A Lantern in the Window

by Bobby Hutchinson

  The need for a woman in his bed had been growing more urgent as time blurred the pain of Molly's death. Part of him had been anticipating the bodily pleasure of having a woman beneath him again.

  But this woman—well, it wasn’t at all certain she’d be staying, he reminded himself. God only knew what the real facts were about her, and until he knew for certain, he’d not be beguiled by the demands of a healthy body.

  A horrible thought struck him. Maybe she’d lied about working in the mill. Maybe she’d been a strumpet, a woman of easy virtue.

  But reason asserted itself. Surely there was something about her, a kind of innocence, that would be impossible to pretend?

  But what was the truth? He was convinced that hardly one single thing she’d said about herself in those damnable letters was the least bit honest. At the thought of her duplicity, he grew angry all over again, and he held firmly to his righteous outrage the rest of the drive home.

  Once there, he tended to the horses in the bam, threw hay down for the livestock and, finally, headed for the house. For the first time, he didn’t feel his usual pleasure and anticipation about coming home. He was troubled more than he cared to admit about the forthcoming scene with the woman inside.

  As he climbed the porch steps and opened the door, he remembered something a friend had said about a neighbor’s marital trouble: “Marry in haste, repent at leisure.”

  Noah’s mouth twisted in a bitter smile as he opened the door. It seemed there was a lot of truth to the old saw after all.

  He wasn't sure exactly what he expected, but to his immense relief, all was quiet, peaceful, and blessedly warm inside. The room was tidy, and the table was set for his meal.

  There was silence from his father’s room and no sign of the younger girl. Annie was curled in a ball on the sofa, sound asleep.

  The door banged when he closed it. She let out a small cry of alarm and sat bolt upright, sleepy green eyes wide and startled.

  She was wearing a clean but rumpled blue checked dress, and her hair was even wilder than before, curling in fiery disarray around her face and neck. She reached up to tidy it, and he couldn’t help but notice the slight, delicate curves of her body.

  She wasn’t wearing shoes or slippers; all she had on her narrow, long feet were white cotton stockings that seemed more mends than fabric. There was a fragility about her that threatened to soften the hardness in his heart if he weren’t careful.

  “Hello.” He bent to remove his boots. He hung his coat and hat up and made his way to the washstand, rolling up shirt and underwear sleeves and lathering his face, neck, and arms thoroughly. He tugged a comb through his thick, tangled hair without so much as a glance in the wavy mirror on the wall above the basin.

  He didn’t give a damn what she thought about the way he looked, he told himself sternly.

  “I put Bets to bed in the room at the top of the

  stairs. I hope that’s all right,” she said.

  He nodded. “It was my father’s room. I had to move him down when the first housekeeper came. Her legs were bad and she couldn’t climb up and down the steps.” He didn't add that the little room his father now occupied had once belonged to his baby son. He’d packed the cradle and the tiny clothing, along with Molly's things, up to the attic and never set foot there again.

  "You have a lovely house,” she said shyly, and added, “Your dinner’s waiting.”

  She’d set a place for him at the table, and now she filled a bowl with hot soup and put sliced bread in front of him. “You want coffee?”

  "Yes, please.” He’d grown accustomed to serving himself. It was pleasant to have her see to his needs.

  She filled a cup from the enamel pot on the back of the stove and set it before him along with a pitcher of milk. When his needs were tended to, she poured herself coffee as well and took the chair opposite him at the table.

  "The storm’s stopped,” she said in a conversational tone.

  "Yes, it’s died down. Temperature’s dropping, though. It’ll be a cold night.”

  Obviously, she’d decided to postpone serious discussion until after he’d eaten, and he was grateful. He was as hungry as a wolf. He spooned in the delicious soup, sopping up the juice with thick slabs of bread. She sipped her coffee and refilled his soup bowl before he could ask, and once she got up and restocked the heater. In spite of himself, he noticed how quick she was, lithe and light on her feet.

