Indigo Christmas

by Jeanne Dams

  “And when did ye ever know an Irishman couldn’t wind any woman round his little finger when he wanted to?” said Patrick, a twinkle in his eye and an exaggerated brogue on his tongue.

  “Me you could not wind. not always.”

  “And that’s true enough, darlin’ girl, but you’re different to the rest, aren’t you? Sit still, I’ll be back before ye know I’m gone.”

  Alone and quiet, Hilda drank coffee and felt her headache recede a little. She looked around the kitchen. It was a peaceful, comfortable room, at least when the volatile cook wasn’t there. not as warm, true, as the Tippecanoe Place kitchen with its massive coal-fired range, kept alight even in summer. oh, how she had roasted when errands took her to that kitchen in summer! But in winter it had been a haven, first thing in the morning, from her cold bedroom at the top of the house.

  This kitchen wasn’t as grand, but it was well appointed. Patrick’s aunt and uncle, who had given them the house as a wedding present, had redone the kitchen completely. The very latest in Hoosier kitchens stood against one wall, with its flour bin and sifter, compartments for spices, canisters, many doors and drawers, and a lovely big, tinned work surface that pulled out for convenience. The ice box was the finest available, the gas range and the coal heating stove shone with polish, the sink gleamed with white enamel. everything from the white walls to the blue wainscoting to the blue-and-white checked linoleum was fresh and new and bright. And hanging from one wall was a prized possession, the coffee mill Hilda’s brother Sven had made for her and painted with a gay Swedish design of birds and flowers.

  Yes, it was a good kitchen. Perhaps, thought Hilda somewhat guiltily, the best thing about it was that she didn’t have to cook in it.

  But she’d better clear away the dishes Patrick had used, or Mrs. O’Rourke would be angry. Hilda knew it was foolish to let the cook bully her. She had served under a bullying butler for years and had had quite enough of it. on the other hand, if Mrs. O’Rourke got angry enough to leave, Hilda simply did not know what she would do. She could clean, oh, yes, she could clean anything, but cook—especially with a new mother and a baby in the house—she shuddered and hastened to rinse the dishes and stack them neatly in the sink. Then she poured out the last cup of coffee and retreated to the parlor.

  Patrick joined her there in a few minutes. “Well, they’re up, and downstairs, and cheerful about it, so that’s off your mind. Is your head feelin’ better?”

  “Yes. The coffee is good. Thank you, Patrick, for talking to Mrs. O’Rourke.”

  “You ought to stand up to her, darlin’. She’d be the better for a good talkin’ to.”

  “I was yoost—just thinking that. I do not think I can do it. I am afraid she would lose her temper and leave us, and I do not know how to cook. Aunt Molly has said she would teach me, but I cannot take the time now. There is Sean’s trouble, and the baby, and—oh! I forgot to tell you. I am starting a club for the poor boys in South Bend, and there is to be a Christmas party for them, and there will be much to do.”

  Patrick made a face. “When I married you I thought I was givin’ you a life of leisure. Do ye not want to be a lady and—do whatever they do all day?”

  Hilda laughed. “No, Patrick, I do not! It is boring, that life. They do nothing except call on each other and go to silly meetings and change clothes all day long. A dress for morning, a dress for afternoon, a dress for calling, a dress for staying at home for tea, a dress for dinner—it is foolishness. And with every fancy dress one must wear stays, and I do not like them.” She shivered a little with sudden pleasure. To be able to talk of stays with a man, a man who had, moreover, seen one’s stays, had seen…

  Patrick’s thoughts were traveling along much the same line. “You’ve a neat little waist, and no need to cage it up.” He put out a hand and pulled her up into his arms. “Mmm, yes, a neat little waist indeed…and a neat, soft little—”

  The doorbell rang. Hilda sprang away and smoothed her dress.

  “Who’s callin’ at this time of night?” said Patrick, displeased.

  “I do not know. oh, I hope it is not a policeman for Sean!”

  They listened anxiously while Eileen went to the door. There was a murmur of feminine voices.

  “Oh!” Hilda’s hand went to her mouth. “It is Mrs. Murphy. I forgot! I think Aunt Molly told me she might want to stay here for a few days, and there is not a bedroom ready for her.”

