Lost Yesterday

by Jenny Lykins

  "Is my mama sick again?"

  Thoughts of dressing down Hunter fled when she looked at that worried little face. It never occurred to her to lie.

  "Yes, sweetheart, your mama's not feeling very well."

  "Is Mama leaving again?"

  Marin wasn't sure what plans had been made. When was Delia going to leave Katie here for good?

  Delia answered the question herself. "Yes, Darling, Mama has to leave, but I will come back and visit tomorrow. Will you show your father what a big girl you are while you stay the night here?"

  Katie's eyes, perpetually wide with curiosity, suddenly glistened with unshed tears. She looked sideways at a silent Hunter, then at Marin, before looking back to her mother. Marin's heart tugged when Katie's chin began to quiver.

  "Mamie!" Marin called to the retreating back of the servant.

  "Yessam?"

  "Do I remember seeing a fresh batch of cookies being baked this morning? And don't we have quite a few lemon tarts left over from dinner last night?"

  Mamie's white smile lit up her round face. "Why, yessam. We sho do." She allowed her face to take on such an innocence Marin nearly laughed aloud. "Problem is, Miss, we cain't find nobody to eat 'em."

  "Hmmm." Marin turned to Katie, who was now watching her with a great deal of interest. "Do you happen to know anyone who could eat up some of those extra cookies?"

  Katie's quick little nod set ringlets to bouncing. "I could eat up some of those cookies!"

  "Wonderful! Do you think you could help us get rid of a few of those tarts, too?"

  This affirmative nod jostled the big blue bow into a precarious wobble.

  "The only problem is, there are so many, we may have to stay up late eating cookies and tarts. We might even have to eat them for breakfast. Do you suppose you could stay here and help us out?"

  Katie turned to her mother, who smiled her approval. Marin rose, shook out her skirts, then took Katie's hand.

  "Kiss your mama good-bye, then we'll go see what kind of damage we can do to that pile of cookies."

  Delia started to protest, "I might expose..." But in the end she pulled her daughter to her and held her hard against her breast. A single tear squeezed through her tightly shut lids, which she dabbed away before setting Katie from her. Marin blinked back some unexpected tears of her own.

  "You be a good girl. Mind your father and Miss Alexander...and your grandmother." This last seemed to be an afterthought. When Katie turned to go, Delia's voice rang a bit stronger. "I love you, Katie."

  "I love you better, Mama."

  Marin drew in a sharp, painful breath. I love you better. Of what she could remember about her father, she remembered the last words they'd spoken to each other before he got on that transport plane to go to Vietnam and die. Now here was little Katie, the same age as she when she lost her father, uttering similar words to a mother she was soon to lose. Katie's little fingers wrapped around hers. It was best they find the kitchen before Marin's memories became any more vivid.

  Hunter studied the mass of childish blue and white ruffles retreating alongside the sophisticated drapes and swags of a yellow satin bustle. But his mind was not on fashion, nor, for a change, on the woman wearing the yellow satin.

  A daughter. Good holy heavens! A daughter. Did one feel so totally unequal to the task of parenthood if one had nine months to contemplate the chore, rather than having it thrust upon him one day between breakfast and lunch?

  He swiveled his head back to Delia and stared. He expected her to squirm under his scrutiny, but she returned his level gaze.

  "She is a very good girl, Hunter. You should have no trouble with her. I have not allowed us to spend much time together, for fear of infecting her. Because of that...," she had to stop for a moment to collect herself. "Because of that she should not miss me overly much when I...leave."

  Hunter softened somewhat toward this woman who had once held the power to stir him. "Why did you not tell me of the child, Delia? Were you so repulsed by me that you would not have me as her father?"

  "On the contrary, Hunter. I am deeply ashamed of my behavior that night. Since my disease has taken its toll, I have come to understand about physical imperfections." She leaned back, allowing her spine to relax against the cushions. Clearly she was tiring to the point of exhaustion. But she was determined to have her say. "I felt, after the way I comported myself, you would be monumentally disinclined to have me for a wife. I will also admit my pride would not allow me to become your wife if your only motivation was that I was with child. I was a foolish, thoughtless girl who, too late, has grown into a very repentant woman."

