Ten

“What did you tell him that for?” Abigail scolded as soon as Jonathan left the mercantile.

Maisie put a hand to her forehead. “Because it’s true.” Maybe she was beginning to worry too much over this whole thing. Visions flashed before her of demeaning servitude to her mother, a life wasted, Mama only growing worse over time. She had to force it from her mind.

“Have you spoken to the doctor?” Abigail asked, as if reading her thoughts.

And therein lay another worry – what if the doctor told her to send Mama away and then she got better? Would they release her from their care? Would someone write to her to let her know that her mother had recovered? What if she didn’t get better – could Maisie live with the guilt of abandoning her only family? And she had no idea what was involved with the care of those sick of mind. Would she even be allowed to see her mother again?

Maisie began to rub her temples. Worry too much? How could she not worry?

“What happened?” Abigail asked with concern.

Maisie lowered her hands and closed her eyes. “Mama was being very belligerent today, but then the next minute she was her old self. I’m telling you, Abigail, I’m at my limit. I don’t know what to do for her anymore. And I’m so tired ...”

Abigail gave Maisie a hug. It felt good. Maisie had the sudden image of Jonathan Bridger doing the same to her, only this time instead of kissing her forehead he kissed ...

“Don’t worry, we’ll help you think of something. But you have to speak with Doc Abbott. At least find out what he has to say.”

Maisie sniffed back tears. “Yes, I know.”

“You can leave early if you’d like. As far as I know he’s in town. I haven’t heard of any emergencies happening today.”

Maisie wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Thank you, I’ll do that.” She suddenly glanced at the door. “Oh, but Jonathan was going to walk me home.”

Abigail took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Don’t worry, I’ll explain to him where you’ve gone. He’ll understand.”

Maisie nodded. She had to speak with the doctor – she didn’t dare put it off any longer. She would have to face facts, either her mother would get better or she wouldn’t. If she didn’t, Maisie would have to see to it that Mama was well taken care of, even if she spent the rest of her life as a spinster.

She started to straighten up behind the counter when her mother’s venomous look flashed before her. Her words came next, the ones that told her to stay away from Jonathan Bridger. She supposed it wouldn’t matter what sort of man came to call on her, if any – her mother would act the same. No man in his right mind would stick around for that kind of treatment.

She took a deep breath and resigned herself to the possibility that her life would not be her own. Perhaps being a spinster and caring for her mother the rest of her days wouldn’t be so bad. Mama couldn’t very well care for herself. Besides, what if she got worse?

Then the image of Jonathan kissing her on the cheek banished all other thoughts from her mind. If love and time could heal all things, how would it heal her after all her childbearing years were gone? Who would take care of her, be her companion? “No one,” she whispered, terror in her heart. She’d be alone after her mother was gone, completely and utterly alone, her mother’s lingering bitterness her only company.

If her mother didn’t change for the better, how long would it be before Maisie became just as bitter?

* * *

JONATHAN FINISHED HIS first day at the mill tired, sweaty and immensely satisfied. Of all the jobs he’d had over the years, this one paid the most by far. He’d have to speak with Eldon about the particulars, but was sure he could work out a budget and save enough to build his own place sooner than he’d originally thought. And Mr. Simpson the mill owner said there was always room for a bright young man such as himself to advance. How he’d impressed him so quickly he didn’t know, but he had and he was grateful.

The good Lord was certainly blessing him. Now if He would just bless Maisie and her mother too, he might be able to relax. Not that the good Lord wouldn’t – he knew He was. Convincing Maisie of that, however, might prove difficult. Abigail had informed him a few days ago when he went to walk Maisie home from work that she’d left early to speak with Doc Abbott about her mother. He’d hardly seen more than a glimpse of Maisie in the three days since.

He’d heard his share, though, being in such close proximity to Maisie’s room. For the most part, Maisie kept her voice even and low with only the occasional outburst of frustration – he had to commend her on that. But her mother exploded repeatedly and over the most frivolous things. The room was too hot, then too cold, Maisie do this, Maisie do that, all peppered with “are you talking to that man?”

Unfortunately for him, the answer was an emphatic no. Maisie hadn’t been talking to him, much to his dismay. If she had, he’d have asked her to dinner. There was a café in town, and dining away from the boarding house would have the benefit of getting Maisie away from her ma’s hectoring.