  Patrick rose to the emergency. “You talk to Eileen while I entertain Mrs. Murphy. We’ll have her off to bed and settled in no time.” And then, Patrick’s look said, we can also be off to bed.…

  “Yes,” Hilda whispered, “and be sure to invite her to stay as long as she wishes. And tell her—”

  “I’ll say the right things. You can trust me, my girl.”

  Eileen showed Norah’s mother into the parlor, and Patrick stepped forward to charm her, while Hilda beckoned Eileen out of the room. Twenty minutes later Hilda returned to the parlor, where Mrs. Murphy was sitting comfortably with a cup of tea, chatting with Patrick.

  “How are Norah and the baby?” Mrs. Murphy asked as soon as courtesies had been exchanged.

  “Norah is very tired and wishes mostly to sleep. The baby woke a few minutes ago and Norah is feeding her now. Would you wish to go up and see her? And I hope Patrick asked you to stay with us as long as Norah needs you.” Hilda bit her lip. That sounded as if Norah’s mother was welcome only as a nurse, and was not what Hilda had meant to say, but it was too late to take it back now.

  “Yes, I’ll go up,” said Mrs. Murphy briefly. “You don’t need to bother about me. I’m used to doing for myself.”

  Worse and worse. “It is a pleasure to have you here,” said Hilda, but it sounded stiff even to her, and Mrs. Murphy did not reply as she started up the stairs, Patrick following with her bag.

  After a moment of indecision, Hilda went into the kitchen. Mrs. O’Rourke was fussing, rearranging things that intruders had evidently moved a few inches from their appointed positions. “Yes, madam?” she said in her most formal voice.

  “I came to thank you, Mrs. O’Rourke, for all you have done. The baby arriving has made you much extra work, but I am so grateful you were here, because I would not have known what to do.” There was art as well as truth in Hilda’s remark. It would, she thought, be good to make the cook feel superior. not that she didn’t feel that way already, of course.

  The cook unbent a little. “I was glad to do what I could, madam. Has Norah been eating well?”

  “No, and that is the other reason I wanted to talk to you. She is very tired and does not want to eat, but I know she must. What can we give her that will tempt her?”

  “Well, now. I can make her a little custard, that goes down easy, and some rice pudding. And maybe for right now, some good rich eggnog. And then soup for tomorrow, rich broth with noodles—oh, there’s lots I can give her that she’ll like. You leave it to me, madam. I’ve cooked for many a new mother in my time. I’ll send up the eggnog directly. Where’s that Eileen?”

  Hilda explained and left the kitchen feeling that at least one burden was off her shoulders. With luck it would not be very long before she and Patrick could forget all their burdens for a few hours in sleep and other joys.

  Tears, idle tears, I know not

  what they mean…

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson

  The Princess, 1847

  12

  THE STORM BROKE very early the next morning. Eileen knocked at their bedroom door and came in, looking scared.

  “Ma’am, it’s sorry I am to wake you so early,” she whispered, “and on a Saturday, too, but Mrs. Murphy’s that upset. She says Miss Norah—I mean, Mrs.—Mrs. O’Neill—she says she’s real sick!”

  Hilda got up at once, hastily put on a robe and slippers, and flew down the hall to Norah’s room, where Sean and Norah’s mother stood by the bed, the baby wailing in its grandmother’s arms. Norah sat up in bed, panting, her face white as chalk.


  “What is wrong with Norah?” asked Hilda.

  “We don’t hardly know!” It was Sean who answered. “She can’t breathe right, and she’s got such a pain she can’t eat, or even hardly drink, so she doesn’t have enough milk for the babe! And she’s been cryin’ and saying she feels terrible, and she seems so weak. And listen to this poor little mite—she’s hungry, bless her. Oh, don’t cry so, my darlin’! It breaks my heart.”

  Sean stroked the baby’s head as if it were a kitten. Fiona, red-faced, arms and legs pumping, paid no attention. She wanted food and she wanted it now.

  Hilda looked helplessly from the screaming baby to the distraught father to the worried grandmother. Then she turned to the bed. Norah’s hand was pressed to her chest.

  “Norah, what is it!”

  “Scared,” Norah whispered. “My heart—dying—can’t breathe—”

  “Hush, then, do not try to talk.” Hilda turned again to the family. “Has anyone called the doctor?”

