BY NIGHT GRETA WAS shivering. Her eyes were glassy, too, and she could keep no food down. I saw nothing but immovable rock in Cherry’s face when she told me that she’d seen it go thus before, and the girl had still survived.
My worry vexed Cherry, that was clear, and I made an effort to earn more that night. I knew it was sensible to turn over my bed as much as I could. It was not sensible that in between I checked on Greta, bringing her hot, sugary tea, and forcing her to drink it with the whiskey that seemed to dull her pain.
As the frigid morning approached, I felt more tired than I could ever remember. Tired of men and their selfish needs, tired of smiling, tired even of trying to continue my story in my head. I could usually make it my reality and the real things happening to me the fiction, but every adventure was fraught with visions of prairie fire and black smoke.
Greta didn’t notice when I entered her room. She was still bleeding, but not as much. I fetched fresh rags and tried to get her to drink more whiskey so she could sleep.
“No, nein,” she insisted.
“What can I bring you then? You need to keep up your strength.”
“My book.” She gestured at the bureau. I made a quick search, finding in the second drawer a small leather-bound volume no bigger than my palm. I flipped the pages curiously — a miniature Neues Testament in her native language.
“Here.” She eagerly took the book from me and clasped it to her breast. “Breakfast. You need breakfast or you won’t be able to work tomorrow night.”
A shudder went through her.
“You can help another girl when someone wants two. Cherry will make it clear you’re not up for…everything.” I added, desperately, feeling the lie of my words acutely, “It’ll be all right.”
She closed her eyes and the shivers increased. Her brow was clammy, and I no longer seemed to exist to her.
I slept fitfully after breakfast, then stripped my bed for wash day. After my share of soaking linens in freezing water, then twisting and spreading them near the fire, I peered into Greta’s room to find her blissfully asleep.
The gray clouds overhead hardly let any daylight through, and the frost-crusted glass took care of almost all the rest. Standing at Greta’s window I saw a man of the town quickly crossing the street after leaving our door. He had just made it, and no doubt heaved a sigh of relief, as the preacher and his wife turned the corner in their wagon.
They were headed out of town, I thought, wrapped tight against the cold. A heavy portmanteau rested in the back of the wagon — wherever the preacher and missus were bound, it was for more than a day, perhaps two. No doubt they would return in time for Sunday services, more’s the pity.
Greta made a little noise, and I felt her brow only to draw my hand back from her heat. Where she’d been clammy before I found her skin dry and papery. She turned toward my touch as if it helped but her fingers moved reflexively on the little book she still held to her heart.
I should have slept in preparation for my evening’s work, but I stayed with her. Her room seemed to grow darker by the hour, so much so that when I glanced from her window again, I was surprised to find the clouds had broken up and there was late afternoon sunshine with patches of clear blue sky peeking through.
Laughter and chatter in the hall outside Greta’s door increased. Angel said something about saving for new hair ribbons and I heard Bridgette both bemoaning and celebrating the arrival of her blood. It was supper and I should have gone down to partake. I was hungry but didn’t feel it.
Jinny had escaped, I reminded myself. I watched Greta’s chest struggle to rise for every breath and didn’t want to acknowledge the truth: for every Jinny there were a hundred Gretas in this house. In other towns, there were more Gretas, Millas, and Darlin’s.
Cherry’s authoritative rap on the door brought me out of grim, dark thoughts.
“Leave her. You can’t help.” Once again, Cherry stayed outside in the hall.
“I think she’s dying. She shouldn’t be alone.”
“You can’t change it. She’ll survive or she won’t.”
Cherry was much older than I was, true, but I felt as if I’d learned something she had not. “Either way, how these hours pass matter.”
“You sound like the preacher’s been at you.” Cherry frowned and I could see her adding up the money Greta had cost, wasn’t making tonight and what it appeared I would not make tonight either. “His way is of no use to you.”
“No preacher could understand what I mean. Or what she’s going through.”
Her expression softened only slightly. “That is a true thing you’ve said. But it don’t change the fact that you need to get downstairs.”
“I made extra last night, Cherry. And I promise again tomorrow night. But tonight — let me at least be here. Milla…”
“Stupid girl.” But her gaze flicked to the bed behind me, and she turned her back and walked away. No permission for me to stay, but no order for me to leave.
The house was noisy with shouts and merriment when I could no longer deny that Greta was sinking, and quickly. Her fever was if anything hotter and she would not swallow when I drizzled water or whiskey at her mouth. I rifled through her bureau to see if there was anything else that might give her comfort. Wrapped tight inside a stocking I found a thin chain with a locket — empty — and a cross hanging from it. I put it in her hand but I’m not sure she knew it was there.
