Latisha also doted upon her nephew, so it was not unusual for us to come upon one another of an afternoon or an evening at Tillie’s house. Neither sister took much notice when Mr. Sinclair and I wandered off for a few moments.
“No one in the family has knowledge of Randolph’s injury,” I began, “and of his time spent in my house, no one save his father. Is that correct?”
“That is still right, far as I know.”
“You have not told Latisha.” He shook his head. “Hasn’t that been difficult?”
“And more—cryin’ herself to sleep those first few nights.”
I shuddered. “Mrs. Swift suspects nothing?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“And my poor Tillie.”
“Well, miss, the worst of it is Peter. He’s near run off half a dozen times in search of his brother. I spent most of one whole night talking him out of it. His father’s forbidden him the run of the stables and told him that if he goes off without gaining permission, he may as well not come home.”
“So like him!” I was fuming inside. “Can you do nothing for Peter? I cannot bear to think of him suffering, too.” I placed my hand on the good fellow’s arm and looked into his eyes. “Watch out for the lad, will you? We can do nothing for Randolph—” My voice broke, and I turned aside. “I feel deceitful,” I confessed, “knowing these horrid facts and concealing them!”
“What good would they do, Miss Esther?”
“Is that the only question?” I mused aloud. “When the truth comes out, as it eventually does, what will they think of our silence?”
Distress clouded the straightforward gaze. “I can’t see us tellin’, Miss Esther. Isn’t that Mr. Swift’s place?”
“Indeed, it is,” I agreed. “But do we join ranks in his cruelty by keeping our counsel as well?”
The question was too much for him. And just then Latisha’s voice came to us from the next room, and the moment was lost. We went in to join the others and exclaim at the baby’s antics, but every time my eyes met Tillie’s gentle smile I cringed a little inside.
The ice is breaking up on the canal and in the rivers. February thaws can be awe-inspiring things, especially when the temperate air churns suddenly into a cold blustery wind that slices through the jagged ice shards and licks the land like the tongue of a giant dragon with white, frozen breath. Both the living trees and the shaven wood framed and standing in houses moan in protest. The sun is too weak to break through the gray plate of the sky, and the mildness, brief and sighing with promise, wreaks more havoc than good.
I see no one: not Tillie and the others in the village; not Josie, in her own frozen world beneath the tall elms that ring the gristmills and the sawmills; not my dear Eugene, with his troubling sea-green eyes. I play with Jonathan, read my books, and pore over seed catalogs from my corner by the fire, but I am no longer content. Thus I know that it is right for me to marry and begin my own life with this gentle person I love.
Tonight a strange thing has happened. Jane Foster knocked on our door about seven, her fingers stiff, her nose red from the raw wind. Her buggy was stuck in the gully half a mile from our house with a broken wheel. Father has gone with her to help, for she pleaded that she has two or three urgent calls to make and no time to lose. Indeed, I believe he harnessed Tansy to our own light buggy in the interest of time.
I watch Mother covertly as time passes. She reflects nothing of unease or concern. I entertain my own fears in silence. It is not that I distrust my father, or even Jane. But something about the two of them when they were alone those few moments at the harvest dance—and I know my father’s need, and his loneliness—and why is it that Jane’s buggy broke down right here?
When Mother rises to go back to bed, I kiss her cheek and hasten to put coals in the long-handled bed warmer to run between her cold sheets. I nearly say, “Perhaps I shall wait up for Father,” but I cannot get the words out, and she does not mention him.
I go back to the kitchen, where the fire is still burning steadily and the room is warm. I put the kettle on and determine to remain for no more than half an hour, deciding that if the calls were routine and easily dispatched with, my father shall have returned by then. If there are any real difficulties for Jane to deal with, well, they might not be back until morning. I pull Mother’s rocker a little closer to the fire and curl up, as contented as the kitten that has now grown to a cat and sleeps on the warm stones of the hearth.
Father’s voice awakens me. Which means I did not hear horse or buggy, or the opening of the door, or his booted tread. I struggle to swim out of sleep and crane my neck to get a view of the kitchen clock.
“It is late, Esther. I’m sorry you fell asleep here. It’s nearly dawn.”
Father’s voice sounds subdued, even deflated. I peer through bleary eyes at him. “What happened?” I ask. “I can see in your face that something happened.”
I rub the cramped muscles in my neck, waiting for him to put the words together. “Esther.” The way he says my name chills me, and all sorts of horrors flicker across my mind. “It is Emily Turner. Jane delivered her of a baby daughter, and the child is doing well.”
Something within me begins to tighten. He does not have to say the words. “There were complications. Do not tell me—she is dead—Father.”
I lean back against the rocker and close my eyes. Perhaps it is the weariness within me that blocks all thought, all feeling. I do not want this to happen! I feel a terrible remorse, and a weight of sorrow that is nearly too heavy to bear.
Father half lifts me and helps me to my cold, empty room and leaves me alone there. I sit on the bed, my aching thoughts tugging of their own accord toward Simon, who has lost his reason for living; toward Eugene, who has lost a sister; toward Emily’s mother, who has lost her only daughter. I perch, dull and stunned, on the edge of the bed for long minutes, until my feet begin to get cold and my stays feel as tight as a vise. And I know I must move, and at least get shoes, dress, and stays off before crawling into my bed.
