moment. No one should be permitted to speak of the Reverend in such disdainful and critical tones. He was head of the mission and respected far and wide. He had built the hospital in which Mildred's child had been born, and the schools where the Chinese children were taught. But, instead of leaving in protest, Grace reached up her sleeve and brought out her linen handkerchief. As she dabbed at her eyes, she glanced at Mildred and saw genuine concern on the other woman's face. Grace's hand that held the kerchief fell heavily to her lap.
"No, it is not so good for me, either," she admitted.
"My dear Grace, after all you have been through." Mildred offered a crisp rub to Grace's knee. "I am sorry to be so forward, but perhaps you can tell me: what is the precise meaning of all those belts and whatnots he has hanging about his person?" Mildred let out a thin stream of air. "What I am getting at is that I believe your Reverend has gone native on you, Mrs. Watson. Whatever are you going to do about it?"
Grace pushed her handkerchief up her sleeve again, although she feared that if she was unable to control herself, she would need it in barely a moment when she would finally burst into tears.
Luckily, Mildred continued, "The Reverend Martin and I have discussed it."
"Discussed what?" Grace asked.
"Your situation and your Reverend's changed— well, there is no other word for it— his changed being."
Grace nodded, although her mind raced with both the truth of this observation and the utter ignorance of it. Had the Martins' first born son been stolen from them, then they, too, would have found their being changed.
"When your baby comes," Mildred continued, "we wish to invite you to live here with us. No, hear me out. It is quite customary for a new mother to be cared for by a loving auntie or friend. No one will think badly of you. We cannot have you over there across the courtyard without a husband and no one but the natives to tend to you and your baby. That is not Christian of us, or of you."
Grace felt the anticipated tears rise up. She did not know what to say, so she reached out a shaking hand and held on to Mildred's own firm one. "You are most kind and good," Grace finally spluttered. "Truly you are."
Mildred smiled tightly and nodded in agreement.
"I am sure the Reverend will understand?" Grace said, half telling and half asking.
"Not to worry. I will have my Reverend Martin speak to him. This new child of yours needs to be protected at all costs. Frankly, knowing the likes of those your husband has come to associate with recently, I am not entirely confident that you should stay in your home even if he were there to be with you. I am sorry to be so blunt. But you will feel much better off here, allowing us to care for you. You may use my number-one amah and leave yours behind. Daisy is old enough to manage without her all the time."
Grace shot a startled look at Mildred, who glanced away quickly and took up her cup again.
"I do not know if I can manage that," Grace said softly. "Mai Lin relies on our employ."
"I should say it is you, rather, who relies perhaps too much upon her," Mildred said, her words slow and careful. "But there is no need for us to quibble about the details. Let's just say it is decided."
Mildred stood, and before Grace knew it, she was being helped up from her seat and escorted out of the Martins' parlor and toward the front door.
"I assume Doc Hemingway will deliver the child?" Mildred asked.
Grace nodded but did not answer.
"He did such a fine job with my Daisy. I would not possibly trust any method other than Western practices for something so important as bringing a baby into the world. Beware of the voodoo rituals of the natives, am I right, my dear?"
Grace nodded again.
"You take care of yourself, and as I said, Reverend Martin will speak with Reverend Watson. It will all be arranged."
Mildred helped Grace out onto the Martins' porch, where she promptly left her. Grace glanced around the desolate courtyard and let out an audible sigh when she finally spotted Mai Lin. The old woman was crouched under a forlorn tree, spitting betel quid into the dust.