by Jan Watson
“Yes, many times,” Girt answered around a bite of sugar cookie. “Poor thing looks blank as a new sheet of paper and can’t do the least thing for herself.”
“When does it usually happen?”
Girt looked thoughtful. Finishing one cookie, she dunked another in her tea. “Her nervous disposition can’t handle anything like loud noises or taxing situations.” She glanced around the kitchen and lowered her voice. “It’s especially bad when the master is about.”
“Is Mr. Collins mean to Nora?”
Girt cleaned the tablecloth with a brush, sweeping bits of cookie into the crumb receiver. “No, not that I’ve ever seen.” She whispered in Copper’s ear, “It’s quite the other way round, I think.”
“Hmm. Don’t you think it’s odd that Nora didn’t have one seizure while she was in labor?”
“I guess I never noticed,” Girt responded. “We were that busy.”
“We certainly were.” Copper stood and folded her napkin. “Have some more tea. I’ll tend to Mrs. Collins for a while.”
Copper leaned over the cradle, listening for the sweet sounds of a baby in slumber. With a little grunt, Phillipa raised her head a fraction of an inch.
“Hey, little turtle.” Copper stroked the baby’s head. “You’re so strong, aren’t you? Yes, you’re so strong.” Laughing, Copper looked at Nora. “Wonder why we repeat everything we say to babies. Do you find yourself doing that?”
“Hardly,” Nora replied. “Why would one bother talking to an infant?” A hint of frost wilted each word.
Nora seems so flat, Copper thought. So flat in every way. She was thin and bony with a narrow face, brown hair, and protruding brown eyes that seemed to reflect no light. Girt and Copper had done everything for her for ten days.
Even when they changed her huckaback toweling binder and pinned it with two-inch straight pins, Nora made no effort to help. It was quite a task to wrap her from her upper abdomen to her thighs when she wobbled around in the bed as though somebody had stolen her backbone. “Doing her binder’s like stuffing a sausage,” Girt had commented one day in the kitchen, making Copper laugh.
“Let’s get you up today.” Copper pulled the chair close to the bed. “You must be tired from lying in bed so long.”
“I can’t,” Nora whined. “I’m much too weak.”
Copper’s patience snapped. She’ll get up if I have to drag her out of that bed. “You’ll do fine,” Copper said, determined. “We’ll have you on your feet in no time. Now just ease over this way.”
In minutes that seemed like hours, Nora groaned her tortuous way to the side of the bed. Sliding her arm behind Nora’s back, Copper sat her up, then swung her legs over the side. “Now, doesn’t that feel good?”
A long, drawn-out moan was Nora’s only answer.
Her fingers at the pulse of Nora’s wrist, Copper observed her patient carefully. Her heartbeat was steady. Her face was pink, and her reflexes were good. It should be fine to stand her up long enough to pivot her to the chair. Copper was good at pivoting. She’d practiced on Searcy until Searcy had refused to be her guinea pig any longer. Taking a deep breath, Copper eased Nora until they were standing face-to-face.
Nora was on her feet! Copper was smiling ever so proudly when suddenly Nora stiffened and fell. Off-balance, Copper clutched her patient to her chest as they crashed backward to the floor.
Copper prayed a fervent, silent prayer: Lord, please don’t let anyone come through that door until I figure out how to get this woman off my chest.
Reaching for her chatelaine, Copper withdrew the vial of ammonia she always carried. She snapped the glass ampoule with her thumb and waved it right in front of Nora’s nose, getting a stinging whiff of it herself. Soon both nurse and patient were gagging and gasping for breath.
Then Nora was back in bed, propped in a sitting position by as many pillows as Copper could stuff behind her back. Nora’s face went blank, and her hands twitched.
What have I done? Why didn’t I listen when Nora said she was too weak to stand? Once again her fingers found Nora’s pulse—full and steady, and her face still held good color. What had made her faint? She must be flooding! I’ve caused her to hemorrhage! Please, Lord, help us! she prayed as she threw back Nora’s bedcovers. Thankfully there was only a stain on the diaper pad, no bigger than it should have been.
