Freeman took her chin in his hand and gave it a gentle shake. “Is this your means of forcing me to reveal all my weaknesses? First my lust and now my impatience? What say you, Lydia Berry? Aye or nay?”
“Aye,” Lyddie said.
Freeman jumped up as if she’d shot him, then looked down at the bed with some indecision, perhaps considering the unsanctioned but oft-tolerated custom of bedding-before-banns, but no.
“I must go,” he said. “I’ve a meeting with Winslow and then I must see Clarke, I must publish our names. If I get them up today…What falls in a fortnight’s time? What say you to a wedding in a fortnight? Or would you stay in this between state longer?”
“No.”
Freeman’s face cracked open. He bent low and kissed her again. This time Lyddie was ready and could match him with a similar degree of enthusiasm. He drew back and studied her. “Oh, Lydia Berry,” he said, “what a time we’re going to have!”
Again, Lyddie couldn’t sleep, but this time her head was full of Eben Freeman, of all she did and didn’t know of the man. She had now tasted his passion and discovered its effect on her, but she knew better than to trust that effect in and of itself; Sam Cowett, too, had heated her blood, a fact that now troubled her more greatly than it had before. What did it mean to be so moved by two different men? Was she no better than that girl in the tavern? Or did her rejection of Dr. Fessey save her?
But what of all those things she didn’t know of Eben Freeman? She knew little of the dead wife, the children, that whole other life at Barnstable. Perhaps it was no bad thing to enter into a marriage with much yet to discover. Lyddie curled toward sleep with her head full of Eben Freeman, but just before she got there, by virtue of a contrariness in her nature that Lyddie had come to know and despise in equal measure, her thoughts left off Freeman and lodged hard against the Indian woman who walked to Cowett’s every day. She was a fine thing, fresh into her adulthood, with skin and hair glowing in the sun; the first week she had walked by every morning and back every afternoon as regular as the tide, but for some days now Lyddie had seen her only sporadically coming or going.
Lyddie’s thrashing about had set the knee throbbing again. She got up and poured herself a medicinal drop of brandy, returned to her bed, and slept till a steady, persistent knocking woke her.
She went to the door in her shift and threw it open. “Bethiah!”
“Papa sent me. ’Tis the baby coming.”
The women stood around as they had in the dream, but this time they parted and allowed Lyddie the bed. Mehitable was the color of the bleached pad of linen under her. She looked up and stretched out her hand. “Mama.”
The childish address twisted Lyddie’s gut. She took her daughter’s hand. “When did you begin?”
Granny Hall answered from behind. “Yesterday dawn.”
Lyddie looked around. “No doctor this time?”
“He’s been. Still a fair distance between pains. He’ll be back.”
Mehitable closed her eyes, jerked, whimpered, weakly squeezed Lyddie’s hand.
“That’s the way, child.”
Granny Hall said, “She’s worn down.”
Mehitable’s eyes rounded in fear.
“Nonsense,” Lyddie said. “She’s just near crushed my hand.” She removed her fingers from Mehitable’s, smoothed her hair, and patted her cheek. “You rest as you can between. You’re doing fine. I’ll be back.” She left the room.
Nathan Clarke had come in and stood by the window, looking out over the road. Lyddie went up to him and touched his shoulder. He swung around. “How does she go?”
“Slow. As will the first. Mr. Clarke, I wish to thank you for sending for me.”
“And why should I not? I’ve seen Freeman. ’Tis all settled between us. I hereby put aside all differences and trust you to do the same.”
But the fact that Clarke then returned at once to the subject of Mehitable went furthest in helping Lyddie put aside their differences. “I’ve some worry over my wife,” he said. “She’s not a strong woman.”
“Nonsense,” Lyddie said a second time.
“The doctor said—”
“The doctor wishes to inflate his own importance so you won’t balk at his fee. Pay no attention to the doctor.”
“My last wife died not six months after bringing on Bethiah. The poor woman never recovered of her travail. That was also a first child.”
“And she was not in health for some time previous.”
