by Dorothy Love
Her stomach dropped. “Is it Henry? Is he hurt? How bad is it?”
He fished a telegram from his coat pocket and pressed it into her hands. “I was at the mercantile buying toys for the boys when the telegraph operator ran in and handed me this. It came late yesterday, but there was no one to deliver it. She asked if I would do it. Since I know you all.”
Carrie went numb. She had no need to read the wire. The truth was written plain across Griff’s handsome face. “My brother is dead.”
“Yes, honey, he is.”
Her knees buckled. Griff caught her, his arms strong and warm around her, and steadied her against his chest. She pressed her cheek against the rough wool of his coat. She couldn’t think, couldn’t cry. “What—what happened?”
“A terrible accident. According to the railway foreman, a coupling came loose while Henry was unloading boxcars. One rolled over him, crushed him instantly.”
She nodded as if it was what she expected. “When?”
“A week or so ago. They had some trouble finding you.”
“I see.” If she concentrated on practical matters, she wouldn’t have to feel the pain of yet another loss. Her mind whirled with the dozens of details to work out, decisions to be made. Should her brother be laid to rest in the country graveyard or on the mountain with Granny Bell? For a while after their parents died, life in the simple cabin above Muddy Hollow had been as calm and peaceful as the mountain itself. Maybe Henry would prefer that. Though the long trip up the winding dirt road would make tending his grave more difficult. But all of that would wait until later. “We must go to Chicago and bring him home.”
Griff wiped the rain from his face. “I don’t think that will be possible. I did some checking, and from what I understand, unclaimed bodies are sent from the morgue to a hospital where they’re . . . um . . . prepared for use in the medical school.”
Carrie couldn’t stop shaking. How dare they? Henry was not unclaimed. He had a home, a family waiting for him. “Prepared for use? What does that mean?”
He shook his head. “It’s better not to know.”
“But how can they take a person without permission?”
“Chicago is a big city. A dangerous place. You must understand that several people a day die there or simply disappear without a trace. The authorities can’t track down all the kin.”
“But Henry worked for a big railway company. Surely they kept records.”
“We’ll look into that, but I don’t want you to get your hopes up. Chances are we won’t be able to bring your brother home.” He pulled her close. “My dearest girl, I am deeply sorry.”
She sagged against him. Never had she felt more alone. Not when the yellow fever took her parents within a week of each other. Not when Granny Bell died. Not even when the awful news came from Shiloh. Each time, Henry had been there to see her through it all. But now . . .
“It’s a mistake.”
He held her closer, his lips on her hair. The biting wind whipped around the corner. “I wish it were. But we must face the truth.”
The tears came then, tears of fear and profound grief. And tears of rage. She had asked so little of God. Why had he abandoned her? Was Henry’s death her penalty for flouting convention? For resenting Mary? For wanting too much?
“What am I going to do?”
“We’ll figure it out.”
He fished a handkerchief from his pocket. She wiped her eyes and looked back toward the house, a tiny island of calm beneath the mountain’s great shadow. For the rest of her life she would remember this moment, this sliver of time when she knew what Mary and the boys did not. That their entire world, all their hopes and dreams for the future, had been destroyed.
“We’ll tell Mary once the boys are asleep,” Griff said. “Waiting a day or two to tell them won’t change anything. And then they won’t have to remember Christmas as the day they learned their new papa died.”
Together they returned to the house. The lantern had burned low. Mary and Joe dozed before the fire. Caleb was engrossed in his book. He looked up, his face rosy with heat, and marked his place with his finger.
Griff placed a hand on the boy’s head. “Good book, son?” he asked, his expression full of sorrow.
Caleb nodded as his gaze shifted to Carrie. “What’s wrong, Aunt Carrie? You’ve been crying.”
“I’m all right.” She nearly choked on the words. She was not all right. She would never be all right. If only there were some way to spare them all from the grief that was coming.
Mary stirred and opened her eyes. “My goodness, I must have nodded off. I’m so sorry, Mr. Rutledge. I’m not a very good hostess.”