Pacing, Copper studied on what to do. Ammonia stung her eyes like fire, but she hardly noticed, so worried was she about her patient. It was time to send for Simon. Pausing, she leaned in close to Nora’s dressing table and dabbed at her eyes with a clean hankie from her pocket. There reflected in the mirror was her seriously ill patient. A smug smile turned up the corners of Nora’s pencil-thin lips. As Copper watched unobserved, Nora lifted a steady hand to smooth her hair.
Baby Phillipa began to cry, and Copper saw Nora slacken her face . . . saw the calculated tremor in her hands commence . . . saw the turning away from her daughter’s need.
Copper didn’t need the smarting fumes of ammonia to see red. She’d had just about enough of the deceitful Nora Collins! She had to get away . . . had to spend some time with a mother who loved her baby. Against her burning desire to slap Nora into common sense, Copper instead loosed her unresponsive patient’s gown and helped the hungry baby eat. But as soon as Girt came back, Copper was out the door.
Sure of her welcome, Copper ignored the brass knocker and cracked the door to the big white house. “Hello? Anybody home?”
“Come in. Come in,” she heard Birdie call. The smell of something warm and spicy enticed her toward the kitchen.
The room bustled with activity. Birdie leaned over the open oven door, a pan of cake in her hand, a big smile on her face. “Sit down. Sit down,” she chirped.
Tommy Turner attempted to rise from his chair before Copper put a hand on his shoulder, easing him back down. “Copper! Have dessert with us.”
“Mrs. Corbett,” one of Birdie’s boarders greeted, “how’s that fine husband of yours?”
“He’s well. Thank you for asking,” Copper said.
“Hey, Miz Corbett,” Andy Tolliver chimed in from his place at the table, “you’ll love Miz Mary Martha’s cake.”
“Hello, Andy,” Copper replied. “I haven’t seen you all week.”
“This boy can smell my gingerbread from the other side of town,” Birdie said as she slid the first piece onto Andy’s plate. “Grab a cup, Copper. I’ll just get the whipped cream . . . whipped cream.”
“Not until I get a piece of this.” Copper scooped baby Robert from his high chair and bussed his little round cheeks.
The baby chortled and waved the stump of his arm.
“Watch this,” Andy said as he folded a quilt in fours, then put it on the floor. He took Robert from her and put the baby on the pallet.
Robert raised his head much like she had watched Phillipa do earlier that morning. But Robert was older and much stronger, and he stuck out his neck like a turtle.
“Watch,” Andy said again and lay on the floor beside the quilt. “Roll over, Robert. Roll over.”
The baby rocked with all his might and with a grunt flipped onto his back.
“Yea!” Everyone clapped. “Yea, Robert.”
“I’m having my cake right here,” Copper said, sitting on the quilt with the baby. She took in the room: Tommy Turner at home at the table; one of Birdie’s boarders, a widow of many years, her gray hair well dressed, Copper knew, by Birdie; Andy Tolliver obviously welcome in this house, licking whipped cream from his plate; the crippled baby fat and happy; and Birdie . . . who would have thought? Birdie was sober and holding court in her own kitchen.
A memory tugged Copper home to Troublesome and across the creek to John Pelfrey’s house. John’s mother’s kitchen was just like this, so nurturing . . . so inviting. It wasn’t gingerbread she remembered but wheels of yellow corn bread. It seemed there was always one freshly baked, sitting in the warming oven ready for the little crock of sweet-cream bu
tter kept in the middle of the table. And Copper knew from long-ago observations that Emilee Pelfrey’s thirteenth baby was just as precious to her as Robert was to Birdie. She would give a pretty penny to be in that kitchen once again.
“I got to go,” Andy interrupted her daydream. “Did you need any more chores done, Miz Mary Martha?”
“No, not today, Andy. Thank you,” Birdie said. “Don’t forget that extra pan of gingerbread to take home.”
“I won’t. I’m on my way to Doc’s office, Miz Corbett. I’ll tell him I seen you.”
When Andy opened the door, a blast of cold air tried but couldn’t dilute the warmth of the room, heated as it was by contented souls.
Copper’s eyes misted over. Thank You, Lord. I praise Your name for answered prayer.
Soon it was just Birdie with baby Robert sleeping in her arms and Copper at the round kitchen table.
Birdie’s sharp black eyes found Copper’s. “What’s troubling you? What’s the trouble?”
