by Janette Oke
Julia lifted the tray. She did not look forward to the trip to Miss Priscilla’s room. Along with the tray she carried another letter from Mrs. Blakeney. The woman had not made a single visit to see her daughters. Constance had told Julia that each letter from their mother apologized, but explained that she was too busy to come.
“That’s the way it has always been with Mama,” Constance said with little emotion. “We have long since become accustomed to it.”
But Miss Priscilla did not seem used to it. She chafed and fussed and made life miserable for everyone whenever another promise was broken.
Julia rapped softly on the door.
“Yes,” called Miss Priscilla, and Julia opened the door and walked in.
“Good morning,” she said cheerfully. “Did you—?”
“Just set it down!” snapped Miss Priscilla. “I am famished. Where is Constance? She should have been here with the tray hours ago.”
Julia let the words pass. She knew Miss Priscilla had awakened only a few minutes earlier. She and Hettie had been checking the room regularly.
“You have another letter,” Julia said.
“From Mama?” Miss Priscilla brightened for a moment, and then turned glum. “I suppose she will tell me all about her most recent parties. I hate it. I hate hearing about all I am missing.”
“You must like parties,” Julia said as she poured coffee.
“I don’t suppose you understand either. Constance never did. She just sat at home and read her old books—or worked in the flower beds or went to Ladies’ Aid or something. Just like—like an old spinster.”
Miss Priscilla spat out the last word. Julia guessed that spinster must be the most disagreeable term the girl could think of.
There were many things Julia wished to say in response but she held her tongue. “She seems happy,” was all she said.
Miss Priscilla ignored the comment. She ripped open the envelope bearing her mother’s letter and started to read. Her face suddenly brightened. “She’s coming!” she cried. “She has her ticket. She is due on Thursday. That’s tomorrow.”
It was the first time Julia had ever seen the girl excited—rejoicing—over anything.
“We must wash and set your hair,” Julia urged. Miss Priscilla had recently been refusing proper grooming. “Go ahead and eat your breakfast. I will come back and do it for you,” Julia promised.
While working on Priscilla’s hair, Julia encouraged her to come to the downstairs drawing room to greet her mother and have tea when she arrived.
“She won’t do it,” Constance warned later. “That would spoil the effect. She wants Mother to feel guilty for leaving her here alone—in her condition—and all that.”
Mrs. Blakeney arrived the next day as promised. Right up until train time, Julia expected to receive some last-minute excuse. She was sure some social engagement would keep the woman away.
But she arrived. Bag and baggage. Julia heard her coming long before Tom opened the door for her.
Constance had been right. Priscilla refused to greet her mother in the parlor. Mrs. Blakeney went straight to Miss Priscilla’s room. When Julia took up the tea tray, Miss Priscilla was sprawled on her bed, her hair a tangled mess around her pale face, and her eyes drained of all excitement or eagerness. She moaned each time she shifted position and fretted and scolded until Julia wanted to shake her.
“My poor baby,” soothed Mrs. Blakeney, smoothing the girl’s hair. “Constance—I trusted you to take better care of your sister. Look at her. Her nails look like they haven’t been attended to in weeks and—”
Julia set down the tray and quickly left the room. She grabbed a shawl on her way through the kitchen and headed to the garden. “I wish—I wish there were potatoes to dig—or carrots to pull—or something!” she hissed. “I need to work off some steam.”
But the garden had all been cared for by Tom. Winter was approaching. Julia’s thoughts turned from the spoiled Miss Priscilla to her own dear daughters and the long winter without them.
Mrs. Blakeney stayed for only a few days. Julia wondered if she found her daughter too disagreeable to endure. Before she left she purchased a porcelain pitcher and bowl and a small gilt-edged mirror from Julia. Julia didn’t allow herself the pleasure of tears as she tucked the generous payment into the safe-keeping box in John’s desk drawer. They needed the money. They could live without treasures.
Another month passed and Julia had another guest. His name was Dr. Martin Waters, and he came from some spot unknown to any of them. Mrs. Blakeney had hired him to be on guard until Miss Priscilla’s baby came, to deliver the infant, and then to leave discreetly. This information came out little by little, for he had been given strict orders to keep silent about his mission.
Dr. Waters was very aware of his own presence, and he made certain that others were too. He wore flashy clothes, twitched his carefully trimmed mustache, and cast furtive glances as though fearful someone were following him. His steel blue eyes flashed impatience with the least provocation, and Julia sensed that he was very short-tempered.
Julia felt uncomfortable around him, but there was little she could do. Although difficult to endure, he was a paying guest.
Miss Priscilla seemed to like the idea of having a little male company, and she began ordering Constance to brush her hair and manicure her nails again. Dr. Waters, a man of about forty, was not without a measure of masculine appeal, and his silence and manner made him mysterious and intriguing.
Miss Priscilla may as well have saved herself the trouble, however. The doctor seemed to be interested in nothing except his fee—which likely would be sizable.
Dr. Waters kept mostly to himself and ignored the majority of Miss Priscilla’s moans and groans and cries of complaint. He did care for her solicitously, however, handing out little pink or white pills with abandon. Julia feared for the unborn child, but dared not be too open with her comments.