  When at last he was comfortably full, he sat back with a second mug of coffee, wondering just where to begin, and while he pondered, she bested him.

  "I made your father’s acquaintance,” she said in a quiet tone. "He wanted water, and when I brought it, he spilled it and threw the glass at me. I didn’t clean up the splinters. I was afraid he might take it in his head to hit me with that cane if I ventured back in there. He’s not very easy to get on with.”

  So instead of accusing her the way he’d planned, Noah somehow found himself on the defensive. "My father had a stroke just before Christmas. Before that, he was a strong and independent man.”

  He’d also been Noah’s best friend. “He finds it hard to be bedridden and helpless.”

  She gave him a level look. "I can understand that. It’s a terrible thing to depend on other people for everything. But you didn’t tell me how sick he really was, in your letters. You said he was in ill health, but I took that to mean he’d get better. Is he going to?”

  He blew out his breath and shook his head, holding her gaze. It was hard to put into words, hard to believe even after all these months, that his father had become the pitiful, angry man in the bed in the other room. The agony in Noah's heart made it hard to speak. “No. This is pretty much how it’s going to be, according to Doc Witherspoon.”

  She nodded slowly, a frown creasing her brow. "And he needs a whole lot of caring for.” It wasn’t a question.

  A muscle in Noah’s jaw twitched as he saw the direction this was taking. "Yes, he does.” His voice was dangerously quiet. She wasn't about to have this her own way. He took control again, his voice harsh. “And I don't suppose you know any more about taking care of sick folks than you do about farming,” he said.

  “Matter of fact, I do.” She lifted her chin and looked him square in the eye. "My mama was sick for two years before she died, and between us Bets and I cared for her as well as we knew. The last few months, she couldn’t get out of bed either.”

  “And where was your father?” He watched her closely, wondering how he’d even know if she was lying again.

  She met his eyes, honest and forthright, and her full lips tightened. Her expression made her look much older suddenly. "He was drunk, mostly. He wasn’t mean, like some who drink, just sad and useless. He never could keep a job very long.”

  Noah knew of men who drank. He enjoyed a whisky now and then, but along with all the other things Zach had taught him was a respect for spirits and what they could do to a man.

  "How did you live?”

  “My mama was a seamstress, a good one. She managed to feed us and pay the rent until she got sick,” Annie said. “Then I got the job in the factory, and that helped. But after Mama died, I couldn’t manage any more to feed us and pay the rent, so Bets had to start working too.” A haunted look came and went on her face. "Bets isn't as strong as me. The air’s bad in a factory, and she coughed a lot.”

  She interpreted the look on his face and added defensively, "She isn’t an invalid, honest. All she needs is some fresh air and good food, and she’ll be fine again. She hasn’t got consumption, or anything bad like that.”

  He didn’t comment, because he had his doubts. Instead, he went doggedly on. “You said in one letter that your father was dead. Is that true?” What if her sop of a n’er-do-well father turned up, looking to Noah to support him? He shuddered. There were aspects to this proxy marriage that Noah had never thought about till now.

  But she answered promptly, and unless she was an accomplished actress, Noah was convin
ced she was being honest.

  “Papa’s been dead four years now. He fell and hit his head one night coming from the tavern, and he died the next day.”

  It was a relief to hear it, although naturally Noah didn’t say so.

  “Who taught you to read and write?” He’d been impressed by her letter-writing ability, and he found himself liking the proper way she talked. She sounded educated, a rare thing in a woman of her background.

  “My mama taught both my sister and me,” she said proudly. "Her father was a schoolteacher. He taught her. We had books.”

  “Reading’s fine, but do you know how to cook?” He was plain fed up with the meals he was forced to throw together. They’d given him a new respect for good food.

  She hesitated. “Some. A little. Plain food, mostly. We never had money for anything fancy. Bets is real good at making soup.”

  “You said you grew up on a farm,” he went on relentlessly. “You talked of making butter, of milking cows, of growing a garden.” More lies, he reminded himself again. “How’d you know what to say about those things?”

