by Judith Pella
She stared at him, then started to sway on her feet. Benjamin wasn’t certain what was happening until she reeled toward him. Only then did he realize the woman was about to faint. With only one arm free, the most he could do was break her fall a bit as she crumpled to the floor.
CHAPTER
32
THE HOUNDS WERE CHASING HER so close the high-pitched bays echoed in her ears. But Liz kept running even though her heart felt as if it would explode. Feeling the hot animal breath on her heels, she kicked furiously.
“No! Please . . . no!” She tried to cry out the words, but nothing save for mute gasps seemed to come from her lips.
“Liz.”
The voice did not come from the pursuing hounds. Something touched her, but it was not rough teeth trying to tear her apart. The touch was gentle and warm.
“Liz, you are having a dream.”
She opened her eyes and found herself staring up at the towering figure of Rev. Sinclair. Then she looked down at the hand still resting on her shoulder. It surprised her that his touch could be so gentle. He’d always seemed to her to be intimidating, imposing, harsh . . . but never anything close to gentle.
“I g-guess I w-was." She was shivering, partly from the nightmare, partly from the wet clothes she still wore. But despite the fact that she was now fully awake and realized she had been dreaming, she thought she had not wakened into a situation much better. She could see why she had dreamed of baying hounds, because the sound so resembled the voices of crying children that filled the cabin. “W-what h-happened to me?”
“You fainted.”
Suddenly she gasped in terror as a far more pressing memory came to her. “Hannah!”
“Your child is in the bed next to you.”
Liz turned, and there was Hannah, no longer in her wet bundle but dressed in a shirt and gown and wrapped in a different blanket. She was breathing, though her breaths were labored and her skin was flushed.
“She’s quite sick,” Rev. Sinclair said. “I tried to do the best I could with her. She would eat nothing, but that may be due more to my ineptitude than her inability.”
“Th-thank you.”
“You best get into some dry things now before you fall ill also.” Sinclair’s voice was soft, almost kind. He seemed a different man from the arrogant, self-righteous judge who had confronted her in the store only a few weeks ago. Perhaps this had something to do with his wife’s death.
Liz still could hardly believe that the kind, good-hearted woman was really dead. She tried not to think what this would mean to her own quest for help and succor. Surely the reverend would not harbor a woman of ill repute in his home. No doubt she would have been booted out immediately had she not fainted.
Yet even as the bitter thought came to her, she sensed no such attitude from Sinclair now. However, with screaming children and a house that looked as if it had been struck by one of those Texas tornadoes Liz had heard about, he probably had more on his mind than rebuking a fallen woman.
“I have n-no clothes,” she said, bringing her mind back to matters at hand.
Benjamin nodded toward a steamer trunk at the foot of the bed.
“You may borrow something of Rebekah’s.”
“I c-couldn't.—
“You really have no choice,” he said simply. “Micah and I will step out while you change.” To the girl who looked about five or six, he added, “Isabel, mind the babies while I’m gone.” Then he turned to the boy who was sitting on a small bed with an open book in his hand. He appeared to be twelve or thirteen. “Micah, come outside with me.”
The boy made no response and did not even look up from his book.
“Micah!” Rev. Sinclair said more firmly. “I said come with me.”
The boy did look up then, and his cold, hard eyes were a sight to behold. Liz did not think a child could be capable of such venom. She shivered. What was the story between father and son? The phrase “no love lost between them” sprang to her mind.
Very deliberately Micah closed his book and swung his legs off the bed. Sinclair watched the obviously defiant response with clenched teeth, a muscle in his jaw pulsing dangerously. Liz thought only her presence was preventing an angry scene.
When the males were gone, Liz went to the trunk.
“That’s my mama’s,” the small voice of Isabel Sinclair piped up. A hint of challenge could be detected in the tiny quivering voice.
“Do you think she would mind if I borrowed one of her dresses?” Liz made no further move toward the trunk, instinctively knowing she tread upon delicate ground. Though she had been too young to remember losing her own mother, she had some understanding of what a motherless little girl might be feeling.
Isabel merely shrugged with uncertainty.
