

ing. Maggie leaned forward.

“So why does a likely lad as yerself pander to that devil of an

Englishman?”

“The devil pays in Dutch silver.” Simon kept his eyes on the

forward trail.

“Aye, but turnin’ folk from their homes at gunpoint—”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
279

“It’s Cavendish what’s turnin’ ’em out, not me.”

“Och, what blether!”

“I do what I have to, t’ git by,” Peavey said, turning slightly to

face her. “No different than Seth.”

“Och, ye saw how it was. Seth had no choice . . . we’d have all

starved otherwise.”

“I’d sure never trade your paper to that devil of an

Englishman—an’ I sure as hell would never have left you behind,

like Tom did.”

Maggie smiled. “Och, lad, ye ken we’ve a thing or two in com-

mon. When I was but a wee lass back in Scotland, my folk were

all massacred—like they tell me yer folk were. On that awful day

I learned it’s most likely not my fortune t’ live life happily ever

after.” She tried hard to put on a brave face. “So I’ll do what I

always do and make the best of a bad bargain. I figure a body

can stomach just about anythin’ for two weeks.”

Simon leaned left and dug into his saddlebag. He twisted

around, a bone-handled dagger lying across the flat of his hand.

“Take it.”

“Wheesht!”
Maggie pushed his hand away. “Tha’ nasty wee

Irishman’ll see ye . . .” She leaned sideways to peer up trail. Con-

nor rode a scant twenty yards ahead.

“Take it.” The blade, no more than six inches long, was en-

cased in a rigid leather sheath. He pressed it into her hand. “It’ll

do some damage in a pinch.”

“Are ye daft?” Maggie pushed him away. “I’ve nowhere t’

keep a knife.”

“Tie it to your leg—up high.” Simon tugged at the red silk ker-

chief looped around his neck and offered it together with the knife.

“I’ve seen what he does to the other slave girl. You best take it.”

His gaze was so fierce and honest, he didn’t need to say any more.

Maggie took a deep breath. “Awright. Keep yer eye on Con-

nor.” She hid the knife in the tangle of her skirt and checked the

280 Christine

Blevins

back trail. A stone’s throw away, Figg gallumped along, breathing

heavy, his ponderous arms swinging to and fro before him.

“Pay no mind t’ Figg.” Simon tapped a finger to his head. “A

lackwit—wouldn’t know to wipe his own arse if Connor didn’t

tell him to. Hurry an’ fix that knife t’ your leg.”

Maggie’s hands trembled. She struggled to keep her balance

while twisting the kerchief into a rope and tying it onto her right

leg. She slipped the sheath under the silk to lie flat along her

outer thigh and pulled skirts down to cloak the weapon. She laid

a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “I’m grateful t’ ye.”

They traveled down the switchback trail in silence. The pace

quickened when they passed Naomi’s grave at forest edge and en-

tered the clearing surrounding Roundabout Station. The sight of the

bouquet Winnie had laid on her mother’s grave, wilted and strewn,

stung Maggie’s heart worse than vinegar poured on an open sore.

Even from a distance, the station seemed much changed. The

field that had been littered with tree stumps was being cleared. A

team of Negro men dressed in rough hempen shirts and loose

trousers worked a pair of chained oxen, pulling and prying up

one of the few stumps remaining. Another black man steered a

plow and mule, gouging great gashes into the earth.

“Tobacco beds,” Simon explained.

Maggie found it strange to approach the fort with the stock-

ade gates closed shut. Two menacing fellows sat atop the block-

house, guns in hand. As the riders approached, the sentries rose

to their feet, giving shout. One gate creaked open and the party

of outriders clip-clopped through.

Within the stockade, a gang of blackamoors dressed in the

same loose shirts and trousers formed a human chain, unloading

one of several wagons filled with cargo. They chanted a rhythmic

song while passing crates, heavy sacks, and casks from one to

another, storing the goods in the first of the small cabins that

lined the back palisade.

Four white men sat around the table beneath the tarp—hunters,

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
281

Maggie surmised by their garb. They set aside their playing cards

to meet the party.

The familiar clang of hammer on steel and the
whoosh
of the

bellows drew Maggie’s attention to Willie’s forge. But instead of

the hearty German, a powerfully built man as black as the bar of

iron he worked wielded the hammer. Distracted by the newcom-

ers, the skinny young Negro pumping the bellows paused to

gawk. A brilliant smile fl ashed across the smith’s face and he did

not miss a beat as he chastised the lad in a rich baritone, “Achilles!

You best keep my coals white-hot or I will take a switch t’ your

bony behind.” The boy resumed pumping with vigor.

Against a backdrop of ruffled shirts and bedsheets hanging on

a line strung between the smithy and the cabins, a slender woman

used a long paddle to fish steaming linen from a cauldron. Mag-

gie would classify the woman as half-caste—her skin the golden

brown of muscovado sugar. A riotous mass of shoulder- length

kinked curls exploded from the white scarf she wore on her head.

The laundress looked up from her work. She and Maggie ex-

changed nods.

Moffat and Connor dismounted. Simon helped Maggie down.

The door of the blockhouse banged open and two boys scurried

out to stand at attention, one boy on either side of the doorway.