He was having trouble listening to what went on next door. Every complaint from Maisie’s mother brought out his protective instincts. How could Maisie stand it? Her mother belittled her, complained, criticized, and at times it was all he could do not to burst into their room and tell her to shut it. But it wasn’t his place.

And the truth was, he didn’t want to be part of a family that was no family at all. In some ways Maisie’s mother was worse than his own. He knew what his mother was and so did everyone else – what you saw was what you got when it came to his family. And they were consistently horrible. Poor Maisie didn’t know what she would be dealing with day to day. Who could live like that?

But he wanted her to live, to have a life. The more he listened, the more he wanted to protect her ... but how could you protect a woman from someone she loved so dearly? What could be done? And how much longer could Maisie last?

He wanted to ask about her visit to Dr. Abbott – what did he say? Was there a cure? He supposed he could ask Abigail, but would that be gossiping? Besides, by the time he got off work Maisie would be there and if she didn’t tell him herself, he could hardly ask Abigail in her presence.

Jonathan reached the boarding house, trudged up the stairs to his room, and flopped onto his bed. He decided to close his eyes for a moment or two ...

... and was awakened by a loud knock on the door. “Mr. Bridger, it’s suppertime,” Mrs. Whitehall called. “Are you coming down?”

Jonathan sat up, tried to stand too quickly and promptly fell flat on his face. He raised it off the floor and looked bleary-eyed at the door. “Be right down!”

“Very well, but don’t take all day.”

He listened to her retreating footsteps as he collected himself and finally sat up. He heard the door across the hall opening and soft footfalls hurrying down the hall. “Maisie,” he whispered to himself. With a sigh he got up and returned to the bed, taking a moment to recover before running his fingers through his hair and doing his best to make himself presentable. He hoped he didn’t smell too bad, but it was his first day at work and everyone in the boarding house knew it.

He went to the door, thinking that if he hurried he could catch Maisie before she returned to her room. Praying he didn’t have too much sawdust left on him, he stepped into the hall.

Downstairs, everyone was already seated at the dining table – Maisie included, much to his surprise. “Evening, all,” he said cheerily, his eyes locked on hers. She quickly looked away, placing her napkin in her lap.

“Maisie!” Mrs. Whitehall said in surprise as she came in from the kitchen. “It’s wonderful to have you join us this evening.” She glanced up at the ceiling. “Is your mother all right?”

“Yes.” Maisie stared at her hands. “She tired herself out today and is sleeping.”

Jonathan glanced between Mrs. Whitehall and Maisie. Just how had Mrs. Woodhouse worn herself out? He hoped it wasn’t from yelling at her daughter all day. Had Maisie even gone to work? “She hasn’t taken ill, has she?” he asked.

“No, no, she’s just... tired.” Maisie said, not looking up.

Jonathan eyed her suspiciously. “How was work today?”

Her ears went pink. Aha – suspicion confirmed.

“I think the two of you are coming down with something,” Mrs. Whitehall said. “You haven’t missed a day of work since you started, Maisie. I’ll make you and your mother a cup of tea after supper.”

Jonathan’s gaze was still locked on Maisie. As if that would help – he couldn’t cure her situation with a look, for Heaven’s sake. “Are you coming down with something?” he asked gently.

He caught the tremble of her jaw before she stilled it. “No,” she said weakly. “I’m perfectly fine.”

Now everyone else at the table stared at her. They all knew it wasn’t true.

Supper and dessert were a silent affair, but Jonathan, after his earlier nap and some hot food, still felt refreshed. He wished he could say the same for Maisie who’d poked at her meal with little enthusiasm. The sight made his muscles tighten – he wanted to do something for her but didn’t know what. How could anyone help her at this point?

Love and time heal many things, his mind whispered as Mrs. Whitehall poured another round of coffee. The question was, how much time and how much love would it take? And the object of all that time and love – would Mrs. Woodhouse receive it?

That was the real problem – you could give all the love and time in the world to someone, but if they didn’t take it, what good would it do? If a child didn’t take his medicine, how could he expect to get better? Children often didn’t take what was good for them because they didn’t like the taste. An adult would force themselves to, knowing that in the end the medicine would heal them, or at least alleviate their symptoms ...

