by Amanda Cabot
Priscilla felt the blood rush to her face. It was silly to be blushing, but she couldn’t help it. Every time Zach had referred to her as his wife, it took her by surprise. “Thank you. I’ll talk to Granny tomorrow.” She offered Zach another piece of ham as she changed the subject. “Have you spoken to Gunther recently?”
“No. Why?”
“I wondered how his courtship of Isabelle was progressing. The last time she visited, Isabelle was miserable. She’s still tutoring Eva, but she said she hasn’t seen Gunther in weeks. He used to come every day; then he stopped. She doesn’t know why.”
Zach frowned. “I was afraid of that. The reason is simple. When Gunther asked for permission to court her, Isabelle’s father refused, and he’s too honorable a man to flout Monsieur Rousseau’s wishes.”
“So both he and Isabelle are unhappy.” It wasn’t fair. Priscilla twisted her napkin as she recalled Isabelle’s red-rimmed eyes. “Oh, Zach, there must be a way to help them.”
“The only thing I can think of is to try to knock some sense into Monsieur Rousseau’s head.” To illustrate his plan, Zach turned and thumped his fist against the tree.
Priscilla chuckled. “I would suggest a less belligerent approach.” She was silent for a moment, considering the alternatives. “Maybe if you and I spoke—” She put an ironic twist to the word as she glanced at the tree Zach had punched “—to both of her parents, we might be able to convince them.”
“Let’s try it.”
Priscilla and Zach waited until after supper the next evening, when the mercantile was closed for the day, before they climbed the outside stairs and knocked on the Rousseaus’ door.
“Priscilla!” Isabelle smiled with pleasure as she opened the door. “I didn’t expect you.” Her eyes widened when she saw the man at Priscilla’s side. “Is something wrong?”
Priscilla shook her head. “We wanted to speak to your parents. Alone. Perhaps you and Léon could take a walk. It’s a lovely evening.”
Isabelle’s eyes narrowed with speculation. “Why do you want to see Maman and Papa?”
Before Priscilla could reply, Zach said, “It’s personal business.”
“Oh, all right. Léon’s out for the evening. I’ll go downstairs. I can arrange the new shipment of calico.”
“Who’s at the door, Isabelle?” Madame Rousseau called from the parlor. “It had better not be that man.”
Priscilla flinched as she shooed her friend away. This was not an auspicious beginning. Though Priscilla had hoped that Isabelle’s mother would be less opposed to Gunther’s suit, the angry note in her voice when she pronounced the words that man made the possibility seem unlikely. “It’s Priscilla Webster, Madame Rousseau. Zach and I thought we’d pay a brief call.”
“Come in, come in.” Her voice once more cordial, the older woman entered the kitchen and led Priscilla and Zach into the parlor. More formal than the rooms at either the Lazy B or the Bar C, the Rousseaus’ sitting room boasted furniture with spindly carved legs, a floral patterned rug, and velvet draperies.
“It’s good to see you again,” Monsieur Rousseau said as he shook Zach’s hand. “I’m looking forward to buying another one of your steers this year. Nothing compares to Texas beef.”
His wife nodded her agreement. “It’s true. It’s more tender and has a different flavor from the meat we had in the Old Country.”
Perhaps this was the opening they needed. Priscilla smiled. “I imagine you find many things different here. Texas seems different to me, and I only came from Boston.” Though no one spoke, neither of the Rousseaus’ expressions was forbidding. Priscilla took that as an invitation to continue. “I’ve been surprised at how free people are here. Things are allowed that would not have been permitted in Boston.”
“What kind of things?” Isabelle’s father appeared interested.
“For one thing, people are valued for themselves, not how much money they’ve accumulated, so a woman can consider a man’s inner worth, not just the size of his fortune.” Priscilla and Zach had agreed that they would try to turn the subject to marriage as quickly as possible.
Zach flashed her a look that said he appreciated her effort, then turned to Isabelle’s parents and chuckled. “That’s lucky for me, or Priscilla would never have married me.”
Both of the Rousseaus joined in the laughter. “It’s good to see you two happy together.” Madame Rousseau patted Priscilla’s hand. “I know your parents would be glad that you have such a fine husband. When you’re a mother, you’ll know what it’s like. We want only the best for our children.”