“You needed the rest.” He glanced at the mantel clock. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”
“Boys?” Mary shook Joe awake. “Time for bed.”
Joe roused himself and blinked. “But I’m not tired yet.”
Griff lifted Joe into his arms. “Come on, my man. Let’s get you tucked in.” He nodded to the older boy. “You too, Caleb.”
“I’m too old to be tucked in.”
Griff smiled. “Maybe you are at that. Nevertheless, it’s time you both turned in.”
Joe laid his head against Griff’s shoulder. “Will you read me a story?”
“Not tonight. It’s late.”
He disappeared up the stairs with the boys. Waiting for his return, Carrie busied herself picking up their toys, adding a log to the fire.
Mary watched, a frown forming between her brows. “What’s the matter with you? You’re jumpy as a cat.”
Carrie shook her head.
“Did Mr. Rutledge say something to upset you?”
“Mary.” Carrie looked at her sister-in-law, wishing she could say something to prepare her for the coming news. But words failed. Her heart turned over. It was true they had never been close, but they both knew what it was like to lose a husband. Frank’s death had changed Carrie. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have it happen twice. Mary would never be the same.
Griff came downstairs and sent Carrie a questioning look. She shook her head.
He sat down beside Mary, his expression calm and grave. “Mrs. Bell.”
“No.” Mary shook her head. Her eyes filled, and Carrie felt her own tears coming back. “Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it. I can’t.”
“I know,” Griff said gently. “But you must. There was an accident in the rail yard.”
Carrie watched Mary’s eyes register fear, disbelief, and then horrified acceptance as Griff told her the rest of it. “We thought it best not to tell the boys until after Christmas. Let them have one last day without sadness.”
“I suppose that’s wise.”
Mary didn’t weep. She rested one hand on the swell of her belly and gazed at the dancing firelight. Finally she looked up at Carrie, her expression resigned and calm. “I reckon you’ll want us out of here, now that your brother is never coming home.”
Carrie placed her hand on Mary’s arm. “Let’s not think about that. Of course you’re welcome here. Besides, you couldn’t move out now, in your condition, even if you had someplace to go.”
Mary’s sudden laugher exploded into the room like a gunshot. She bent double, clapped one hand over her mouth, and howled.
“Griff?” Carrie looked up in alarm.
“Hysteria. I’ve seen it a few times. Have you any smelling salts?”
“No.”
“Any liquor?”
“Henry left some whiskey in the cupboard. He used it for when he got the croup.”
“Bring it.”
Carrie hurried through the dark house to the kitchen. Lighting the lamp, she turned up the wick and rummaged in the cupboard for the spirits and a glass. She carried them to the parlor, where Griff poured a small amount of whisky into the glass.
“Mrs. Bell?” Mary didn’t answer. He took her shoulders and shook her, hard. “Mrs. Bell!”
Mary jerked as if waking from a f
evered dream and stared at them, unseeing. Griff handed her the glass. “Drink this.”
Obedient as a child, Mary drank it down. “There. I suppose that’s supposed to make me forget everything.”
“I’m afraid you’d have to consume much more than that to reach oblivion,” Griff said gently.
“In that case”—she tittered again—“bring me the bottle.”
“Mary.” Carrie took her sister-in-law’s hand. “Come along. You must rest. We have a hard few days ahead of us. The boys will need you to be brave and strong.”
“But I’m not brave and strong.” She stood, swaying slightly. “That’s your department. Good night, Mr. Rutledge.”
He bowed. “Please accept my sincere condolences.”
“Griff?” Carrie glanced at him as she led Mary from the room.
“Take your time. I’ll be right here.”
Carrie led Mary to her room and helped her undress. Consumed by grief and dread, Mary moved even more slowly than usual. She crawled into bed and turned her face to the wall.
Carrie fluffed the pillows and drew up the covers. “Are you warm enough?”
Mary’s head moved against the pillow. “I don’t expect to be warm ever again.”
