by Aileen Fish
“No. She’s created a bond of sorts. She’s realized you won’t leave her unattended. It’s easy to see she craves your attention.”
A swift shock of anger hit him in the chest. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” She snipped the thread and tucked her project in a basket at her feet.
Her mouth firmed and it occurred to him, he spent way too much time contemplating her lips.
“It doesn’t matter, we shall be spending more time at the chapel.”
“The—” He stopped. Went over to Trudy and lifted her gently. He gazed down at the child God saw fit to leave in his keeping. Firelight danced over pure features, so innocent in sleep. Perhaps Elizabeth was right. With Anne gone, he was all Trudy had. God’s own miracle in his arms.
An angel. Ha! Dark angel, more like. “Yes, well. It certainly can’t hurt.” He carried Trudy to the door and turned back to Elizabeth from beneath the arch. “You’ve more than earned your way today. Go to bed.”
~*~
The warmth in the room vanished with her husband, taking along her tranquil reflection of the day’s accomplishments. Elizabeth blinked back a sting of tears, stuffing her anger at his condescension. She longed to stomp up the stairs, slam the door to her pink, fluffy, solitary room that once belonged to the late and precious Anne Williams.
But of course she did not. Elizabeth took the stairs quietly, the gentlest click latching the door. The room, with all its frilly femininity, stifled her. Soft pink coverlet on a large four poster bed, hosting mounds of pillows. All in different shapes and sizes. Matching drapes covered the windows, and a sitting area with an overstuffed settee and chair before the hearth. Such a delightful room should have felt inviting. Anne Williams clearly loved her domain. Her clothes, her trinkets. And no one could say the woman did not have exquisite taste. Such was the shrine Elizabeth was given to sleep in.
Elizabeth wandered to the vanity and picked up a framed photograph. It pictured a younger John Williams. Certainly a virile and proud man. His arm wrapped the shoulders of the prettiest woman Elizabeth believed she’d ever seen. Lovelier than even that of Bernadette Babbage. Clearly, it was Anne. The features too closely resembled those of Trudy’s in the tilt of her head.
Heart heavy and slightly irritated, she pulled out the top drawer and placed the photo, faced down, then slammed it shut. She ran her fingers over a small jeweled case decorated with painted pretty flowers, wondering about the man whose wife chose to sleep in a room of her own when she had such a virile—
She cut off the notion as if she wielded the sharpest dagger, and went about her preparations for bed and thought of her belligerent stepdaughter.
Trudy Williams deserved a better lot in life than she’d been handed, and if God’s plan did not include Elizabeth helping her new stepdaughter, then He might as well strike her down where she stood. Because, beginning tomorrow, Gertrude Williams would indeed be starting a new life, like it or not.
Chapter 5
The pounding refused to give way, threatening the safety of her brain. Why wouldn’t it stop? Elizabeth sunk deeper within the warm bedding, eyes still shut, crusted over from the sobs that hadn’t stopped until exhaustion won out.
“Trudy Williams! You come back here, right this minute.” Steps bounded down the wooden staircase, then a slamming door hard enough to rattle the windows. “Blast, the little terror.”
Eyes wide open now, time of rest over, Elizabeth tended to agree, but didn’t recognize the irate, yet feminine voice blaring from the hall. She rose slowly, dreading the moment her feet would touch the chilled floor.
Crawling from the bed, she snatched her robe from the foot and hugged it about her. No sense throwing another log on the andirons. It was time to set her strategies in motion.
The door crashed back. “I told that girl—”
In the arch stood a lovely young girl of perhaps sixteen with skin the hue of light chocolate. Dark brown eyes widened with shock, shifting quickly to fear. “I’m sorry, missus.”
Elizabeth smoothed back hair that had escaped the confinement of her braid. “Not to worry. But, um, who are you?”
“Jillian, ma’am. The housekeeper.”
Interesting, since Elizabeth had spent her wedding day cleaning every nook and corner of the lower level of the house. Ah, this was Jillian. The housekeeper? But a darker, more horrifying thought slammed through her. “A slave?” It hadn’t occurred to her John Williams would own slaves. The thought sickened her.
