The Widow's Ferry

by Dorothy A. Bell

  Mrs. Gregson snorted disdainfully. Anora, already overwhelmed by the opulence of her surroundings, hung her head. “I’m sorry. I’ll get back to Isabell.”

  “Wait,” Paxton said. “I don’t know. Hank’s worn out. I’ll come and sit with her for a while. Come, we’ll try to prepare her…I don’t know how.”

  Mr. Hayes nodded, dismissing Mrs. Gregson, and took Anora by the arm, turning her back to Isabell’s room. Whispering, Anora asked, “Is Lydia all right?”

  Behind them Mrs. Gregson answered her question, “Mrs. Reason…is as well as can be expected. And Mr. Reason…will pull himself together soon as well. A fine man.”

  “Yes…yes…Mrs. Gregson,” Mr. Hayes said over his shoulder. “You must be exhausted, Tamara. Would you like me to take you home? We’ll need a casket. Theodore…would he be willing…?”

  “You leave it to me,” she said, nose in the air. She sniffed, shoulders back, head up, and sailed past them for the stairs. Before taking the first step down, she said, “I could use a bit of a walk. I’ll make my own way home, thank you all the same. I left the laudanum by the nightstand, have dear Lydia take a teaspoon full as soon as you can. If she has more bleeding, elevate her legs and don’t hesitate to come and get me no matter the hour.”

  She started down the stairs, then stopped to turn and say, “Leave the casket to me. I’ll get Theodore on it right away.”

  Pointedly directing her instructions to Anora, she said, “Mrs. Talbot, you might see about feeding these poor people. Everything you need is in the kitchen. Wash your hands. Take a care you clean up after yourself. And no more of that singing, you hear. These people are in deep mourning now. No more of your silliness.”

  Waiting a few discreet moments for Mrs. Gregson to make her exit, Mr. Hayes said, “Pay her no mind. She’s overly protective.”

  Anora looked into his eyes, one had turned black and blue and yellow-green, swollen shut, his jaw bruised and his chin red, upper lip cut and puffy.

  He tried to smile at her. “I’m glad you’re here, Anora. And Lydia and Hank are glad you’re here. Your singing calmed Isabell, and for that I am very grateful. The kid has a powerful set of lungs. And she’s stronger than she looks.”

  She was feeling hemmed in again. He hadn’t moved but with her back to the stairwell, she couldn’t get around him. Looking anywhere but into his eyes, she said, “I need to get this kettle to Isabell for a steam. Mrs. Gregson is right, you need some food. And I’ll try to be very quiet and stay out of the way.” Sidling away from him, he took the hint and stepped back. With her gaze to the floor, she said, “I found the oil of camphor and the ingredients for a poultice. I’ll see to making some soup as soon as I get Isabell comfortable.”

  He stopped her, reaching for her but not touching. “I’m very glad you’re here,” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. She nodded and opened the door to Isabell’s room to escape the unsettling moment.

  Busying herself, she prepared the steam vapor in the basin beside Isabell’s bed, using a few drops of the camphor and a few drops of eucalyptus oil, along with a touch of lavender oil.

  Mr. Hayes came into the room and took his place in the wicker rocking chair near the steaming bowl. He held out his arms, and Isabell climbed onto his lap. Leaning against his chest, she sighed, looking up at him with her big eyes, and asked, “Did you see my new brother?”

  Mr. Hayes nodded his permission for Anora to leave the room. She slipped out, lips pressed together, not waiting to hear his reply.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Thinking Mr. and Mrs. Reason might join them, Anora returned upstairs with five bowls, half a loaf of bread, a pot of tea, and five cups, plus jam and butter. Stopping before Isabell’s room, putting her backside to the door, she entered, balancing the loaded tray.

  Isabell, in her bed, prodded her uncle, “But if he was borned, then…I can see him. Mommy said I could. I’ll be very, very quiet if he’s sleeping.”

  The look Mr. Hayes sent her way begged her to come to his rescue.

  “How about something to eat, Isabell? I have soup and bread with butter and jam. You sound better,” she said, taking the chair Mr. Hayes vacated, retreating to the window seat.

  Pouting, Isabell shook her head. “I don’t want nuffin’. Uncle Paston says baby brother is sleeping and his soul is gone to heaven. But if he’s still here, I didn’t see him. I want to see him.”

