Indigo Christmas

by Jeanne Dams

“All babies have blue eyes,” said Norah with the authority of an hour’s motherhood. “She will be much more beautiful than me. Look at all that lovely black hair.”

  Many of the babies Hilda had known had been born with lots of black hair, and lost it in a month or so. Hilda didn’t say that either. “Sean thinks her hair is like his.”

  “But nicer,” said Norah with a yawn. “And her hands—just look at her hands.”

  Hilda obediently looked. People were so silly about babies’ hands, but really, it was a bit amazing that anything so small could be so perfectly made, right down to the minute fingernails. Hilda gently touched one tiny palm, and the baby’s hand immediately curled around her finger and grasped it tightly.

  Hilda was instantly enslaved. This was, after all, a beautiful baby! “Look, Norah! Look, she likes me! She is holding my hand!”

  “Mmm.” Norah was almost asleep. “Smart little girl.”

  Sean knocked and came in, carrying a wooden basketwork cradle. “Me brother brought this from home,” he told Norah. “He thought we’d need it before long. I told him about our angel girl!” He set the cradle tenderly on the floor beside the bed.

  The miniature bed had obviously been prepared with much love. It wore deep, ribboned flounces on the hood and sides, and was fitted inside with a white pillow and a soft white blanket of finest wool.

  Fiona had fallen asleep, still grasping Hilda’s finger. Carefully Hilda moved the baby’s hand and lifted her away from Norah, also asleep. “Do you know how to carry a baby?” she whispered to Sean.

  “Eight younger brothers and sisters,” he whispered back.

  Reluctantly Hilda handed the small warm bundle to its father. “Here is your daughter, then. She will sleep in her cradle for a little now, and Norah must sleep, too. She is a wonderful little girl, Sean. You must be very proud.”

  Sean cuddled the baby and beamed. Hilda planted a kiss on the baby’s forehead and stole out of the room. This was a time for the little family to be alone together.

  Heaven holds all for which you sigh—

  There! little girl; don’t cry!

  —James Whitcomb Riley

  A Life-Lesson, 1890

  10

  HILDA WANDERED downstairs to the parlor and dropped into a chair, still in something of a pink haze. What a wonderful baby! named after her, Hilda. Well, in a way. And so adorable, to hold her finger so tightly. Almost as if she knew whose namesake she was.

  Aunt Molly came into the room. “I’m going home, child. Mrs. O’Rourke’s reclaimed her kitchen, and she’s in no sweet temper, I must say. Worn out, and not pleased about other women in her domain. What you’ll have for dinner, I’m sure I don’t know, but I’m tired, too. I’m an old woman, and now all the excitement’s over, I need to put my feet up. Mrs. Murphy’s gone home, too. I gave her one of the umbrellas in the hall. I knew you wouldn’t mind. She’ll be back this evening, she said, with some things for the baby. I think she plans to take them both, Norah and the wee one, to her house until Norah’s on her feet again. For a week or so, though, I think she’d be glad—Mrs. Murphy would, I mean—of an invitation to stay here and cosset Norah and the baby.”

  Hilda wasn’t paying attention. “She held my hand, Aunt Molly,” she said dreamily. “Well, my finger. Her hand is so little that was all she could get it around, but she held on so tight!”

  “Yes, dear. All babies do that. Don’t you remember your young sisters and brother, when they were born?”

  “Oh. Well—I suppose—”

  “She’s a dear little thing, I admit. And she’s going to be pretty. I’ll wager that hair will turn red like her mother’s. She has a redhead’s skin.”

  Hilda giggled. “She has a redskin’s skin!”

  “That will pass in a few days. It will be very fair, just you wait. now, dear, you need some rest, too. You’ve had little sleep and a busy morning. Time enough to worry yourself with other things when you’re fresh.”

  Other things. Hilda came down to earth with a bump. “Oh! I had forgotten! Sean—the dead man—the billfold—Aunt Molly, the firemen say they don’t see how the fire could have been an accident.”

  “Tell me.”

  Hilda explained.

  Molly frowned. “Then it sounds like arson. But I can’t see for what purpose.”