Morning does possess the power to renew, no matter how deep the suffering. With the pale diffusing light of a new day I felt I could face the horrors the night before had presented. Though, really, the morning was far advanced when I stumbled out of bed. Father was most likely in the toolshed, where he had been repairing machinery the past week. I found Mother in her sewing room, with Jonathan playing at her feet. “Did Father tell you what happened last night?” I asked, remaining on the threshhold of the room, only peeking in.
“Yes. That is why I thought it best not to awaken you. I’m sorry, Esther.”
She did not pause in her work, but I felt a real sympathy emanating from her spirit toward mine. I fought an impulse to go to her and wrap my arms round her neck and bury my face in her lap, as I used to when I was a child.
Instead I disciplined myself to run quickly through the morning chores before saddling Tansy and riding into Palmyra. I had filled a basket with a few items I thought might be useful, though I was certain there would be neighbors aplenty there with offerings of assistance and food. I felt compelled, duty-bound, to offer my help along with the others.
When I arrived at the modest dwelling there were already several horses and vehicles tied up there. I found a spot for Tansy, and when I reached the door I pushed it open without knocking. I scanned the quiet, carefully guarded faces and, to my relief, found Georgeanna’s there; kind, practical Georgie, with her arm round Mrs. Thorn’s bowed shoulders. There were several women milling about the kitchen and parlor. But where were the men?
I nodded to some of the ladies and caught Georgie’s eye for a moment as I walked through to the small bedroom at the back of the house. In the doorway I paused. Simon was there, sitting on a low chair beside Emily’s body, which was stretched out on the bed where she died. All had been put in order, and the dead girl appeared as sweet and innocent as an angel who had never tasted of the bitter strife of this life. Eugene, standing beside his young br
other-in-law, turned. His eyes met mine, making the muscles in his face distort and then crumble. I moved swiftly and drew his head into my arms. His pain seeped through me, as though the garments he wore were soaked, and the wetness shivered over my thin dress as well. We stood thus for a long time, until he was able to raise his head and meet my gaze again. Then he motioned me out of the room.
He led me out back, away from all the others. It was cold here, and the wind found us. But I tried to ignore the wind and concentrate on his face. “How did you find out so soon?” He whispered the words, and I found myself responding in a whisper.
“Father drove Jane Foster on her rounds when she had trouble with her wagon.”
“She sent for my mother about midnight,” he recounted. “But she did not wake me or Father. After . . . well, she sent Maggie Wells this morning to tell us. We were expecting . . . good news . . . we were . . .”
His voice broke like a young boy’s and he wheeled away from me. Tears filled my eyes as I rested my head against his stiff back. “I know, Eugene, I know.” There is something so helpless and pathetic, I thought to myself, in a man’s suffering. I was minded of Alexander, and even my father. I was consumed with a yearning tenderness.
“Eugene.” I whispered his name. Then, “Eugene” again before he turned to me. Our lips met, and the touch was more a confirmation of spirit—of the life that throbbed through us—than it was of our flesh.
“We must go back inside,” I told him. “But I will stay with you for as long as you want, for as long as you have need of me, dear.”
He reached for my hand, and we walked together, feeling for the first time like an entity; two halves of a whole which would be incomplete, even meaningless, if divided or separated, in purpose or form.
Chapter 14
Palmyra: May 1829
I was there with Georgie, on a fair May morning when the flowers were lifting their heads and reaching jauntily toward the warm sun that flooded the whole world with its light. It seemed nothing unwholesome could live in such an atmosphere. Yet, when we approached her doorstep, where a bright pot of primroses had been planted, I saw the rock that had aimed true and shattered the pot to pieces, scattering the fragments, dirt, and bits of bruised blossoms all over the porch.
Georgie leaned down with a sigh and with her hands swept a pathway for us through the debris.
“What is this?” I asked. “Who would do such a thing, Georgie? Is it a schoolboy prank?”
“I wish it were.” I followed her in to the cool sitting room and began to remove my hat. “You won’t believe me when I tell you,” she promised, placing her hat and gloves on the table and heading back to the kitchen. I followed, my interest well piqued.
“Since his arrival in Palmyra, Nathan has become good friends with the Smiths,” she began. “In fact, he greatly admires their family, and has made no secret of it.”
“And that is the problem.” Her words had chilled me. “Still, Georgie?”
“Apparently so.”
“But what have they done to offend anyone, especially of late? And what is your husband’s offense?”
“Being their friends and speaking well of them to others.”
“It cannot be as bad as that!”
“You would not think so, would you?” Georgie lit the fire under the kettle and stood on tiptoe to reach her best teacups.
“Have you any chocolate cake left?” I asked. No other cook in the whole village can touch Georgie’s chocolate cake.
“I saved a piece for you.” She smiled. “Don’t worry about this, Esther. It is nothing but petty things, such as you saw.”
“You mean this has happened before?”
