Return home—Recuperation—Heartsickness
Josiah’s wife, Lydia, was so unlike her husband it was hard to see how they had become a couple. Kind and long-suffering, she undoubtedly had been tempered by her long years of marriage to him. On their arrival, she put her arms around Anne as tenderly as a mother.
The members of the family, Anne’s extended kinship of cousins and friends, were as solicitous of her as she could have hoped. Josiah faded into the background of daily life, and after a time it was hard to recall his harsh treatment in light of the Christian charity and goodwill she now enjoyed.
She was treated as a prodigal who had come from far away, and whose rest and recuperation were of utmost concern. After a few days, it began to resemble the treatment enforced on an invalid. Anne was allowed to do nothing but sit in the house all day. Suggested pastimes beyond prayer included reading, sewing, and playing music, for none of which she had the slightest inclination.
The younger girls brought their castoffs, it being decided that those best suited Anne’s extreme thinness as opposed to the fuller dresses more appropriate to a women her age. A mother of two, Anne felt foolish in the virginal, bright-colored calicos and florals, yet a part of her coveted this part of her youth that had been stolen. She felt keenly how great chunks of her life had been torn away, never to be recovered.
For the first time in over six years she had leisure to contemplate what had happened to her. She spent long hours in a rocking chair by the window with the decoy of needlepoint to keep busy, her idleness otherwise arousing worry. She longed to take strenuous walks outside, but her time out of doors was curtailed until it became hardly any at all. Her skin again paled, the calluses on her hands softened, but what should have been a time of healing became instead a time of fretting.
Although Anne could not experience it viscerally as when living outdoors, she felt the waning of summer by the changing slant of light, the sun setting sooner, the coolness creeping into the late afternoon air. It was a time of harvest. The tribe would be busy drying berries and meat for the long months of lack that lay ahead. How did Solace and Thomas fare? Had the tribe escaped the harsh punishment of the army? If so, where were they now? Did they miss her or was she already in the process of being forgotten? How could she enter this white world again when they had been left behind in that other one?
Uncle Josiah kept a hawkish watch over her. It was as if he were privy to her innermost thoughts. She had the uncanny feeling he read hers. Although he had suggested it, she was loath to keep a journal, knowing he would scour her writings for hidden meaning. The only way to gain her freedom was to lull her uncle into a belief that the Indian influence on her had been exorcized, that she had indeed put the desire for her children in the past.
Shyly she asked Lydia if she could begin helping with chores, as her unproductive hands were a curse to her. Soon she was cooking in the kitchen, bringing in the milk and eggs from the barn, sandwashing the floors, and sewing—in all ways making herself of service. Artfully she let slip that she wished to progress with her life, to marry and start a family. A parade of young men began to appear at the dinner table.
When any of the grown daughters came with their own young children, Anne insisted on playing aunt with the little ones, dandling them on her lap, feeding them sweets. It took only a small kiss to remind her of her own babies surviving in privation.
Lydia noticed her downturned mouth.
“Are you sad?”
“I think of my little ones,” Anne whispered.
Lydia’s face tightened at the unwanted revelation, but she did not seem greatly surprised. Either Josiah had divulged it, or she had guessed her husband’s lie.
“They are passed?”
Anne bit her lip.
“Solace. Thomas. They are unclaimed. Abandoned by their mother. With all my heart I long only to retrieve them.”
She cursed herself for confessing her longing, undoing months of the careful planting of lies.
“I suspected.”
“Forget I said anything,” Anne said.
Lydia folded her hands in her lap. She bowed her head. The toll of long years as Josiah’s obedient wife made her hesitate, weighing her words carefully.
“Your uncle explains to me that they are a sin … I do not agree. In my eye every child born is blessed. Truly, my heart bleeds for you.”
Her words loosed a flood of tears from Anne. She unraveled.
Lydia continued, “I could never have the strength to shun my own blood. You have been chosen for a grave trial. Josiah says so. The Lord must have determined you strong enough to bear it.”
“I am the weakest of women.”
“After all, they are Indians. Perhaps they could not adapt happily to our life? Could it be God’s wisdom that they are better left to their lot?”
“I do not believe so,” Anne answered, too sharply for politeness. “If your babes were torn from your arms, would you say it was for the better for them to be without you? To live in such harsh circumstances, in such heathen ways? Children thrive on happiness, goodness, all of which you have shown me in abundance.”
For several moments neither woman spoke.
“Would you tell me something?” Lydia whispered, leaning closer.
“Surely, Aunt.”
“During your time there, did they ever force you to scalp a man?”