by Tina Mikals
Chapter 29
About Cora
With hesitant steps, Carlisle crunched up the gravel walkway to the front door of the small white cottage and stood in front of it. He rubbed the back of his neck, then stood still with his hands down by his sides and let out a breath that seemed to come from the bottom of his soul.
"What's he waiting for?" asked May, peeking around the corner of the cottage.
"Shhh," hissed Sheila.
Through the partially open window at the side of the house, May heard the sharp snap of a book hit the floor. It was followed by the sound of short, hurried footsteps tapping smartly across the floor of the small home.
Carlisle rapped gently once on the wooden surface of the door before it rushed open in front of him, drawing in wisps of his hair, and the ends of his clothes, and cool night air into the cottage.
Cora Carlisle threw both her arms around her husband.
For a moment the man stood stunned, and then both of his arms went around his wife, one encompassing the entire span across the back of her shoulders and the other pressing her head against his chest. He buried his face in her hair and breathed in the long lost scent of her.
May and Sheila drew back from the edge of the house and sat on the bench.
May stared at her hands. She heard Carlisle whisper something but couldn't make out what it was.
"Frank, why would you even say such a thing?" his wife said reproachfully in a pretty Irish accent. "I've never heard such foolishness. Forgive you fer what? Is that why ye didn't come to me sooner?"
He whispered again.
"Of course I do and always. Haven't I been prayin' night and day an' wearin' the floor out for three weeks waiting for ye? And not a word from ye either. You can't know what I been goin' through. I've been worried sick."
"Three weeks?" said Carlisle. "Has it been three weeks? I'm so sorry, Cora."
His wife cried out suddenly, "Frank. You're burnin' up. Come out o' the cold this instant and off to bed with ya."
"Wait. Not yet, Cora. Not yet," he said. "It's been so long since I held you. Stay for a while."
"Nonsense, Frank. Let me go this instant and come inside. Just look at ya. Why, you're weak as a newborn pup. You can barely stand. Ye ought to get off your feet."
"You're right, Cora."
They heard a shuffling noise. Mrs. Carlisle cried out suddenly, "Frank!"
"He must have passed out!" said May.
Sheila flew out of her seat on the bench, nearly tripping over May's feet. As she looked around the edge of the cottage, Sheila seemed relieved and smiled.
"What? What is it?" whispered May.
"Just—it's nothing. Everything's fine."
"What's happening? No, forget it. Forget I said that. It's really none of my business. It's really none of our business."
Still watching and smiling, Sheila nodded from the corner of the cottage.
"Oh, screw it," said May, rushing out of her seat and peeking around the corner herself.
Carlisle was on his knees with both his arms wrapped firmly around his wife's legs. His face was hidden in the folds of her dress.
"Whatever possessed me to marry such a foolish man as you?" exclaimed Cora, off balance and scowling down at the top of his head. Then her features softened, and she drew in a breath. "Oh, darlin', don't do that. Not that. You're home now with me. Everythin'll be alright." She took her hands off her hips and lost her fingers in the curls of his dark hair. She said sweetly, "Won't you please come in now, love? Please, dear?"
Both the girls retreated from the edge of the cottage. As they sat back down, Sheila said, "I wonder if it really is as soft as silk."
May didn't reply.
They heard the front door close. Mrs. Carlisle's lilting voice wafted down from the window slightly ajar above their heads. "That's better. Off with the jacket. Now the vest. Straight to bed with ya. Go on. Into the bedroom you go."
"But Cora—"
"Go, go, go. I won't listen to a word 'til you're tucked up tight. And might I suggest some soap and water would do no harm as well."
There was the sound of an interior door closing. And then the pretty voice sounded suddenly muted and far away.
Sheila and May both kneeled on the bench to look through the cottage window. Next to an upright piano, was a door through which Cora Carlisle's muffled singsong could still be heard with an occasional low interruption from her husband more clearly in the form of, "But Cora—"
The sound of a high shriek erupted and the door to the bed chamber flew open.
Mrs. Carlisle darted to the fireplace with the two ends of the green sweatshirt bandage suspended in her fingers. She threw the cloth into the fire where it made a crackling, popping noise.