“I just hope this whole ordeal is over quickly,” she confided to Hettie. “It seems that our efforts to show love and understanding have been in vain. Miss Priscilla has not softened one bit. In fact, I fear she is even more disagreeable than ever. I don’t know how poor Constance stands it.”
“I think she has had years of practice,” responded Hettie. “It’s a clear case of the older, rational, responsible sister needing to care for the younger, spoiled, irresponsible one.”
Julia felt that Hettie had summed up the situation well.
Julia did not get her wish for quick release from their circumstance. Miss Priscilla, in spite of her great impatience, failed to deliver on time. The days dragged by and everyone in the house became tense and edgy. Miss Priscilla fussed and scolded, screaming at anyone who entered her room and at anyone who did not come when she called.
Julia found it more and more difficult to keep her promise. The young woman was nearly impossible to love.
Chapter Twenty-five
Delivery
A sharp rap on the bedroom door awakened Julia. Then she heard a voice. “Mrs. Harrigan. Mrs. Harrigan. It’s time. It’s time.”
Julia could make no sense of the words—or their urgency. She sat up in bed trying to get her bearings, trying to figure out who was calling and why.
“Mrs. Harrigan,” the voice came again, sounding desperate. “Please come. Please hurry. It’s time.”
“It’s Constance,” Julia said. Then reality flooded over her. The baby. It must be Priscilla and the baby.
Julia arose swiftly and snatched a robe from the wardrobe. The generator had been turned off so they had no electricity. Julia didn’t take time to light a lamp. She hastened to the door, tying the robe as she went.
Constance was about to rap again when Julia jerked the door open. “It’s time,” Constance said again, her hand still in midair.
“Does the doctor need anything?” asked Julia.
“Oh my!” exclaimed Constance, “I didn’t think to call him.” She turned and hurried down the hall
toward the doctor’s room.
His bedroom door opened before Constance reached it, and the man came out. He looked disgruntled to have his sleep disturbed—but Julia was thankful to see that he was prepared to take charge. His sleeves were rolled up and he carried his official-looking black bag.
“Is the kettle hot?” he asked.
Of course the kettle is not hot. It is one o’clock in the morning, Julia thought. But she kept her snippy answer to herself and said instead, “I’ll see to it right away.”
Julia closed her ears to the sounds coming from Priscilla’s room and hurried down the stairs, through the house, and to the kitchen.
It was after eight when Constance came running to the kitchen to inform Julia that the delivery had gone well and that a baby boy had arrived.
Julia felt the excitement a new baby always brought to her. She wanted to run upstairs immediately to see the child.
“The doctor wants to know where to put him,” Constance continued, and Julia’s thoughts came back to earth with a jolt.
This is not a wanted baby, Julia reminded herself. No one has prepared for his coming. Even I did not think to make any arrangements.
“Why—why—” she stammered, “won’t he be staying in Miss Priscilla’s room?”
“Priscilla doesn’t even want to see him,” replied Constance, her voice breaking. “She wants him out of her room at once. She has turned her face to the wall.”
“But—but surely—” But then she put everything together. Miss Priscilla had hidden for four months. She had never intended to return home with a child.
“I’ll—I’ll fix something. Bring him to my room.”
“But—but I thought perhaps I could keep him in my room,” Constance explained as they hurried through the house. “I—I don’t know a thing about babies, but if you would be kind enough to—And if we had a bed—”
“I don’t have a baby bed,” Julia said, an edge to her voice. Why hasn’t Mrs. Blakeney made provisions? Julia wondered. She has been quite thorough in everything else. After all, the baby is her flesh and blood.
“Can we use a—a box—or a drawer—or something?” Constance asked, and Julia scolded herself for her angry thoughts.
Poor Constance, she thought instead. This has all been so difficult for her, and now she must be a nursemaid to a baby as well.
“We’ll find something,” she assured the girl.
Baby boy Blakeney was eventually dressed in a white gown with pink ribbons, bundled in used pink blankets, and laid in an emptied, towel-padded dresser drawer. Julia could have wept as she looked down on him.
“You poor little soul,” she whispered. “You didn’t ask to come into the world. And you certainly didn’t get much of a welcome. What will happen to you? Whatever will happen to you? If only I could have had you to love—” Julia brushed away tears and went back to the kitchen to prepare hot tea for Miss Priscilla.
They had nothing for the new baby. Tom fashioned a nipple of sorts from the finger of a new glove. It was all Mr. Perry had in his store that would make any kind of feeding arrangement. Julia fixed a bottle of milk and fed the hungry baby.
Constance took over the care of the infant as Julia instructed her. There were no diapers, so Julia told Hettie to tear up an old flannel sheet. There wasn’t even time to put in a proper hem.
Julia had never before felt so disturbed over the birth of a baby. Her heart cried, It’s not right. It’s not fair. He wasn’t at fault. It seemed so totally wrong that a child should be born unwanted—unwelcomed—unloved.
But when Julia looked at Constance’s face as she held the baby and coaxed him to drink from the makeshift bottle, she was forced to change her opinion.
I’ve been wrong, Julia concluded. He may have been unwanted—but he is not unloved. Constance has already fallen in love with him.
