The Twelfth Child
A novel
by Bette Lee Crosby
Cover Design:
Michael G. Visconte
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Stuart, Florida
Copyright © 2012 by Bette Lee Crosby
ISBN # 978-0-9838879-6-6
BENT PINE PUBLISHING
Port Saint Lucie, FL
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This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
Contents
Acknowledgements
Abigail Lannigan
The Shenandoah Valley
Abigail Anne Lannigan
The Hard Years
Troubled Times
Beyond the Valley
Middleboro, Virginia
End of an Era
The Blind Eye of Justice
Three Months Later
Additional Novels by Bette Lee Crosby
Acknowledgments
I am deeply thankful to the following people, all of whom helped me breathe life into this story: Our dear friends, Bruce and Marie Libby, for time spent sharing their stories and the reams of background research they provided. Leon Goolsby, for sharing his extensive knowledge of the Shenandoah Valley and Southern farm life. Lucille Schiavone, my first reader, and the truest advisor an author could hope to have. Fellow author Sunny Serafino, for reading every word of the manuscript and helping to push the stumbling blocks aside.
My sister, Geri Conway, for shared secrets, heartfelt support and never-ending encouragement. The ladies of the Analyze This Book Club, who month after month provide a wealth of warm stories and chilled wine.
And, my Mother, whose delightful Southern voice still echoes in my ear and provides an endless source of inspiration.
But, most of all, I thank my husband, Richard, for reasons too numerous to name.
Abigail Lannigan
Born – August, 1912
I was barely thirteen years old when Mama died and left me and Will in the care of Papa, a man who’d think nothing of shoving a dose of castor oil down my throat just so he could watch my face turn inside out. “It’s good for what ails you,” he’d say; yet, I noticed he never gave Will the same big dose. Papa didn’t say it in precise words, but he made it clear enough he wouldn’t give two hoots if all the girl babies in Chestnut Ridge, Virginia, were in the graveyard along with Mama. Of course with him being a staunch Methodist, I don’t believe Papa was capable of taking a butcher knife and slicing off heads or anything; but he surely knew how to destroy people from the inside—a sliver of spirit, a piece of pride, a chunk of heart—until one day there’s nothing left but a walking around shell to do the cooking and laundry.
It’s a roundabout story, but Papa’s blind-sightedness is the very reason Destiny Fairchild may end up in the Women’s Correctional Facility—which is a fancy way of saying penitentiary. Everybody’s life could have been a whole lot different if Mama hadn’t died before she got a chance to set things right. She was the one to tell Papa there were two sides to every story and he should have the fairness of mind to hear them all the way through. Will, bless his heart, wasn’t the least bit like Papa; nonetheless, we’d get to scrapping over something—who was smarter, who slacked on their chores, who said what and who didn’t—and that’s when Mama stepped in. She’d make us sit at the kitchen table and tell both versions of how the tussle got started. After everything was all explained, she’d generally say we should be ashamed of ourselves, fussing over such a bit of nonsense when here we were twins, born of the same seed, a brother and sister, linked together for life. More often than not, she’d dole out a punishment that involved standing in opposite corners of the room and thinking things over for a while.
Unfortunately, Destiny didn’t have Mama to see to the fairness of things before they got out of hand; besides, in her case there were three sides, hers, Elliott’s and mine. Problem is, no one’s ever heard mine—not even Judge Kensington.
The Shenandoah Valley
1912
In the spring of 1912, Livonia Lannigan’s body grew round and firm. Her breasts became heavy and her stomach swelled to a great size. She took to leaving the waistband buttons of her dresses unhooked but even so could barely fit into the clothes she had worn just one year ago. The cotton bodices pressed tight against her tender breasts and she worried that it might stifle the milk flow needed for the baby so she loosened them whenever she was alone. Last summer her ankles and feet had not swollen, now they throbbed and were thick and heavy as ham hocks. All of these discomforts were of no concern to Livonia as she was thankful for the size of her stomach, surely an indication that this baby was growing robust and healthy. When walking became painful she sat on the front porch, rocking back and forth so slowly that at times she appeared motionless. For hours on end she would remain that way, waiting to feel movement from the baby that would come in September. Every night she crouched down with her knees pressing against the hardwood floor and her hands folded across the rise of her stomach. “Please God,” she would pray, “help me to deliver a healthy son for William.”