  “No—we just found her. We didn’t know what to do!”

  Hilda pulled the bell cord, not once but several times, hard. She could hear bells jangling on the third floor and in the kitchen. Then she began giving orders. “Sean, there is brandy in the pantry. Bring it here, quick, with a glass. Mrs. Murphy, let me take the baby. Get a cloth, wet it with cold water, and put it on the back of Norah’s neck. Eileen, call the doctor at once. Tell him Norah is in bad trouble. Her heart, maybe. And then—no, go, Mrs. O’Rourke is here, Gud ske lov—thank God. Mrs. O’Rourke, Norah is ill and cannot feed the baby. We do not have a nursing bottle, but please find a way to feed her.”

  Mrs. O’Rourke, in her nightdress and robe, her gray hair in braids and a scowl on her face, looked like a Teutonic deity. Hilda would have quailed, but the situation was too desperate for her to worry about angry servants. She handed the frantic baby over to the cook, whose expression softened at once.

  “Ah, poor little colleen, hungry, are you?” she murmured. “We’ll have to do somethin’ about that, won’t we now?” She took the baby away and quiet reigned once more, broken by Norah’s sobs.

  “She’ll die,” said Norah weakly. “She’ll die without me.”

  “Nobody is going to die,” said Hilda fiercely. “Not you, not little Fiona. The doctor is on his way, and your mother is here. Oh, and here is Sean. Now, then, sit up a bit more—that’s it— and drink some of this.”

  Norah sputtered as the brandy went down, but her breathing became more regular. “Now, Sean, go back to the kitchen. Mrs. O’Rourke will be warming some milk for the baby. Bring some of it here in a cup. Norah will have it with more brandy.”

  “Is that—do you think she should have brandy when she is feeding the baby?”

  Hilda lost her temper. “I do not know! She is not feeding the baby, for she cannot. I am not a doctor. I do the best I know. You sent for me, now do as I say!”

  Hilda looked at Mrs. Murphy to see how she was taking all this. She might very well resent someone else giving orders about her own daughter and granddaughter. But she was occupied sponging the back of Norah’s neck, a remedy Hilda thought would cure the hysterics she suspected were a large part of the problem.

  Hilda turned to Eileen, who had returned from her phone call. “Eileen, please go back downstairs and let the doctor in when he comes. I must go and dress, and then you can get dressed yourself. I wish I could let you sleep, but I think there will be little sleep for anyone in this house for a few days.”

  She patted Eileen on the shoulder and then went back to her own room, where Patrick was sitting on the edge of the bed. “It is very early, Patrick. Why are you getting up?”

  “Couldn’t sleep for the hullabaloo. What’s goin’ on?”

  Hilda explained briefly while she dressed. “And I said they would be well, but Patrick, I am frightened. It is maybe just worry that makes Norah feel so ill, but Aunt Molly said she lost much blood in childbirth, and what if she does die?”

  She struggled with the hooks at her back and Patrick came over to fasten them. “Where’s Eileen?” he asked, his hands clumsy at the task.

  “She waits for the doctor, to let him in.”

  “Then I’ll light the gas,” said Patrick. “Brrr!” He pattered across the floor in his bare feet and touched a match to the gas fixture on the wall. “Got to have some light if I’m to fiddle with tiny hooks. Don’t know why they make women’s clothes so hard to get into. And out of,” he added, aiming a little smack at the petticoat as he finished fastening it. “And why are you dressing, anyway?”

  “I cannot see the doctor in my nightdress, Patrick! And this is not the time to be foolish.”

  “But d’you have to see the doctor yourself? There’s Mrs. Murphy, and Sean—”

  “Norah is my friend, and a guest in my house, and she is seriously ill! I must not neglect her.”

  The doorbell rang and Hilda rushed out of the room to greet the doctor. Patrick looked at the cold, dark fireplace, at the clock whose hands stood at four-thirty, and then back at his bed with the warm comforter. With a fatalistic sigh he pushed his feet into slippers and his arms into a robe and picked up the coal scuttle. There was nothing useful he could do in this medical crisis, but as long as his Hilda believed she must help, then he must be ready to serve if she needed him. He started downstairs for coal.

