forty-eight

Lapeer County, June 1874

Chest heaving, Mary looked down to the end of the bed, hoping that Anna, the midwife, and Mrs. Farnsworth would announce that the baby who had just emerged into the world was a girl. But instead of smiles and tears of joy, she was met by wide eyes and slack mouths.

Mary pulled herself up into a sitting position. “What? What’s wrong?”

Mrs. Farnsworth covered her mouth and sat down heavily in a chair.

Mary was frantic now. “What?”

“The baby is fine and healthy,” Anna began. “It’s only . . .” She trailed off and lifted the squalling infant up, allowing Mary a clear view.

Mary emitted an almost inaudible gasp. The child had light brown skin, a wide nose, and tightly curled black hair.

“But—how?” she managed.

“I’m sure you’re the only one who can answer that question,” Mrs. Farnsworth said.

Anna hastily swaddled the baby and brought him up to Mary’s chest. “Put him on your breast to stop his crying.”

“But I—” Mary began.

“Quickly!” Anna commanded. “Unless you want your husband to hear it and come running to see what is clearly not his child.”

Mary did as she was told and the baby’s crying ceased. She hardly dared make eye contact with the two women who now looked upon her as what she undeniably was—an adulteress. Her sin had found her out, and now her husband would be shamed, her children mocked, her marriage shown to be a farce.

Now more than ever the community around her would turn on them. She thought grimly of the graves they had dug last October, of the six large stones that had been taken from the wall at the end of the drive and dragged by oxen, one by one, to the heads of each grave to mark the spot. Was such a fate to await this poor bastard child? What might Mr. Sharpe and his thugs do to George? Mary knew in her heart that it was she who had seduced him—practically begged him to commit this sinful act. Yet he would be the one to bear the blame—and the punishment.

Anna’s voice drew Mary back into the moment. “This is what we will do. Yesterday I delivered the baby of that prostitute on the outskirts of town—Margaret. I told her I would find a place for the child.”

“No, no,” Mary pleaded. “No, I—”

“I take this baby boy with me today and you stuff your dress, make it look as though you were not yet delivered. Mrs. Farnsworth, tell Mr. Balsam it was a false alarm and the baby is not yet born, but that Mrs. Balsam must remain in bed, undisturbed. Meanwhile, I’ll get the baby I delivered yesterday—”

“No!”

“—and tomorrow at nine o’clock you will send for me. I’ll give the baby whiskey to keep her quiet and bring her in the same basket I use to take this baby out. Then Margaret’s baby will be yours and no one beyond the three of us will know.”

Mary could hardly believe what she was hearing.

Mrs. Farnsworth stood. “I’ll get a basket and some blankets straightaway.” She rushed from the room, shutting the door behind her.

“Anna, I will never—”

“You will, my dear. Because if you don’t, you will have destroyed your entire family, past, present, and future.”

“But you don’t understand. Nathaniel has been with that—”

“Mr. Balsam is not the issue here,” Anna said. “You are. Now then, the moment this baby falls asleep, I’ll take him out of here.”

Mary gripped the child tighter. “What will happen to him?”

“I haven’t figured that part out yet. But this at least will save your family from public shame. I’ll find a suitable home for him, I promise.”

“But couldn’t I find a Negro woman to come work for me and pretend the baby is hers? Then I could—”

“Mrs. Balsam, get ahold of yourself! This is the only solution to your problem. You’re lucky this other woman’s baby looks enough like you and Mr. Balsam that the switch might possibly go undetected. And even if someone did suspect, it would be better to be suspected of philandering with a white man than a Negro.”

Mrs. Farnsworth swept in with a large basket filled with blankets, a bottle of whiskey, and an eye dropper.

“I thought it best if we gave this one something as well, Anna. He cannot make a sound as you leave.”

Anna reached for the baby lying contentedly against Mary’s chest.

“Please, wait,” Mary entreated through tears. “Just for a moment. Please.”

“It will only make it harder, Mrs. Balsam.” She dipped her finger in the whiskey and pried the little mouth from Mary’s breast. He sucked Anna’s finger as she quickly transferred his swaddled body to the basket. Mary bit her fist to keep from crying out. Mrs. Farnsworth dripped whiskey into the corner of his mouth with the dropper. The baby soon relaxed, stopped suckling, and fell asleep.