She went back into the bedroom then reappeared at the edge of the doorjamb. "I have to fetch some water. Don't you even try to move," she threatened, pointing into the bedroom at her husband.
"Cora," Carlisle said loudly. "Be quiet for a half a second and get over here. I have to tell you something. It's important!"
His wife went back into the bed chamber, and May heard their voices rumble on in soft tones for several minutes.
Cora Carlisle emerged out into the living room with a pensive look as she closed the bedroom door after her. She walked through an archway and came out with a shawl on her shoulders and a black kettle in her hand then went out the front door.
In the yard, she put the kettle down next to a water pump and walking briskly, rounded the corner of the cottage. She stopped when she saw May and Sheila, and her dark blue wool skirts swished to a standstill around the ankles of her little black lace-up boots.
Cora Carlisle was short, buxom, plump and pretty, with a rounded oval face, more freckles than could be counted, and nut brown hazel eyes. Her hair was so red it was black, a fact that could best be appreciated in strong sunshine, but was still evident even in the shimmering firelight slanting from the high cottage window into the yard.
"I'm Mrs. Francis Carlisle," said the lady, primly and proudly, with a small curtsey. She cocked her head to the side and folded her hands neatly in front of her. She reminded May of a small robin standing there, not the elegant swanlike lady she had seen in Carlisle's portrait of her.
"How do you do? Sheila and May, is it?" said Cora Carlisle.
Sheila held out her hand. "Hi, I'm Sheila."
Mrs. Carlisle took Sheila's hand in both of her own and kissed her on the cheek.
"Indeed, then you must be May," said Mrs. Carlisle, doing the same to her. "I owe you both so much. Thank ye for bringing him home. I've been worried sick." The lady drew her black crocheted shawl around her snugly. "Ooo, it's cool out here. Let's get inside. If you'll excuse me, I just need to get some water."
They walked with her to the hand pump, and Cora Carlisle began working it in silence. The pump took some time to get going, but finally, the water gushed out in short, thick bursts, sloshing into the kettle below it and dribbling down its sides. The release of water from the faucet seemed to cause a similar reaction in Cora. She turned away from them and wiped her face on her sleeve.
"Can we help with that, ma'am?" asked Sheila.
"No, thank ya. I'm fine," said the lady, picking up the now full kettle. She walked a few steps and the wet handle slipped from her grasp. The container fell to the earth, slamming down on its wide bottom and spilling water out in a gush.
Cora Carlisle just stared at the dark wet stain spreading on the dirt around the kettle. "I don't understand it. He looks ... " She shook her head back and forth. "It's just like him. He's gone for three weeks from me, and he looks as though he's been half dead for three years."
May sent Sheila a desperate look. Say something.
"It's just that he loves you, ma'am. I'm sure he'll be fine now," said Sheila.
"It's just, I've had the worst feeling, the worst feeling these last three weeks. Like I might never see him again. I've been frettin' myself silly about him." Cora Carlisle
lifted her head and taking a small lace handkerchief from inside her sleeve, wiped her eyes. She gave out a small, meager laugh that sounded no better than a sob. "And what must you be thinkin' of me, I wonder?"
"Oh no, not at all," said Sheila.
"Right. It's only natural," said May.
Mrs. Carlisle tucked her handkerchief back into her sleeve, gave May a faint-hearted smile, then reached down for the kettle. Her shawl opened up, and she stopped to adjust it around herself again.
May's eyes went wide. She picked up the kettle before Cora could grab it again. "I've got this. Where's it going?" It was heavier than it looked. "I don't think you lost any water. It feels like it's still full."
"On the stove in the kitchen, dear. But I can get it," said Mrs. Carlisle, reaching for it.
"No! Please, ma'am. It's fine. I have it," May said, putting up a hand, stumbling a little.
"Why thank you, dear. You're a kind lass."
In the kitchen, Mrs. Carlisle placed wood in the stove until a hot fire gleamed through the chinks in the metal. She replaced the burner cover, disengaged the handle and hung it on a peg.
With both hands, May lifted the kettle up onto the scalding surface.
From the living room, Carlisle's voice called for his wife huskily, "Cora?"