  She looked down at the table, her finger circling a mark on the cloth. “I have a good friend, our landlady, Elinora Potts. Elinora grew up on a farm. She helped me.” She raised her eyes and met his accusing gaze with rebellious courage. “See, I’d answered three other advertisements before yours, and I was truthful in them, and not one man wrote back to me.”

  So he’d been the bottom of the barrel. It wasn't exactly flattering, but somehow it amused him.

  "Don’t you see, Mr. Ferguson, I just had to get Bets out of there?” she went on, her voice trembling. "She’d have died." She leaned her arms on the table and bent towards him, intent on making him understand. “Have you ever been inside a cotton factory, Mr. Ferguson?”

  He shook his head no. He was intrigued by the fierce passion in her voice, the fire smoldering in her green eyes. Against his will, he was drawn to her. Whatever else she was, she was wholly alive and very female, this Annie.

  She didn’t seem to notice that he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  “Cotton factories aren’t healthy. The air's full of lint, it’s hot all the time; a shift’s twelve hours with only a few minutes for lunch, and you’ve got to pay close attention every second. Many girls are injured or killed at the machines. Wintertime, you never see daylight at all.” She tapped a forefinger against her chest. “Me, I’m tough.”

  The assertion made Noah want to smile. She sat there, in her washed-out blue dress, her body so thin it seemed a good wind would blow her away.

  “I got used to it. But Bets—” her eyes welled with sudden tears and she brushed them away with her palm. “She’s my baby sister, Mr. Ferguson. I promised Mama I’d take care of her." There was a desperate plea in her voice, and Noah couldn’t help the flood of sympathy her words aroused.

  "When I saw your advertisement, it felt like a last chance to save her. I—I was scared. She was coughing all the time. She’s all I have for family. So I”— the rest of the sentence burst out in a flurry of words—“well, that’s why I wasn't honest in most of what I told you.”

  In spite of himself, her story touched him, but he didn’t let any of what he felt show on his face. A great deal depended on the next few moments, and he didn’t want to make a mistake that would be hard to rectify.

  He narrowed his eyes at her, and his voice was deliberately harsh. "The last thing I need is another invalid in this house. Life out here in the West is tough. It takes able-bodied people all their time just to survive. Far as I can see, you didn’t give much thought to that when you brought your sister here. There’s drought and frost and pestilence, hail storms that can level a man’s crops. There’s wild animals and Indians that can kill him and his family. There’s no one to call on for help. It’s a half-day’s drive into town and an hour and a half just to get to the Hopkins place. Ranching is backbreaking hard work for everybody. Come spring, I’ll be in the fields from sunup to sundown."

  "I told you I was a good worker,” she pleaded. "I’ll prove it if you give me a chance. Just tell me what you need done, and I’ll do my best."

  “I don’t want any misunderstandings about how hard it will be.” Noah drew in a breath and let it out again. "You’ve seen how my father is,” he said deliberately. "I’d expect you to take good care of him in spite of his temper. You’d have to tend to all the household chores, the chickens, the garden, the pigs. If I can’t get a hired hand, I’ll need you to help with haying in the fall. My advice would be to take your sister and hightail it back to the city.”

  She stared at him, waiting for him to go on. When he didn’t she said in a hesitant tone, "You’re trying to scare me off, aren’t you? You’re leaving it for me to decide whether we should stay or go.”

  Noah nodded. "I am. And now that you know exactly how it would be, seems to me you should give some serious thought to leaving.”

  She eyed him warily, as if there were a trap here somewhere. “But you’re not sending us back?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t say I’m entirely happy with the way things turned out, but the simple fact is, I need help. I need a wife.” It was the raw, honest truth.

  She looked into his face, her wide-spaced eyes somber. After a moment she lifted her chin and said firmly, “Then we’re staying. I'm used to hard work, like I said. Besides,” she added as her eyes dropped to the oilcloth and her voice became suddenly less certain than before, "we—we’re married, you and I, before God.”