Mary’s thoughts raced to search out some other plan, some other way. Anna covered up the basket and peeked into the hallway, then she and the basket disappeared. Mary thought she might hyperventilate. She heard Little George’s voice in the hall and her heart froze. Then Anna’s muffled voice. Then nothing.

Mary let a quavering breath leak out from between her lips. Gone. Her baby. George’s baby. Gone.

The next few minutes were a blur. Mrs. Farnsworth cleaned her up, changed her bedding, and helped her stuff her dress.

“I’ll keep everyone out of here,” she said. “This would only convince someone from the doorway if you remain under the covers.”

At nine o’clock the next morning, Mrs. Farnsworth sent the children away, told the men to stay out in the field, and sent the young stable boy rushing for the midwife again. Anna carried the same basket. The baby inside was a small girl with light reddish-brown hair and blue eyes who had no idea that she was a trick being played on the world. The child did look remarkably like Nathaniel, a thought that made Mary retch. The man who had fathered this child likely lived nearby, perhaps with a wife and legitimate children of his own. Like Nathaniel. She tried to comfort herself with the thought that at least the poor little girl would not be raised by a prostitute. But how could she stand in judgment? At least a prostitute did not hide her sin.

“You will have to pretend you are in the travail of labor until this baby is awake enough to cry,” Anna said. “If no one hears anything from this room, no one would believe you had just borne a child.”

Mary wondered how much dignity she would have to forfeit to cover up her transgression. “I can’t do that with you both in here watching me.”

“I’ll sit watch outside the door,” Mrs. Farnsworth offered.

“I must stay,” Anna said.

Mary closed her eyes to shut Anna out, to shut the world out, and began to groan. It felt at first as though she were an actress playing a part in a sordid play. But at some point, her cries of agony became genuine. She cried out for her impossible love, for her betrayal of her husband, for his betrayal of her, for her selfishness, and for the baby who had been stolen from her. In her sorrowful moans were all the words she felt she could not utter aloud before God or man, her full confession and cry for forgiveness. Finally her cries were joined by the mewling whimpers of that pitiful baby in the basket, and the deception was complete.

Nathaniel came in first, smiling and cooing over the tiny baby girl upon his wife’s breast. “What shall we call her?”

“You name her,” Mary said flatly.

Nathaniel thought a moment. “What about Margaret?”

“What?”

“Margaret.”

“How can you even suggest that?” Mary realized she was glaring at him, but she couldn’t stop. How could he propose the name of the woman whose bed he had visited instead of her own?

“What do you mean?” he asked. “What’s wrong with Margaret?”

“The only Margaret in this town is not fit to speak of. And don’t think I don’t know why you chose that name.”

Nathaniel’s eyes clouded over with anger, a sight made more terrible for its rarity. “You would sit in judgment of me? You, who named our firstborn son after a slave? A slave you wished would ravish you all the time I was picking worms from my rations so I could maintain some ghost of my humanity?”

The letter. He had gotten the letter.

“This baby’s name is Margaret,” he said. “And her middle name shall be Catherine. And we will never speak of these things again. Do you understand?”

Mary nodded and whispered, “Yes.”

Nathaniel schooled his features, tugged at his cuffs, and left the room.

Jonathan and Benjamin came in next, smiling over their new baby sister. Benny especially took a shine to her and would not leave until Mrs. Farnsworth suggested that there were cookies down in the kitchen waiting for him.

Little George came last. He looked at the baby with an expression bordering on contempt, and he would not look at his mother at all.

Their relationship had been even more strained than usual since the night of the attack. Not wishing to bring shame to the family, Mary had kept her suspicions of his involvement to herself. Instead, she developed her own personal system of justice, meting out punishments for every small infraction, assuming the boy would know why, even if she didn’t exactly.

“Don’t you like your little sister?” Mary said.

“Not my sister,” he mumbled.

Mary’s mouth fell slightly open, and beads of sweat began to sprout from her upper lip. “Of course she’s your sister.”

Her eldest son’s stormy expression was a mirror image of his father’s not twenty minutes before. “I’m not stupid, Mother.” Then he turned and walked out of the room.