Jonathan sipped his coffee, stealing glances at Maisie over his cup. She, in turn, kept glancing at the ceiling. This was the quietest her mother had been at this time a day. Just how much yelling and screaming had she done to reach such exhaustion?

Dessert completed, everyone settled in to read, knit, or otherwise occupy themselves in the parlor. Jonathan went to Maisie’s chair and extended a hand. “Will you join me for a while on the porch?”

She looked at him as if he’d just asked her to slit Mrs. Whitehall’s throat. Good grief, what brought that on? “No, I couldn’t,” she said.

“I’m afraid I must insist.” It was a bold move, but he needed to get to the bottom of things if he wanted to sleep that night.

Mr. Martensen and Mrs. Mitchell both raised eyebrows. But Mrs. Whitehall breathed a sigh of relief. “I think it’s a fine idea.” She grabbed a shawl she’d just finished knitting off her chair. “Here, put this on, Maisie – it’s cold outside.”

Jonathan hid a smile as Maisie complied. At least someone was on his side. He thought of going upstairs for his jacket, then decided against it. Better to get Maisie out of the house as soon as possible, before she balked.

She allowed him to walk her to the porch swing without protest and sat on one end, he on the other. The two glanced at each other awkwardly until Mrs. Whitehall brought them each a hot cup of tea. “I’ll be right inside if you need me,” she said cheerfully.

Jonathan bit his lower lip to keep from laughing. The woman was appointing herself chaperone – or maybe matchmaker. But what good would that do? If he was smart, he’d get out of the boarding house as soon as he was able. He wasn’t the only one who had to listen to Maisie and her mother go at it every day. But he was the closest, and certainly the one most frustrated by it.

But his own comfort wasn’t his first concern. “Tell me about your day,” he asked before taking a sip of tea.

Her lashes fluttered, and he wondered if she was blinking back tears. She too took a sip, then held the cup in her hands as if it were a lifeline.

Jonathan swallowed hard as his resolve not to get involved any further splintered. “Maisie ... how are you?”

But he wasn’t the only one to break. “Oh, Jonathan!” she wailed.

He immediately put his cup on the small wicker table next to the swing, did the same with hers and pulled her into his arms. He expected Mrs. Whitehall to march out and separate them, but she didn’t. Maybe she was in the kitchen doing the supper dishes. Or maybe she was leaning toward “matchmaker” instead of “chaperone.” “Maisie,” he whispered against her hair. “Tell me.”

She shuddered in his arms as she sniffed back tears. “I’m just so tired. So tired.”

“Then rest, sweetie. There’s nothing wrong with doing that.”

“That’s just it, I can’t. I’ve done a terrible thing, a terrible thing!”

He pulled away from her. “What did you do?”

“I ... I gave my mother some laudanum.”

He cocked his head at that. “Is she ailing?”

She shook her head as more tears fell. “No more than usual. I just couldn’t take it anymore, and ...”

He pulled her against him again and sighed. “I understand.” He held her tightly for a moment before separating them again. “She’s gotten that bad?”

“Yes, ever since you walked me to work on Monday ...”

“Oh.” So her mother had seen them through the window. “And she’s been difficult ever since?”

“Yes, horrible.”

This was beginning to sound familiar. He remembered a time when Ma had influenza, and everyone, even Olivia, was jumping at her every word, getting her whatever she wanted. At first they were relieved they hadn’t lost her – the doctor that treated her said she was lucky to pull through. But even once she recovered, she liked having everyone at her beck and call, day in and day out.

Finally Olivia threw one of her epic fits, breaking three of Ma’s favorite dishes and a vase, then tossing Ma’s Sunday dresses out the window. Ma didn’t retaliate the way they expected, with a fit of her own and tossing Olivia’s entire wardrobe into the pigpen. Instead she became more demanding, not letting Olivia or Jonathan out of her sight for weeks.

Jonathan was only nine at the time, and remembered telling Aggie about it shortly after he and his family took her in – sort of as a warning for what she was getting into. Aggie shined it off, saying her mother was probably just afraid that Olivia would get mad and leave. Which, of course, Olivia didn’t – not when she could now take all the bitterness Ma dumped on her and drop it on Aggie ...

“I don’t know what to do,” Maisie said, pulling him from his thoughts.

Jonathan hugged her again and, unable to help it, kissed her hair. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I think I do.”