Midwife of the Blue Ridge (46 page)

bastard choke down his own piss.”

H

Maggie marched in the lead with a large collecting basket hooked

over one arm, lackadaisical Brady Moffat and lumbering Figg in

tow. The odd threesome entered the woodlands and followed the

well-trod shady path that led to the river. Free of the oppressive

stockade wall, Maggie stopped for a moment to breathe deep the

air—rich and earthy.

“The dark season,” Moffat said, shifting the rifle on his shoul-

der. “The leaves grown so broad and thick on the trees, they

close out every bit of light, even on a bright day like today.”

They reached the sun-filled meadow and Figg broke from their

triangular formation and gallumped away. By the time Maggie

and Moffat caught up to him at river’s edge, the giant had shed

boots and stockings. He waded with breeches rolled above his

knees in ankle- deep water and with childlike pleasure pondered

326 Christine

Blevins

the school of minnows nibbling his toes. As usual, Moffat laid his

rifle down and flopped in the shade of a willow. Figg splashed

back up onto shore, asking, “D’ye bring our tea, Maggie?” And

as usual, Maggie produced Tempie’s glazed jug from her basket

along with a treat—today, a pan-size piece of buttery shortbread.

“Remember, dinna tell anyone that I’m sharing the viscount’s

sweeties with yiz,” she warned Figg, breaking the sugary biscuit

in two and handing him half.

Figg nodded. “’Cause that’d be the end of th’ sweeties, aye?”

“And ye dinna want that,” Maggie confirmed, “for tomorrow

I’m fixin’ berry tarts.”

“Amen t’ berry tarts, sez I.” Like some sort of immense squir-

rel, Figg squatted on his haunches, holding his shortbread in a

two-handed fashion, nibbling away at its edge.

“Damn good tea,” Brady complimented, swilling freely from

the jug.

“Sweet lemon balm,” Maggie told him with jerk of her head

toward Figg. “Good for those plagued with the farts, if ye ken

my meaning.”

“Farts?” Brady struck a languorous pose, mimicking the vis-

count, waving the piece of shortbread she handed him in the air.

“Of course—farts! The windy escape backward—the kind more

obvious to the nose than to the ears.”

“Beg pardon, yer lordship.” Maggie giggled and curtsied. “I’m

off t’ my gatherin’ now.” She took her basket and disappeared

into the tall brush growing along the riverbank.

Moffat handed Figg what was left of the tea and lay back in the

grass. “Keep an eye on the midwife, Figgy. I’m going to catch a

nap.”

Figg nodded, several crumbs from his teatime treat stuck in the

snot leaking from his nose. He slurped down the rest of the tea,

tossed the empty jug aside, and splashed back into the water.

Maggie roamed along the riverbank to gather the wood sorrel

she purported to need. After collecting a goodly amount, she

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
327

stood upright. She could see Figg stumbling along the waterside,

sausage fingers grasping at empty air, trying to capture a yellow

butterfl y flitting about his immense head.

“Hoy! Figg!”
Maggie shouted, and caught his eye. “I’m goin’

upriver a bit.”

The big man acknowledged her with a wave. Maggie carried

on in gathering mode, meandering slowly, scanning the fl ora and

fauna at her feet as if on the prowl for something of import.
But

a few more days of this deception . . .

At first, the viscount seemed dedicated to improving his health,

abstaining from alcohol for three whole days. Maggie plied him

with sweet puddings and trifles, and brewed refreshing tonics

and

teas—sedating the man with belladonna as often as she

dared. But in battling his cravings, Cavendish convinced himself

it was only the hard liquors, like rum and brandy, that were re-

sponsible for the damage to his liver.

“A fine port,” he proposed. “A single goblet served post the

eve ning meal to aid poor digestion and build robust health.”

Maggie did nothing to disabuse him of the notion, and as she

expected—much to her delight—the drunkard could no more

stop at a single goblet of wine than a papist monk could stop at

buggering a single boy. The viscount’s one goblet led to a fearful

two-day binge.