  “Robbery? Someone stole Mr. Jenkins’s billfold and then set the barn on fire so he could not accuse the thief?”

  “You’re tired, my dear, and not thinking properly. They say Mr. Jenkins was inebriated, probably to the point of unconsciousness. It would have been easy for anyone to take his billfold and simply leave. Mr. Jenkins would wake in the morning with an aching head and no money. There was no need to burn down the barn, and no apparent purpose.”

  Hilda thought about it and then shook her head. “You are right, Aunt Molly. There is no sense in it. But there is one thing certain. Sean could not have set the barn on fire. He was working with the other men until they all saw the smoke.”

  “True. That’s important. But, child—he still could have stolen the money.”

  Hilda bowed her head. To that argument she still had no rebuttal. She sighed and stood. “We need rest, all of us. Mrs. O’Rourke and Eileen, too. They were up nearly all night. I will go to the kitchen and tell them that a cold meal will do for tonight, and that they must take a nap.”

  “You’ll need to be very firm. Cook’s on the rampage.”

  “I will be firm.” Hilda tossed her head. “Good-bye, Aunt Molly, and thank you. You have been so good. I do not think I could have managed about Norah and the baby without you. I will ask Mr. O’Rourke to bring the carriage for you.”

  Molly kissed her on the cheek. “You’re learning, my dear, learning to deal with servants, and to deal with household crises. You’ve always had sense, and that’s mostly what’s needed. Good luck with Mrs. O’Rourke.” She hesitated in the act of putting on her hat. “You’ll be all right, will you? With no one to help? Norah and the baby are perfectly all right, but Norah is very tired, and will not be able…”

  “I have three younger sisters, and Erik. I was nearly ten when Erik was born. I know how to look after babies. And there is Sean. He has younger brothers and sisters, too. Do not worry.” Hilda pulled the bell rope and Eileen hurried into the room, looking a bit limp. “Eileen, dear, please tell Mr. O’Rourke I need the carriage to take Mrs. Malloy home. And ask Mrs. O’Rourke to come here. I need to talk to her. And then, Eileen, go up to your room and take a nap. I will not need you anymore today.”

  “But Mrs. O’Rourke—”

  “Mrs. O’Rourke will not need you, either. Quickly, Eileen.”

  Molly exchanged smiles with Hilda and then whirled away home.

  It was the wailing of a baby that woke Hilda, in the late after-noon. The room was dim and the steady sound of rain pattering on the roof made Hilda want to stay asleep. She sat up, wondering for a moment why she was fully dressed and lying on top of her bed. But as the baby’s cries were succeeded by low murmurs and then by silence, she remembered. Norah and Fiona.

  She smiled as she remembered the baby’s tight grasp of her finger. Even if it was a common thing, it had felt very sweet. Babies were more lovable than Hilda had ever realized. And the feel of the warm, tiny bundle in her arms as she had picked up Fiona and handed her to Sean…perhaps one day…

  Sean. Hilda abandoned her daydreams. She had to talk to Sean seriously. Now that the baby had safely made her appearance in the world, and Norah was doing well, Hilda intended to get some sense out of the blissful father if she had to shake him. Nobody’s bliss would last long if Sean was returned to jail for stealing.

  Or even for murder. Hilda was convinced by the evidence of the firemen that Sean could have had nothing to do with the fire, and could therefore not be charged with arson or murder. But did the police knew what the firemen found? Would they believe them? There was a certain amount of rivalry between the two services, each thinking it deserved more public re
cognition, more civic resources, and better wages than the other. The firemen, after all, were offering what amounted to their opinions about how the fire started and where. What if the police rejected their opinions?

  Still—how could it have been Sean when he was working hard at the next farm, a quarter of a mile away?

  It wouldn’t have taken long to set the fire. A healthy man could easily run the distance, there and back, in less than ten minutes. If one allowed five for finding a lantern, lighting it, and tip-ping it over…would anyone have noticed if Sean had been away for fifteen minutes?

  But why would he do such a thing? It made no sense, who-ever had done it. Robbery from a man so much the worse for drink that he didn’t even know the barn was on fire?

