Chapter 13

Palmyra: February 1829

It had all been a ruse from the very beginning. I did not recognize that till too late. Josephine nearly four months with child and eating like a bird so as not to show it. Then a nightmare recurring: Alexander’s white face on my doorstep, Josie’s white face on her bed, Doctor Ensworth grimly shaking his head at me.

“What is the trouble?” I asked him when we were alone.

“I can’t tell you that.” His tone was more gentle than usual. “If only we knew. I’d guess it has something to do with the individual makeup of each woman’s system—how it is able to tolerate the growing fetus.” He scratched at his whiskery chin. “Some women carry a child without one day of sickness—some without one day of feeling well. Some deliveries take an hour, some take a day. Only the good Lord knows why.”

Nothing there to take back to Josephine. I wondered if anything could comfort or placate her now. Alexander was devastated and showed it by burrowing deeper within himself. Josephine covered her anger with the brittle flippancy she handled so brilliantly. And such an attitude had the effect of turning honest sympathy aside. She would have none of our tendernesses and certainly no tears.

“What is done, is done,” she kept chirping, “and all for the best, I imagine. I cannot see myself with a child anyway.”

That last statement chilled me. For it meant she had been picturing the sweet reality they both had hoped for.

Her husband would have comforted her, if she had let him. I think in his mind he accepted the fault for the matter. Certainly this lovely, vivacious creature he had married could be in no way to blame.

If Josie had allowed him to comfort her, would things have been different? I think so. The loss, the failure—as both of them regarded it—drove a dull wedge between them rather than weaving tender bonds that would have united the two as husband and wife. One does what one must, or each does those things of which he or she is cap-able, and that determines the matter for the moment, and often for years yet to come.

I took joy in my godson, for so little Laurie was christened. What winsome ways he had—and as beautiful as any girl-child! I believe my mother was envious when I took to doting upon him. But Jonathan, after all, was nearly two years old, speaking a string of words, running wherever his stout legs would take him or his mother allow. Laurie was an infant yet. I wish my mother could have accepted him for his separate needs and separate merits. But Josephine’s disappointments had become, in a way, her own. She felt the depressive hopelessness, as if the loss had happened to her. She could see none of the underlying heartaches of Tillie’s life; those things that were carefully guarded from the casual eye. She chose, instead, to make comparisons and envy my dear friend for her affluence, her social position, her healthy, pampered child. In my mother’s mind I was a bit of a traitor to rejoice with Tillie, who already possessed overmuch and did not need my attentions in the way my poor sister and my own little brother did.

I knew the bitter anguish Tillie’s family was suffering at Randolph’s disappearance. I had remained true to my trust, albeit reluctantly, and told no one of his terrible injury, nor of the time he spent under my roof. There I did feel like a traitor. After suffering my uneasiness for weeks, I took it up with Jonah Sinclair, briefly drawing him away from his young wife during a visit to Theodora’s. I never went to the big house now. If Tillie had still been living with her parents, I do not know what would have happened. I had no desire to encounter her father, nor to pursue the unfinished matters that stood like a stone block between us.

Latisha also doted upon her nephew, so it was not unusual for us to come upon one another of an afternoon or an evening at Tillie’s house. Neither sister took much notice when Mr. Sinclair and I wandered off for a few moments.

“No one in the family has knowledge of Randolph’s injury,” I began, “and of his time spent in my house, no one save his father. Is that correct?”

“That is still right, far as I know.”

“You have not told Latisha.” He shook his head. “Hasn’t that been difficult?”

“And more—cryin’ herself to sleep those first few nights.”

I shuddered. “Mrs. Swift suspects nothing?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“And my poor Tillie.”

“Well, miss, the worst of it is Peter. He’s near run off half a dozen times in search of his brother. I spent most of one whole night talking him out of it. His father’s forbidden him the run of the stables and told him that if he goes off without gaining permission, he may as well not come home.”