While spewing yellow bile into the pisspot Maggie held for

him, Cavendish vowed to God with weak fist raised, “I forswear

strong drink!” and for two days now, the viscount again suffered

the throes of withdrawing from his reliance upon alcohol.

Never had she encountered a human being with mood so

foul—his every utterance saturated in vitriol. The man was so

exceedingly ill-tempered, nothing could be said or done to please

him. Harboring not an ounce of pity for the man, and loath to

aid him in any way, Maggie was sorely tempted to feed him a

rum toddy and set him again on the road to ruin.

Soon I’ll be away from tha’ spawn o’ th’ devil . . .

328 Christine

Blevins

She had given up on the notion of rescue. Maggie just couldn’t

fathom how Seth would be able to penetrate the station’s de-

fenses. The very moment Cavendish agreed to allow Maggie the

freedom of the forest to gather the simples she needed, she began

to contrive her escape.

Since she was now responsible for preparing the viscount’s

meals, she gained access to the stores. Even under Connor’s gim-

let eye she managed to filch pocketfuls of cornmeal and strips of

dry cured beef. A two-point woolen blanket found its way into

her basket. A tinderbox, complete with flint and steel that some-

one had left behind at the cookhearth, crossed the fortyard hid-

den in the folds of her skirt. While Cavendish snored off his

excess in a belladonna stupor, she slid under his bed and retrieved

Simon’s dagger still lying there. And today, as the sparrows trilled

in the dawn, she snicked a hatchet from the woodpile.

Maggie ceased foraging upon reaching a rotten tree stump

overgrown with moss and sprouting mushrooms. She checked

over her shoulder. Moffat still napped. Waist-deep in water, Figg

stalked the river, trying to noodle a trout from the water using

naught but his huge ham hands. Maggie crouched down, reached

under her skirt, and slipped the knots in the strings securing the

recently acquired hatchet to her calf, adding it to the blanket,

knife, and tinderbox she’d cached inside the stump.

Almost ready . . .
Within the week she would set out on one of

their jaunts into the woods with a jug of special tea in her basket.

And after the bastards nod off
—she smiled—
I’m away.
She’d

keep to the river.
Like a Red Indian, leavin’ no tracks
. . . By the

time any alarm was raised, she would be long, long gone.

Maggie cocked her head, noticing a clutch of bell- shaped

brownish-yellow flowers growing at the base of a large beechnut,

no more than five yards away. She drew closer. Veined petals . . . the

leaves hairy and toothed . . . She fell to her knees, not touching the

plant.
Henbane!
A potent sedative, perfectly suited for her pur-

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
329

pose. She produced the hankie kept tucked between her breasts,

and used it to protect her fingers as she plucked the leaves.

“Psst! Maggie!”

Startled, she looked up. Tousle-headed Jack Martin peeked

out from behind the beechnut. Like one of the brownies from the

old tales, the lad’s sun- browned face and walnut-dyed clothing

blended right into his surroundings.

“I canna believe my eyes.” Maggie blinked back tears. “
Jackie!

Is it truly you?” She began to rise to her feet.

“Stay as you are,”
Jack whispered.
“Listen careful like.”

The lad’s impish grin cheered Maggie to no end, but she fought

the urge to hug him tight to her breast and kept at her task as if

he weren’t there.

“Push your basket closer.”
Jack placed a coil of knotted rope

into it. The lad kept his voice low and spoke slowly. “Set your

water barrel near the chimney and wait for the dark of the moon

to night . . .”

“This night?!”
Maggie glanced up, her heart afl utter.

“Mm-hmm. ’Cause the moon’s on the wane,” Jack explained,

then reverted back to reciting the message. “At the dark of the

moon, climb up the barrel, onto the roof . . .”

Maggie pictured the pitched roof of her cabin; its clapboards

sloped upward from just above the door’s lintel piece to meet the

stockade wall at a point three- quarters of the way up. She should

have no problem scaling the wall from that vantage.

