Brides of Virginia

by Hake, Cathy Marie

  The sickly woman smiled at John, then followed his gaze to look back down at her infant. “I’ve not named him yet. I hoped Edward would be here to help me decide on what his son is to be called.” She painstakingly drew the covers back a tad. Her fourth finger, John noticed, bore no wedding band.

  Was she fighting modesty or just too weak to do the minuscule task? He leaned forward and looked intently at the tiny, swaddled bundle. In no way did the babe resemble Edward. In point of fact, the babe didn’t take after anyone John knew. He looked like a wizened old man as he screwed up his face and let out a tiny bleat.

  “Oh, now,” Anna crooned softly.

  John tried not to show his surprise when a shred of paper drifted out of the pillow slip. Knowing poverty existed was one thing, but seeing this timid little woman eke by with a paper-stuffed pillow defied belief. She reminded him of a tiny mouse, nesting in shreds of paper.

  “Duncan, come be a dear and check his nappy for me. The puir, wee man-child is likely wet and hungry again.”

  For being on the young side, little Duncan handled the task with fair grace. The lad’s arms were bony, and the baby’s limbs looked like nothing more than matchsticks. From what he saw, John knew no one in this household had benefited from a decent meal in a long while.

  Since they were occupied, John made no apologies for snooping about. A strip of salt-flecked, discarded sail gathered on a bit of string served as a curtain on the narrow window, but discarded newspapers covered the pane in a vain attempt to insulate the shack. Two shelves hung on one side of the window. A sparse collection of mismatched dishes perched on one. The other held nothing more than a pair of bruised apples, two pint jars filled with dried leaves, and a small glass bottle with barely an inch of milk. John’s brows knit as he searched in vain for evidence of any other food.

  “His wife’s dinner plate was empty.” The words echoed again in his mind. They’d not been a melodramatic exaggeration. If anything, they’d been an understatement. John’s heart ached with pity, and he no longer wondered why the spirited woman had concocted her scheme to blame Edward for the paternity of the babe. She had come to his shipyard desperately needing to feed her family—but where could she be? And why had she paid back a penny when she should have bought food with it? What else had she done with the money?

  He opened the stove and stirred the embers. The coal bucket next to the stove held one last small clump—certainly not enough to keep them warm for even half an hour more. He tossed it in, did his best to fasten the tiny grated door that hung askew, and asked in a deceptively casual tone, “Where is your sister?”

  “She’ll be home soon,” Duncan answered. He tucked the baby in the bed. “There, then, our Anna. You were right about your wee little fellow wanting his supper. He’s chewing on his fist. Put your arm about my shoulder. I’ll help you turn a bit.”

  John watched the lad take his sister’s frail, linen-covered arm and hook it about his own scrawny neck. Together they looked like a small heap of snowed-upon kindling. The lad didn’t look half big enough to move her.

  Propriety dictated John should turn his back. Anna O’Brien was a stranger, dressed in her nightgown, and lay in bed no less. A man of decency would never call upon a woman still in her childbed unless she were close family. Though circumstances rated as far less than fully proper, John couldn’t stand by and allow this poor woman and her kid brother to struggle. “I’ll help.”

  A smile brightened the lad’s somber face. “Thank you, sir.”

  After Duncan stepped out of the way, John learned firsthand that Anna’s profound weakness kept her from raising her own arms. Even after he stooped and gently lifted her arm, she could scarcely cup her hand about his neck. When he turned her, thin shoulder blades jutted out like bird wings beneath her gown. She shivered, not from his touch, but from the drafts coming through the walls. He gingerly tucked the babe close to the bodice of her gown and hastily situated the blanket around them. She rewarded his aid with a smile that glowed with gratitude. “Oh, you made that so easy for me. I thank you.”

  John tried not to show his horror at her thinness, but when the babe’s wail echoed the wind whining between the walls, he asked quietly, “Do you have enough milk for the baby?”

  “Not yet—but we’re in the first days.” A faint pink washed into her cheeks. “According to the midwife, three or four days usually pass before milk flows well.”