Zach nodded slowly. “Sometimes it’s hard to know what’s best for them. The best man may not look—or sound—the way you think he should.”
Priscilla heard a hissing sound as Madame Rousseau breathed through clenched teeth. Though she said nothing, Isabelle’s father glared at Zach. “Are you referring to Gunther Lehman?”
“Yes, sir, I am. He’s an honest, hard-working, God-fearing man who loves your daughter very much.”
“He’s a German.” Monsieur Rousseau pronounced the word the same way he might have “murderer.”
Priscilla turned to Isabelle’s mother. “Isn’t love more important than a person’s last name?” Though the woman remained silent, her eyes reflected confusion. It was obvious she loved her husband and wanted her daughter to have the same kind of loving marriage, but her prejudices were deep-seated.
Monsieur Rousseau shook his head vehemently. “You don’t understand, either of you. How could you? You were born in this country. You don’t know what it’s like to fight the Germans and lose. You don’t know how vicious a conquering people can be.” His frown deepened. “You don’t know how difficult it is to come to a new place, to struggle to build a home from nothing, and to fear that your children will forget their past. You don’t even know how important tradition is.” He shook his head again, as if in dismay at Priscilla and Zach’s ignorance. “In the Old Country, parents arranged their children’s marriages. That was a good plan. Parents know what is best for their children.”
Monsieur Rousseau turned to Zach, his expression regretful. “You probably meant well. I know Gunther is your friend. He’s a good miller, and he may be a good man, but he is not a man I would allow to marry my daughter. She is a Frenchwoman, and she will not marry a German. Not today, not next year, not ever.”
15
Priscilla’s hands were shaking so badly that she doubted Zach would be able to read her note. Stay calm, she admonished herself. Leah needs you. She had been peeling carrots when Granny Menger’s message arrived, telling her Leah Dunn’s time had come. Though Priscilla had assisted Granny for close to a month now, Leah was the first of their patients to go into labor.
Setting the knife aside, Priscilla had grabbed her supplies and harnessed the buggy, then ran back into the house to leave a note for Zach. While he’d claimed he would not worry if he found her gone, this was the first time Priscilla would miss supper, and she didn’t want to cause him any unnecessary concern. It was bad enough that he’d have to resort to eating beans. If Leah’s baby had waited another hour, the stew would have been simmering, but babies, as Priscilla had warned Zach, paid no heed to schedules.
She looked down at her trembling hands. Take a deep breath. Hadn’t Papa claimed that was the best way to settle nerves? As she turned the horse and buggy toward the river, Priscilla inhaled, holding her breath to the count of five, then released it slowly. When she’d repeated the process several times, she found that her hands were no longer shaking. Good. Excellent. Perhaps now when she reached the Dunn household, she’d appear to be calm, at least on the outside. Inwardly, she was still shaking with fear that she’d do something wrong.
It’s normal to be nervous about your first patient. Priscilla recalled the day Papa had said those words to Clay. She probably would have worried, no matter who the patient was, but Leah Dunn was special. The mother-to-be had almost died a year ago when her windpipe had been
crushed. Though Clay’s surgery had saved her life, the postmaster’s wife would never again breathe normally. And, though Granny Menger had told Leah not to worry, privately she’d admitted her concerns. A difficult labor took its toll on every part of a woman’s body. Granny had confided to Priscilla that she wasn’t certain how Leah, who breathed through a tube in her throat, would handle the additional strain of childbirth. Priscilla wasn’t certain how she would handle it, either. This would be the first test of her resolve to find joy rather than sorrow in the sight of another woman’s newborn child.
When she entered the postmaster’s home, Priscilla fixed a smile on her face. Papa had told her the primary rule of medicine was to help patients relax. Fisting her hands on her hips, Priscilla feigned indignation as she approached Leah’s bed. The mother-to-be was paler than normal, but Priscilla saw no sign of respiratory distress. “Couldn’t you tell this little one to wait until I got my carrots peeled?”