  He had made a fire and dressed and was about to go forage for some breakfast when Hilda came in and sat down on the bed. “Norah is better,” she said in response to his cocked eyebrow. “Doctor Clark says she did not have a heart attack. He is not happy about her, though. He says she is very weak and that is what made her chest hurt, and that she needs building up. He asked many questions about what she had been eating, and said she must have much meat, and milk, and eggs. And Sean tried to hide it, but he is troubled because he does not know how he can pay for such things. They have not much money, even when he is working every day.”

  Patrick took her hand. “You know she can stay here with the baby as long as she needs to. We can see she gets the food she needs, if that’s what the trouble is.”

  Hilda nodded and went on. “And he says she must not try to feed the baby until she is stronger. She must nurse a little, or she will not be able to later, but Fiona will have to have most of her milk from bottles. He told Mrs. Murphy just how to mix the milk, and how much Fiona should have. Eileen will go out for nursing bottles as soon as Vanderhoof’s opens. Norah is to take a tonic he gave us, and must be made to eat. He says she will soon be hungry and want her baby in her arms again. I hope he is right, but I am fearful.” She yawned hugely. “And Patrick, I am so tired I could sleep for a week.”

  “There’s no reason you can’t sleep today, darlin’. With two capable women in the house to look after Norah and the baby, there’s no sense talkin’ about neglect. You can rest. And if that baby screams again, I’ll give her a little good Irish whisky. She’ll sleep after that, I’ll wager.”

  Hilda suffered herself to be undressed and tucked in, and fell into an exhausted sleep that ten crying babies could not have disturbed.

  When she woke the weather had changed. The rain had stopped, the sun was shining brightly, and Patrick was not there. She sat up, not able for a moment to remember the reason for her feeling of unease.

  There was a tap at the door and Eileen entered. “Here, ma’am. Mr. Cavanaugh thought you might be glad of some coffee. And the fire needs tending. It’s bitter cold out, ma’am, for all it’s so bright. And the baby’s been sleepin’ like a little lamb now she’s gettin’ her food, but Miss Norah, she’s still feelin’ bad. Her ma’s made her eat her food and take that tonic, but she didn’t like the taste of it, and she’s cryin’, and she still thinks she’s goin’ to die.”

  “She is not,” said Hilda, sipping the hot, fragrant brew. “I will go and talk to her.”

  “Yes, ma’am. only, Cook says as how she’s known other women like that, just too tired and weak to want to live, even, and somet
imes they just pine away and die, and maybe their poor babes, too. She says—”

  “Eileen, you must not believe what Mrs. O’Rourke says, and you must not, either of you, say it where Norah can hear you. Norah is weak, but she will become strong if she does everything the doctor tells her. We must help her do that.”

  By that evening, everyone in the house was exhausted. Hilda had spent most of the day coaxing Norah to eat food for which she had no appetite and to take tonic she detested. She kept whispering she only wanted to be allowed to die in peace, she was too tired to eat. Hilda tried not to lose her temper, for she knew the weariness was real. The doctor had warned her that her friend was so weak, even opening her eyes was an effort, but it was hard to see Norah lying there, nearly as pale as the sheets on which she lay, able to do nothing for herself and without even the strength to argue with Hilda. Sean had been banished, for his presence kept Norah awake and worrying. With no more spare beds in the house, Sean had retired to a bed in the carriage house, where the coachman would have slept if he had been unmarried.

  Mrs. Murphy, who also kept Norah fretting, had refused to leave her side except to harass the cook in the kitchen. Patrick, who had put in an extremely long, busy day at the store without even a moment to talk to the police, had escaped to his den and fallen asleep behind a newspaper.

  The doctor returned after supper and came out of Norah’s room shaking his head. “She has lost so much blood,” he told Mrs. Murphy, “and she was not strong even before the baby was born.”

  Norah’s mother struggled against tears. “I’ve heard as there’s a way to give a person someone else’s blood,” she said in a frightened whisper. “I’ll do it! If it kills me, I’ll do it!”

  “It wouldn’t kill you,” said Dr. Clark gently, “but it might kill Norah. Blood given to a patient must match the patient’s own. The wrong kind of blood is worse than none.”

  “But I’m her mother. She’s blood of my blood, bone of my bone. Certain sure, my blood—”