Midwife of the Blue Ridge by Christine Blevins Page A

hurried ahead, anxious to get
    on the shaded path leading down to the springhouse.
    Adjusting to life in the Blue Ridge Mountains had proved
    more difficult than she’d anticipated. Almost every morning
    Maggie longed for the perfumed smoke of a peat fire and the
    cool, misty glens of Scotland. Besides being unaccustomed to the
    hot, humid climate, Maggie found since she’d been raised in a
    household that bartered a learned skill for necessities, she lacked
    many practical skills required for frontier living.
    Seth was surprised when he needed to teach her the mechanics
    of milking a cow. The children showed Maggie how to work the
    hominy block and pound dry kernels of maize into meal. Naomi
    taught her to mix the cornmeal with sour milk and salt and bake
    it in the iron kettle for bread.
    Maggie was eager to contribute to her new household. She liked
    her life with the Martins and was happy helping Naomi regain her
    health. But treating the symptoms of fever and pregnancy were
    simple tasks compared to the daunting task of lifting Naomi’s spir-
    its. A wounded soul is a troublesome thing, and hard to heal.
    Maggie kept Naomi occupied with small tasks—carding wool,
    mending, shelling beans—not allowing her to wallow in despair
    and dwell on the baby she’d lost, or fret over the new baby on the
    way. She fed Naomi raspberry-leaf tea to strengthen her birthing
    muscle and dosed her with syrup of valerian root to ease her
    nerves. After several weeks of close companionship and reassur-
    ance, combined with steady nourishment and ample rest from
    the heavy household chores, it seemed her patient was truly on
    Midwife of the Blue Ridge 79
    the mend. Naomi’s predilection to “slip down into the mulli-
    grubs,” as she called it, waned with each passing day.
    Careful so as not to spill any milk, Maggie took her time trav-
    eling down the steep incline to the springhouse. She lifted the
    latch on the springhouse door and crouched down to step inside,
    for upright, her head barely cleared the ceiling rafters. The little
    stone house Seth had constructed over the running stream main-
    tained a cool environment on even the hottest of summer days,
    and she shivered with delight at the abrupt change in tempera-
    ture.
    Wooden shelves lined the stone walls and provided storage for
    perishables like butter, cheese, and eggs. She poured the new
    milk into an empty crock and set it in a shallow trough built into
    the floor along the length of the springhouse. The icy mountain
    spring ran through the trough, keeping the items placed there
    chilled and fresh.
    She ladled the rich cream floating atop the previous eve ning’s
    milking into the butter crock and then poured the skimmed milk
    into one of her emptied pails. A dozen eggs and a lump of butter
    wrapped in wet oak leaves went into the other pail. Before leav-
    ing the cool comfort of the springhouse, she tucked the hems of
    her skirt into her waistband.
    A pail in each hand, she waded downstream toward the Berry
    Hell—an ancient thicket groaning with ripe blackberries, and
    as far as Maggie was concerned, one of the wonders of her new
    world. Barefoot, she traversed the shallows, concentrating on
    balancing the disparate weights she carried and maintaining
    careful footing on slippery stones—so focused on her path, if he
    hadn’t called out, she would have walked right past him.
    “Good morning, Miss Duncan!”
    Maggie startled, shrieked, and dropped her bucket of milk.
    Three eggs flew from the other pail, splat open on the stones, and
    washed away with the current.
    “Och! Look what yiv gone and done!” Maggie tossed the
    80 Christine
    Blevins
    empty pail to clatter onto the shore. “Sneakin’ up on folk with
    yer thievin’ Red Indian ways . . . do y’ even ken how to greet a
    body in civilized fashion?” She struggled to climb up the steep
    bank, but her bare feet could not find purchase on the slippery
    mud. “C’mon, lad,” she yelled, “give a lass a