  Brows raised, Anora looked to Mr. Hayes, silently asking permission to explain.

  Shrugging, he gave her a nod. “You’ll have to be very grown up, Isabell,” Anora said. “Your papa and mama are very sad…your Uncle Paxton is very sad. Your baby brother was born, but he died. Do you understand what that means? He is no longer living. He can’t hear or see you. His body is still here, but his soul, his pure, sweet soul, has gone to be happy and play with the angels. You’ll be very sad, I know, because you wanted your baby brother to stay. I’m sure he wanted to stay too, very much, but he couldn’t.”

  “Dieded…” Isabell repeated. “On the big ship the mama kitty had kittens, one of them dieded. He didn’t move. Me and Oliver, the cook’s mate, gave him a burial at sea. I want to see…I want to see my baby brother.”

  To distract the child, Anora said, “I think we should have a little soup while it’s hot. Then, your uncle will talk to your papa about it. You need to get well, Isabell. Your mama will need you. You’ll have to be a big girl.”

  Isabell sniffed back her tears, wiped her nose on her nightgown, and climbed back into bed. “I’m gonna be five pretty soon,” she said, holding up five little fingers. “That’s pretty big.”

  “It is. It’s very big. And you’re going to get well. I’m going to be here. And your mama is going to get stronger if we’re quiet and let her rest.”

  They ate their soup together. Self-conscious, Anora kept catching Mr. Hayes staring at her, studying her.

  After they’d eaten, Mr. Hayes left with the tray, carrying it to the bedroom down the hall. He returned shortly, appearing in the doorway. “Isabell, your mama’s sleeping. When she wakes, your papa will come get you. He told me to tell you he loves you, your mama loves you.” He turned and went down the stairs. Anora heard the door on the back porch slam shut when he left the house.

  After two games of tiddly-winks, and half dozen children’s rhymes from one of her books, Isabell fell asleep, breathing easier and no fever. Discovering a bundle of soiled linen in the hall, Anora escaped to the back porch.

  While hanging up the last of the freshly laundered sheets on the clothes line, Mr. Hayes returned. Looped around his saddle horn he had a wicker basket and tied on the back of the saddle she saw a small, doll-sized coffin. Struck mum, standing aside, Anora held the door open for him. Without saying a word, he handed her the basket. She followed him into the house and through the kitchen, then watched him go up the stairs, carrying the precious little casket like a treasure chest.

  Weak in the knees, she sat on the stairs. Folding her arms, she lowered her head on the top of the basket and wept. She felt arms enfolding her, and without thinking, she leaned back into a solid, warm chest.

  “I wondered when you’d let go,” Mr. Hayes said.

  He held her fast, lips close to her ear. Closing her eyes, hands clasped, she told herself he was consoling her, he was not restraining her, his tenderness was not threatening. To struggle or reject his kindness would be insulting. But unused to kindness, she could not relax, let her guard down, not completely.

  When he spoke, his breath brushed her cheek. “You seemed so…I don’t know…not cold exactly, but remote. It’s been a very long day for you. The events of the ferry ride over should’ve exhausted you; it would’ve any other woman.”

  Prying her hands apart, he came to his feet with them tucked under his arm. “I’m hungry again. Barney’s mother, Mrs. Ambrose, put an apple pie and a pot of chicken and biscuits in the basket. I haven’t seen you eat very much today. You need to eat, Anora.”

>   She shook her head. “I should check on Isabell.” He kept moving, she had no choice but to follow.

  “Mrs. Ambrose…she knows about the baby?” she asked, allowing him to lead her into the kitchen.

  “No need to worry about Isabell, I checked in on her, she’s sound asleep. Poor little mite. Mrs. Ambrose knows, and if she knows, the whole town knows. They’ll start dropping by tomorrow to pay their respects.”

  Avoiding his nearness, Anora set plates on the table and then emptied the contents of the basket onto the kitchen counter. Blocking her, Mr. Hayes came up beside her and handed her a small package. “By the way, here.”

  Turning the package over in her hands, she asked, “What’s this?”

  Pulling up a chair, he waved her forward to sit down. “Open it and find out.”