Footsteps on the stairs were frequent with holiday visitors. Cherry would be angry enough with me for not working on such a busy night. Even if they were inclined, none of the other girls could join me in this sad vigil.
I could not say what moved me then. I put on my long coat and risked what was left of my boots’ resistance to mud to go out the back door. The moon gave me only enough light to spot pools of bath water, partially iced over, and other waste that was flung from the windows in the course of a night. The wind sliced and bit at my legs as I skirted the house and made my way to the street.
In spite of the bitter chill men still roamed the night. In the dark none of them would know which woman I was, but that I had emerged near Cherry’s made me a target should they decide to take advantage of my lack of escort and have some fun for free. I moved quick enough that only a street dog kept pace with me. It retreated when I turned into the church yard and made my way around to the back door there.
There was light and so the preacher’s wife’s sister was still awake. I tapped quietly, then louder, and waited.
Through the door the voice I heard as a soothing dream, asked, “What is your need?”
How did I explain? “I need your help.”
“The minister isn’t here.”
“It’s not him I need.”
The door opened a bit, and I could see a narrow slice of Hazel’s face. Her eyes widened and flared for only a moment, then her face settled into wariness. “It’s late. What is it?”
“One of us — she’s not well. I think she may die by morning. She’s got her own Bible, but it’s in German, and there isn’t another. But I think something might comfort her — she keeps a cross on a chain. It’s important. It matters to her.”
I had thought she might give me a Bible, suggest a verse, and send me on my way. Instead she opened the door more and I smelled bread, fresh bread.
“Come in,” she said.
There was a little mat just inside the door and I stayed on it. My boots were indescribable with muck, and the kitchen, in the low lamp light, looked immaculate. The bleached wood counters were stained the color of walnuts, and the wash towels at the large sink were snowy white. My next realization was that the room was warm, blissfully so, from the stove. It’s many doors and levers reminded me of the one that had been in my long-ago home.
She turned the lamp higher, and I saw on the far counter a row of golden-brown loaves, perfect as a summer sunrise. One was cut, and the sight and smell of the soft interior made me a little bit faint.
“Baking passes the time,” she explained after catching the direction of my gaze. “A few loaves for us for the week. A few for those in need.”
I nodded and aimed to be casual, even though I saw for the first time her face and hair free of the shadowing church bonnet. Her hair was not so dark as I’d thought, and it reflected the lamplight with a red glow. “My grandmother used to bake. I’ve not learned.”
Her expression was mildly surprised, as if the likes of me having a grandmother was unexpected. If my grandmother hadn’t been dead, I liked to think she’d have not let me be sent away. She’s the one who had made me read Shakespeare, and so carefully it was all still in my mind, the only kind of treasure no one could take from me.
“Would you like a cup of tea and some bread? I need to change.”
I tried not to show my surprise as I accepted her offer. She moved quickly to provide me with the repast while I surreptitiously took note that her russet hair reached her waist. The hazel of her eyes was greener than I’d realized, and the bonnet had obscured the firm line of her jaw. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“Be at ease. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
The sound of her footsteps was light overhead while I sipped from a delicate teacup the likes of which I’d not held since family years. She’d spread apricot jam on the warm bread, and I could have been in my grandmother’s kitchen. It was the best bread I’d ever tasted, even and firm, strong enough to hold the jam, but melting away at every bite.
Like Connor’s impromptu picnic, it was food given in hospitality. To be worthy of the gesture was to be treated like a person, not an outcast. I thanked her again when she returned, then added, feeling shy, “May I know your name?”
“It’s Violet — did you not know?”
“You are ‘sister’ in church. I confess, I am not always paying attention.” Not Hazel, but a rich, lush, gently exotic flower. Violet. It suited her, and the velvet of her lips.
“I had noticed that you read.”
“Yes. Books are scarce, and there are many good stories in both testaments.”
“They teach us a great deal.” She slung a heavy cloak around her shoulders, covering a serviceable but plain gray poplin dress. “If you’re ready?”
“I am. It was delicious. You make wonderful bread, as good as my grandmother’s.”
“Practice.” Her quick smile allowed that she was pleased by my compliment. It faded as she looked at the door. “We should go.”
I would have stayed longer but the thought of Greta, alone, made me turn my back on her warm kitchen and delicious bread. None of that was for me.