“No! I’m no slave. Neither is Father.”
Elizabeth pinched her nose and let out a stream of air.
“We were freed. Master Williams pays us. Real wages.” Her eyes narrowed on Elizabeth. “You the one who’s taken to doing my duties?”
“I’m sorry, Jillian. I didn’t realize Mr.—er, my husband, had a housekeeper. Your father...”
“He takes care of the grounds. I’m supposed to look after Trudy, um, Miss Gertrude, but...” Her voice trailed as she glanced over her shoulder.
Elizabeth felt a sudden kinship with the girl. “No need to stand on ceremony with me, Jillian. Most especially regarding your charge. Where do you suppose she’s off to?”
“Lord only knows,” she muttered. “I’ll heat some water for you, Mrs. Williams.”
“That would be lovely.”
“I’ll bring hot cocoa as well. Her ladyship loved her chocolate in the mornings. I’m sure we still have some somewhere.”
Elizabeth cringed. It was bad enough John had stashed her into his dead wife’s pink boudoir. “I believe I shall pass on the cocoa. Tea will suffice. Black.”
Fifteen minutes later Jillian returned with a jug of blessedly hot water and tea. She sipped, watching as Jillian went to the sideboard where a stack of pink towels and a dish of perfumed soap sat prettily. Jillian poured, then stood back from the small basin.
Setting her cup aside, Elizabeth moved where the steam could warm her face. “This is wonderful. Thank you, Jillian.”
“So, you aren’t planning on doing my job?”
Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder. Despite Jillian’s defiant stance, her voice betrayed her fear with a tremor.
“I have no intention of replacing myself with you. I happen to believe that keeping Trudy in line will take every ounce of patience and moment of my time.” Elizabeth dipped her hands in the hot water, hissing at the heat, at the same time reveling in its warmth.
The tension in the room dissipated in the air along with the steam as the girl chuckled. “She is that, ma’am. Quite the handful, of which I gladly hand over.” Jillian hesitated a moment as if debating to further speak her mind, then, “If you don’t mind some advice, ma’am, I wouldn’t go calling her Trudy unless she tells you, you can. She’s funny that way.”
Elizabeth cupped her hands and splashed her face. She grabbed a nearby towel. “Why is that?”
“Not just anyone is allowed to call her by her papa’s pet name. I just do it to badger her. Even her precious mama called her Gertrude.”
Elizabeth’s heart lurched. “I don’t understand.” She set the towel aside and turned. “Surely, she was the light of her mother’s eyes.”
Jillian went to the bed, tossed pillows to the floor, jerked the covers up and began thrashing out her agitation on the wrinkles.
“Jillian?”
Taking up the pillows one at a time, she pounded them into shape, setting each carefully into place, her thoughts seemingly far away. “Trudy was a sickly infant.”
“Yes?”
Two more pillows paid their due before she answered. “Mrs. Williams didn’t take kindly to a newborn screaming her needs, so rightly demanding. Or spitting up as babies are wont to do.”
The unexpected thread of conversation didn’t sit well with Elizabeth but she brushed aside the distasteful notion. How else was she to help her rebellious charge? Certainly she should be gaining information from her new husband.
Jillian shook her head. “Lord, help the
unsuspecting soul when she needed changing. I couldn’t have been more than six or seven myself when I heard Trudy crying. I was darting from the kitchen to the dining room. The way she was carrying on, I thought she’d been left alone.”
Appalled, Elizabeth’s hand landed on her sternum. “A nurse was surely with her?” Another pillow, pounded so hard, Elizabeth would not be surprised to see feathers bursting from it.
“That was just it, you see. The nurse had up and quit and no one had yet informed Mrs. Williams. Well, I ran in the parlor to see what all the hoopla was about. I was terrified. Baby Trudy was crying so hard she was almost blue. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath.” She shuddered. “Mrs. Williams was screaming at her. At that tiny, helpless baby. Shut up, shut up, shut up, she kept saying with her hands covering her ears.” Jillian’s hands had stilled, tears shimmered in her eyes. “I was young. Too young. I told Mrs. Williams the woman had left in the night. When in actuality she’d left the week before. We were terrified Ms. Williams was gonna kill little Trudy.”