“So like him!” I was fuming inside. “Can you do nothing for Peter? I cannot bear to think of him suffering, too.” I placed my hand on the good fellow’s arm and looked into his eyes. “Watch out for the lad, will you? We can do nothing for Randolph—” My voice broke, and I turned aside. “I feel deceitful,” I confessed, “knowing these horrid facts and concealing them!”

“What good would they do, Miss Esther?”

“Is that the only question?” I mused aloud. “When the truth comes out, as it eventually does, what will they think of our silence?”

Distress clouded the straightforward gaze. “I can’t see us tellin’, Miss Esther. Isn’t that Mr. Swift’s place?”

“Indeed, it is,” I agreed. “But do we join ranks in his cruelty by keeping our counsel as well?”

The question was too much for him. And just then Latisha’s voice came to us from the next room, and the moment was lost. We went in to join the others and exclaim at the baby’s antics, but every time my eyes met Tillie’s gentle smile I cringed a little inside.

The ice is breaking up on the canal and in the rivers. February thaws can be awe-inspiring things, especially when the temperate air churns suddenly into a cold blustery wind that slices through the jagged ice shards and licks the land like the tongue of a giant dragon with white, frozen breath. Both the living trees and the shaven wood framed and standing in houses moan in protest. The sun is too weak to break through the gray plate of the sky, and the mildness, brief and sighing with promise, wreaks more havoc than good.

I see no one: not Tillie and the others in the village; not Josie, in her own frozen world beneath the tall elms that ring the gristmills and the sawmills; not my dear Eugene, with his troubling sea-green eyes. I play with Jonathan, read my books, and pore over seed catalogs from my corner by the fire, but I am no longer content. Thus I know that it is right for me to marry and begin my own life with this gentle person I love.

Tonight a strange thing has happened. Jane Foster knocked on our door about seven, her fingers stiff, her nose red from the raw wind. Her buggy was stuck in the gully half a mile from our house with a broken wheel. Father has gone with her to help, for she pleaded that she has two or three urgent calls to make and no time to lose. Indeed, I believe he harnessed Tansy to our own light buggy in the interest of time.

I watch Mother covertly as time passes. She reflects nothing of unease or concern. I entertain my own fears in silence. It is not that I distrust my father, or even Jane. But something about the two of them when they were alone those few moments at the harvest dance—and I know my father’s need, and his loneliness—and why is it that Jane’s buggy broke down right here?

When Mother rises to go back to bed, I kiss her cheek and hasten to put coals in the long-handled bed warmer to run between her cold sheets. I nearly say, “Perhaps I shall wait up for Father,” but I cannot get the words out, and she does not mention him.

I go back to the kitchen, where the fire is still burning steadily and the room is warm. I put the kettle on and determine to remain for no more than half an hour, deciding that if the calls were routine and easily dispatched with, my father shall have returned by then. If there are any real difficulties for Jane to deal with, well, they might not be back until morning. I pull Mother’s rocker a little closer to the fire and curl up, as contented as the kitten that has now grown to a cat and sleeps on the warm stones of the hearth.

Father’s voice awakens me. Which means I did not hear horse or buggy, or the opening of the door, or his booted tread. I struggle to swim out of sleep and crane my neck to get a view of the kitchen clock.

“It is late, Esther. I’m sorry you fell asleep here. It’s nearly dawn.”

Father’s voice sounds subdued, even deflated. I peer through bleary eyes at him. “What happened?” I ask. “I can see in your face that something happened.”

I rub the cramped muscles in my neck, waiting for him to put the words together. “Esther.” The way he says my name chills me, and all sorts of horrors flicker across my mind. “It is Emily Turner. Jane delivered her of a baby daughter, and the child is doing well.”

Something within me begins to tighten. He does not have to say the words. “There were complications. Do not tell me—she is dead—Father.”