"Oh that man," said his wife, rushing out of the kitchen. The woman's scolding voice came from the other room, "I thought I told you to stay in bed."
Carlisle said, "I'll get the water; I don't want you lifting that heavy kettle in your condition."
Cora's voice became mild. "Indeed, you needn't have worried, darlin'; it's already done. The lasses helped me with it."
Back in the kitchen, Sheila said, "Her condition? He means tuberculosis, right?"
"Her other condition."
Sheila said, "She was pregnant?"
May put her hand on Sheila's shoulder and looked straight into her clear blue eyes. "She is pregnant, you mean. He's home now."
Mrs. Carlisle bustled back into the kitchen and began opening and closing cabinets. "He doesn't want anything but tea. You both look hungry. Would you like anything?"
May was too tired to eat. "Just tea for me is fine too."
Sheila agreed.
"Why don't ya both go sit in the parlor next to the fire. I'll bring the tea when it's ready."
There didn't seem to be anything else left for May to do now, so she went. Sheila sat down on the cushion of the couch next to her.
That was the last thing May remembered until her eyes opened and she saw Mrs. Carlisle standing over her with an expectant look on her face.
The fire was low. She and Sheila were covered by a quilt in shiny, velvety fabrics and trimmed with lace. It looked to be many lifetimes of worn out dresses and ball gowns, the fabric washed, salvaged and put to use again.
Mrs. Carlisle gently nudged Sheila awake next to her.
"You poor things. I came with the tea and you had both quite gone to sleep. I've prepared the loft upstairs."
"What a lovely quilt, ma'am," said Sheila, stretching. "Did you make it yourself?"
"Why thank ya, dear. That I did."
May rubbed a crick in her neck.
"That's not part of your wedding dress, is it?" asked Sheila, pointing to a swatch of white satin.
"That would be my aunt's. I was married in blue."
"This one?" Sheila asked, indicating a bright blue velvet.
Mrs. Carlisle said with a fond smile, "Oh, not that one. That was one of my sister's favorite dresses. And her with her cornflower blue eyes, too. Didn't the young men just trip over their own feet to stop and stare when she wore that one."
"What about this one?" said May, pointing to a familiar, emerald green silk.
Cora Carlisle's expression became sober. "Mr. Carlisle's mother, poor darlin'. God rest her soul." She crossed herself. "The Lord took her far too young."
"How old was she?"
"Twenty-two," answered Mrs. Carlisle. "A tragedy, indeed, and hardly a fit story to guide your dreams by." She pointed to a violet colored satin, "Better here. The first I ever danced with Mr. Carlisle."
"Let me guess. He stepped on your foot," said May.
Mrs. Carlisle had a musical laugh. "Mercy no. But it's a mystery even to me; Mr. Carlisle is, in fact, a most wonderful dancer. Now, come on. Off to bed with ya both. It's late." She drew off the quilt and laid it neatly on the armrest of the settee.
May got to her feet, "How is the patient?"
"Sleepin' like a babe. Don't you fret your pretty head one bit," Mrs. Carlisle answered, taking an oil lamp off a small table.
Still drowsy, they followed the lady to a doorway next to the kitchen where there was a narrow staircase to the upstairs. Mrs. Carlisle's voice echoed off the walls as she led them up to the loft. "I opened the door at the bottom to warm it up here. It doesn't take long. Bein' across from the fire the heat travels smartly up the stairs. I'll close it when I go. It can get like an oven up here, and the sound travels somethin' wicked, too. I wake up early, and I wouldn't want to disturb ya."
They emerged into an attic room with two cot-like beds tucked under the slanted eaves. Only in the apex of the roof was anyone completely able to straighten to standing.
Each bed was covered with a quilt over which a clean cotton nightgown had been placed. May chose a quilt with an arrangement of small calico triangles on a background of cream muslin. On Sheila's bed was a quilt of appliqued pink and green flowers.
As soon as Mrs. Carlisle started down the stairway, May peeled off her filthy clothes, stepped into the nightgown and settled herself under the warmth of the triangles. Under the spell of the blanket, and with the image of Carlisle and his wife dancing in her head, she fell fast asleep.