“I’m awfully cold because of my wet clothes.” Liz gave her damp skirt a pat. “I know your mama was a kind, giving person and would not want to see anyone suffer.”
“You knew my mama?”
“Yes, I did. She helped me once when my little Hannah was sick. She was such a wonderful lady.”
Isabel appeared to think about this, her fine lips pursed, her brow wrinkled. In the end the kind words about her mother won out. She started toward the trunk, but as she moved, Leah, who had been sitting in the rocking chair chewing on a crust of corn bread, became restless, making very insistent noises and trying to wiggle from the chair.
Liz quickly rescued her. “Do you want to help, too, little one?” With a brief glance at the bed where Hannah was lying, Liz assured herself that her daughter was secure. She needed tending badly, but Liz saw the wisdom of caring for herself first so as not to become sick, too, and completely worthless to her daughter.
Standing Leah on the floor beside the trunk, she noted how strong the chubby baby was. Poor Hannah wobbled terribly when she tried to stand. And she was probably half the size of the Sinclair child, though, according to what Rebekah had told Liz on the ship, the child was a few months younger than Hannah.
“Why don’t you choose something, Isabel?” Liz lifted the lid. “Just something plain and old. I will return it when I’m done, but I don’t need anything fancy.”
As Isabel rummaged carefully through the trunk, Liz noted children’s clothing there as well. They were likely hand-me-downs Rebekah was saving until Leah or the new baby could fit into them. After a couple of minutes, Isabel took a dress from the trunk. It was perfect for Liz’s needs. From the look of the gown, it was probably ten years old, reflecting the style of that time, with a slightly raised waist and a skirt much less full than the current modes. A brown calico printed with tiny cream and blue flowers, it had a small ecru lace collar and black buttons running down the front to the belt of black velvet.
Liz smiled her approval. “That will be perfect.”
But Isabel was not finished. She must have watched her mother perform her daily toilet carefully, because she knew exactly what other items would be needed. She took out a pair of cotton drawers, a chemise and a corset, along with stockings and a pair of shoes. The shoes were rather nice, obviously Rebekah’s Sunday shoes, and Liz almost refused them until she moved and felt the squish of water in her own worn boots.
Thanking Isabel, Liz took the things over to the hearth where it was warm and began dressing, laying her own wet things close to the fire to dry. They were quite dirty, in need of a good washing and some mending, but still were serviceable. Before dressing in the new clothes, Liz took a damp cloth and tried to clean the spattered mud and filth of her journey from her body. She also scrubbed her face of any rouge and eye paint that the rain had not washed off. If she had any hope of obtaining sympathy from the reverend, she’d have a far better chance if she looked as little as possible like the wanton woman he thought her to be.
Leah crawled over to Liz and began pulling at the clothes as quickly as Liz could lay them out. Squealing with mischievous glee, the baby started making a game of it, deliberately taking something that had been laid out or
replaced. Not wanting to scold the child, Liz played along, though with a little frustration.
Finally Isabel interceded. “No, Leah!” Her small voice took on an incongruous motherly authority.
Leah yelled back. “Ga! Da!”
Isabel took a wet stocking from her sister. Leah screamed in protest. Then the newborn, who had been sleeping in his cradle, woke and began crying.
“Isabel, would you button me up so I can get the baby?” Liz knelt down to the girl’s level. The buttoning done, Liz scooped the baby up from the cradle and sat once more on the bed. “Isabel, bring Leah over here, and I will tell you both a story.”
Leah struggled and protested being picked up by Isabel, who staggered under the weight of the eleven-month-old child. But in a few moments they were all settled on the bed, and Liz had taken up Hannah in one arm while holding the newborn with the other. Leah was struggling to get off the bed, and Liz had to think quickly in order to capture her attention. Looking down at her feet, the fine shoes reminded her of a story her old nurse had told her and which she sometimes told Hannah.
“Do you know the story about the little girl who was given a fine pair of shoes?” Liz’s voice arrested Leah’s escape attempts, and Liz took advantage of the child’s interest by freeing her arm from Hannah momentarily so as to draw Leah close to her side. “This child—her name was Goody, by the way—was so very, very poor that she had never had a pair of shoes, ones that actually matched, and sometimes she didn’t have any shoes at all. So when she received the new shoes, she was simply ecstatic with delight. She went around telling everyone she saw about her pair of shoes. Everyone began calling her Goody Two-Shoes."