“Several times. I suppose, if I think about it, we have done more to offend than merely be friendly. Nathan has asked Mr. Smith’s advice on several matters and paid him to do some little carpentry jobs for him. Why, we even had them over to share a meal one Saturday evening.”
“Stop it,” I implored, sticking my fork into the moist cake Georgie had placed before me. “You will truly spoil my appetite.”
“I know. Such behavior is disgusting as well as disgraceful.” She sat down beside me, her chin propped in her hands. “But I am still the most popular teacher in Palmyra.” The mischievous lights were beginning to dance in her eyes now. “And there is not a student, as well as most of their parents, whom Nathan has not won over entirely.”
“Nevertheless, you ought to take care.”
“Take care?” Georgie’s grin widened. “What a dismal prospect that is.”
“Georgeanna!”
“Esther, do not fuss and fret so. You’ll wear yourself out.” Georgie’s voice was tender, so I could not refrain from smiling back at her and attempting to do as she said. I knew the wisdom of her words. I finished my cake and talked babies and patterns for new spring frocks, forcing thoughts that were distressing far out of my mind.
“We came to tell you ourselves. We wanted you especially to know.”
Latisha and her Jonah stood in my kitchen fairly bubbling with excitement. “You are going to have a child!” Good news at last! “I am so happy for you.”
I hugged them both and sat to hear all their dreaming and planning.
“We want a girl—even Jonah says he prefers having a daughter first!”
“And ’Tisha has not been sick, not one day.” The proud husband beamed at her.
Would that it had been so with my Tillie! “When do you expect this happy event to take place?”
“The end of November or early December—sometime before Christmas.”
She seemed very young to me, her face lit with anticipation. And this awkward fellow so in love with her!
“There is more news,” Latisha chirped, remembering. “Georgie’s brother, James, is courting Phoebe’s sister, Lena.”
“Oh dear,” I replied, without thinking. “They are not at all suited for one another.” Latisha nodded agreement, as solemn as any old wife.
“Folk say we are not suited,” Jonah volunteered, scratching at his whiskers. “But they know less of the matter than they think.”
He did not mean it as a rebuke, I knew. Besides, I had come to be quite fond of him. “Yes, you are right,” I responded amicably. “And what’s more, when young people have their minds set, what can anyone do?”
They caught the implication in those words and Jonah grinned back at me. “But for you two I could not be happier,” I said.
They stayed a few minutes longer, before veritably floating off together. How impossible it is to judge people and situations accurately, I mused. Yet we seldom let that little truth get in our way. I had wanted to ask Jonah if he had heard any news lately of Randolph. Being on the canal, as he was, he had sent the word out for his friends to keep watch for the boy all along the route, east to Albany and west all the way to Buffalo on the shores of Lake Erie. Such a distance, with so many places where a lad alone might disappear! But he knew of my concern; surely if he had heard anything he would have contrived a way to tell me. If not, I had not wanted to dampen or in any way mar the joyous excitement they shared.
I had my own growing excitement to contend with as my wedding day drew near! Everyone shared in my happiness, except, perhaps, my mother, who was frightened at the idea of losing me, of being the only woman in her own quiet house. To do her justice, even Josephine tried to enter into the spirit of celebration. Phoebe came through for me in that sweet, quiet way of hers, creating delicate masterpieces I already cherished and hoped to hand down to my great-grandchildren. We had not spoken of Emily’s death, not once, she and I. Even Georgie thought I ought to broach the subject with her. “If she will open up to anyone, it will be you,” she said. Yet I could not do it. Something always seemed to stop me, something I could not put my finger on. So I respected her silence, enjoyed her company, and waited.
Through Eugene I knew that Maggie Wells, who had come through for us so splendidly when the twins were born, had found a wet nurse f
or the baby, and Simon was keeping her with him, though his mother had offered to take over the care of the child.
“What about your mother?” I had asked Eugene.
“She is getting on,” he reminded me, “older than Simon’s mother by ten years or more. Besides, I do not think she could bear it—a little girl who looks just like Emily.”
“I would think that could prove to be of comfort.”
“With some women it might.”
Mrs. Thorn is not my favorite person; in fact, I find little in her that speaks to me in a comfortable, intimate way. But she is Eugene’s mother, and my heart went out to her for the loss of her only daughter, the pain of which I could not even imagine.
“What is Simon naming his daughter?”
“I do not believe he can make up his mind about it,” Eugene hedged. “For a time he considered calling her Emily, too, after her mother, but he has decided against that.”
“And for something else?” Eugene was behaving a bit strangely.
“There is the name Emily had chosen for a girl,” he replied. “I do not know what you will think of it.” He continued to eye me a bit nervously.
“Well, tell me,” I urged.
“She claimed it was her favorite name, as well as . . .”
“Eugene!”
“Emily wished to call her child Esther.”
I was silent. I could not believe it. Myriad feelings washed over me, leaving me with sensations of sorrow I could not mitigate, so that the following morning I rose early and rode into Palmyra, and climbed the steep hill to the burial ground where Emily lay. I knelt beside the fresh grave, still sweetened with bunches of flowers, and spoke out loud.
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