On Distant Shores

Being a midwife in 1801 colonial America had equipped Lane with little more than a pair of silver scissors she had inherited from her grandmother and a set of clean linens prepared and folded just for the occasion of birth. Should she need more in the way of equipment she wouldn't know what it would have been, since 18th century midwifery held the woman's hands and spirit in highest regard.
Her horse had been given to her, unbroken, as a gift for the safe delivery of twins a county over. She had lived with the family in anticipation of the delivery for three weeks, and while she had suspected twins she was wholly surprised to see a pair of hands reaching into the light after the first baby boy had been born.
Payment was rare if you only counted coins, otherwise she had no fear of going hungry or living in the streets. Along with the silver scissors she had inherited her Grandma's cabin a bit outside of town, and though young enough for marriage, not many suitors considered her suitable. Something had been odd about Lane since the day of her birth, and she and everyone else in the county had known it. Being a midwife only compounded the fact.