  John nodded. It wasn’t that he truly agreed; he knew nothing about such matters. He did so because of the desperate hope and worry mingling in the new mother’s voice. She needed privacy, so he excused himself. “The morning is cold, and your stove is near empty. I’ll be back in a while with some coal.”

  “Oh! You’d do that for us? You’re a generous man, John Newcomb.”

  He ordered Duncan to latch the door behind him and waited until he heard the slat slide into the warped bracket before he strode away. This neighborhood carried a hopeless mix of the poor, the drunken, and the unsavory. His hand went naturally to the reassuring knife he wore sheathed on his belt. Years on a ship had taught him how to wield it for any necessary task. Down here, protection was essential—yet Duncan and Anna lived helpless as lambs among this rabble.

  The gold coin he’d given should have paid for warmth and food. Desperate as their needs were, why hadn’t the other O’Brien woman used it sensibly? Her foolishness kept them hungry and cold. He shook his head in disbelief. What lunacy drove her?

  John wisely came here without much jangling in his pocket. Providing such temptation would invite attack. Dawn hadn’t yet broken, but the dingy thoroughfare lined with a smattering of shops sluggishly stirred to life. Lamps started to light windows and illuminate expansive boasts that the small businesses failed to fulfill. Even the bakery’s fragrant aroma seemed to promise far more than simple loaves and buns.

  First he purchased a basket and hooked it awkwardly over his left arm. By spending most of the paltry coins he’d brought, John determinedly filled it to overflowing. He’d done his share of bartering and marketing in dozens of ports and used that experience to make sure he got fair value for his coin. Badly as that lad and the new mother needed to eat, he’d not settle until he knew their bellies would be full.

  “You there.” He pointed at a stoop-backed man. “I need two full scuttles of coal taken to shanty number six, Larkspur Lane, right away.”

  “Aye sir. I’ll be right on yer heels!”

  John arrived back at the shack and bumped the door once before young Duncan opened it. “Bless me, Anna—he came back!” He danced an excited jig as he said in astonished wonderment, “And he brought food!”

  John set the basket on the table. He’d carefully set a handful of cookies atop everything else in hopes they wouldn’t get broken. The lad spied them and did the inexplicable—he backed away. “Are y–you the d–d–devil?”

  “Duncan!” his sister gasped.

  Eyes big as saucers, Duncan whispered, “Em says, ‘God sends meat; the devil brings cookies.’ Anna, he brought cookies!”

  John chuckled and pulled a small ham from the basket. “There, now. Meat. Does that put your mind at ease?”

  Duncan still didn’t look certain. He patted his sister’s leg. “What are you thinking we ought to be doing?”

  “All’s well, boy-o.” Anna gave John a winsome smile. “Please forgive him.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. Duncan is trying to protect his family.” A knock sounded. John opened the door and accepted the coal.

  Duncan spied the fuel. “Oh sir! God bless you! Anna, this’ll keep the baby warm all year!”

  John chortled softly at the boy’s innocence and enthusiasm. He didn’t have the heart to deny the claim. Indeed, he’d arrange for coal to be delivered so Anna, her wee babe, and little Duncan would be warm for as long as they needed. He quickly added coal to the stove, wishing it wouldn’t need time before the fire would catch and radiate more heat.

  John pulled a slig
htly bent knife from the shelf. After the first cut, he traded it for his belt knife and sliced the loaf of bread and cheese. Ham had never been hacked into sorrier slabs, but he felt sure neither Anna nor Duncan would notice. He handed the lad some bread.

  “Get water so I can put the eggs on to boil.” While Duncan took a bucket and scampered outside to a communal pump, John carried the bread and cheese over to the bedside. As he gently lifted Anna’s shoulders and head, he realized Duncan had taken his own blanket and spread it atop her.

  Before Anna accepted a bite, she paused and dipped her head. Her pale lips moved silently in what he presumed to be a prayer. Though he knew she was half-starved, she took dainty bites from his hand. Her eyes shone with gratitude.

  Duncan returned and filled a small pot, then set the eggs to boil. The remainder of the water went into a chipped porcelain pitcher. He gobbled up another slice of bread. “Soon as the eggs are done, I’ll make you some tea. I’ll cool the rest of the water a bit, and we can wash up the babe, too.”

