The tiny midwife was all in black: black dress, black stockings, black elder’s kapp, and black shoes. Only the hair curling around her surprisingly unlined, heart-shaped face broke the pattern; Salome’s hair was snowy white. Her laced, high leather shoes were much like the ones Rachel remembered her Grandmother Mast wearing. And, as was always, Salome was smiling. “Not a one has been by all day and I was just boiling up a cough syrup. None down sick yet, praise His mercy, but winter is coming and the little ones will have their mothers up walking the floor with them.” She came out on the step to welcome Rachel with a hug, and Rachel caught the swirling scents of Ivory soap, peppermint, and cinnamon.
“You’re hard to find at home,” Rachel said. “You really need a cell phone. How do your mothers find you when they’re ready to deliver?”
Salome laughed, a merry, tinkling sound. “When did you come? Yesterday morning? Mary and Zack Hostetler welcomed another little son into their family, Mary’s fourth in six years. Both doing splendidly.” She waved Rachel into a tiny sitting room where darkened beams stretched overhead and a corner fireplace crackled.
Stretched on the hearth was a yearling-calf-sized, shaggy gray dog of no certain breed. Two bright blackberry eyes peeked out from under a fringe of hair to inspect the visitor. Apparently, Rachel passed muster, because the dog’s eyes closed and the lazy animal’s head dropped back onto oversized paws, the hairy tail flopped once, and the sound of snoring rang through the little house.
“Pay no mind to Uzzi,” Salome said. “He’s big, but a friendly sort.” Using a long-handled wooden spoon, the midwife stirred the bubbling mixture that hung over the fire in a copper kettle. “No spiders in my cough syrup,” she teased. “And not a single toad. Nothing but my good apple cider vinegar, lemons, and clover honey from my bees.”
She motioned Rachel to a coatrack. “Take off your coat. It’s warm in here and you don’t want to take a chill when you go out.”
As she removed her outer things, Rachel glimpsed the kitchen through a narrow doorway. She could remember being there with her mother once before she was old enough to go to school. She’d been fascinated by the herbs hanging from the kitchen ceiling and the long table with its jars of unfamiliar objects and dried berries. “I was here Monday afternoon, too,” she said, eager to get into the reason for her coming.
“Monday, hmm, two days ago. Abraham Sweitzer’s daughter Sylvia. Visiting from Ohio. Seven months along with her second. The first was a breech, but Sylvia carried full term. A long labor, according to her mother. But, fortunately, a healthy baby girl at the end of it. Anyway, the young mother’s back was aching, and she’d started with a few regular contractions. Better safe than sorry. I stayed with her most of the day until they passed. Stopped on the way to tend a burn on Jethro Peachy’s thumb. Foolish man to let it go untended so long. But Sylvia’s right as rain,” the midwife chattered on. “By my calculations, she’ll carry safely another six to eight weeks. And hopefully, this one will know which way to turn to find the door.”
“I see,” Rachel said, wondering how Salome managed to talk so much without drawing a breath. She had more energy than two five-year-olds.
The midwife chuckled. “So, you’re getting married in two weeks to that handsome Englisher policeman. We’ll be sorry to lose you from the faith, Rachel, but not all are called. Ne, they are not. God, in His mercy, has plans for all of us and none can judge another’s.”
“Ne, I mean ya. He does.” Rachel wasn’t quite sure what part of the midwife’s statements to reply to or if any reply was necessary. She smiled and nodded. “He does,” she added. “I’m sure He does.”
Salome drew her stool a little closer. “Your mother tells me that she’s come to accept your decision. It troubled her a great deal, but she recognizes your right to choose. And she sees the good heart of your young man.”
A log fell and sparks sprayed up. Rachel inhaled the sweet smell of apple wood. “Evan is a good man,” she agreed. “The best.”
Another chuckle bubbled up through the midwife’s rosy lips. “There are quite a few who expect you to leave him empty handed at the last moment. But I see by the glow on your face that you are content to join him in honest wedlock.” She nodded. “And time enough, too. You should not wait too long to bring little ones into the world. You’re not old, but neither are you twenty-one. English women sometimes wait too late to start thinking of children and then it can be more difficult.” She smiled and patted Rachel’s arm. “Has your mother spoken to you?”
Rachel nodded. “Ya, we talk all the time, now that the . . . misunderstanding has been smoothed over.”
“Ne, dear. That’s not what I mean. I’m asking if she explained God’s plan for a man and woman. Has she explained the wonders of procreation? Told you the things a young woman should know before . . . before she becomes a wife?”
Rachel’s eyes widened and she felt her cheeks grow hot. “You . . . I . . .” she said, flustered, suddenly realizing that the midwife thought she’d come for a discussion on the birds and bees. “I . . . I didn’t come for personal reasons.”
Salome Plank wasn’t the least offended. She smiled and patted Rachel’s hand. “Ah. Well, naturally, I assumed . . . many young brides-to-be are more comfortable talking with me than with their mothers or sisters. Of course, the girls today have access to the clinic and books which . . . Never mind.” She smoothed her apron with both hands. “If not for your