  The police didn’t always worry about why. If a person could have done a crime, that was often enough to convince the police that he had done it. In Hilda’s experience, the police were often lazy at best, incompetent at worst.

  She got off the bed, tidied her hair, put on her shoes, and went to find Sean.

  He was at Norah’s bedside, of course. Norah was feeding the baby while Sean looked on adoringly.

  “Norah, when is the last time you had something to eat?” asked Hilda.

  “Eat? I don’t know.” She sounded dreamy.

  Hilda made scolding noises with her tongue. “You must eat, or you will be unable to feed Fiona. I will go down to the kitchen. I have told Eileen and Mrs. O’Rourke that they must rest, but there will be cold food for everyone. I will bring you a tray. Sean, come with me to help, and to get some food for yourself. I think you have not eaten for a long time, either.”

  “Oh, I’m not hungry—I’ll stay here with Norah—”

  “I need your help, Sean. It will not take long.” It would take, thought Hilda grimly as she led him from the room, as long as was necessary to get a coherent story out of him.

  The cook had set out cold ham, cheese, pickled beets, and applesauce. There was a fresh loaf of bread, and the kettle of potato soup from lunch was sitting on the stove, needing only a match touched to the gas burner to reheat it. “Now, Sean,” said Hilda as she busied herself with finding matches and trays, “sit down. Mrs. O’Rourke has left everything in good order. I can do the work myself, but I must talk to you. I want you to tell me exactly what happened the day of the fire.”

  “The fire?” Sean sounded as if he had never heard of such a thing as a fire.

  “The barn fire,” said Hilda with as much patience as she could muster. “The day you were working with your friends to build the barn on the next farm. The day you found the billfold.” He still looked dazed, and Hilda realized she had to harden her heart. “The billfold with the money the police think you stole.”

  “Oh.” All the happiness faded out of Sean’s face as he sat down, heavily, on a wooden chair. “There wasn’t no money in it, Hilda. They don’t believe me, but it’s God’s own truth. The blessed saints know we could have used money. With Norah not workin’, and my job maybe shaky, and now the baby…I don’t know what we’re goin’ to do, Hilda, and that’s the truth. But I never stole nothin’ in me life. That wallet was empty when I found it, and if it hadn’t of been, I’d’ve taken it to the police first thing.”

  “Where did you find it, exactly? And when?” She stirred the soup and got out plates, napkins, cutlery.

  “It was after the fire wagons got there. We could see there was nothin’ we could do—us as was workin’ next door, I mean. We was just in the way, without no animals to get out or nothin’ The barn was pretty well gone by that time, anyway. They was just worryin’ about savin’ the house and the pigpen and that. So we walked back to our suppers, and on the way I kicked somethin’. I couldn’t hardly see what it was, it was that dark—”

  “So it was not close to the barn?” Hilda interrupted.

  “No, it was near to the fence, by the drive up to the place. I’d forgot that part. How did you know?”

  “If it had been near the burning barn, there would have been enough light for you to see what it was. Go on.”

  He scratched his head at Hilda’s perspicacity and continued his story. “So I picked it up, and when we got to where they was givin’ us supper, there were lanterns and I could see it was a man’s billfold, and a fine one. Good leather, only a little worn on the folds. It was pretty dirty, though, so I cleaned it off a bit and asked if anybody there had dropped it. And later, I went back and asked the firemen. And nobody knew nothin’ about it, so I kept it. Musta been one of them told the police I had it. But where the harm is in that, to make the police come after me, the good Lord alone knows.”

  Hilda handed him a knife. “Slice some ham and put it on this plate,” she directed. “I have only one more question for you. Were you with the rest of the men, building the new barn, the whole day?”

  “What would ye think, I’d go off and leave the rest of ’em workin’?” Sean was beginning to be annoyed. “ ’Course I was there all day.”

  Hilda cut some bread and cheese while she considered how to ask the next question delicately. “I mean—you must have had to—to go off by yourself sometimes. Were you ever gone longer than a few minutes?”

  Her cheeks were burning, and Sean’s turned fiery red. “I don’t know what a decent woman is doin’ askin’ me such a question, but the answer is no.”

