Chapter Nine

Silence reigned through the Adams’ household over the next week. They weren’t ringing in the holidays with any great hilarity, Finola noted.

Timothy had gone out three nights with Mary Louise, and that had not set well with Finola nor with Liam, for that matter.

Then the announcement of his invitation to the fair Miss Rankin of Pomeroy Court did stir things up a bit as the new January freeze descended upon the city.

“Finola,” Timothy announced one morning, “I’ll be sending a messenger out today with an invitation to Miss Rankin for dinner this Friday evening. Can you please see that everything is in order?”

Finola’s spine stiffened as she absorbed his decree. Now she would be forced to cook dinner for his new love and serve them, as well. Why didn’t he just stab a knife into her heart? It would be so much kinder than to slowly torture her to death this way.

“Mary Louise is coming here for dinner?” she asked. Her throat threatened to close completely shut.

“Well, I hope so.” He straightened some papers in his case. “We must thank her in kind for the tickets she provided us for her show.”

“Ah, well, yes. I suppose you’re right.” She felt her eyebrows gathering against her will. “And what would you like me to prepare for this dinner?”

Timothy squinted his eyes as he thought. “I have no idea. That’s your department. Make whatever you want. Oh, and by the way, Monday will mark Liam’s return to classes. I’ve made a list. Can you see that he gets these things before then?”

She took the list from him with trembling fingers. “Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it.”

He finished his coffee and called for Liam to come give him a hug before he left for work. Finola watched them, ripping her into pieces. How long did she have left? A month? Two or three?

“Mr. Adams, I’ll see you at lunch. I have some work to do in the cellar,” she said. “Liam, read at the dining room table until I come back up.”

Timothy frowned. “What are you doing down there in the cellar? It’s terribly cold down there right now.”

“Oh, well, I was thinking about making a place to start some seedlings for a garden in the spring, but I’ve had second thoughts now. I want to put things away and tidy it up,” she explained.

“No,” he stated firmly, shaking his head. “No garden, not ever.”

“But I said I’d had second thoughts about it, sir,” she protested, but the mere suggestion that he would keep her from having a garden infuriated her.

“That would just be unseemly to have a garden here on the property. It would look countrified and ridiculous. No, we won’t be doing that.” His face turned an ugly shade of red as he struggled into his coat.

“I’m thinking it’s a good thing I’ve had a change of plans then,” she replied coldly, watching him flounder about with his coat but not bothering to help. Yes, indeed, she thought. A change of plans.

“Will you please help me with this?” he asked at last.

“Yes, sir,” she replied, shoving the overcoat onto his shoulders. “And off you go.” She almost flung him out the back door, closing it after him without so much as a good-bye.

In a tornado of harried anxiety, Finola cleaned the house from top to bottom. With every swipe of her dust rag and sweep of her broom, she fumed over Timothy’s uppity dismissal of her garden. “Fine,” she muttered. “Just one more reason to be moving on.”

She heard a gasp and turned to find Liam staring at her with wide eyes. “No, you can’t leave me. I need you.”

He ran to her and wrapped his arms about her legs. “I love you, Finola. Don’t leave me.”

“Now, now,” she soothed him. “Old Finola is just having an off day. Don’t take any heed at my words. I’m just being cranky.”

“It’s because of her, isn’t it? You want to leave because of Miss Rankin. She’s taking my father away.” He sobbed into her skirt.

“Oh, Liam! Don’t take on so.” She pulled him down to sit on a stair step with her. “It’s not Miss Rankin. She’s a fine lady, you know. Cultured and educated. Just the kind of woman your father needs in his life. No, I’ve just been thinking that since you’re on your feet again, maybe I should look for work with another family who needs me more.”

“But I need you,” he wailed.

“Oh, my. Let’s forget all this silly talk for now. Are you hungry? Maybe a sandwich would tide you over until supper?”

He nodded and allowed himself to be led to the kitchen, still clutching at her skirts. Finola made him an egg on toast and a glass of milk. She watched him eat, pleased with the progress he had made under her care. It would be hard on her heart to part from him—from both of them—but she had to do what she had to do.

She checked on the pot of chicken soup cooking on the stove and gave it a stir. It really was too bad that she couldn’t start her seedlings next month as she had planned. There were many kinds in her little bag, taken from her mother’s garden in Ireland. Not everything she would need or want to cook, but many. There were herbs of all kinds, flowers, vegetables, and even a few for apple trees.

She sighed. Someday, she promised herself, she would have a garden of her own grown from seeds that she cultivated herself. It would be, she realized, a continuation of the love her mother had for their own family garden. And possibly someday, she thought with an aching heart, she might again have a family.

“I’m a little tired, Finola,” Liam said as he handed her his plate and glass. “I’m going to take a nap.”

She furrowed her brow. “A nap? Are you feeling all right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the boy answered. “Just tired.”

“All right then, I’ll check on you after a bit.”

She watched him shuffle off through the kitchen. He seemed as if the spark had gone out of him.

She said a little prayer for the child to remain strong and healthy. The last thing they needed was a relapse.

****

Supper was a quiet affair. Timothy ate his soup and dark bread without comment. Liam mostly just dipped his spoon in and out of the bowl without eating much. Finola fretted about, refilling dishes and feeling of Liam’s forehead.