  “You’re a fine uncle, Duncan,” Anna praised. She looked up at John and whispered, “As are you, John Newcomb. I’ve prayed for Edward to come home, but the Lord surely sent you in the meantime. You’re an unexpected answer to my supplications.”

  John gave no reply. He’d made no claim to the babe and promised nothing, yet he felt guilty as a thief. After setting foot here, he could easily see why they sought a male connection. He never should have come. He wasn’t a man to indulge in deception, yet his very presence hinted at a relationship that didn’t exist.

  He knew his brother well. Edward appreciated quality things, cultured women, and monied society far too much to consort with an impoverished, skinny Irish lass. Clearly, someone had hornswoggled this poor girl, but he knew it wasn’t Edward’s doing. Relief sifted through him that his brother wouldn’t do such a contemptible thing. Despite his compassion and pity for the occupants of this shack, John refused to pretend any connection.

  He finished feeding her slivers of ham, a small hunk of cheese, and the bread, then laid her back down. In his younger years, he’d seen a ship that had been caught in the Doldrums and the sailors had nearly starved. They gorged on food and became violently ill. As a result of that memory, he hesitated to offer her more. She’d barely eaten enough for a small child, yet she seemed quite satisfied.

  “Oh, I thank you. That was wondrous good.”

  “There’s more. You need to eat tiny meals several times a day to build up your strength.”

  “I’ve had gracious plenty. We’ll save the rest for Emily.”

  Oh, so her name is Emily.

  “There’s lots for Em,” Duncan said as he stood on tiptoe to peer into the kettle and check on the eggs. John clasped the boy’s thin frame and lifted him away. He was far too short—couldn’t they see he’d likely scald himself? But what choice do they have? Where is Emily, and why isn’t she here, tending these two?

  Duncan traipsed over to the bed. “Emily could eat all day and night. The whole basket is brimming. Mr. Newcomb brought us a feast, our Anna.”

  Anna’s thin face lit with delight. “God be praised! We’ll have a bit to eat on the morrow. Mr. Newcomb, you’re too kind!”

  “Rest,” John bade gruffly. It pained him to see a woman so starved that she thought to ration such a modest offering. He’d filled the basket with whatever could be found, but this fare rated as exceedingly plain. The total of its contents was far less than the waste from his own table each day.

  Cold seeped through the walls. He felt awkward covering Anna, but she’d weakly slumped onto her back again and needed warmth in the worst way. Her linen gown looked threadbare. He’d never given any thought to the bedding in his home, but one of his blankets measured thicker than both on her bed combined. As he tugged the blankets up higher and tucked them beneath her shoulders so they’d capture whatever meager heat she had, she shivered. From the appreciative, trusting look on her face, he knew it wasn’t a shiver of apprehension but one of pure, cold misery. “More coal,” he muttered to himself. “We need to warm up this place.”

  He strongly considered smashing a chair and adding it to the stove. The dry wood would catch and blaze quickly until the coal finally burned well. A single glance at the furniture in the place established the fact that not a single piece was worth salvaging. He’d use one of the chairs first. From the looks of them, one solid whack, and they’d shatter.

  Before he could rise and carry out that plan, the door rattled. Having knelt to tend the coals, John needed to crane his neck to see past the table. The woman from the dock limped in. Worry creased her face, and he strongly suspected the redness of her nose and eyes wasn’t just from the cold. She forced a smile that didn’t begin to hide the worry in her big, green eyes. “What are my two loves doing up so very early?”

  “Em! He came!”

  She perked up and avidly scanned the tiny shanty. “Edward? Where?”

  From the bed Anna said, “’Tisn’t my Edward, but it’s the next best, Emily. My Edward has a brother! His name is John, and he came.”

  “He brought food and coal!”

  Emily bristled. She stared at the basket, then said, “O’Briens don’t take charity!”

  John stood. “One could scarcely call it a charity, Miss O’Brien.”

  Her gaze bore right through him. “Oh, so you’ve decided we might be family now, have you?” She pulled a scarf from her head and shook out a fire fall of breathtakingly beautiful, thick, auburn hair.

