by Lorin Grace
For a moment, no words came to Sarah’s mind, then understanding filled her. “That is why you don’t like to be around young children. It hurts too much to long for something never to be yours.”
Dorcas nodded and stood to pour herself some coffee. “That is part of it. I fall in love with them way too easily, but when they are sad, they never want me. I reached the age where love is a liability, a longing for things I will never feel. I don’t know what is keeping you from accepting the doctor, but in twenty years, you will wish you had.” She set her cup in the dry sink and went upstairs.
The fire popped. A combination of bright light, heat, and ashes, it danced a fine line between life and death. Somewhere in the flames lay the perfect metaphor. Too bad her life was already full of ash, or she might be tempted to hope for the flame.
A festering splinter caused Tim to be late to see the parade. Technically, since he was now a veteran, he could join them, but he’d left his uniform tucked in his trunk. The battle he’d fought, and often lost, had not been against the British but against an unseen foe stalking the lives of soldiers before and after the cannon’s blasts. Men missing an arm or a leg passed in front of him. Their lives had been spared, but at a terrible cost. These men would not want him marching by their side.
As he followed the crowd to the green, he wished he had thought to bring his greatcoat. At least they would all be standing close together for the reading of the Declaration of Independence, forty years old today. The Wilson clan stood off to the left of the temporary stage. Tim chose to move to the right. Too late, he realized he stood behind many of the women who boarded at Widow Webb’s. He stepped back so as not to be too easily noticed, but the conversation still reached him.
“Do you think it is proper … in mourning?”
“ … Independence Day … betrothed died in war …”
“Oh, what are they doing … they belong at …”
“Girls don’t … the fallen women …”
Tim tried to move back farther, but as the mayor started to speak, the crowd moved in and his way was blocked.
“Most of them live near the docks …”
“Unless they live …”
“Oh … Mrs. Wilson never really married …”
“ … if Samuel Wilson married his wife …”
“Of course, they’d take in Amity … just like the rest of them …”
“ … no better than they ought to be …”
Tim turned and made his way out of the throng. He’d rather stand in the cold wind than listen to the gossip. Old gossip, too. The standoff between the old minister, Reverend Woods, and Thomas and Emma Wilson had become a local legend. They’d claimed they were married, and he’d said it wasn’t legal. But in the end, actions spoke louder than words, and the Wilsons had lived happily as a couple for more than thirty years. Now they lay side by side in the cemetery, both under the name Wilson. As far as Lucy and Samuel Wilson went, he didn’t know the whole story, but he remembered the day the intentions were first read. That was the day he’d decided to marry Sarah and tell her so behind the church.
He tried to focus on the words of the Declaration. But from his new vantage point, he could see the Wilsons clearly. Sarah stood in front with the children who were still shorter than her. She had expertly avoided him for a week now. If the women of Widow Webb’s house put as much effort into catching him as Sarah did avoiding him, one of them would have caught him by now.
The wind gusted, and Tim headed home. He would need his greatcoat before the day ended. Firecrackers would be lit, and someone was likely to get hurt.
Pounding on the door woke Sarah. She pulled a quilt off her bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. Dorcas stood at the top of the stairs.
“What on earth?” Dorcas handed her candle to Sarah when the pounding started again. “You answer it.”
Sarah hurried to the door. “Who is it?”
“Sarah, it’s Amity and me!”
Tim? Here in the middle of the night? She set the candle on the table and opened the door.
Tears coated Amity’s face. Tim supported the girl’s weight as if standing was more than she could bear.
“D-da-d-d-da-d.” Amity fell into Sarah’s arms, nearly toppling her.
Sarah looked to Tim for an answer as she tried to pull Amity fully into the house.
“Mr. Burns is dead.” Tim slowly mouthed the words.
Dorcas appeared, fully dressed and with a lantern.
“Help me get her into her bed, please.”
Dorcas put an arm around Amity and took some of the girl’s weight off Sarah.
“I need my bag. I’ll be right back.” Tim shut the door behind him.
“I’ll get her in bed. You’d better get something on over your shift,” said Dorcas.
Sarah hadn’t realized the quilt had come off. Grabbing it from the floor, she ran up the stairs. The black bombazine would be handy tonight. The thick material wouldn’t show if she didn’t wear her corset. Sarah reached the bottom of the stairs just as Tim did. “What happened?”
“I’ll tell you after we get Amity settled. She hasn’t had one of her seizures yet, and I would like to see if we can prevent that. Can you make—”
“Sarah? Help me!”
Sarah beat Tim to the bedroom. With her dress partially off, Amity’s arms flailed wildly, striking Dorcas. Sarah hurried to Amity’s side and pulled her into a hug. “There, there.”
Amity sobbed into the black bombazine. Sarah managed to get her to sit on the bed. “Let’s get this dress off you.” Sarah finished lifting the dress over Amity’s head.
Blood.
“Ti—Dr. Dawes?” Sarah tried to use a calm voice.