  Hilda started filling plates and soup bowls and putting them on trays. She added a tall glass of cool, creamy milk to Norah’s tray. “I am sorry, Sean. I had to know if you had enough time to go over to the next farm without anyone noticing and set the fire.”

  “Nobody noticin’! There wasn’t enough of us to do the job as it was, and we was working that hard, we noticed when anybody stopped for a drink o’ water. If you think I could’ve sneaked off, you’ve lost your mind. The whole gang of ’em would’ve lost their Irish tempers, and you know that’s no comic thing.”

  “Not for most Irishmen,” Hilda said with the hint of a smile. “For you—I wonder what would make you angry?”

  Sean took it as a serious question. “I never had much of a temper, but now—well, if somebody hurt Norah or the baby—I don’t know what I’d do to ’em, but for sure they wouldn’t like it.”

  “No, but you have showed me you do not anger easily, or you would have become angry with me for my questions, instead of just being annoyed and embarrassed. And you have showed that you would not be good at lying. Me, I can lie if I have to, but I am sure that you would give yourself away. Your face shows what you are thinking. So I believe that you did not steal any money, and I believe that you did not start the fire, and I will do everything I can to prove that you are innocent. Now, will you carry up this tray while I take the other?”

  LADIES LISTEN TO A POEM

  Meeting of Women’s Missionary Society

  of First Presbyterian Church [There follows an

  account of the meeting, including a ninestanza

  poem by one of the members]

  —South Bend Tribune

  December 3, 1904

  11

  HALF AN HOUR LATER, Hilda carried both trays downstairs again. Sean had eaten a good meal, but they had been unable to persuade Norah to eat much. She had drunk the glass of milk, reluctantly—“I’ve always hated milk”—but had pushed away the food after a few bites. “I’m so tired! I wish you’d all go away and let me sleep.” Fiona had wakened in her cradle and whimpered, so Hilda had changed her diaper and given her to Norah, but the baby nursed for only a minute or two before falling asleep.

  “Sean, will you stay here with them? I must prepare supper for Patrick. He will be home soon.”

  Sean was delighted to stay with his wife and child, so Hilda went back down to the kitchen and put together a substantial assortment of food for Patrick. She also made a fresh pot of coffee, and pouring herself a large cup, sat down with him at the kitchen table. They both found it more inviting than the dining room, though they dared enjoy it only when Mrs. O’Rourke wasn
’t around. Patrick ate and Hilda drank in companionable silence.

  Her nap had refreshed her somewhat, but she was still tired, and her mind refused to function in its usual clear manner. She hoped she wasn’t getting one of her headaches. They had been less frequent since her marriage, but now her head felt as if it were stuffed with damp cotton, and there was a threatening tension behind her right eye.

  “So,” said Patrick, when he had polished off all the food and fetched a bottle of beer from the cool larder, “how’s the wee spalpeen?”

  Hilda frowned. “What is a spalpeen?”

  “A mischievous young one. A rascal.” And when Hilda still looked puzzled, he grinned. “The baby, I’m meanin’.”

  “Patrick! It is not nice to call that lovely baby a—whatever you called her. She is an angel!”

  “Ah, it’s easy to see she’s got round you, then. Norah all right?”

  “She is very tired, and does not want to eat. I hope she will wake soon. The baby will need food.” Hilda yawned. “And I am tired, too.” She went to the range and turned on the burner under the coffeepot. “I think maybe I might have a headache later. I hope the coffee will help.”

  Patrick looked around the kitchen and then back at Hilda. “Where’s Mrs. O’Rourke? And Eileen? Tending to Norah and the babe?”

  “No, I left them with Sean. I told the servants to take a nap. They were busy all night.” Hilda was a little embarrassed. The word servants, applied to their employees rather than their colleagues, still felt strange.

  Patrick didn’t notice. He stood up. “That was a kindly thought, darlin’, but you need them. You can’t run a household and look after a baby and a new mother and chase down a murderer, all at the same time.”

  Reluctantly Hilda put down her coffee cup. “Yes, you are right. I will go and wake them.”

  “You will not. You’ve been runnin’ all day. Leave it to me.”

  “You will be polite? You will not make Mrs. O’Rourke angry?”