  Brazen, he thought. He stared straight back and felt a wave of disgust. What other work did a woman do at night but to be a harlot? His voice took on a sharp edge. “I’ve decided nothing.”

  A sharp gasp sounded from the bed off to his side. Anna’s reaction accused him of hideous cruelty, for he’d just served her a terrible—if unintentional—insult. Too weak even to care for herself, the poor girl-woman now suffered from his temper, too. He’d just slurred her character in the worst way imaginable simply because he’d tried to take the starch out of her sister. Shame flooded him.

  Emily opened the door. Her glower could set a bonfire. “Please leave.”

  He’d go, though first he owed Anna his apology. John looked over at her, but Duncan slipped between them. His little face puckered with confusion, but he took his sister’s cue and tried to protect Anna.

  “Emily,” the little boy said, “I don’t understand.”

  Anna began to weep.

  “He started out by being so nice.” Duncan’s voice carried a plaintive tone. “He’s Edward’s brother, and he brought us food!”

  Emily cast a glance at the basket on the table, then back at John. Weariness mingled with bitterness in her tone. “Duncan, he isn’t here because he thinks we’re family. He intended it as charity.”

  “Stop this nonsense and shut the door,” John snapped. The woman had no more sense than a brick to be letting what little heat they had in the shack escape. Didn’t she notice every breath any of them took condensed into a fog?

  She adamantly shook her head. “Not until you’re on the other side.”

  “Now see here!”

  “No, you see here,” Emily said in an unrelenting tone. “Edward Newcomb married Anna. I’ll not let you insult my sister or besmirch her name.”

  “You have proof of this marriage?”

  Contrary to her earlier assertion, Emily shut the door. The whole wall shook. “Aye, we do.” She hastily tied her scarf back over her remarkable hair in a belated move of modesty, limped over to the far side of the bed, and produced a small fabric bag he’d spied earlier. From it she drew out a black book. Most of the gold from the lettering had long since rubbed off. For a second she reverently passed her chapped hand over the battered-looking leather cover, then laid the Bible on the bed and opened it. “We recorded Anna’s nuptials here, and—”

  “I’m not about to accept that as proof.” John marveled at her gumption. Did she think him so gullible that he’d stupid
ly accept such a poorly executed sham? “Anyone can write whatever they jolly well please!”

  “Not in the Holy Scriptures,” Duncan protested, his voice full of shock.

  “If that isn’t good enough, then the license will speak for itself!” Emily took a folded sheet of paper out and smoothed it open. “Seeing as you’re hostile, I’ll thank you to step away from the fire ere I hand this over.”

  John made an impatient noise and reached her side. Stiff and straight as she stood, she barely cleared his shoulder. John resisted the urge to swipe the paper from her. Matters in this pitiable household were already strained enough without his acting like a brute—though he rather felt like one for having upset sickly little Anna. Try as he might, he couldn’t block out the muffled sounds of her weeping. Nevertheless, he had to focus on the principal matter at hand. He stared at the page Emily laid on the bed and scowled. “This is nonsense!”

  “Nay, ’tis Latin.” Emily’s tone carried a rich tang of sarcasm. Her hand shook as it hovered over the flower-embellished parchment. She pointed at several places but didn’t actually touch the document. “Here. The vicar’s signature. Here. Anna’s. Mine. Edward’s and our neighbor Leticia’s. There were witnesses, so the marriage is legal as can be.”

  “My brother’s middle name is Timothy, not Percival.” He ignored the impatient flash in her eyes that accused him of concocting a falsehood and looked back at the signatures. The application of their tutor’s ruler to the back of Edward’s hand had taught him superb penmanship. John scowled. “Whoever signed this wasn’t my brother. The scrawl on this is scarcely legible. Furthermore, if this is a marriage certificate, I’m a chamber pot. The Latin on here is a collection of words that mean nothing at all. ’tis sheer gibberish.”

  The jut of Emily’s chin made it clear she didn’t believe him. Her hand dove back into the bag once again. Out it came. Between her calloused thumb and blistered forefinger, she held a ring. “And this? You cannot deny a family ring!”