“Dead! Mary can’t be dead!” Anne rejected Lena’s words, her mind reeling. “Why, just yesterday she was being so willful and naughty. Some other child, someone else’s child, not Mary. Not my Mary!” How could her child be dead? She was so full of life. There must be a mistake! There was a terrible mistake! Lena’s eyes told her it was no mistake.
“I’ll take you up to her, Mrs. Powers. You’ll want to see to things yourself.”
Anne climbed from bed and tried on two attempts to fit her arms into her wrapper. Finally Lena had to help her. Supporting her mistress with a firm grip, she led her up the stairs to the nursery. Gently she pushed the stricken mother closer to the small, narrow bed. MacDuff tenderly pulled back the sheet and stood nearby with folded hands, tears glistening in his eyes.
Anne’s hands flew to her mouth as she sank to her knees, her head dropping to the little chest. Harsh sobs racked her body as she took one small, bruised hand into her own. How cold her child was. The bright red hair and dotting of freckles were stark against the pale, ashen features. “Oh God, oh God!” she wailed. “A doctor, call a doctor!”
“It’s too late for a doctor,” MacDuff said gruffly. “The child is dead, and you’ve got to be thinking of her father now. How can we reach him?”
“Yes, yes. You take care of that, Hugh. You’ll find the address on my desk. Send for him. Rossiter too,” she added as an afterthought. Anne Powers’s strength failed her. Mary’s death had reduced her to a state of helplessness, dependent upon others. She reached out a trembling hand to touch Mary’s face, smoothing back the tendrils of damp hair that clung to her forehead. “How could this have happened?” she asked in a small voice.
Lena’s lips clamped shut, her eyes narrowed. How? How indeed?
Hugh MacDuff brought the letter to Jasper directly to a Boston-bound steamer, with payment and instructions that it be delivered immediately upon reaching port. Then he retraced his steps to St. George and the rooming house where Callie was staying. He thought it to be the saddest mission he would ever do in his life—telling Callie about Mary’s death. He knew she would blame herself, and he anticipated her grief.
At first Callie could hardly believe what she was hearing. Dead? Mary dead? Her eyes widened in disbelief; she crossed the bare floorboards of her meager room, hands extended to Hugh, imploring him to tell her it was all a mistake, that Mary was fine, that she ran across the yard to the chicken coop, that she played with the kittens near the kitchen stove. That she hadn’t fallen from the bluff.
Hugh stood in the center of the room, as tall and as strong as a tree, wincing from the plight of her pain not from the attack of her tiny fists beating against him, demanding he take back his words, demanding he tell her Mary was alive.
Hugh seized her wrists in his large, calloused hands, holding them still, meeting Callie’s pain with tears in his own eyes. “’Tis true, lass,” he murmured mournfully. “The wee one is dead, and there’s naught to be done for it.”
Callie fell against him, seeing the terrible truth in his face. He held her, feeling an overpowering protectiveness toward her. She was so young, so vulnerable, and in spite of her resiliency and spunk, there was a heart-rending frailty about her, as though she would fly into a thousand pieces that would never be put together again. The young could never deal with death; he told himself; it took age and maturity to face mortality and to have the faith and the certainty that life could go on.
Hugh lifted her into his arms, hardly burdened by the weight of her. She wrapped her arms around him, weeping broken-heartedly into the hollow of his neck. He placed her on the bed, sitting beside her, feeling helpless and ineffectual as he patted her back and smoothed her hair, staying with her as she cried her grief. When she quieted, he told her softly, “It’s to be a simple funeral, Callie lass, only the family. There’s nothing you can do for our Mary now, except pray for her soul and keeping yourself strong. I’ve just now sent a letter to Mr. Powers in Boston calling him and Master Rossiter home.”
Callie nodded through her tears. She understood what Hugh was telling her. Rossiter would come home for Mary’s funeral, and Hugh would make it his business to tell him where to find Callie. Ignorant of the fact that Anne Powers had purloined Callie’s letter from the mailbox, they both assumed that Rossiter knew he was to become a father.