  Hunter could not argue that she had changed. This forthright woman was a far cry from the overly sensitive girl he'd left heaving into a chamberpot five years earlier.

  The memory caused the puckered scars on his back and upper thigh to throb as though not yet healed. To throb as they had when Delia went into a decline at the sight of them. The softening left him as quickly as it had come.

  His jaw tightened when he turned a cold stare to her.

  "What is my daughter's full name?"

  Delia blinked at his sudden change of attitude. It was a moment before she spoke.

  "Why, her name is Kathleen Pierce Branson."

  He could not say why the second name irritated him so. He would have been even more displeased if his family name had been ignored altogether. But, damn it, Pierce should have been her surname. If he'd known he had a daughter these past years, perhaps his life would not have been so unbearably empty. However, the lack of fulfillment in his life was not a topic he allowed himself to dwell on.

  "And her date of birth?"

  "She was born so close to midnight I am not sure whether it was the eighth or the ninth of September, l872. We have always celebrated on the ninth."

  This piece of information irritated him as much as the name. His daughter should not have to wonder about her birth date. Someone should have made certain of the time.

  "Hunter, I cannot change what I did in the past. I can only apologize profoundly." Delia's voice was thready, almost breathless. "I know my vanity and immaturity caused us both a great deal of suffering. I would undo it all if I had the power.

  She struggled to the edge of her seat, then sank once more to the carpet at Hunter's feet.

  "I have been a good mother to Katie. She has always been loved, even by William. And, yes, he knew she was not his daughter." She paused, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "He was a good man. It seems I have been unduly blessed with good men in my life, for all of my fond acquaintances have been such."

  Her hand hesitated only a moment before it slowly, deliberately came to rest on his inner thigh. The rigid, gnarled scars beneath the fabric of his trousers were warmed by the heat of her hand. His eyes closed involuntarily as he fought off the sudden, sharp ache her gesture created.

  "See, Hunter? You are not repulsive. It is only the small mind of a woman too blind to look beyond the scars that is repulsive. Promise me you will remember that."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Delia was dead.

  Marin couldn't believe the lovely woman she'd just met yesterday was now being prepared for burial, and Hunter was asking her to help make arrangements for the funeral.

  Lucretia, Delia's servant, had arrived at the crack of dawn with the news. The distraught woman sat across from Hunter and Marin, sniffling into a handkerchief Hunter had produced.

  "It like she got her job done here. You say you'll take the little Miss in, and Miss Delia knowed you be a good man. That chile just lay her head down last night and finally let herself rest." A fresh spate of keening started up.

  Not quite sure of exactly how to react to this magnitude of mourning, and not even convinced that it was entirely sincere, Marin half-heartedly patted Lucretia on the back and made soothing noises.

  Hunter cleared his throat. He rubbed his hand across his morning stubble, the rasping sound muted by all the sniffling. />
  "Do you know anything of children, Miss Alexander?"

  So he was back to calling her Miss Alexander. She noticed he only called her that when he was irritated with her or uncomfortable. Right now it was definitely the latter. He sat in the chair, his hair in tousled spikes from a restless night, the belt of his wine-colored brocade dressing gown knotted haphazardly at his waist. A socially unacceptable amount of tanned, muscled chest exposed itself in the deep V of the lapels. He must really be upset to allow such a breach of etiquette, she thought.

  The thought prompted her to check her own appearance, which found the folds of her dressing gown gaping open. Her nightgown provided only a little camouflage to what lay beneath. She jerked the edges of her robe together and held them in a death grip. She realized she hadn't answered him when he expanded on his first question.

  "Have you any experience with delivering bad news to children? How do we go about telling Katie of her mother's death?"

  Good question. Marin had no idea.