“Birdie, I’ve had a puzzling day. Perhaps you can help me understand how it is that a mother falls in love with her baby.”
“Well. Well,” Birdie said as she shifted Robert to her shoulder. “I haven’t had much experience, what with losing my Robert as I did. And I’ve had this one for such a short time.”
“But you love him, don’t you?”
Tears shimmered but did not fall from Birdie’s eyes. “I didn’t love him at first. Not at first.”
“But you were so excited when we brought him here that night. You took right to him.”
Birdie took her time to answer. “I didn’t say I didn’t want him. I wanted him in the worst way, and I was so thankful to Dr. Corbett for letting me have him. But it was very hard. Very hard.” Robert stirred and cried out. Birdie tightened her hold and began to gently rock in the age-old way a mother soothes her baby. “You see, I wanted him for myself. I wanted him to be the baby I lost, but he wasn’t.” A single tear slipped down her face.
“What made you come to love him?”
“It was simple, really; he needed me. No matter who was here, it was me his eyes searched for. I was the only one who could soothe him. There’s power in a baby’s need.”
Copper saw the look of adoration on Birdie’s face before she bent her head to kiss the top of baby Robert’s head. She’d found the missing piece to Nora’s puzzle.
The next morning was cold and sunny. Copper wasn’t in the best of spirits as her buggy made its way to Nora’s house. She had backslid once again. Seemed every time she thought she’d conquered her judgmental attitude, someone like Nora Collins came along. “Judge not lest ye be judged,” she could almost hear Mam preaching. She’d prayed about it last night on her knees and again this morning, but her heart still didn’t feel right.
A cardinal flew past the buggy window and landed on a wooden fence post. Dried sunflowers drooped over the fence, catching the bird’s attention. Determined, he hung upside down and tugged seeds from the frozen pods. Copper set her mind on the task ahead. She’d have to be just as determined as the cardinal on the sunflower in order to carry out her plans for the day.
Mrs. Bellwether, wrapped head to toe in fur, was just leaving the house as Copper entered. Off to a club meeting, she informed Copper.
Good, Copper thought, now you won’t get in my way.
Nora was sitting in a chair in front of the fireplace. Sparks hotter than the ones that sailed up the flue shot at Copper from her eyes.
“Good morning,” Copper said as if she didn’t notice. “It’s good to see you up, Nora.”
Girt smoothed a top sheet in place. The room was toasty warm and smelled of recently ironed linen—a homey, comforting fragrance. “Dr. Corbett called on us last evening,” Girt said as she reached for a pillowcase. “He left orders.”
Copper suppressed a grin. Simon had been more than a little put out with Mrs. Collins when he heard Copper’s story over noon dinner yesterday. “You’re not to go back to be treated that way,” he’d said angrily before she pleaded her case. She had to see that baby Phillipa got what she needed. Finally he’d given in to her, but only after he had called upon Mrs. Collins himself.
As Girt gathered up the bedclothes, Copper emptied the baby hamper. “Why don’t you do the baby’s things this morning, Girt? I’ll see to Phillipa’s bath.”
Today would be the baby’s first dipping bath. Phillipa cooed and wiggled all over when Copper put her in the water. “Oh, you’re a good baby. Such a good baby,” Copper said as she lathered the delicate skin with fine castile soap. “Look, Nora. I believe she could swim if I turned her loose.” And indeed Phillipa paddled with her hands and feet, splashing water in all directions.
Nora didn’t say a word, just moved away from the spray.
“Oh,” Copper said, “I forgot to get clean clothes for the baby. Could you fetch something, Nora?”
You’d have thought I’d asked her to plow the north forty, Copper thought, listening to Nora’s huffs and puffs as she pawed through dresser drawers.
“This? Or maybe this?” Nora asked as she held up little gowns and tiny wrappers as if she needed Copper’s approval.
Then it dawned on Copper. Why, she’s afraid. Nora is afraid of her own baby. “Choose the clothing you like best. Anything will be fine.”
Nora flung a pale yellow knit dress with matching cap and booties on the baby’s dressing table.
Copper finished with the bath, then oiled Phillipa and showed Nora how to powder her own hand before gently patting the baby with it. “That will keep her from sneezing,” Copper said as she folded and pinned a clean nappy.