“I’ve not been married one year to Mehitable.”
“I beg you, Mr. Clarke, don’t talk so where my daughter may hear you. She is healthy and strong, and you must have faith in her and in Granny Hall.”
But as the day stretched on and the pains increased and Mehitable weakened, Lyddie’s own nerve flagged. Granny Hall pulled her aside and said, “Head’s too big. It’ll be the forceps. I’m sending for Dr. Fessey.”
Dr. Fessey returned, examined the patient, and declared the head was, indeed, too large for the passage, that she would need the forceps, but first she needed a good bloodletting to remove the congestion. He opened his bag and laid the contents across the bed: a lancet, a basin, and the rough, tonglike forceps. Mehitable, her face colorless and tight with panic, watched her mother’s and appeared to take some comfort from its appearance, which meant that Lyddie had managed to conceal her own fears well. Mehitable was not just worn down but worn out, her hand unable to hold Lyddie’s. Lyddie gave the limp fingers a last squeeze and stepped away.
The doctor applied the lancet and drained what seemed like a great quantity of blood into the basin. The women settled Mehitable on her back and secured her limbs, but the girl was too far gone to do anything but moan as Dr. Fessey groped with the forceps for the baby’s head and pulled. The head had been squeezed into the shape of a cone, puffed with swelling on top, but the baby breathed and cried. A boy.
“Good,” said Granny Hall. “They’ve enough girls for care of the domestic.” Dr. Fessey nodded in happy agreement. He inserted his hand to withdraw the placenta, clapped a cloth quickly over the loin to prevent the dangerous ingress of air, and motioned to Granny Hall to bind Mehitable’s knees closed. All the while Mehitable lay as white and immobile as in the dream until Lyddie had to step forward and lay a hand on her daughter’s chest to make sure of the weak rise and fall.
32
The child was named Edward. Lyddie moved back into her old room to tend mother and babe, and Jane was sent to tend Lyddie’s cow, chickens, and garden. For Lyddie, holding the babe in her arms was both thrilling and excruciating. She could not quite believe in him, she didn’t want to believe in him, but she had to believe in him, as his own mother was unable even to support him against her breast as she lay propped in bed; between them they required Lyddie’s constant attention.
To Lyddie’s surprise, Nathan Clarke appeared not only grateful for her services, but also glad of her company. Lyddie, in turn, found their past differences did indeed fade away in their common concern for mother and child. The problem was Freeman. He came each night after supper, and on Tuesday, after Clarke had been extolling Lyddie’s virtues as nurse and housekeeper, he said, “Well, sir, prepare yourself to lose her. I’ll be taking her Thursday next.”
“Oh, no, we can’t spare Mother so soon. Best you put it off for the present.”
Freeman turned to Lyddie in surprise. “Surely, in another week—”
“You’ve been bachelor this long,” Nathan said. “I should think you’d last another few weeks. You may have my mother-in-law as soon as my wife recovers.”
Freeman forced the old rearrangement on his features, but later that night, as he sat with Lyddie in the front room while she tipped the cradle and mended the spark holes caused by drying the diapers too near the fire, he said, “This postponement. You don’t appear to chafe at it.”
“Why chafe in vain? I can’t leave until my daughter is able to cope alone.”
“Alone? She has a Negro and two girls.”<
br />
“Perhaps better I say until she recovers.”
“And how long will this be?”
“I know only that I’m needed here yet.”
He watched her through four stitches. “Very well,” he said, in a tone meant to say the opposite. He lowered his voice. “I’ve spoken to Clarke on another matter. I’m happy to report he’s joined my effort to correct a previous false impression traveling about town, and my sister does so as well. After all, you’ll be double family, now. I believe you may return to meeting with your reputation secured.”
Lyddie looked up in surprise. It would, of course, be important to her husband and his position in the community that she be accepted back into the arms of the church, but could she do it? Lyddie looked down at the sleeping babe. If he continued to thrive, if her daughter recovered, could she forgive God? Or was it even a matter of forgiveness now?