Their identical faces stared blankly, straight ahead.

Maggie tried to sort one twin from the other, but the brothers

were as alike as the brass buttons on their crimson jackets. The

outlandish costumes came complete with blue satin pantaloons,

white knee hose, and silver- buckled shoes. From each neck dan-

gled a brass key on a golden chain, and their twin faces—as

black as India ink—were crowned by red, befeathered turbans.

Connor rushed to quiet the Andalusian while Cavendish

swung down from the saddle, riding quirt in hand. With furious

gaze focused square on Simon and Maggie, he shouted, “A word,

Mr. Peavey!”

Maggie shuffled back, putting the horse’s rump between herself

282 Christine

Blevins

and Cavendish. Simon outright ignored his employer. He pulled

his rifle from the saddle holster and untied the leather cuff that

protected the lock mechanism from the weather.

“Mr. Peavey,” Cavendish called again, snapping the quirt to

his boot as he approached. “I ordered the servant girl bound. She

was meant to travel afoot with Figg.”

Simon flipped open the frizzen and scrutinized the condition

of the prime in the pan before responding. “I saw no harm in her

ridin’ with me.”

“The harm, Mr. Peavey, stems from your willful disobedience

of my direct order.”

Simon clapped the pan shut and clicked the cock half open.

Resting his weapon in the crook of his arm, he glared at Caven-

dish through narrow eyes. “I’ll try and keep that in mind for

next time.” He turned and ambled toward the hearth.

“See to it, sir,” Cavendish blustered.

Grim-faced, one of the card-playing men stepped forward and

muttered something into Cavendish’s ear. The viscount did not

seem pleased. He shouted, “Mr. Connor—have the girl wait in

my quarters,” dismissing Maggie to the block house with a dou-

ble flick of the hand.

Connor grabbed Maggie by the arm. She shook him off. “Keep

yer filthy mitts t’ yerself, ye wee sack o’ shite. I’ll go on my own

speed.” The leather sheath strapped to her leg bit into her skin as

she marched past the twin sentinels at the door. Maggie crossed

over the threshold and stepped into another world.

The makeshift keg-and-board beds where she’d nursed Susan-

nah and Naomi were gone. An ornate, four-posted bed done up

with crisp linens, damask bed curtains, and an array of pillows

occupied the far corner of the room. An iron-banded chest rested

at the foot of the bed, and in the corner opposite stood a tall

cabinet with gleaming brass hardware.

A long writing table was pushed up against the wall, one end

of its polished mahogany top cluttered with papers and ledgers,

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
283

the other end graced with a silver tray on which was arranged a

china tea service. A pair of four-branched silver candelabra

flanked the tray, beeswax tapers lit, steady flames bathing the

room in clean bright light. Maggie had seen things as fi ne as

these in shop windows back in Glasgow.

Two fringed woolen carpets—one lapped over the other—cov-

ered the width and breadth of the rough wood floor. She wan-

dered about the room, curling her toes into exotic ruby-red and

sapphire-blue patterns, soft and lush on the soles of her feet.

Maggie studied the faces in the pair of gilt-frame portraits

hanging above an overstuffed wing chair—a stern man wearing

an ermine-trimmed cape; a lovely lady in pearls and powdered

hair. Longing to sink into the comfortable chair, she ran a hand

over the upholstered armrest and noticed a book marked with a

trailing blue ribbon sitting on the small table beside the chair.

Maggie sighed, and caught the silken ribbon between her fi ngers.

Tom . . .

It seemed so long ago—that hot day by the river when he had

read poetry and loved her so well.
Thou art my life, my love, my

heart . . .
She closed her eyes and pressed both hands to her

stomach, wondering for the thousandth time—where was he?

Did he think of her? Was he ever coming back?

“Here he comes!”
The twins rushed in, their faces set serious.

Maggie quelled a flutter of excitement, a momentary irrational

hope that it might be Tom. She knew exactly who it was. She

inched around the chair to melt into the corner.

The boys said not a word, not even to each other. Using the

key hanging around his neck, one boy unlocked the corner cabi-

net, removed a crystal decanter along with two goblets. He fi lled

them both with tawny liquid.

The other boy unlocked the chest. He whisked out a silk dress-

ing gown and draped it at the foot of the bed. The two of them

scurried to stand soldier stiff, shoulder to shoulder near the open

door, each bearing a goblet centered on a small lacquered tray.

284 Christine

Blevins

Cavendish stormed in. He snatched up a glass and drank the

spirits in one swallow. After gulping down the second serving, he

growled and let the goblet fly. It bounced off the face of the man

in the portrait and crashed into bits on the floor. Throwing his

head back, Cavendish railed to the rafters, “Ye gods! How long

must I be banished to this eighth circle of hell?”

The twins stood stoic, barely blinking. One stepped forward.

“Tea, sir?”

The viscount composed himself with a deep breath. “Thank

you, but no, Pollux. More port, I think.”

Pollux refilled the surviving goblet. His master made quick

work of the third and fourth glassfuls poured. At last, Cavendish

smiled. Sufficiently inoculated, he tugged shirttails from breeches,