“All things work for the best in the end, Callie,” Hugh told her. “You mustn’t be thinking about Mary now. Think of yourself and the child you carry and that Rossiter will soon come to you.”
Callie did not attend Mary’s funeral, realizing she would be unwelcome. Jasper returned from Boston alone. Rossiter was in Chicago with his uncle and was still not aware there was a death in the family. It was only Hugh’s promise that when the first wildflowers came to bloom, he would take her to visit the grave, that comforted Callie.
As the days wore on and Callie’s spirits and strength returned, Hugh, on one of his daily visits to bring food from the Powers’s kitchen, told her that Mrs. Powers had returned to Boston with Jasper and Anne and the house was empty. He and Lena had been given notice, and as soon as the house was closed, they were dismissed and the house put up for sale. He forced a smile when he showed Callie the generous severance pay Jasper had given him.
“The house is being sold, you say?” Callie questioned, her eyes speaking the unasked.
“Aye, lass. I asked after Master Rossiter, and all I could glean was that he was away with his uncle. Lena’s been trying to find out his exact whereabouts, but the answers are always vague.”
“I know what you and Lena are trying to do, and I thank you both, but surely Rossiter has received my letter by now and knows about the baby. It’s obvious he doesn’t care.” Callie lifted her chin as she murmured this last, having come face to face with the reality over the long days. She was amazed that she could say it aloud, that the hopes and dreams she had held so close were as cold and dead as little Mary.
Hugh led Callie over to a hard-backed chair, kneeling before her, cap in hand, looking up into her sweet face. “Callie, lass, I want to help you, and I’ve an offer to make. I’m not a young man, Callie, and I should have married years ago and raised a family of my own. This past year I’ve given a good deal of thought to what I’ve missed in my life and, well . . . I want to marry you, Callie,” he blurted. Then once the words were out, he seemed to gather courage. “Your bairn will be needing a name, Callie, and I want to give you my protection for as long as you need it. I can’t offer much, but I can put a roof over your head and food in your stomach, that much I can promise you.”
Callie stared at MacDuff in disbelief. “You would do that for me?”
“And more if I could. You’ve come to mean so much to me, lass. I can give you a good life. You and the bairn.” Hugh looked into Callie’s face, feeling his heart swell with tenderness and loving. He cast his eyes downward, unwilling for her to see the emotion there. His motives were not entirely unselfish; this child, who had come into his life and heart with her short-cropped hair and snub nose, had become a woman before his very eyes. His hand wanted to reach out, to touch the softness of her skin and the silkiness of her hair. She was like a gift that had come so late into his life, soft and shining, singing and laughing, and he loved her. But she was so young, so lovely, and she deserved more in life than to be married to a hard-lipped old codger like himself. Callie deserved youth to match her own, beauty to enhance her own . . . no, he promised, he would never force himself upon her. He could only hope that one day she would accept him as a man and bring herself to him, just as she had given herself to Rossiter.
Sensing her hesitancy to answer, he patted her hand lightly, rising to his feet. “Don’t decide this minute. Think about it, and I’ll come back tomorrow. There’s still work to be done at the house.”
Long after Hugh had left, Callie pondered the fairness of accepting his offer of marriage. She paced the confines of her rented room, knowing that this shelter too would soon be gone. She had
some savings, but not enough to keep her until after the baby was born. It was not her own needs for food and shelter that troubled her. It was only the baby’s. Only the baby mattered.
How could she marry Hugh MacDuff when it was Rossiter she loved? She, who had nowhere to turn, had been offered a solution. She must force herself to admit that Rossiter was lost to her forever. He did not want her, nor did he want their child. Hugh must know this too, otherwise he never would have offered marriage.
Callie’s only other choice seemed to be Byrch Kenyon, but her shame was so great she couldn’t bear the thought of facing him, disappointing him, going to him with shattered pride. She had to make her own way in this life; she could not depend upon the charity of others. Hugh said he wanted a wife, a family. He said there was a place in his life she could fill. Marrying him would be an answer, not one to her liking, but an answer nevertheless.