Her first baby boy had died before he was christened or even named. The birth came two months early, on the second Wednesday in August—a day when William rode off to the Lexington Market long before the cock crowed. Livonia blamed no one but herself, for it was she who felt such a burning hunger for the cool breezes of the Rappahannock River. It had been a brutal summer—almost no rain, the earth so dry that gritty dust rose from nothing more than the flutter of a bird’s wing, and a dark red sand settled into Livonia’s pores and stripped her hair of its luster. On that fateful day, her only intent was to cool herself; to sit beneath a shady oak tree and perhaps dangle her feet into the edge of the water. She saddled Whisper, a mare named for her gentleness, and rode out beyond the meadow. The animal moved along at an easy canter, slowing when she came to a dry stream bed or overgrown thicket, seemingly aware of the precious cargo she carried. No one could have known that a flock of wild turkeys would tear across the pathway and startle the poor mare so that without warning she’d rear up and throw the rider. Late that afternoon the animal returned home with an empty saddle; she stood there alongside the barn and waited.
William did not return from Lexington until almost nightfall. The much needed rain had started that afternoon and on three different
occasions he was forced to climb from the wagon and walk the skittish horse through a flooded gully in the road. He was wet and weary when he arrived home and it angered him that Livonia had not lit a lamp in the window. He did not see the still-saddled mare until he pulled close by the barn. As he guided both animals into the barn, he wondered if Livonia would have been foolish enough to go riding in this weather; and a sense of dread settled over him as he hurried to the house calling out for his wife.
When William heard nothing but the sound of his own voice echoing back from the mountains, he took a lantern in his hand, folded an extra blanket beneath the mare’s saddle, and started across the meadow in search of his wife. The rain had washed away any trail she might have left, so William had to rely solely upon his understanding of Livonia’s nature to figure out which way she had traveled. He rode for three hours, calling her name out as he went, “Livonia, Livonia.” He finally came upon her lying in the mud of the narrow pathway and nearly unconscious; a bloody baby was locked in her arms. The baby’s eyes were closed and its tiny fingers curled into fists. When William lifted the dead baby and saw it was a boy, he let out a wail so mournful that folks say it echoed up and down Massanutten Ridge for days afterward.
William Lannigan was a man who worked from sunup ‘till sundown. He plowed and planted, harvested the crops and whatever produce he didn’t use to feed his family, he carted off to market in the back of a horse drawn wagon. He single-handedly loaded his bushel baskets of apples onto the wagon and traveled twenty-three miles back and forth to the Lexington Market. Even in the drought years when many Shenandoah Valley farmers abandoned the fruitless land, he stayed, worked the farm, and eked out a living for his family. When the orchards failed, he planted corn and beans and tomatoes. His father before him had done the same, only his father had three stropping sons to help with the labor. William, being the eldest, had inherited the farm. A farm he would one day pass down to his own eldest son. But last November William turned fifty-six; he was feeling the weight of a man who had fathered seven girl babies and two boys, three if you include the dead child of his fourth wife Livonia. Not one of his boys had lived to see five years of age. William had already made his decision—if Livonia failed to produce a healthy baby boy this time, he would burn the crops and let the land lay fallow for all eternity.
In the last week of August, when the temperature in the valley was at an all time high, Livonia noticed a red stain on her panties and flew into a panic. Not again, she thought. It was too early. She had another three or four weeks before her time. It can’t happen to this baby, not this baby she repeated over and over in her mind; all the while reminding herself how everything in the valley got dusted over with the gritty red sand that rose from the earth in the heat of summer. This time, she had done nothing to cause a miscarriage; she had weeded the garden and gathered eggs early in the morning then stayed indoors when the sun was at high noon. Twice a day she had sat in the rocker and done nothing but rest. She knew this was a healthy baby; she had felt him moving. When he kicked and squirmed beneath her skin, she soothed his restlessness with the gentle stroke of her hand and a whispered lullaby. This time Livonia had done nothing wrong. Nothing. She went to the bedroom and checked her panties against the red discoloration on her white smock but it was not the same. The smock had splotches of a reddish brown color, the panties were the color of watered down pig’s blood. Livonia went to the front porch and rang the large copper bell with a firm hand. The clang echoed through the mountains, loud and clear for almost five minutes. As she waited, Livonia sat down in the rocker and prayed.
That afternoon William rode across the valley and deep into Bear Trap Hollow. “Ruby, you’ve got to come now,” he cried out as he pounded his fist against the cabin door.
A stoop shouldered woman with skin splotched and rutted by time and hardship pulled open the door. “Stop hollering,” she said, “babies come in their own sweet time.”
“This time it’s different. Livonia is swelled up to the size of a cow and she’s started to bleed. You’ve got to come and stay with her ‘till this baby is birthed.” The midwife refused to leave before she finished her chores, so William waited as she fed the chickens and two tiger-striped cats. She then sat at the table and penned a note for her brother, who was in the woods cutting timber. It seemed an eternity until the old woman tucked a package of herbs and potions inside the worn saddlebag and climbed astride an aging mule to follow him back down the mountainside.
It was almost dark when they reached the Lannigan farm but Livonia was still sitting in the rocker, kneading her stomach with circular strokes and singing a lullaby she remembered from childhood.