I lean back against the rocker and close my eyes. Perhaps it is the weariness within me that blocks all thought, all feeling. I do not want this to happen! I feel a terrible remorse, and a weight of sorrow that is nearly too heavy to bear.

Father half lifts me and helps me to my cold, empty room and leaves me alone there. I sit on the bed, my aching thoughts tugging of their own accord toward Simon, who has lost his reason for living; toward Eugene, who has lost a sister; toward Emily’s mother, who has lost her only daughter. I perch, dull and stunned, on the edge of the bed for long minutes, until my feet begin to get cold and my stays feel as tight as a vise. And I know I must move, and at least get shoes, dress, and stays off before crawling into my bed.

Morning does possess the power to renew, no matter how deep the suffering. With the pale diffusing light of a new day I felt I could face the horrors the night before had presented. Though, really, the morning was far advanced when I stumbled out of bed. Father was most likely in the toolshed, where he had been repairing machinery the past week. I found Mother in her sewing room, with Jonathan playing at her feet. “Did Father tell you what happened last night?” I asked, remaining on the threshhold of the room, only peeking in.

“Yes. That is why I thought it best not to awaken you. I’m sorry, Esther.”

She did not pause in her work, but I felt a real sympathy emanating from her spirit toward mine. I fought an impulse to go to her and wrap my arms round her neck and bury my face in her lap, as I used to when I was a child.

Instead I disciplined myself to run quickly through the morning chores before saddling Tansy and riding into Palmyra. I had filled a basket with a few items I thought might be useful, though I was certain there would be neighbors aplenty there with offerings of assistance and food. I felt compelled, duty-bound, to offer my help along with the others.

When I arrived at the modest dwelling there were already several horses and vehicles tied up there. I found a spot for Tansy, and when I reached the door I pushed it open without knocking. I scanned the quiet, carefully guarded faces and, to my relief, found Georgeanna’s there; kind, practical Georgie, with her arm round Mrs. Thorn’s bowed shoulders. There were several women milling about the kitchen and parlor. But where were the men?

I nodded to some of the ladies and caught Georgie’s eye for a moment as I walked through to the small bedroom at the back of the house. In the doorway I paused. Simon was there, sitting on a low chair beside Emily’s body, which was stretched out on the bed where she died. All had been put in order, and the dead girl appeared as sweet and innocent as an angel who had never tasted of the bitter strife of this life. Eugene, standing beside his young brother-in-law, turned. His eyes met mine, making the muscles in his face distort and then crumble. I moved swiftly and drew his head into my arms. His pain seeped through me, as though the garments he wore were soaked, and the wetness shivered over my thin dress as well. We stood thus for a long time, until he was able to raise his head and meet my gaze again. Then he motioned me out of the room.

He led me out back, away from all the others. It was cold here, and the wind found us. But I tried to ignore the wind and concentrate on his face. “How did you find out so soon?” He whispered the words, and I found myself responding in a whisper.

“Father drove Jane Foster on her rounds when she had trouble with her wagon.”

“She sent for my mother about midnight,” he recounted. “But she did not wake me or Father. After . . . well, she sent Maggie Wells this morning to tell us. We were expecting . . . good news . . . we were . . .”

His voice broke like a young boy’s and he wheeled away from me. Tears filled my eyes as I rested my head against his stiff back. “I know, Eugene, I know.” There is something so helpless and pathetic, I thought to myself, in a man’s suffering. I was minded of Alexander, and even my father. I was consumed with a yearning tenderness.

“Eugene.” I whispered his name. Then, “Eugene” again before he turned to me. Our lips met, and the touch was more a confirmation of spirit—of the life that throbbed through us—than it was of our flesh.

“We must go back inside,” I told him. “But I will stay with you for as long as you want, for as long as you have need of me, dear.”

He reached for my hand, and we walked together, feeling for the first time like an entity; two halves of a whole which would be incomplete, even meaningless, if divided or separated, in purpose or form.