  "I babysat kids when I was a teenager, but I never - "

  Hunter scowled at her. "Miss Alexander, would you mind speaking plain English for a change?"

  "Babysitting, Hunter, is what we call keeping children where I come from." Her stare challenged him to ask her where that would be.

  His scowl only deepened. Lucretia looked at them both as if they'd taken leave of their senses.

  Marin realized she was doing what she always did in the face of death. Ignoring it. She'd had enough experience to recognize the symptoms. She released a frustrated sigh.

  "All I know is that Katie is too young to fully understand the meaning of death. The best way, I guess, is to put it as simply as possible in words she can understand."

  Hunter considered the advice while Lucretia renewed her howling. Marin decided the best thing to do was to get rid of Lucretia before Katie came downstairs and saw the woman throwing her apron over her head. That wasn't the way she would want to remember hearing about her mother's death.

  "You say you have Katie's things out in a wagon?" She leaned forward and put her hand on Lucretia's arm. "Why don't we get one of the men to bring them in?"

  Lucretia nodded and stopped her caterwauling. She spoke in between sniffs. "All her things, theys out in the wagon." Sniff. "Miss Delia, bless her soul, make me promise to bring them to the chile first thing." Sniff.

  "Well, let's go see what you have." Marin stood, then helped the portly servant to her feet. The hanky fell to the floor, and Marin scooped it up and handed it back to Lucretia. Apparently this was a cue to begin mourning again, for she let forth a moan that started deep in her chest and echoed through the entry hall. Marin hustled her out the front door before another moan had a chance to erupt.

  *******

  Hunter was grateful to Marin for dispatching the tedious servant as soon as possible. She'd sent her back to the hotel to collect Delia's effects and bring them to Pierce Hall, before the management found out one of their patrons had died of tuberculosis.

  He assumed Marin was dressing now. He heard her in her room when he left his. They had decided to dress and then meet in the parlor. He balked at breaking the news to Katie alone. A woman's presence might soften the blow, and his mother wasn't the woman to soften anything.

  Marin entered the parlor just moments after he did. Neither spoke. They just exchanged uneasy glances. The clock on the mantel chimed eight o'clock. They both stared at it as if it tolled their doom.

  Marin sank to the deep peach loveseat in a rustle of black cotton. He watched her spend several seconds arranging her skirts precisely, then jump and turn in her seat at the sound of someone approaching.

  Thankfully it was not his mother. It was much too early for her to be up and about. The footsteps were the quiet click click of tiny feet descending stairs one at a time. Along with them was the gentle scuff of Mamie's slippered feet.

  The pair came into view on the staircase, then seconds later they appeared at the parlor door. Hunter walked over and scooped Katie into his arms when Mamie relinquished her hold on the child's hand.

  The dear old black woman's eyes shone with unshed tears. She stretched out an arthritic hand and patted Hunter on the cheek.

  "She a sweet youngun, Mistah Hunt. You break it to her gentle, for ole Mamie."

  "I will do my best, Mamie."

  He turned his gaze onto his newfound daughter and wondered if he could ever do or say anything that might break her heart.

  She smiled up at him, some of her shyness from the day before already gone. The pink of her dress accented the bloom in her chubby little cheeks, the remnant of a milk mustache from breakfast still coated her upper lip. In her fist she held a half-eaten sugar cookie.

  He glanced at Mamie. She speared him with a mutinous look before shuffling from the room.

  "Is my mama here?"

  Reckoning time. He looked to Marin, then carried Katie to the loveseat and sat beside the woman who was here for moral support. It was the closest he'd ever allowed himself to get to her.

  Katie's little feet dangled between them. When she took a bite of her cookie, sugary crumbs showered down on the back of Hunter's hand. White flecks of cookie disappeared into the black folds of Marin's skirts. Hunter stared at those folds and tried to organize his thoughts. A knot of sympathy formed in his throat.

  "Katie, your mama cannot come today."

  Katie took another bite of cookie and wiggled her feet.

  "Why?"