Elizabeth stumbled to the sitting area and dropped heavily into a chair. “But—but who fed her?”
“The cook and the housekeeper were able to manage something. I don’t rightly remember, ma’am.”
“Where was Mr. Williams?”
“Niagara Falls. I remember because he was excited about the first train crossing that new suspension bridge. He was hired to map the area.”
Elizabeth’s stomach roiled.
“Well, you can understand how difficult it was to say no to Trudy.” Jillian’s words ended on a whisper.
“Yes.” Elizabeth was beginning to grasp the picture quite clearly.
~*~
The door crashed back again with another rush of freezing air stealing the small bit of warmth John had just gotten acclimated to. “Shut the damn door!” He penciled in the nooks of the coast near Plymouth, paying particularly close to the ports. He wasn’t clairvoyant by any stretch, but anyone with brains would have to know Hoke would take his advantage, by land or sea.
Soft scuffles jerked his head up. “Trudy! What are you doing here? Don’t tell me there’s no school again today.”
She shrugged her slight shoulders. “All right, I won’t tell you that.”
“Well, I’m busy. You can’t stay here. Where’s Elizabeth?”
Her lips formed a grim line. “Sleeping. I think she’s lazy.”
He smiled back. Lazy, she was not. “You need to run home. It may have stopped snowing but you’ll catch your death,” he said gruffly.
Her bottom lip trembled. “Please, Papa. Let me stay. See?” She held up a thick tablet. “I brought my own drawing pad.”
Of course it worked every time. How could he turn her away? “Just until lunchtime. And be quiet. I need to concentrate.”
She nodded quickly and found a chair. But after fifteen minutes she migrated to his side. She pointed to a section of poorly drawn trees. “What’s that?”
“It’s a map showing a northern portion of North Carolina. And these,” he indicated with his quill, “are troops.”
“What’s a troop?”
“A soldier.”
“Why is he called a troop?”
“It’s a little complicated.”
“Well, I’m not dumb.” Her indignant tone had him biting back a smile.
“No, I don’t suppose you are.” He reached inside for the simplest explanation. “The word “troop” initially means group, and “trooper” was the single man. But at some point, I suppose, the word was shortened for convenience sake. And it seemed everyone just understood and took the meaning of troop for trooper.” Let her figure that one out.
“That’s dumb.”
His grin broke through. “Yes. I guess it is.”
“There sure are a lot of them.”
“Yes. I’m creating a strategy for my comrades.”
“What’s a comrade?”
He opened his mouth to comment then swiveled around to face her. “Never mind. What kinds of things have you drawn?”
To his surprise, the color in her cheeks heightened. And after a long moment she held out her book. Realizing he’d been handed a great honor, John ran his fingers over the hardcover tome of an indiscriminate brown before turning back the cover. “Where did you get this?” he asked softly. The book was bound but full of pages of penciled sketches.
“I-I found i-it in an old trunk. I-I think it was Mama’s.”
He pierced her with a quick look but turned his attention back to the drawing on the first page. A small trinket box that looked vaguely familiar. While pictured in gray lead on white paper, John distinctly remembered the delicate pink and white enamel, and flowers of purple and yellow scrolls painted of a vine of leaves. The exact box, if he wasn’t mistaken, was still on the dressing table in Anne’s—Elizabeth’s bedroom. The detail depicted was incredible. From the latch and band of gold where the top met the bottom. “Did your mother draw this? I don’t seem to remember her having pen and paper much in hand?” Or the patience such work would demand. He flipped to the next page.
“I did.” Indignation huffed from her. “The book was empty and I didn’t think...” But her voice trembled in the trailing words.
“You were right to make use of it. But—” He considered the next image of a porcelain doll seated at a window he recognized as the attic, her glass-eyed gaze staring out on a sunny day. The depth of the captured shadows were nothing short of brilliant. He thumbed through several more pages. “I see your desire for a dog has not waned. And from the looks of the different breeds you’ve drawn, I’m guessing it matters not the kind or size?”