Tim came to stand beside her. “It isn’t hers. Miss Smith is getting some water so you can help wash her. Does she have something you can change her into?”
Sarah nodded.
Tim left the room. Dorcas came only as far as the doorway with the kettle. A bruise had formed on her cheek. Sarah touched her own cheek as she took the kettle. “How bad?”
“I think I shall retire. I can’t help you with her anymore.” Dorcas went upstairs without looking back.
Tim leaned against the doorjamb. “Shall I run for Mrs. Morton, or perhaps Mrs. Larkin?”
“No, Amity is calm now. I’ll change her. You can leave.”
“No, once she is changed, I want to give her a drop of laudanum so she can sleep. I am worried about a seizure. When you are washing her, can you check to be sure the shock of what happened is not starting her labor?”
“Of course.”
Amity didn’t speak as Sarah cleaned her; rather, she sat like a rag doll, which worried Sarah almost as much as if the girl had fought her. Sarah’s ministrations were met with the kick of a little foot but no signs of imminent change of residence for the babe Amity carried.
Sarah tucked a quilt around Amity before gathering the soiled garment and going to the kitchen. Tim sat at the table drinking a cup of Dorcas’s rewarmed coffee. Two cups sat nearby. One smelled of peppermint tea, the other stood empty. “I didn’t know what you would want. I’ve already put a drop of laudanum in the tea for Amity. I hesitate to give it to her under normal circumstances, but the longer she can sleep, the better.”
Tim followed Sarah as she took the cup to Amity. The girl drank her tea but still didn’t speak.
Sarah waited until they were out of the room to ask the question her mind was shouting. “Will Amity … I mean … she is just starting. Is that …” How could she describe what she wanted to know?
“Just a moment.” Tim grabbed a straight-backed chair from the kitchen and took it into Amity’s room, setting it next to Emma’s old rocker. “I don’t think she should be alone, and if we talk quietly, we won’t disturb her.” He motioned for Sarah to sit in the rocker.
Sitting next to Tim in a semidark room, even with a patient, wasn’t the best of ideas. Sarah needed a bit of distance. “I need to put h
er clothes in cold water to get the stain out.”
The water bucket stood empty, so Sarah went to the well she shared with the neighbors and drew out a bucketful. There had to be another way to delay being with Tim. She poured herself some of Dorcas’s coffee and nearly spit it out. At least it would keep her fully alert. The only way to get Tim to leave would be to talk with him. Sarah had watched him enough over the last month to know he wouldn’t leave a patient without knowing they were in capable hands. The sooner she went in, the sooner he would leave.
Sarah was avoiding him. He sat back and watched Amity. He had only seen the aftermath of what had occurred on the dock tonight and heard her father’s final words. “I said I’d kill the man who hurt my girl. Keep her safe, Doc.”
Witnesses confirmed what Tim had guessed. One of the other dockmen had come out of the pub already in his cups. Mr. Barns and Amity were returning home after the fireworks.
The dockman had started talking about Amity in such a way as to leave little reason to question he had been the one, or perhaps one of a few, who had taken advantage of Amity while her father worked. The man’s friends had laughed. A fight might not have occurred as Mr. Barns had only walked faster toward home, but the dockman ran to catch up and pulled Amity from her father’s arms and kissed her.
Amity had hit the man first. Then Mr. Barns did what any father would do and knocked the man senseless. One of his drunken friends stepped in. At some point, a knife was introduced, perhaps two. By the time Tim arrived, the first dockworker had died, the second was injured, and Mr. Barns lay in his daughter’s lap, struggling to breathe. Amity held one of the knives and was slashing it at anyone who came too near.
The weeks of letting Amity get used to him had paid off. Tim got her to drop the knife and let him touch her father. Little could be done.
Sarah came in and sat in the rocking chair, moving it an inch or two away in the process.
“How is she?”
“I wish I knew.”
Sarah turned to him then. “What do you mean?”
“She witnessed a fight between her father and the man I assume took advantage of her. Both men are dead. Since she hardly speaks, it is impossible to know what she is thinking or feeling. Soldiers who saw horrific things in battle would sometimes do what she did tonight—simply stare and not move. If someone could get them talking, sometimes it helped.” He didn’t tell her about the ones who never talked or ate or slept.
The chair creaked as Sarah changed positions. “What do you need me to do?”
“Stay with her. You can probably lie down on the bed with her. I’ll come by first thing or send Mrs. Morton.”
“What about a funeral? I don’t think she’ll survive if many people visit.”
“I’ll talk to Dr. Morton. I think a small one tomorrow, just at the cemetery, no visitation.” Tim consulted his watch. “I mean this afternoon.”
Sarah hid a yawn. “I’ll show you out, then.”
As Tim stopped in the kitchen to gather his bag, Sarah waited near the front door.
There were things he needed to say, but it was late. Maybe too late. And so he left, keeping all the words inside for another day.