  Seated, she untied the string, unfolded the brown paper, and found two pair of black cotton stockings.

  Taking a seat, a warm smile melting away the cold sorrow in his eyes, he said, “I’m guessing the pair you had on this morning were ruined.”

  His eyes, they held warmth, and something else. He wanted something from her, he was asking for permission—permission to allow his touch. Touching evoked memories of torture and pain, of control and punishment. Teeth chattering, she said, “This is very thoughtful of you, but unnecessary. I have other stockings.” She set the package on the table, slid it back to him, and rose from her chair to put distance between them.

  His chin went up, shoulders thrust back, chest out. His poor swollen lips, pulled to the side, bunched his mustache into his swollen, bruised cheek. His voice, when he spoke, held an edge. Anora couldn’t misread the burning fires of desire mingled with hurt and rejection in his piercing gaze. “Why? Because I’m not that cowboy? Because I haven’t bedded you yet?”

  His words came as a slap to her face. Blinking, she sucked in her breath, trembling.

  Shoving his chair back, he came abruptly to his feet and put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. “You don’t understand. How can I make you understand? I don’t want to hurt you. I want to hold you. Protect you. I need you tonight. I need comfort. You need comfort. We could comfort each other.”

  “No,” she said, head shaking, body quaking. “No, that would be wrong. Whit? We didn’t…I didn’t…we never… I can understand why everyone—why you would think…think I did. Why you would think I would welcome, encourage. You’re very kind. I know you mean well, but I can’t…I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but I can’t keep the stockings. I’m here to help. I need to get back to Isabell. I’ll eat in her room.”

  She’d almost made it to the hall when he called to her. “Anora, I’m…I’m… I apologize. I’m an idiot and a fool. Please forgive me.”

  His hand on her shoulder, she froze on wobbly legs, trembling. She forgot to breathe.

  His voice a gentle whisper, he said, “Take the stockings. They won’t fit me.”

  She heard the sweetness in his voice but couldn’t look at him. When he reached for her hand, she pulled away.

  “Please, take the damn stockings…people will be coming. You have to look decent.” Giving her a wide berth, he stomped up the stairs to his room.

  The package dropped to the floor, and she picked it up. Hands shaking, she managed to get the tray of food back to the table. Giving herself no time to dwell on what had transpired, she warmed the chicken and biscuits, filled the tray with a pot of tea and a large slice of apple pie to take up to Isabell’s room.

  Isabell, awake, lay crying softly into her pillow.

  “Do you think you could manage a bite of pie?” Anora asked, setting the tray down on the nightstand beside the child’s bed. “I can’t eat all of this. We’ve got chicken and biscuits. If you like, after you have a bite or two, we could start to work on the puzzle Mrs. Gregson gave you.”

  The child didn’t respond. Anora put her hand on the child’s head to sweep the curls out of her eyes. “We could start to put it together while we wait for your papa to wake up?”

  “Papa and Mama are mad at me,” Isabell said into her pillow.

  Unsure what to say, Anora started to protest. A shadow appeared next to her. She looked up into Mr. Reason’s grief-stricken countenance.

  The little girl rolled over and held out her arms. Mr. Reason sat on the bed, gathering her into the safety of his embrace. Anora retreated to the window but couldn’t take her gaze off the tender scene. “Why would you think we’re mad at you?” He pulled back, and studied his daughter’s face, his fingers combing through her tangled locks. “Did you take the scissors to your pretty hair again?” he asked, giving her curly head a quick inspection. “Maybe you’ve given Charity a haircut? Where is she, anyway?”

  Isabell sniffed and hiccoughed. “She’s down there, by my toes,” she said, pointing to the lump under the covers at the foot of the bed. “I didn’t cut her hair, Papa, I didn’t.”

  Mr. Reason pursed his lips, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Hmm, I guess you’ll have to tell me why we’re mad at you. I didn’t think I was when I came in. And I can’t think of anything.”

  “I got sick, Papa,” she said very seriously, her little face scrunched up, tears in her eyes.

  Anora had to put her hand over her mouth to keep from crying.

  “I got sick, and the baby got sick, and dieded. I’m a lot of trouble. I heard Mrs. Gregson talking to Uncle Paston.”