“Listen to me. Once word gets around, all sorts of people will come calling, telling you that they understand how you feel. But they can’t, not really.” She smoothed Mary’s hair away from her face. “Right now you feel as if your life has ended too. You wish it were over, to be spared the unending grief. But one day you will wake up and realize that you slept peacefully through the night, that your heart feels a bit stronger. And one day you will laugh without feeling guilty that Henry is not here to share in it.”
Tears leaked from Mary’s eyes and ran onto the pillow. “You forget I’ve already buried one husband. I know all about—”
Carrie rushed on, the words pouring out of her. “You have two boys who need you . . . and Henry’s child on the way.” She paused. “You’re luckier than I was. In this baby, you’ll always have a part of Henry. I had nothing of Frank except a few personal belongings returned to me from the battlefield. And my memories.”
Mary’s hand moved on the coverlet. “Will you wake me in the morning as soon as the boys are up?”
“Yes. We’ll go on with Christmas as best we can. And after that, we’ll tell them together.” She lifted the lamp. “Try to sleep now.”
She found Griff in the parlor, tending the fire. The ice-laden wind had picked up, ticking and thumping against the window panes.
“Will Mrs. Bell be all right?” His eyes were very dark, his handsome features troubled.
“She’s calm now. I hope she can sleep.”
“I should go.” He picked up his rain-splotched coat, and they went to the door.
Ice had frozen it shut. Griff wrenched it open. In the feeble lantern light, the yard glistened like a sheet of shattered glass. The horse stood shivering in the bitter wind.
“You can’t go all the way back to town in this weather,” Carrie said, closing the door. “You can sleep here, in the parlor.”
He regarded the narrow settee. “I appreciate it, but truthfully, I’d be more comfortable in the barn.” He smiled. “I don’t suppose you still have my old mattress.”
“It’s still out there, next to the extra milk pails. But, Griff, the barn is freezing.”
“A manger was good enough for the Savior. I reckon it’s good enough for me.”
Griff had never really talked about his faith or what it meant to him. Because of his background, she’d assumed he didn’t give much thought to God. Perhaps he was a much deeper person than she imagined. “I’ll get you some blankets.”
Griff led Delilah into the barn, removed the tack, and rubbed her down. He found half a pail of oats and offered them to the ravenous beast, along with a few pitchforks full of hay before rolling out his mattress over a thick layer of more hay. He spread his wool coat out to dry, snuffed the lantern, and crawled into his makeshift bed, pulling another blanket over himself.
Despite the day’s exhausting events, he was wide-awake, restless. Reading the Christmas story and seeing Joe and Caleb’s brotherly back-and-forth teasing reminded him of when he and Philip had taken their skiff into the marshes and fished all day among the egrets, loggerheads, and alligators. At sunset they returned home sweaty and sunburned, their arms crosshatched with spartina grass scratches, sated with perfect happiness.
Though he and Philip had grown apart as adults, he still retained fond memories of Christmases in Charleston or at River Place. He especially remembered the year he turned fourteen. That year, with Philip away visiting cousins, his father had presented Griff with his own Thoroughbred, a beautiful little chestnut mare. On that crisp December morning, he tacked her up and rode with his father along the trunk-gate road past the brick rice mill and the clapboard winnowing houses. Even now, if he closed his eyes, he still could see Spanish moss swaying from the branches of the ancient oaks and flocks of birds wheeling over the silvery river.
That day his father had tried, not for the first time, to instill in his elder son a respect for the duties incumbent upon one of his station, for the nuances of Southern honor. Absorbed in getting to know his new mount, Griff half listened, determined not to spoil the day for himself or for his mother. Like other mothers of her social standing, she chose not to interfere with her husband’s efforts to mold her firstborn into a younger version of himself. But behind the scenes, she encouraged Griff to follow his heart, listen to his own instincts. Finding her own choices severely limited, she wanted something more for her son.