  "Well, because...your mama..." He looked up at Marin, his eyes beseeching her to help.

  Marin took Katie's free hand in both of hers and spoke in her most gentle voice.

  "Did your mommy teach you about Jesus, Katie?"

  Katie nodded and took another bite of cookie.

  "Well, your mommy has gone to live with Jesus so she won't be sick anymore. She wanted to stay here with you, but she was too sick. The only way she could get better was to go and live with Jesus."

  Katie thought about this for a moment, then asked, "When will Mama come back?"

  Hunter's heart lurched. He answered her in a quiet voice, "She cannot come back, Katie."

  Katie's feet stopped wiggling, her cookie fell from her hand. She studied both faces with her big, blue eyes as wide as saucers. Then she bowed her head and curled into a tight little ball on Hunter's lap. From amidst all the ruffles and flounces of pink dimity, her tiny voice could barely be heard.

  "I want my mama."

  *******

  Marin had never been to a more miserable funeral in all her life. Miserable in every aspect. The only way it could possibly have been worse was if Lucille had seen fit to attend. Thank God she had done her usual over-reacting when Delia announced her disease. The morning after Delia's death she had defied nature by getting up before everyone else and being gone before breakfast. Marin didn't envy the "friends" in Natchez who were about to get an extended visit from Lucille "until the poisonous, tainted air dissipates."

  Yes, only Lucille's presence could have made things worse.

  No more than a handful of people showed up to mourn Delia's passing. Marin had overheard one woman complain that her husband forced her to come because Hunter was a business associate. It seemed - thanks, most probably to Lucille - the news traveled quickly of Delia's fall from grace by producing an illegitimate child. And in that time-honored fashion, she was ostracized - even in death - while the father of the child suffered nothing.

  She glared at Hunter from across the carriage seat. His only response was to raise a questioning eyebrow.

  The minister had taken it upon himself to save every soul in attendance. He'd droned on for two solid hours while Delia lay in state in front of him. When some of the so-called mourners had the nerve to express their displeasure at the open casket, a stony-faced Hunter put a stop to their grumblings with a terse, "It was at her request." After that, half the assembly sat breathing through hankys pressed to their faces. No doubt the hypocrites were in mo
rtal fear of contracting her disease.

  Marin felt that Delia was having the last laugh on these old biddies. The very ones who hadn't allow their skirts to touch hers were now forced to sit and stare at her dead countenance.

  The church had been stifling. Marin's black faille gown had acted like a heat magnet and was covered in no time with sweat stains. And it seemed the majority of the people who had been forced or seen fit to show up for the service were those who still held with the belief that bathing too often was unhealthy. Lord, Marin thought, unhealthy for the people who had to breathe near them.

  Thank God, Hunter had listened to her and left Katie home.

  The misery of the day lingered even now. They had seen Lucretia onto a riverboat so that she could return to her family in New Orleans, then turned the carriage toward home. The horses kicked up so much dust Marin was sure she would suffocate before they arrived.

  Finally they came to a stop in front of the house. A boy ran out from the stables to take the reins. Hunter leapt down, then swung Marin down before she had a chance to think. The heat of his hands burned through all her layers of clothing.

  Embarrassment flashed through her. She knew the fabric was as damp as if she'd been caught in a summer shower. He wasted no time in removing his hands. In fact, he let go of her almost before she hit the ground, so that she stumbled and had to grab for the carriage wheel.

  She glared up at him and swiped some imaginary dirt from her black skirts.

  "Thanks a lot, Hunter. I could have fallen out of the carriage without your help."

  "I apologize, Miss Alexander. My hands seem to have slipped."

  They continued to trade glares until they got into the house. When they passed the parlor, Marin meant to go her separate way, but they were brought up short by the sight of Katie sitting in the middle of the Aubusson carpet with every toy Lucretia had brought scattered around her. Mamie sat beside her, a huge mountain of coffee-colored flesh, trying to cajole the little girl into taking interest in one of the toys.