  He nodded. “We are that.” Something inside him eased, relieved at her words.

  "There’s one more thing, though.” She was agitated, twisting a bit of her skirt between her fingers, unable to look at him now. "There’s another thing I didn’t tell you that probably will make you—make you change your mind after all. I—I was wrong, not telling you before,” she added, and for the first time, there was outright panic in her voice. "You have to know, you'll find out anyway soon enough,” she added miserably.

  Her expression, the quaver in her voice, told him that this was far more significant than anything else she’d lied about. Noah felt his stomach clench. What terrible thing was she about to reveal?

  "It’s—it’s—ummm, it’s my sister, Bets.” Now her words tumbled out, one on top of the other. "She's— she’s the sweetest girl, and smart as a whip, but— well, she got a fever when she was a baby, not even two years old.” She still wasn’t meeting his eyes, and he frowned, confused.

  He’d expected some damning, shoddy confession about herself, and instead Annie was talking about her sister? Puzzlement furrowed his brow.

  "After it left her—the fever, I mean—well, she— she couldn’t—she didn’t—she was—” her eyes were enormous as they met to his. "Bets didn’t hear us anymore.” Her breath came out in a quavering sigh. "It affected her ears. What I didn’t tell you was that my sister is stone deaf, Mr. Ferguson.”

  Chapter Four

  A log fell in the stove, and from the bedroom came the muffled sound of Zachary snoring.

  Noah stared across the table at this woman he’d married, feeling the strangest mixture of compassion, impatience, desire—and outrage.

  What miserable kind of man did she take him for, to think that her sister’s affliction was something he couldn’t accept? The other things she’d lied about, her knowledge of farming life, for instance, those things were serious, they would mean he’d have to take precious time to teach her all the things he’d thought she already knew. But deafness . . .

  "Having a deaf sister seems to me to be a fact of life and nothing to feel shame over,” he said, and his reward was the astonished relief that slowly mirrored itself on her mobile features.

  "There are practical matters to consider, of course,” he added. "Does she talk?”

  Annie shook her head. “She makes sounds, but they’re hard to understand. She lip-reads well, and we have hand signals that mean different things. They’re not hard to learn
,” she assured him eagerly. "I can easily teach you, if you want to learn.”

  He nodded. “I do. I want there to be good understanding between me and the girl.”

  Annie suddenly seemed to droop, like a candle burning down. Her shoulders, held high and tense, relaxed now, and her hands fell to her lap. Her full lips parted, and the small, worried crease between her delicate brows smoothed away.

  "I do thank you, Mr. Ferguson,” she breathed, her voice husky and low. “I truly think you are a kind, good man.”

  Noah's face reddened at her compliment, and he cleared his throat, embarrassed. "Enough of this calling me Mr. Ferguson,” he said gruffly. "It makes me feel old and downright doddery. Call me Noah.”

  "All right, Noah,” she said with a quick, almost mischievous grin.

  “Annie,” he responded formally, trying the feel of it on his tongue and lips.

  Annie, his wedded wife.

  They sat in silence for several long, charged minutes, each realizing that what had passed between them just now was a commitment, a true beginning to their life together.

  Whatever the future held, they would face it united.

  Not with bonds of love, Noah assured himself, never that, never again, but instead, those of responsibility, of mutual commitment to the common purpose of making a decent life for themselves in a difficult land.

  The clock chimed eleven and Noah stood up, uncomfortably aware that although they’d crossed one dangerous abyss, another yawned right in front of them.

  "Time for bed." He did his best to make it casual, but there was a tension in his tone he couldn’t seem to hide. There was also tension in his body, anticipating the act he’d missed so sorely for so long.

  She nodded and rose, and he could see the flush that crept from the demure neck of her gown all the way to her hairline. Her eyes slid toward the door of his bedroom and away.

  New questions sprang into his mind, questions he couldn't ask. Earlier, he’d suspected her of being a whore. Now it crossed his mind that perhaps she was a virgin.