And it was true. Never did a baby get more tender care than Constance gave her new nephew.
“What do you call him?” Julia asked Constance one evening.
“Mother said he is not to be named,” responded Constance with a sigh.
Julia could not disguise her surprise.
“But—secretly—I call him Peter,” the young woman confided.
“Peter. I like it.” Julia waited for Constance to finish feeding Peter and give him to her to hold.
“He seems to be doing well, doesn’t he?” Julia said on one of her daily visits to see the baby. She lowered the small garment she was stitching for Peter and watched him sucking hungrily.
“He’s a little piggy,” laughed Constance in a way Julia had never heard her laugh before.
Constance kissed the top of the downy head. “I think he has grown already,” she said. “Eight days old—and already bigger.”
Julia smiled. “I can see it too. The way he eats, I guess he should.” Then Julia added with a chuckle, “We are going to have to buy more gloves. I do hope Mr. Perry has another pair or two. We have already cut all the fingertips off the pair we bought.”
Constance looked up. “Oh, it shouldn’t be much longer,” she said. “The doctor says Priscilla will be ready to travel soon.”
Julia lifted her eyebrows in surprise.
“Will the doctor be traveling with you?” she asked.
“Oh no. He plans to go straight back to—wherever. He says his contract does not include escorting us home.”
“I see,” said Julia, but she still had many questions.
“I will be leaving tomorrow,” the doctor announced at dinner the next evening.
Even Priscilla had joined them at the table. She still looked pale, but Julia believed that it was as much from shutting herself in her room, away from fresh air and sunshine, as from her recent delivery.
“I shall need clean garments and blankets for the baby and enough feedings to last for a twelve-hour trip.”
Three heads lifted and three pairs of eyes studied the man’s face.
“What do you mean?” asked Constance.
The doctor looked blank at her question. “I need clothes and food for the infant,” he repeated. “Enough for a twelve-hour trip. Why is that confusing?”
“But you won’t be taking the baby.”
“Indeed, I will. I have instructions from your mother—”
“My mother doesn’t understand the situation,” Constance interrupted. “She made those plans long before—”
“I have my orders—and I plan to fulfill them,” the doctor said adamantly.
“But you can’t take the baby.”
“I must take the baby—according to contract,” the man declared.
“But—”
“Oh, Constance. For goodness’ sake don’t fuss,” broke in Priscilla, tossing her napkin on the table and standing up. “You know the plan—the arrangement. Mother has it all cared for.”
“But Mother doesn’t know Peter!” cried Constance, also rising.
“Peter? Peter?” screamed Priscilla. “Who called him Peter? You know Mother said he wasn’t to be named. What right do you have—?”
“I love him!” Constance shouted back at her screaming sister. “I love him.”
Priscilla looked at Constance. Surprise and anger flashed across her face. Then she began to cry. Hot tears washed down her cheeks and made trails in her face powder.
“That’s—that’s—just like you!” she shouted at Constance. “You can’t even be trusted to—to care for a baby. You know that Mother said he—”
“I will care for him. I will!”
“You will not bring that—that baby home. Do you hear? You will not!” Priscilla shouted.
Julia trembled. She had never witnessed such a quarrel. She wanted to cover her ears and flee, but she was rooted to the spot.
“Of course I won’t take him home!” Constance shouted back at her sister. “I wouldn’t dream of taking him to where—to that place. I will keep him here—for a while. I have money. I can find us a place.”
“You’re a fool!
” yelled Priscilla. “You’re a—a pigheaded, selfish fool.” With that final burst of anger she fled the room, sobbing loudly.
Constance dropped back to her chair and reached for a napkin to press to her cheek. Her shoulders trembled, but Julia knew she felt that she had won the battle.
At length she lifted her head and looked at Julia.
“Is it—can I stay—for just a while? Just until I am able to make arrangements for me and—and Peter?”
“Of—of course,” whispered Julia.
A stirring at the table reminded Julia they were not alone. She had forgotten the doctor.
“I’m afraid it’s out of the question. I already have all of the papers in order for the adoption.”
“But you can’t.”
“I can—and I will,” the man said. “I have a legal document. Signed and binding. You will not interfere.” He pushed back his chair and stood up.
“I want the child ready by nine o’clock,” he said with authority. Then he looked directly at Julia. “Mrs. Harrigan—I expect you to see to it.”
He stalked from the room, and Constance buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
The next morning when Julia went to check on Constance and Peter, she found a note.
Peter had his morning feeding, and all his things are packed and ready to go. Give him one last kiss for me. I have gone for a walk. C.L.B.
Julia opened the door softly, brushing away tears. Peter lay sleeping in his makeshift bed. Beside him was a suitcase that belonged to Constance. In it, neatly folded, were all of the garments Constance and Julia had made over the past several days. The borrowed clothing that had belonged to Julia’s two baby girls lay in an orderly stack on the bed.
Julia lifted the small baby from his bed to prepare him for his journey.
“She loves you—so much,” she whispered to the sleeping child, her tears falling onto his blanket. “I only hope—only pray that your new mother—whoever she might be—will love you half as much.”