Callie curled up on the bed, her temples throbbing with apprehension. How could she ever repay Hugh’s generosity? She would try to be a good wife. She would cook and clean and make life as pleasant as she could for the lonely man. She would do her best for him. But she would never love him.
She turned her face into her pillow, weeping for the girl she had once been, so full of spirit and determination, the girl Byrch had met in the alley the night she’d stolen the basket of groceries. Where had that girl gone? What had happened to her? She thought of Beth and her unswerving adoration of Patrick and of her sacrifice. She thought of her mother, defending Thom, having one child after another, and living in poverty. Then there was herself, falling in love with Rossiter, giving herself to him because she believed she could make him happy. Why? She pounded her fists into the pillow, her body heaving with racking sobs. Why were women always falling in love with the wrong men?
She remembered standing in the kitchen with her mother, the early morning light coming through the window, everyone else in the house asleep. “I’ll not be like you, Mum!” she had protested Peggy’s defense of her worthless husband. “It’s my head that’ll rule my life. Not my heart!” Tears washed onto the pillow, tears for the baby, for Rossiter, for the girl she had once been.
Five days later the house on Todt Hill was closed. Lena covered all the furniture and closed the drapes. It was never what one would have called a happy home. It had always been a house of intrigues and secrets and jealousies. It had been more than Lena had expected when Mrs. Powers told her that she’d found employment for her with the Schuyller family in Richmondtown, a town just to the south on Staten Island. Mr. Powers had been generous with her severance pay, and the small wad of bills was sewn into the hem of her best nightgown.
Lena would miss working in this house, in the kitchen she’d come to call her own over the past eighteen years. She sighed; she would have one last cup of coffee and then wash out the pot. The larder and pantry and root cellar were empty. The apples she’d peeled and sliced and spread on clean sheets in the attic to dry had been lifted, removed, and disposed of. The carrots and potatoes that still grew in the carefully tilled earth in the kitchen garden would go to rot. The hams and corned beef and crocks of sauerkraut and preserved jams and jellies were all donated to the church, as were the sacks of flour and rice and barley wheat. The chickens and Mary’s kittens were given to the Flannery family; the carriage and buggy and the team of horses were also given to the church. Nothing was left to show a family had once lived here—nothing except used furniture and unwanted clothing left behind.
Lena would miss the gruff, taciturn Hugh MacDuff. A pity she’d been unable to woo him. The Lord knew she’d tried hard enough. He certainly wasn’t the best catch in the world, but she was getting up in years herself. A tear glistened in the corner of her eye. It would be nice to grow old with someone, even if it was someone as cantankerous as MacDuff. Her dreams of carrying him a hot toddy on cold winter evenings and having him rub her back were over. Now she’d have to come up with something else to put her to sleep. Some other dream. MacDuff wasn’t the marrying kind, never was and never would be. Too set in his ways. He liked to sit in the tavern with his cronies over a dollop or two. With her luck, on the night she wanted her back rubbed, he would be swapping stories with his cronies and not give her aching back a thought. He’d probably spend all her small savings on whiskey, and then where would she be? Out in the cold, that’s where. She would carry a warm spot in her heart for a long time for the Scotsman.
Hugh was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for her when Lena walked through the wide doorway. Just like a man, he wouldn’t dream of making the coffee or pouring for the both of them. Wait for her to wait on him hand and foot. A lot he cared about her aching back. As she set about rinsing the pot for fresh brew, she watched him out of the corner of her eye. “Have you had any luck with getting a job, Hugh?”
“I haven’t been doing much looking. The two leads Mr. Powers gave me were filled when I got there. I got time. Don’t get cocky with me now just because you’re stepping into a new fine position.”
“Hrmph,” Lena snorted as she measured coffee into the pot. “I’m not going to worry about an old codger like you. I have myself to think about.”
“You should worry, you aren’t getting any younger,” Hugh snapped.
Hands on hips, Lena bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you’re going to have to find a family that will take care of you in your old years, that’s what it means. You should have gotten remarried a long time ago,” Hugh mumbled.