As she’d hoped, Leah managed a small smile before the next contraction seized her. “I’m sorry, Priscilla,” she said. “He has a mind of his own. All I want is for this to be over. I want to hold my son.” Though both Granny and Priscilla had reminded Leah that babies came in two varieties, she was convinced hers was a boy.
Leah groaned as pain ripped through her. “Why is this taking so long?”
“You’re doing fine.” Granny’s voice was warm and soothing. “It’s harder now, because the baby’s almost here. Look, Priscilla.” The midwife beckoned her closer. When Priscilla saw what could only be the infant’s head, she gasped, amazed that the labor had proceeded so quickly.
“What’s wrong?” Leah demanded. “What’s wrong with my baby?”
“Nothing.” Once again Granny spoke. “He’s just anxious to be born.” She rose from the stool she’d placed at the foot of the bed and gestured toward Priscilla. “Go ahead. You know what to do.”
Priscilla’s eyes widened in shock. “You want me to deliver this child?” She had expected to watch Granny at least a few times before she attempted to bring a child into the world.
Granny nodded. “That’s what I said, isn’t it? I’ll be right next to you if you need me. It will be easy.”
“Easy, you say?” Leah’s voice rose, and she groaned again. “Nothing about this is easy. It’s the hardest work I’ve ever done.”
Before she settled onto the stool, Priscilla looked at her patient. Though Leah was panting from exertion, her color remained healthy. “That’s why they call it labor.” Following Granny’s instructions, Priscilla checked the baby’s position and then waited for the next contraction to begin. “Push, Leah, push.” As the young woman did, the child’s head began to emerge. “Again.” A shoulder appeared.
“You’re doing fine, child,” Granny said. “One more push is all you need.”
Seconds later, Priscilla held Leah Dunn’s baby in her hands. Though wrinkled, red, and clearly unhappy, he was the most beautiful thing Priscilla had ever seen. “Oh, Leah, you were right. You have a son.” Priscilla turned the baby, inspecting him the way Granny had taught her before she placed him in Leah’s arms. “He’s a perfect little boy.” As she looked at the mother cradling her child, tears of joy filled Priscilla’s eyes. How could she have ever doubted that this was what she was meant to do? Thank you, God. Thank you for the gift of life.
Léon claimed there was always one exception. Why did this have to be the one? Isabelle twisted the handkerchief between her fingers as she thought of the man who sat in the next room reading the newspaper. Both she and Léon knew that Papa normally deferred to Maman. Why hadn’t he this time? When Priscilla and Zach had left the other night, Papa had summoned Isabelle to the parlor and had informed her that he did not take kindly to her friends—he had spat the word as if it were an epithet—interfering in family business. Though Maman’s eyes were sorrowful, Papa’s flashed only anger as he announced that Isabelle would marry the man he chose for her and that man would never be Gunther Lehman.
Her tears had accomplished nothing, not that night nor the next, but she had to try again. Somehow she had to make Papa understand how unhappy she was. Swallowing deeply, Isabelle entered the parlor.
“I love him.” Her father frowned. That wasn’t the way she had planned to begin, but the words she had rehearsed flew from her head, and all she could remember was the fact that she loved Gunther.
Papa tossed aside the newspaper he had been reading and rose, his face suffused with wrath. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You can’t love a German.”
“I don’t care that he’s a German, Papa. I love him, and I want to be his wife.”
The cuckoo clock began to chime. Though normally Papa would have waited for it to stop, this time he shouted over the bird’s silly chirping. “Nonsense. You don’t know what’s good for you. Your mother and I will choose a husband for you. That’s how it’s always been done. Love comes after the wedding. Look at your mother and me.”
It was true that they loved each other. No one could dispute that, but Isabelle knew that not all arranged marriages were happy. “Tante Eloise and Oncle Charles don’t love each other.” They barely spoke to each other, and when they did, their words were laced with venom. “Surely you don’t want me to be as unhappy as they are.”
“You won’t be. Your mother and I will choose more carefully. But one thing I can promise you, daughter, is that you will never marry a German.”
“It’s getting worse.”
Priscilla looked at her husband. She knew his frown had nothing to do with the stew she’d ladled into his bowl. He’d already eaten one helping and had declared it delicious.