Twenty-nine
A week passed. Amity ate and slept, but nothing else. Sarah had never believed in ghosts, but if she did, Amity could be one. The farthest she could coax the girl was to the rocker. There, Amity would rock and hum and rub the child when he kicked her. There had been nightmares but no seizures. Mrs. Morton said they should thank God for a miracle.
It wasn’t the only miracle that week. There had been no new notes, even though Tim had been in several times a day. Perhaps the writer had some compassion on Amity as others had quietly dropped by food, clothing, and money.
Dorcas volunteered to clean out the small apartment where the Barns had lived and attended a session of the women’s relief circle to discuss Amity’s future. In fact, Dorcas was very helpful as long she wasn’t asked to sit with Amity. The extent of Dorcas’s interaction with her was to stand in the bedroom doorway when Sarah needed to run to the privy.
Someone knocked on the door. When Sarah didn’t hear Dorcas’s quick step, she went to answer it herself.
“Thomas Jr.? Come in.”
Thomas Jr. took off his hat and looked around the parlor. “Good day, Sarah, is Dorcas ready?”
“Ready? For what?”
“She sent a note around on Wednesday saying she was no longer needed and asked if she could come visit.” Thomas Jr. rubbed the back of his head just like Samuel did when he was worried.
Footsteps echoed on the stairs. Sarah turned to face Dorcas. “You are leaving? I thought you were happy here. What am I going to do without you?”
Dorcas handed a small crate to her brother-in-law. “I just can’t be here when … I was hired to help you with Emma, not this.” Dorcas waved her hand in the direction of the room Amity occupied. “I stayed a month, but I cannot honestly ask to be paid when I can’t do the work Thomas Jr. hired me for.”
“What? You were paid to be here?” Sarah tried to process what was happening.
Thomas Jr. shifted the crate to his other arm. “Samuel and I agreed Dorcas deserved a wage when she came to help you with Emma.”
Dorcas disappeared into the kitchen and Thomas Jr. took the crate outside, as well as a chest sitting next to the front door.”
“I can’t leave my coffee pot. Here, I made this for you. I am not good with goodbyes, especially when I like a person. That is why I didn’t tell you sooner. I made fresh bread, and a roast chicken is in the warmer. Someone from the relief circle will be bringing in food every other day. I told them watching Amity doesn’t leave you with time to cook.” Dorcas handed Sarah a small package wrapped in paper and tied with string.
“But what am I going to do when the doctor comes? I need a chaperone or people will talk!” Sarah wished her voice didn’t sound so panicked.
“Perhaps what you really need is to not have a chaperone so you can finally say what needs to be said. I know you don’t want to hear it, but this old spinster has seen enough to know if you keep putting him off, you will regret it. The way he looks at you … I wish either of my beaus had looked at me with that much love and concern. You are brave in so many things. Be brave in this, too.” Dorcas kissed Sarah on the cheek and was gone.
Sarah watched Thomas Jr.’s coach drive down the road until it was past the church. She ripped open the package. Two new handkerchiefs embroidered and trimmed with lace.
“But I am not brave,” she whispered as she dried her eyes.
Sarah smiled, but Tim could tell it was forced and that she had been crying.
He stepped in the door and wished he had permission to take her in his arms and hold her until her smile became real.
“Miss Smith left today, and she won’t be back. I don’t know if Dr. Morton is up to making these calls, but until there is someone else here …” She shrugged.
“Dr. Morton is not up to making calls. Even a few steps with his cane is still difficult. If you are worried I will take liberties again, I won’t. Your avoidance of me is enough to let me know they are not welcomed.” Not what he wished to say, but it was what she needed to hear. He would not touch her again, even if she did welcome his touch when they were alone in the house. Not exactly alone, but Amity couldn’t chaperone.
Sarah nodded, and new tears glistened but did not fall. “She is sleeping. I think she is experiencing some early signs but is probably days away still.” She left him in the bedroom and went out the back door.
“Well, Miss Amity. Will you talk with me today?”
Silence answered him.
Sarah returned a few minutes later.
Tim went to meet her in the hall. “How many hours is she sleeping a day?”
“Sixteen to twenty.”
“Is she eating any better?”
“She will eat anything I spoon into her mouth.”
“What about
you? Are you getting enough sleep?” The darkening under her eyes told him the truth. Would she?
“I get as much as I can. Amity dreams at night, and they often wake her.”
“You are still sleeping in here, then?”
Sarah nodded. “She hasn’t had a seizure since her father passed, but the dreams upset her so much, I don’t dare be too far away.”
“Would it help if I hired someone to be here?”
Sarah looked at her hands as she twisted a handkerchief around her fingers. “It is so much money. I can handle it. Some of the women are sending in food, so I don’t need to leave her side to cook.”
Tim lifted her chin with his finger and for a moment forgot what he wanted to say. “That isn’t what I asked. Would it help if I hired someone to be here?”
Sarah tried to look away.
“Shall I take your refusal to answer as a yes?” He dropped his finger, afraid if he didn’t step back he would break a promise not a half hour old.
