Victoria Thompson - Murder on St. Mark’s place

“He won’t like listening to a crying baby, either,” Sarah said. “I can roll out biscuits as well as you.”

That might be a lie, but Sarah felt no guilt in telling it. Instead she waited patiently while Agnes considered the possible ramifications and the baby continued to whimper. Finally, Agnes pulled herself to her feet. Her faded house-dress hung on her, and Sarah was amazed at how quickly she had lost the extra weight from her pregnancy. In fact, she was too thin, as if she were starving herself as well as the child.

Sarah was so concerned about Agnes’s weight loss that she almost didn’t notice the way she clutched at her side when she rose, as if she felt a pain there.

“Are you all right?” Sarah asked, automatically reaching to help her.

Agnes recoiled, cringing as if in fear of a blow, but then seemed to catch herself. She straightened, pride overcoming her obvious discomfort. “I am fine.”

“Your side hurts,” Sarah said, mentally nmning through a list of possible complications from the pregnancy. She couldn’t think of anything offhand that would cause pain up high on Agnes’s side, though. “I’d be happy to examine you and see if-”

“It is nothing,” Agnes insisted. “Just a bruise. I… I fall out of bed. Ja, I fall out of the bed. In the night. It was foolish. Like a little child. I have the bad dreams still. About Gerda.”

Sarah nodded. She sometimes had dreams about her dead sister, too, even though Maggie had been gone for more than a decade. Maggie, who had died bringing a child into the world. Maggie who had taught Sarah to hate death with a vengeance and fight it at every turn.

“Go on now and lie down. Feed the baby and get a little rest. I’ll get the biscuits in the oven for you.”

Agnes’s expression was heartbreakingly pitiful as she struggled with emotions Sarah couldn’t begin to understand. Finally, she said, “I cannot pay you.”

“I don’t charge people for doing them a favor,” Sarah replied gently. “Please get some rest. If you get sick after having a baby that I delivered, it will hurt my reputation,” she added with a small smile.

Agnes didn’t appreciate Sarah’s attempt at humor, but she allowed Sarah to pick the baby up and place her in her arms.

“I forgot to ask what you’d named her,” Sarah said.

Agnes glanced down at the child, as if she needed to remind herself. “Marta,” she said after a moment. “After Lars’s mother. I wanted to call her Gerda, but-” Her voice broke, and Sarah was afraid she would collapse if she didn’t get into bed soon.

With professional efficiency, Sarah guided her patient to her unmade bed and tucked her into it, making sure the baby was suckling properly before leaving them. She checked on the other two children, who were still playing so quietly Sarah found it disturbing. They stared at her with large, wary eyes when she told them their mother was resting, but they didn’t make a sound. She remembered Malloy’s silent son and wondered for a moment… But then she recalled hearing them speak on earlier visits and realized that they were most likely simply cowed by things they couldn’t understand.

Sarah made short work of the biscuits. She was afraid she’d added too much flour to the dough, but she hated when it stuck to the rolling pin. She hated everything about dough, in fact. It was either sticky and messy or powdery and messy. She cut the biscuits with the top of a drinking glass, found a sheet of tin to bake them on, and stuck them in the oven. By then her clothes were damp and her face running with sweat. All that work, and she still hadn’t so much as asked Agnes a single question about her sister.

She was just cleaning up the last of the flour from the kitchen table when she heard footsteps on the stairs and cries of, “Papa! Papa!” Lars Otto must be home, and he’d be annoyed because his supper wasn’t ready. He’d probably be even more annoyed to find Sarah there. She steeled herself to face him.

Lars Otto called something in German, something that sounded a bit angry to Sarah, as he stepped through the doorway, his small daughter perched on one hip while his son proudly carried his father’s lunch pail in with both hands. His work clothes were dirty, probably stained with dried blood from the animals he butchered, but he’d made some attempt to clean himself up before coming home. He stopped short when he saw Sarah and frowned.

“Something is wrong with Agnes?” he asked, apparently more angry than concerned. Or maybe he was just one of those men who hid his finer feelings behind anger. Sarah hoped that was true.

“She’s very tired, and she still hasn’t recovered from the birth. I’m worried about her and the baby. Marta isn’t thriving and-”

“Why should you worry about the baby? That is not your job.”

“I’m a trained nurse, Mr. Otto. I treat sick babies as well as their mothers.”

“Is Marta sick?” Plainly, he believed she was not.

“She will be soon if her mother doesn’t recover her strength. She’s not getting enough to eat. You could try giving her canned milk, but babies rarely do well on that. I’d suggest-”

“Agnes will feed this baby just like she fed the others,” he interrupted her, outraged. “We have no money to waste on milk from a store!”

“I don’t want that, either. Mother’s milk is best, in any case, but Agnes-”

“Did Agnes send for you?” he demanded, setting his daughter down. The little girl was starting to cry, upset at seeing adults argue.

“No,” Sarah admitted. “I just stopped by to see how she was doing.”

“I will not pay you for this visit,” he informed her haughtily. “We did not send for you, and nothing is wrong here.”

“Something is very wrong, Mr. Otto. Your wife is mourning her sister, and she isn’t able to properly take care of the baby.”

“Lars?” Agnes’s voice was hardly more than a whisper, and when Sarah turned to see her standing in the bedroom doorway, she was shocked at the look of naked terror on her face. “Your supper is almost ready.”

Only then did Sarah remember the biscuits, and when she looked, she saw a suspicious curl of smoke coming from the oven door. Quickly, she grabbed a towel and pulled the door open. The biscuits were just starting to burn, and Sarah was able to pull them out before any serious damage was done. Still, she could see that Lars wasn’t pleased. In fact, his face was scarlet.

“Now you are cooking in my house?” he asked her.

“I was just helping Agnes so she could get some rest. She needs some time to mourn her sister and-”

“No one will mourn that woman here! She does not deserve any of our tears.” He glared at Agnes as if daring her to contradict him. She ducked her head like a whipped dog and scurried to put the now sleeping baby back in her cradle. Without looking up, she hurried to the stove and began dishing up something from the pot that had been simmering there.

“You will go now,” Lars told Sarah. “And do not come back here. We do not need a midwife any longer.”

Sarah decided not to mention the other reason for her visit, which was to see if Agnes had any useful information about Gerda’s male companions. Under the circumstances, she didn’t think he would be too pleased to know she was helping investigate Gerda’s death.

Not wanting to linger any more than Mr. Otto wanted her to stay, Sarah gathered her things. “If you need me, just let me know,” she told Agnes, but the woman gave no indication she even heard. She was too busy setting her husband’s meal on the table.

Sarah saw herself out, gratefully escaping into the busy street, where the air was marginally fresher, at least. She could feel her cheeks burning with indignation at the way Lars Otto had treated her. He could be excused for being angry at the scandal his sister-in-law had brought down on them, but he should be more understanding of his wife’s grief. He should at least feel concern for the health of his wife and his baby daughter, if nothing else. But Sarah knew that many men cared little for such things.