William smiled, no doubt appreciating her philosophical musings as much as Tom did. “What a dolt I am. I waited too long to write her back. And now I can’t. That kind of letter deserves a response.”

He held up his hand, the bruising on it looking worse by the hour. Tom continued to be concerned that he wouldn’t get help for it, but since William was being stubborn on that point, Tom wanted to assist in any way he could think of.

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll write her for you.”

Tom pulled out some paper and tried three pens before finding one that worked.

“What do you want to say?”

William shrugged. “How every letter starts, I guess.”

“Dear Margaret.”

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

The midwife approached Margaret, Gladys, and Oliver, stepping carefully over a large crack in the sidewalk that sprouted small shoots of weeds. The disrepair of it felt like metaphor.

“How is she?” Margaret asked. The worried look on Catherine’s face unnerved her.

Catherine took Margaret’s hands in her own but looked up at Oliver before speaking.

He seemed to understand what she was inferring.

“I’m going to go pick up some things at the market over there. I’ll be right back.”

Margaret was relieved at his discretion. Though she was grateful that he’d come to their aid, and amused by Gladys’s unexpected interest in him, there were some things that seemed too delicate to discuss in front of a man. She watched him walk away, long paces that weren’t long enough, her heart racing with impatience.

When he was beyond earshot, she turned back to Catherine. “Tell us everything.”

Gladys looped her arm through Margaret’s and pulled her close.

“The baby is fine,” began Catherine. “Your friend had what we call ‘spotting.’ It’s normal at this stage of the pregnancy, though it can seem frightening.”

Margaret let out a huge sigh with breath that had begun to make her lungs ache.

“And Dottie?” asked Gladys. Margaret noticed the quiver in her voice, a departure from the always-confident woman she knew. In a strange way, it was a relief to not be alone in her concern.

Catherine continued with reassurance. “Dottie will be fine as well. But she’s very weak. She has all the signs of being anemic—fatigue, cold extremities, pale skin. If that is not remedied soon, I believe these fainting spells will become more frequent.”

“What can we do to take care of her?” Margaret felt the surge of powerful instinct to protect Dottie and the baby. She suddenly understood how a mother would think nothing of standing between a charging bull and her own child. Or how men like her brother John could go into battle.

Because if Margaret could trade places with Dottie right now, she would.