“I would have if someone asked me. I would have married you if you asked me. What do you think of that, Hugh MacDuff?”
“Not much. I’m not near good enough for you, Lena. I’m not saying I’m not honored by your devotion, but what would you be wanting with the likes of me?”
“I thought you might rub my back on cold winter nights,” Lena said sourly. Hugh made a sound that Lena supposed was a laugh. With Hugh it was hard to tell. “I’m going to miss you, you miserable old man.”
“I’ll miss you too, Lena. You make the best coffee and apple pie I ever tasted.”
“Hold up your cup now and drink hearty. What do you say we add a few dollops of that ‘medicine’ you carry about in your hip pocket?”
“That’s one of your better suggestions, Lena. You see, you’re getting the hang of things. That’s what a man likes.”
Two coffee pots later, the flask from Hugh’s pocket was empty. He rocked back on his chair, staring at Lena. “You’re not an ugly woman. In fact, I think you’re one hell of a woman, and the man who finally lands you is going to get a fine wife,” Hugh said, his tongue loosened by the whiskey.
“The problem is, if I do find him, will he rub my back for me?”
“Well, if he doesn’t, you call me, and I’ll come and do it for you. I won’t marry you, but I’ll rub your back. It’s the least I can do for all the coffee and pie.”
Lena felt as though her eyes were crossed. She wondered what would happen if she stood up. Not liking what she thought might be the answer, she stayed glued to her chair, her hands around her coffeecup. She decided she was as drunk as Hugh, maybe more so. Hugh didn’t have a twin brother sitting next to him. “You’re tipsy,” she hiccoughed.
“I know. So are you. Shame too, you being such a fine woman and all.”
“If I’m such a damn fine woman, why won’t you marry me, you old goat?”
Hugh leaned across the table and leered at her. “Because I’m marrying someone else. Out of . . . necessity.”
Lena thought she would swallow her tongue. “You old lecher, are you telling me you got some woman into a spot, and now you’re marrying her to make an honest woman of her? If that’s true, you’re a dis . . . disgusting, dirty old man. Who would climb beneath the covers with the likes of you? Who is it?” Lena asked, slamming her coffee cup down on the table with a loud bang. She watched as the coffee sloshed over the clean table and dripped onto the floor. She wasn’t cleaning it up. By God, sh
e might not even clean out the coffee pot. She should get up off her chair and push that crazy old fool right off his chair and them stomp him to death. Here she was, pouring out her heart, confiding about her bad back, and drinking with the old coot in the bargain, and what does he do? Tell’s her he’s marrying someone else.
“Why do you want to know?” MacDuff asked craftily. “You wouldn’t be having ideas about objecting to the nuptials now, would you?”
“Not likely, Hugh MacDuff. Not likely at all. Anyone fool enough to marry the likes of you deserves everything she gets. You should be ashamed of yourself. Who are you marrying?” Lena demanded.
“Callie James,” Hugh blustered.
Lena sat and stared at Hugh for a long time. Her gaze was wide and unblinking. Tears filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks. “Hugh MacDuff, I take back everything I said about you. That’s the nicest thing I ever heard of. Is Callie happy?”
“I don’t know. There wasn’t any other choice for her. What could she do, where could she go? I’ll take care of her and give the bairn my name. It’s a sin for a child to be born out of wedlock. Callie thanked me for my offer. I’ll be good to her and the bairn. Stop your crying now, or I swear I’ll never rub your back. If the lass wasn’t in such dire straits, I might have given you a second thought. I know I’m drunk and so are you, but I know what I’m saying. You’re a fine woman, and don’t you ever let anyone tell you different.”
Lena wiped her eyes and sniffed loudly. “You wouldn’t be lying to me now, would you?”
“Not to a fine woman like yourself. I best be getting back. If I was you, Lena, I’d take a small snooze. People here on the hill won’t take kindly to a drunken housekeeper wobbling down the road. Don’t wash the pot, just throw it and the cups out in the trash. Can you get in bed by yourself?”
Cinders to Satin Page 33