“Your son and I settled some other business as well,” Freeman continued. “I told him I’d like my house furnished.”
It took Lyddie a second to understand which house he meant, and then what furniture he meant. “Do you mean Nathan will return it all?”
“He’s done so already. I’ve paid him cash. And we sign the house papers Friday.”
“And I sign, too?”
“Just as before.” He smiled. “Or rather, not just as before. This time, I expect, you’ll actually sign them.” Lyddie smiled back. Freeman stood, rested a hand on the back of her neck, and stooped to kiss her.
A tangle of loud voices erupted from outside the back door. Freeman shot upright. “What the devil? Is that Silas?”
Lyddie shook her head. She had recognized the voice of Sam Cowett, and now Nathan’s followed sharply.
“I’ll thank you to leave here.”
“I’ll see the Widow Berry before I do.”
“You’ll leave, is what you’ll do. And smartly, or I’ll fetch the constable.”
Lyddie jumped up.
Freeman’s hand tightened on her shoulder. “Stay here. I’ll see to this.”
He hurried out.
Lyddie followed. The Indian stood in the dooryard, Nathan on the stoop, but even the height of the door stone didn’t bring him eye to eye with the Indian.
Cowett saw Lyddie and spoke. “Good evening, Widow Berry.”
Freeman turned in surprise. “Lydia, please get inside. All right, Mr. Cowett, best you go along home, now.”
“I’ve come to talk to the Widow Berry. ’Tis no crime in it.”
Young Nate appeared behind his father; Nathan whispered something that sent him out the door and down the drive at a run. Lyddie stepped around Freeman and Nathan and into the yard. As she came close to Cowett she could smell the liquor on him, but his eyes still focused on hers with their same old precision.
“You wished to speak with me, Mr. Cowett?” she said.
“For God’s sake, Lydia!” Freeman said. “Get inside!”
“’Tis all right, Eben,” Lyddie said. “What would you say to me, Mr. Cowett?”
Cowett, who had closely watched the exchange between Lyddie and Freeman, turned back to Lyddie. “So. ’Tis true, then. You marry him. If I’d known you were in such need I’d have come sooner.” He dug into a pouch at his belt and held out a closed fist. When Lyddie didn’t move he took her hand, opened his fist over it, and rained some coins into her palm. “What you’re owed.”
“She’s no need of your money now,” Freeman said. “Lydia, give it back.” But Lyddie’s hand had already closed over the coins, and at that minute they all turned away at the sound of boots on stone. Young Nate and the constable, Elisha Mayo, clattered into the yard.
“Here, Mayo,” Nathan said from the stoop, “you may arrest this Indian for disturbing the peace.”
Lyddie whipped around. “What are you saying? He’s disturbed nothing. He came to speak to me, to settle what I’m owed.”
“He’s come intoxicated onto my property and disturbed my household.”
“You would call this intoxicated? Better you arrest your brother Silas, then.” Lyddie turned to Freeman for help, but he stepped off the stoop, took Lyddie by the elbow, and pulled her inside.
They stood face-to-face in front of the cold hearth in her room.
“You surprise me, Lydia,” Freeman said. “You surprise and disappoint me in the extreme.”
“Indeed.”
“‘Indeed’! This is all you have to say to me, ‘indeed’?” After disobeying my instruction, after putting yourself into the arms of danger, after speaking against your son and humiliating him in public—”
“In public?”
“You think it will not soon be all over this town that you defied him in defense of a drunken Indian?”
“It would be nowhere at all if my son hadn’t called in the constable. But if, as you say, I humiliated my son, it’s to do with him and not you.”
“You think not? When a woman I’ve publicly claimed as my own should display such wanton behavior—”
“Wanton!”
“What other word would you have me use, when a man you’ve already allowed to compromise your reputation shows up at your door, making disrespectful reference to your engagement? And instead of keeping away you rush out to meet him and leap to his defense against your own son!”
“I’ll speak against my son if I find him wrong.”
“Yes, you will. Excepting, of course, on the postponement of your own marriage. There, it seems, you’re happy enough to bend to his will.”