“Well, I’d prefer one that can sleep with me.”
“Hm.” He paged slowly through more then stopped. “I don’t understand all of these.” He pointed to a page where she’d drawn four pictures, one in each corner. “The women. They all have the same body, wearing the same dress—is that Miss Millicent? And Miss Withers from the tavern?” His daughter definitely needed a keeper.
“I put their face on the dressmaker’s dummy. You know, the one in the window next to the bank. She hardly ever changes its dress.”
He leaned in for a closer look. Yes, that was Elizabeth, portrayed with a tilt to her lips that stirred his imagination from the platonic arrangement he’d envisioned. A glint in her eyes showed the markings of mischief. Something odd tugged inside. “These are quite remarkable,” he murmured. He looked at her, surprised and touched to see her blushing.
Ignoring him, she glanced at his drawing board. “What are those stick things, Daddy?
His heart stopped. How long had it been since she’d called him that? He cleared his throat and blinked away a sudden sting. “Trees,” he said.
She wrinkled her nose. “Those are terrible trees. Here look.” She snatched the book away and flipped through the pages before slapping it back in his hands.
The scene she’d drawn was from several Christmases ago. The tree trimmed with popcorn was much too large for the room. He and Samuel, Jillian’s pa, had wanted to make the day special for the girls. With Anne’s suicide just the month before—well, the house had needed something other than the stench of death hanging over the doorstep.
“You couldn’t have been more than five when we had this tree. Did you do this from memory?” Detail from the fallen pine needles to the bark on the trunk were stark enough that he could almost smell the wintergreen scent.
How had he missed how utterly talented his own daughter was? The bank of guilt squeezed the air from his lungs. He pulled over a second chair. “Sit.”
Chapter 6
Jillian! The door, if you please!” Elizabeth wiped her brow with her flour covered hands just before remembering they were…covered in flour. Footsteps pounded down the stairs and the front door opened, then closed. She exhaled, blowing a wayward curl from her eyes.
Soft murmured voices grew steadily louder until the kitchen door swung back, framing Mrs. Babbage’s lov
ely picturesque figure. Her dark orange frock with navy trim would have matched a beautiful sunset had there been one. Elizabeth could not have felt at a greater disadvantage. “Oh! Mrs.—”
Her hand flew out waving away Elizabeth’s words. “Bernadette, please, Mrs. Williams.”
“Of course. Bernadette. And you must call me Elizabeth.” Mortified at receiving callers in the kitchen, she snapped, “Jillian, take Mrs. Babbage’s cape and see her to the drawing room. I’ll put on tea and be right in.”
Jillian’s eyes flashed, but her reply was congenial. “Yes, Mrs. Williams.”
Elizabeth nodded her thanks, holding back a wince. She would apologize later.
“That isn’t necessa—”
Elizabeth cut her off. “I insist, Mrs. Bab—Bernadette.”
As their footsteps echoed away, she slammed the kettle on the stovetop and snuck up the stairs to salvage her pride with one of the two day gowns she owned. The green one should do. A glance in the mirror showed her flour-streaked brow. She groaned, dashed to the basin and doused her face with water, cooling her flaming cheeks. After repinning her hair into some semblance of order, she rushed back down the stairs.
At the parlor door she paused to take in a steadying breath. The late afternoon clouds did nothing for brightening the entry hall and the parlor would be worse. She pushed through the door where Bernadette had ensconced herself comfortably on the worn settee before the hearth, fingering one of the many throw pillows that seemed to be everywhere. How odd that Anne Williams bedroom was so well-maintained compared to the rest of the house. Yet this room resonated with Elizabeth’s far simpler tastes.
Apparently, her husband worshiped his late wife to an alarming degree. The thought was dispiriting.
Planting a smile on her face, she glided in the room hoping Jillian would remember to bring in the tea. However confident Elizabeth believed her childcare abilities wer, she was just as uncertain of the girl’s serving abilities. “Bernadette. How kind of you to call. I wasn’t expecting company.”
A small smile curved her lips. “Not to worry, Elizabeth. I didn’t wish to put you to any trouble.” Her brow furrowed in a delicate crease.