“Mr. Adams?” she asked at last.

“Yes?”

“I think the boy is feeling unwell.”

Timothy looked up in concern. “Are you sick, Liam?

“No, sir. I don’t think so.” He leaned his face into his palm and sighed. “Well, maybe a little.”

“He took a nap today,” she commented. “On his own. He wanted to.”

“Oh, dear,” Timothy said, reaching across the table to feel of his son’s face. “He doesn’t seem to have a fever.”

“Nor does he have a sore throat or anything else I can find,” she said.

“Hmm. Maybe you should call the doctor out tomorrow to look at him.” He sighed heavily as he continued to feel for lumps, bumps, and bruises. “I’ve been worried that he’s been doing too much. Late nights and running about.”

“I shall do that. Now in the meantime Liam, go upstairs and have a nice warm bath. I’ll be up to tuck you in shortly,” she instructed.

The child obeyed without even arguing about a bath. Timothy and Finola raised their eyebrows at each other.

“No arguing about a bath?” Timothy put a hand to his own forehead in worry. “He is sick,”

“I’ll call the doctor first thing in the morning, and I’ll keep me bedroom door open tonight so I’ll hear him in case he needs me.”

Timothy rubbed his hand over his face and rose from his chair. “Of course. Just wake me if you need to.”

She watched him disappear from the dining room. Why, she thought for the tenth time that day, couldn’t things be different?

****

Liam was awake, staring up at the ceiling in the darkened room when Finola checked on him after cleaning up the kitchen and setting the dining room table for the morning’s breakfast.

“Liam, can I get you anything?” she asked from the doorway.

“No, thank you.” His voice sounded weak and small.

“Have you said your prayers?”

“Yes, ma’am. And I read with Da a little,” he said with a sigh. “I’m just not feeling well.”

“I’ll leave my door open tonight, just in case you need me,” Finola stepped over to him. “All right, dear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Finola’s heart sank in her chest as she readied for bed. What could be ailing the child? She wondered if he was having another round of the twisted guts. She would give him some apple juice at breakfast to loosen him up. Kneeling next to her bed, she said her prayers and then settled down under the blankets and quilt, grateful for the warmth. Winter in Kentucky of the United States was a cold affair, indeed.

****

“Finola! Help me!”

Liam’s scream startled her awake, and Finola hit the floor running. Before he could curdle blood with another scream, she had him in her arms, rocking him back and forth in his soft bed.

“Settle down, now. It’s okay. I’m here,” she soothed him, rocking the child back and forth. “Did ye have a dream? A nightmare? It’s fine now. It’s all gone.”

The child curled himself into her and laid his head on her shoulder. “It was awful. Our house was falling away. Pieces of it were flying off into the air, and I couldn’t find Da. And you were driving the carriage down the road and couldn’t hear me when I called for you. I was all alone.” His sobs came harder now, and she smoothed his hair as she held him.

“What’s wrong?” Timothy asked from the doorway, his hair tousled and house robe only half on.

“Just a bad dream. Everything’s fine now.” She patted the child’s back as he clung to her. “Liam, do you want me to stay with you?” Timothy asked.

“No, I want Finola, Da.” He sobbed into her shoulder. “She makes it all better.”

“I see.” Timothy’s face clouded in the moonlight shining through the window. “Well, I’ll get you a drink of water. How’s that?”

Liam nodded, watching his father disappear from the doorway. “The house was flying apart because Da wasn’t here to keep it together. He was sitting under a tree with that woman. It was all her fault.”

“What woman?” Finola asked. “Do you mean Miss Rankin? Now, Liam. That’s just your imagination running away with you.”

She laid him back against his pillow and smiled at him. “Do you think that this sickness you’ve been feeling is because of Miss Rankin?”

“No,” he whispered in the dark. “It’s because my belly hurts all the time, and I’m so very tired.”

“I see. Well, in the morning we’re going to have a big glass of apple juice and another at lunch. I think that should put you right. Have you been visiting the facilities every day?”

Liam looked at her intently. “Have I what?”

She blushed a bit. “You know, son. Have you been going? To the toilet?”

“Oh.” He thought for a minute and then slowly shook his head. “No, I guess I haven’t. It hurts a lot.”

“Not to worry,” Finola told him, tucking the covers around him. “Soon you’ll be back in good working order.”

Timothy arrived with the glass of water and sat on his son’s bed. “Here you are. Is everything better now?”

“Yes, Da. I’ll go back to sleep.”

Finola and Timothy hovered nearby until Liam had rolled over on his side and his breathing was regular and deep.

“Nightmares? This can’t be good. I want you to call the doctor first thing in the morning,” Timothy ordered.

“Yes, sir. He just told me he’s not been going to the facilities every day,” she finished with a sigh.

“The facilities? Oh, yes. That. Can’t you fix that? You did before, didn’t you?”

Finola smiled. “Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it.”

“Excellent. Well, back to bed for both of us.” Timothy stopped short. “I didn’t mean… This is embarrassing.”

Finola shook her head. “It’s fine, sir. I know what you mean. Good night.”

“Good night.” He wandered back down the hallway and closed the bedroom door behind him.

Finola returned to her own bed and reclaimed her now cooling sheets with a shiver. These Adams men were perplexing. How did they manage before I came here? And what will they do once I leave?