The barn door slapped in the wind. Griff turned over on his mattress and closed his eyes. Was Carrie still awake? He couldn’t forget the look of utter desolation in her eyes, the sag in her shoulders when he delivered the news. He felt terrible for her, for all of them. He hoped that somehow she and Mary could forge ties that would keep the remnants of their fractured family together. Because watching Carrie’s relationship with Mary and the boys, fractious as it was at times, had changed him. Made it clear that, in the end, family and God were all that counted.
He listened to the mice scrabbling in the barn and the gruff purr of the resident cat. How was his father getting on? There had been no word from Philip since his brief visit to Hickory Ridge last summer. For all Griff knew, his father might well be dead. The thought chilled him far more than the wind seeping into the barn.
Delilah, restless as he was in the unfamiliar barn, nickered and stirred. Griff quieted her with a soft word. He couldn’t leave Hickory Ridge now, not with his business proposition to the banker still pending. Not while Carrie, immersed in grief, needed someone to steady her. But one day soon he’d make a trip to Charleston, try to salvage whatever was left of his family.
He hoped he wouldn’t be too late.
THIRTY
Snow began falling around midnight, thin flurries that grew into fat, wet flakes that stuck to the windowpane and piled up on the sill. Cupping her hands to the glass, Carrie peered out at the night-blued snow, listening. Mercifully, Mary and her sons seemed to be asleep.
In the seven long weeks since Christmas, none of them slept very well. Nearing the end of her confinement, Mary was often too uncomfortable to stay in bed and roamed the house all hours. Caleb and Joe, still reeling from the news of Henry’s death, woke from nightmares with endless requests for a story or a glass of water. Carrie found their need for constant reassurance exhausting.
She’d dreaded telling them that their new papa would not be coming home, even to be properly mourned, but they’d absorbed the news better than she imagined. She expected tears from Joe, but it was Caleb who cried inconsolably before running out of the house. Joe crawled back beneath his bedcovers with his illustrated book. And now they’d returned to their daily routine and their noisy, rough-and-tumble rivalry. Except for the nightmares, they seemed to have forgotten their grief. Perhaps they hadn’t lived with Henry long enough
to realize how much they had lost.
But Henry’s death was an ever-present source of sadness for Carrie. Tucked into the back of her Bible were two letters from Patrick Sullivan, Henry’s foreman, expressing deep regret at her loss and confirming that in the absence of information about Henry’s family, his body had indeed been donated “to medical science.”
“You may take comfort,” one letter said, “in knowing your loved one will contribute to increased knowledge and better medical care for all.”
What comfort was there in having no place to go to mourn Henry? No grave or marker to remind the living of his short years on earth? Perhaps in the spring she would plant a garden of his favorite irises and start a new vine of morning glories on the trellis. Something to remind her that despite her terrible loss, life would go on.
Turning from the window, she crawled beneath the covers and closed her eyes. For now, she had enough food to get them through the rest of the winter. Some of the meat from the pig they had butchered still hung in the new smokehouse. And when word of Henry’s death got around town, nearly everyone in Hickory Ridge had come to call, bringing whatever they had to spare—a sack of dried apples or roasted chestnuts, ham and sausages, jars of beans and plums, and enough hummingbird cakes and vinegar pies to stock a good-sized bakery.
But how on earth would she continue supporting Mary and three growing children? Though she and Henry had been largely self-sufficient on the farm, she would still need to buy seeds and pay someone to help with the planting and harvesting. Her bread-baking enterprise alone would never earn enough to buy clothes, shoes, and books for the older boys, medicine and blankets for the baby, and staples such as sugar, flour, and salt.
It had wounded her pride to accept charity from her neighbors. After a life lived mostly on their own, she and Henry had developed an aversion to taking help from anybody. Undoubtedly, some of Mary’s contentiousness came from these same feelings. Maybe she and Mary were more alike than she imagined. And maybe Jasper Pruitt was right and God intended a lesson in humility in all of this. Even so, the problem of providing for a family of five indefinitely would not go away.