“I could never do that,” Nora fretted. “I’m afraid I would hurt her.”
“Just tuck your hand between Phillipa’s skin and the pin.” Copper demonstrated. “Be careful not to stick yourself.” She rolled the baby’s dark hair around one finger. “I believe she’s got natural curls. Do you want a ribbon?”
“Yellow,” Nora said. “Yellow to match her dress.”
“I’m just going to tuck her in the cradle now,” Copper said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“But Mother’s gone and Girt’s downstairs. You can’t leave me alone with her.”
“She’s asleep, and I’ll only be a moment. You’ll be fine.” Closing the door, she leaned against the wall. It seemed Nora was softening just a bit. If Mrs. Bellwether didn’t come home early, her plan just might work.
Copper massaged a crick in her neck. She’d been bent to the keyhole for nearly half an hour. Nora made no move toward the cradle, just sat in a chair, a length of yellow ribbon in her lap.
Soon Girt was leaning over Copper’s shoulder watching with her. “What are we doing standing out here?”
“We’re waiting for Phillipa to need her mother,” Copper whispered.
Just when Copper thought her back would break, just when the crick had become a steady pain, Phillipa began to stir with little mews at first, testing the waters in her baby way, seeing who would come to her rescue. Through the keyhole, Copper could see Nora begin to pace. She strode about the room, casting anxious glances toward the cradle, the ribbon twisting in her hands. Phillipa began to cry in earnest.
Girt reached for the doorknob, but Copper stopped her.
“But the baby,” the maid said, her voice drowned out by the angry wail coming from the bedroom.
Copper had opened her mouth to answer when suddenly the hall was quiet. She and Girt vied for the keyhole. Copper won, and there was her reward.
Nora rocked her daughter, baby Phillipa nursing greedily, a yellow ribbon in her pretty dark hair. Unbelievably, Nora began to croon, “‘Rock-a-bye, baby, in the treetop . . .’”
Girt nudged Copper aside and had her own look-see. A big grin split her face before she grabbed Copper and danced her down the hall. “You’re a gem. There’s hope for Nora and Phillipa now.”
Copper’s prayers were easier that night. She had done the right thing for Nora. But st
ill she prayed for tolerance. She reckoned with people like Nora Collins and Alice Upchurch in the world, she’d need a heaping portion of that.
Christmas surprised Copper with its quick appearance that winter. She had been so busy with Nora and Phillipa that suddenly it was two weeks before the big day. Outside, wreaths hung on the windows, their red bows merrily wishing joy to each passerby. Inside, a stately pine with candle-tipped boughs ushered in the holiday season as if it had sprung fully decorated from the foyer floor. All accomplished by Simon and Searcy.
“Why,” Copper mused to Searcy before supper one evening, “I haven’t cracked the first black walnut for jam cakes. Mam would be ashamed of me.”
Searcy flung open the pantry door. “Did you think Searcy be sitting on her hands while you birthing babies?”
“My word—” Copper cupped her nose with her hand—“it smells like somebody smashed a still in here.”
Searcy ladled more whiskey over a dozen cakes wrapped in cheesecloth and placed in round tins. “Ain’t no sense making fruitcake if they ain’t soaked in spirits. They be dry as dirt. Taste like dirt too.”
“I should have been helping you,” Copper replied. “I did get my presents mailed. All but one, anyway. I’d best get it wrapped and in the post.”
Standing at the dining room table, she was busy with scissors and twine when Simon came home, his cheeks red from the cold. He watched as she tucked a pair of leather gloves into a small box. “I thought you mailed your parcels to Philadelphia last week.”
“Oh, I did.” She stopped to kiss his cheek. “These are not for Daddy. They’re for John.”
“John Pelfrey?”
“Uh-huh. I’m mailing them to his mother in hopes that she will send them to him. I sure wish I knew where he is.”
“Why?”
“So we could keep in touch.” The festive red paper she had chosen for wrap crinkled as she worked. She smoothed it flat and tried again. “I miss John so much,” she said, then felt Simon’s questioning gaze.
“Copper,” he said, “why would you be thinking of John Pelfrey? Much less sending him gifts?”