“Child, you need to come inside and lie down in the bed. Ruby’s here now, you’re gonna be just fine.” A bony hand took hold of Livonia’s arm and she rose from the rocker. “In no time at all, you’ll have yourself a fine new baby.”
The baby did not come that night, or the next day. Ruby brewed a tincture of loganberry tea and had Livonia drink three cups; then she sat her into a tub of warm water and rubbed juniper oil and mustard powder on the swollen stomach to ease the pain. On three separate occasions Ruby felt the rise and fall of movement within Livonia and said, “There’s more than one baby inside of you.” The old woman even put her ear to Livonia’s stomach and listened for the baby’s heartbeat. “Two,” she said. “Two heartbeats, two babies.” But for three days there was no baby, only pain.
On the fourth day, a sudden rush of warm water ran down Livonia’s legs and she called out for Ruby.
“This is it, honey,” Ruby grinned an almost toothless smile. “That baby’s coming; before noontime he’ll be suckling at your breast.” But hour after passed and it was almost dinnertime before the first baby arrived—a boy, small in size but healthy and squalling. The sky had turned to an ominous black before the second baby was born—this one a girl, smaller than the boy, but healthy.
Ruby called out to the barn for William to come. “You got yourself a healthy boy,” she said handing him the first baby. “Matter of fact, you got two babies.”
“Both boys?”
“No. The second one’s a girl—a mite small, but healthy enough.”
“Oh,” William answered, then walked away with the boy in his arms and did not turn back to see the second baby. “William,” he said aloud. “I’ll name him William after myself and my father, and his father before him. William Lannigan. The young master of what will one day be the finest farm in the Shenandoah Valley.”
From her bed Livonia could see William holding the boy baby in his arms. She cuddled the girl closer to her breast and whispered, “It’s okay, sweetheart, don’t worry. Your Papa’s gonna love you too, he just needs time.”
Livonia wanted to believe her own words, but thoughts of William’s behavior kept her from sleep. Late that night, after both babies had been tucked into the same cradle, she heard someone moving about the parlor. She knew who it was by the shuffle of heavy boots. The footsteps stopped for a moment then a flicker of light came from the doorway. The lamp had been lit. William never liked to sit in the parlor, so why would he do it in the middle of the night? Curious, Livonia climbed from the bed and tiptoed into the hallway; she remained back in the shadows where she could see but not be seen. She watched as William took a key from the top ledge of his grandfather’s secretary; unlocked the cabinet door and removed a large black book. He then lowered the writing shelf and took a pen in his hand. For a long moment he sat there leafing through the pages and shaking his head in the most sorrowful way. He paused for a moment, wiped his hand across his eyes, and then started to write. After only a few strokes of his pen, he replaced the book and closed the cabinet door. Livonia slipped back into bed before she was discovered.
The next morning William rode off to the fields as he did every day and Ruby readied herself to leave. “You take care of that little girl,” the old woman told Livonia. “The mister will see to the boy, but that sweet little thing is
gonna have a hard time of it. I can feel it in my bones.”
“He’ll come to love her too,” Livonia answered. “He just needs time.”
“Mind my words, Missy, that little girl needs to know she’s loved cause she’s gonna walk a mighty rocky road. I know these things. I got a sense of the future; I see things most people won’t never see.” Ruby pulled a tiny leather pouch from her pocket; it was cracked and weathered, but wound tight with a yellow tie. “You put this under her pillow every night. She’ll grow strong, able to get by no matter what meanness comes her way.” She placed the gift in the palm of Livonia’s hand. “Don’t undo the tie and don’t tell nobody you got it.”
“What’s inside?”
“Courage; it came from the heart of a she-wolf.” Ruby hoisted herself astride the mule and started down the road. Only once did she stop and call back, “Mind my words, missy, mind my words.” The old woman with her scrawny legs hooked around the belly of a gray mule then disappeared around the bend. For a few minutes Livonia stood there letting Ruby’s words take root in her heart; then before the trail of red dust settled, she started down the road after the old woman.
“Wait, Ruby!” she called out; but by time she reached the bend, the old woman was gone. “Please, please don’t go …” Livonia sobbed but her words were swallowed by the mountain mist and she was left with only the sound of a frail echo.
Livonia returned to the house and lifted the smallest baby from the cradle. “You’re our precious baby girl,” she cooed. “Of course your Papa’s gonna love you. He just had his mind set on a boy. Give him time, honey, just give him time.”
During the laziest part of the afternoon, after William had eaten his mid-day meal and returned to the fields, after the babies were fed and sound asleep, Livonia’s thoughts returned to the book she had seen William worrying over. She carried a kitchen chair into the parlor, climbed up on it and felt along the top ledge of the secretary. The key was on the back edge. She unlocked the cabinet doors and took a large black book from the top shelf. It was the Lannigan Family Bible. On the first page was the handwritten notation: William Matthew Lannigan—born September 1824—died January 1879
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