“I heard two Frenchmen say Monsieur Rousseau was right and they should run Gunther out of town,” Zach continued.
“Surely they wouldn’t do that.” Priscilla had no illusions about the arbitrary nature of vigilante justice, but wasn’t it exacted for serious crimes like murder and horse stealing? Gunther had committed no crimes. All he’d done was fall in love with a woman who spoke French.
Zach shrugged. “I’d like to think they were only idle threats, but I’m not sure.” He frowned again, his eyes darkening. “I’ve seen how sensible people change when they’re part of a crowd. It’s as if they lose every semblance of reason. A tiny spark turns into a conflagration as hatred and anger fan the flames. After that, they’re out of control. A crowd does things no sane person would ever consider.”
He was speaking of the war. She was certain of that. It sounded awful, almost as if men turned into beasts. What she didn’t know was whether the pain that never seemed to leave Zach’s eyes was caused by memories of what he’d endured then. He had told her he’d forgiven his jailers and had found peace, and yet the haunted look never completely disappeared, not even when he seemed relaxed and happy as he did on their Sunday excursions.
“I must have lived a sheltered life,” Priscilla said softly, “because I’ve never experienced a mob.”
“I hope you never do.” Zach took another spoonful of stew, chewing thoughtfully. “I don’t like saying this, but I’m afraid there’s little hope for Gunther and Isabelle.”
She didn’t want to believe that. “The Bible tells us all things are possible with God.”
Though Zach nodded, he also raised one eyebrow. “It also tells us that God has plans for us. What if their marriage isn’t part of his plan?”
Priscilla had no answer.
Someone was pounding on the door. Priscilla laid down the sock she’d been knitting for Zach. The dream had come again last night, the dream where she was waiting for him. In the past, it had always been the same. Last night had been different, disturbingly different, for when she’d told Zach she loved him, his eyes had filled with pain and he’d said simply, “I cannot love you. You’re soiled goods.”
Priscilla had wakened, trembling. It was only a dream, she told herself, but still she was unable to dismiss the fear that she’d discovered the source of Zach’s pain. Perhaps if s
he’d seen him she could have convinced herself there was no reason to be alarmed, but today Zach had left the ranch before she’d wakened, and so she’d spent the morning wandering aimlessly, trying to ignore the dread that clenched her heart. In desperation, she had picked up her knitting, hoping the intricacies of turning a heel would occupy her thoughts.
But now someone was pounding on the door as if there were an emergency. Had something happened to Zach? Her heart beating a tattoo, Priscilla raced to the door. Though she knew instantly that Zach was safe, her alarm did not diminish at the sight of the stocky young farmer.
“You need to come.” Neville Beauvais’s normally ruddy face was pale, his eyes clouded with worry. “Yvonne needs you.”
“What’s wrong?”
Neville shook his head. “I don’t know. When she woke this morning, she had horrible pains in her middle. They haven’t gone away.”
Though she knew there could be many causes, Priscilla did not like the sound of her friend’s symptoms. They reminded her all too vividly of the day she’d lost her baby. Please, God, don’t let it be that. Priscilla ushered Neville into the house while she gathered her bonnet and bag. “Did you call Granny Menger?” Granny was the one with all the experience. If anyone could save Yvonne’s baby, it would be Granny.
Neville’s voice carried into Priscilla’s room. “She’s with Frau Lamar, but she said she’d come as soon as she could.”
Priscilla frowned. According to Granny, Frau Lamar’s labors were always long and difficult. That meant Priscilla would be on her own. Help me, Lord, she prayed as Neville drove the buggy into town. Show me what to do. Help me save Yvonne’s baby.
When they reached the house, Priscilla found Yvonne lying on her bed, writhing in pain. Neville took one look at his wife and grabbed the doorframe. “Oh, honey,” he said, his voice so faint that Priscilla feared he would topple over, leaving her with two patients.
“I’m scared,” Yvonne admitted when Neville had accepted Priscilla’s suggestion that he would be of more use if he remained in the parlor. “I’m afraid something is wrong with the baby.” It was a measure of Yvonne’s distress that she did not elaborate. The normally garrulous woman was uncharacteristically silent.