“When it’s my will as well.”
“I see. Perhaps, then, you wish to postpone for all time.”
“Or perhaps all this really means is that you do.”
They dropped into stiff silence.
Freeman walked to the door. “I’ve made my feelings known. My wishes remain clear. I make no ultimatum. I leave it to your own inclination to set our marriage.”
He left.
Lyddie raised her hand and saw it was shaking. She opened her fist, which had remained clenched around Cowett’s coins, and dropped them into her apron pocket.
33
Lyddie got Mehitable dressed and sat her up for several hours the next morning, but the girl was still too weak to do anything but nurse the babe, and even that was achieved only by propping them both with bolsters. Lyddie directed the others in the care of the two houses and herself attended solely to mother and child. In an impressive demonstration of control Nathan Clarke refrained from addressing the subject of Sam Cowett altogether; in a secluded moment Lyddie inquired of Jot if he’d heard news and found that the Indian had been locked up until he’d grown sober, paid his fine, and gone back to his business.
Freeman stayed away. Lyddie thought at first that he meant it as a cooling-down period—she was reminded that in his dealings with his sister, when he felt his temper get the better of him, he chose to remove himself rather than engage in confrontation, and she respected that reasoning—but after one day stretched to two and two to three and Lyddie had had ample time to think through their argument from both ends and each side, she began to think that his staying away might be something more in the way of punishment. After all, what had the argument really been about? Not Sam Cowett, or Nathan Clarke, or Mehitable, but Lyddie’s disobedience, first over his request for an early wedding date, next over her going out to meet Sam Cowett. Or perhaps this “cooling down” was in fact cold feet.
She began to remember other things. His shock over the town gossip. His discomfort in their talk at the tavern. The way he’d stood at such a stiff, cold distance in front of the hearth and called her wanton. A man who could use such a word to describe his future wife couldn’t really be said to believe in her character, no matter how often he defended it around town. But the curious thing for Lyddie was that she couldn’t entirely blame Freeman for the word, or the cold feet, if that was indeed what it was. She of all people knew how close she’d come to being that wanton woman, not once, but twice, never mind that one
of those times would have been with Freeman himself. And to give Freeman another point, Lyddie didn’t believe that Sam Cowett had come to see her merely to pay her wage, which further validated Freeman’s concerns over the Indian’s motives. But behind all the pluses and minuses lay the total sum: in Lyddie’s unmarried state she’d broken no law in disobeying Freeman’s instruction, but after their marriage that would change. Freeman would hold total power over her. Could she lay her trust in his character, as he seemed unable to do in hers?
Lyddie thought back over all their dealings, beginning with his early defense of her rights against her son and ending with his purchase of Edward’s house. Freeman was not Edward or Sam Cowett; he didn’t make his living off the sea and could have little interest in a house along the landing road. He could have chosen a more commodious home on the more prestigious main thoroughfare through town or he could have built a home to his own specification, but instead he’d chosen a house that he knew to be important to Lyddie, in fact as well as principle. And she knew that as long as Eben Freeman should live, which should be longer than any mariner, she could trust him to keep her fed and clothed and warm.
Lyddie had advanced that far in her thinking, and still Freeman didn’t come.
Lyddie spent the days taking joy in her daughter’s progress as she sat up longer, then walked the chamber, then walked to the front room; by Friday morning Mehitable could bend over and lift the babe from his cradle. By Friday morning Lyddie had so firmly and finally determined cold feet as the cause of Freeman’s absence that when he appeared in the doorway to her room she didn’t rise to meet him but waited stiffly to hear what he might have to say.
But Freeman crossed purposefully to her chair and pulled her to her feet. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry to the core for such discord between us.”
“As I am sorry. I would say in particular—”
“No. Say nothing more. We know each other well enough that we need not spell out every little word. We’ll misstep from time to time, and when we do we’ll pay a price in that worst of all miseries, a disconnection between us, but once it’s over it’s time to move on. Now come, they await us with the papers in the other room.”
The widow's war Page 17