“. . . Secure the end and fling the rope over the wall. Tuck up

yer skirts afore ye commence t’ shimmy over.” Jack continued

methodically. “Bring naught with ya. Mind the night patrol. Stay

out of the clearing and keep to the tree line. A shuttered lantern

will await at Mam’s grave. Use it only if you have to. Meet up

with us at the Berry Hell. Can you do it?”

“Aye.” Maggie nodded.

“MAGGIE!” Figg bellowed.

330 Christine

Blevins

Keeping her head down, she reached out and grabbed Jack’s

hand. “How does everyone fare?”

“’Ceptin’ fer worryin’ over you, we’re all of us just fi ne,” Jack

assured her with blue eyes glimmering excitement. “Best git,

afore them fellas come a-lookin’ fer ya.”

She popped upright to see Figg splashing through the shallows

toward her; hands cupped to his mouth, he hollered again,

“MAG-
GIIEE
!” Moffat was also on his feet heading her way,

shading his eyes. She cast a glance to Jack, crouched behind the

beechnut, white knuckles gripping his ancient musket. Waving

madly, she called to Figg, “Dinna fash the water so, Figgy, ye’ll

frighten all the wee fi shies.”

A look of horror crossed Figg’s features and he stopped stock-

still. “Brady’s ready t’ turn back.”

“Aye—” She waved to Moffat and halted his progress. “Tell

him I’ll be there in a tic.” She turned back and whispered,
“To-

night!”
sending Jack away with a smile. The boy scooted like a

rabbit, from tree to tree, disappearing as suddenly as he had ap-

peared.

Maggie eyed the sturdy rope he’d left in her basket. Henbane

forgotten, she snapped off more than a dozen large burdock

leaves, arranging them to conceal the rope before hurrying back

to the meadow.

“I don’t like you wanderin’ that far,” Moffat chastised. “Have

you what you need?”

“Aye that.” Maggie turned on her heel and skipped to the

path. Moffat whistled Figg in, shouldered his rifle, and followed

after her.

The weight of the hemp rope in her basket pleased her so,

Maggie had to restrain from bursting into song as they hiked

back to the station. Seth’s message was heaven-sent, and the

prospect of joining up with them filled her heart so’s to over-

flow the brim of it with joy. Rushing through the station gates,

she didn’t stop at the cookhearth to speak to Tempie—hard at

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
331

work preparing the eve

ning fare—but made straight for the

cabin.

Aurelia sat on a bench outside the cabin door with a tin wash-

tub between her legs, busy scrubbing wine stains from linen with

a stiff bristle brush.

“Come in, Aurelia,” Maggie said, crossing the threshold. “I’ve

somethin’ t’ show ye.”

Wet linen was shoved under soapy water. Aurelia dried her

hands on her apron and stretched the muscles in her aching back.

“With speed!”
Both hands clenched tight on the basket han-

dle, Maggie waited in the center of the room, barely able to con-

tain her glee when Aurelia entered the cabin. “I’m leavin’
to night
!

D’ye ken what I’m sayin’?”

“Shhh!”
Aurelia cast a worried glance over her shoulder and

dropped her voice. “You oughtn’t be telling me this . . .”

“Look here.” Maggie lifted the layer of burdock leaves and

revealed the rope. “From Seth . . . I’m goin’ over the wall at the

dark of the moon tonight.”

Aurelia quickly pushed the leaves back to cover the rope. “Are

you crazy?” she hissed.

“I’m leaving this wretched place! Och, lass, I wish yid come

with me . . .”

“Maggie?” A thick voice questioned, startling the two young

women so intent on their conversation, neither of them noticed

Figg’s massive frame darken the doorway. He didn’t enter, but

was crouched down, peering inside. He held out Tempie’s jug,

saying, “Ye left this behind.”

Maggie pressed the basket into Aurelia’s hands and stepped

forward to accept the jug from the giant’s hand. “Thanks, Figgy,”

she said, forcing a giggle. “I swan, I might forget mine own head

if it weren’t attached.” Figg shuffled backward and she stepped

out the door.

“Maggie’ll be needin’ this jug, sed I.” He snuffl ed and

snorted.

332 Christine