  A sob escaped Mr. Reason’s lips. He pulled his daughter close to his chest and looked up to the ceiling before turning his gaze to Anora. She tipped her head to the side, tears streaming down her cheeks. Mr. Reason offered her a tremulous smile.

  “Well…well now,” he started to say, then cleared his throat before continuing, “I don’t know what you heard. They may have said something like that, but I think they were trying to think of a way to help your mama. And to help you get well faster, and they thought of Anora, here.” He scooted up to sit beside his daughter in her bed, taking her to his side, his arm around her small shoulders. Holding her hand, he said, “We need to talk a little about this problem we seem to be having. You see, your mama thinks it’s her fault Michael died.”

  “I thought baby brother’s name was Carter, Papa?”

  Mr. Reason tipped his head back and bit his lower lip. His gaze flashed to Anora. Guilty, his face had guilt written all over it, lips pressed together, eyes blinking. She wasn’t wrong, he’d just revealed a memory to himself. It had come out of nowhere, now he’d have to bury it again. She’d done the same thing so many times. She knew the feeling, recognized his panic.

  Very quickly, he rushed to say, “Carter…yes…I’m sorry…Carter. I feel it’s my fault Carter died, because I brought your mother here. It was a difficult journey, and she’s been working too hard. And now you think it’s your fault. But it isn’t your fault you got sick. Carter wasn’t sick, he just wouldn’t or couldn’t take a breath. It’s not mama’s fault, she did everything she could, and she was very brave, very strong. And it wasn’t my fault, we all decided we wanted to come to Oregon to be with Uncle Paxton.”

  Isabell tucked her face into his chest and started to cry again.

  Her father gave her a gentle shake. “Enough. Come with me, get your dressing gown on and your slippers. You can come see Micha… Carter. Your mama wants to see you.”

  “Mr. Reason,” Anora called to him,” do you think Mrs. Reason would like some food?”

  He smiled and nodded. “Maybe tea, Lydia could use some tea. Thank you.”

  She followed them down the hall to the room at the front of the house but stopped on the threshold and handed Mr. Reason the tray with the pot of tea. She returned to Isabell’s room, busying herself straightening the bed, arranging the daybed where she would sleep. Keeping herself busy, she hadn’t noticed it had grown dark outside until she caught herself staring out the window. Quietly, she lit the lamp with the milk-glass globe that sat on the dresser by the door. She counted seven chi
mes of the clock echoing up the stairwell from the hall below. Other than that, the house had gone completely quiet.

  Thinking now might be a good time to slip back downstairs to refill the steam kettle, Anora tiptoed past Mr. Hayes’s room, praying she could avoid another encounter.

  When she returned upstairs, Mr. Reason had the little girl in her bed, but she’d started to cough again. “Ah, here’s Anora. Looks like she has just what you need.”

  Excited, holding her chest, Isabell said, “I saw him, Nora. He’s very pretty. Isn’t he, Papa?”

  “Yes, he’s very pretty.” Mr. Reason pulled up his daughter’s quilt and tried to tuck her in. He hung his head and moved back, waving Anora forward to take over. For a brief second, their gazes locked, and she could see the man was holding himself together by a thread, eyes red-rimmed, complexion a dull, dark gray.

  He quickly turned his head away from her and said, “I’m going outside for a little air. Lydia’s asleep, doing well, but if she needs me, I’ll be out by the barn. I won’t go far, all right?”

  Anora offered him a tentative smile and nodded. “She’ll be fine, you go.”

  Isabell accepted the poultice for her chest and breathed deeply of the vapor from the kettle. Afterward, she drank a cup of chamomile tea and finally ate some pie. She and Anora worked for a while on the jigsaw puzzle portraying a little girl and her perambulator full of three yellow kittens. Isabel remained oddly quiet, choosing her pieces carefully, and sighing from time to time. When she started to yawn, Anora put away the puzzle and read from a book of nursery rhymes. Soon the little girl fell asleep.

  Anora blew out the lamp, stepped out of her dress, then crawled under the covers she’d tossed onto the daybed. When she closed her eyes, they stung with fatigue. She found the creaks and groans of the house unnerving, missing the sounds of the trees, the sounds of the river. Strange, she would never have thought to miss the sounds of the river. She tried lying on one side, then the other, and couldn’t get comfortable.