Liz couldn’t remember all of the original story, so she made it up as she went along, describing Goody’s encounters as she walked about in her new shoes. The children snuggled around Liz and quieted. Even the newborn responded to the soft drone of Liz’s voice. When Liz paused a moment to think up a new encounter for Goody, she noted the silence. It was certainly the first time since she had come to the Sinclair cabin that such quiet had filled the room. She almost didn’t want to disturb it by starting the story again, but then, it was the story in the first place that had encouraged it.
“Little Goody had a brother named Tommy—” Liz began but was cut off suddenly when the cabin door burst open.
CHAPTER
33
LOOKING SLIGHTLY WILD-EYED, Benjamin Sinclair stumbled inside, his gaze sweeping the room as if he expected to find mayhem. Noting the peaceful scene on the bed, his panicked expression turned quickly to bewilderment.
“I . . . thought . . . didn’t know what to think,” he stammered. “It was so quiet.”
The sudden noise of his entry had startled the newborn, and he started to cry again.
Liz smiled weakly. “I was telling them a story.”
“A story?” Benjamin gaped incredulously, as if the idea were some fabulous new invention.
“Goody Two-Shoes. Do you know it?”
“I don’t know many stories.” He was still staring at her.
She wondered if it was disturbing to him seeing her in his wife’s clothes. Did it make him cringe to think someone like her was wearing precious Rebekah’s fine dress? She could hardly blame him. If she thought about it, it disgusted her also, as if a devil were tramping on holy ground, desecrating not only a dress but the woman’s children as well. Suddenly she felt uncomfortable holding Rebekah’s child, and she held him out to the father.
Making no move to take the child, a new look of panic crossed Benjamin’s face.
Then the cacophony of children’s noise began again. “Ga! Da! Ga!” insisted Leah, tugging at Liz’s sleeve.
“Finish the story,” Isabel put in. “Please.”
Even Hannah found the strength to join in. “Mama!”
Wanly, Liz looked imploringly at Benjamin.
“I’ve upset the apple cart,” he finally said rather pathetically.
“They wouldn’t have stayed quiet for long.” She couldn’t believe she was attempting to bolster him. She slipped from the bed and stood, adjusting the newborn up against her shoulder. “Sometimes they just want a change of position.” The baby quieted a bit, and she smiled, relieved. She walked around the cabin, remembering that Hannah had liked movement at that age. “Reverend Sinclair,” she said conversationally, “I have figured out the names of all your children except the littlest one.”
He was busy getting hold of Leah who, while still yelling for attention, had wiggled off the bed and was crawling toward the hearth. Catching her and lifting her in his arms, he shook his head, a hint of apology in his eyes.
“There hasn’t been time . . . to think of a name.”
Watching him jiggle Leah up and down to distract her from yelling in his ear, Liz could certainly see that he had nothing to be apologetic about. Naming a child was a small matter indeed, taking into account the demands of four motherless children.
“Mama wanted to name him after Uncle Haden,” offered Isabel.
That brought a look as opposite to apology as possible to Rev. Sinclairfs face. For an instant he looked more like the imperious, self-righteous man she had met previously. Then the look melted into something like—could it be irony?
“I don’t think that will do,” he spoke with restraint through a clenched jaw.
“Neither did Uncle Haden,” said Isabel.
A smile invaded his face, in no way touched by humor but by far the most pleasant expression he had displayed yet.
“I guess I’ll have to think of one for him. But I have to do something about supper first.”
For the first time Liz saw that light no longer came through the cracks in the rawhide-shuttered windows. She also became aware of her own hunger. The thought of staying for supper brought to mind a more delicate situation. Where would she spend the night? Certainly a minister with no wife present in the home would have serious reservations about inviting a fallen woman to bide the night in his home—especially this particular minister. Shoving uncertainties about her own future from her mind, she tried to focus on the present. Whatever happened in an hour would happen. After several days in the outdoors, most of which was in the pouring rain, another did not seem so daunting.
“Why don’t you mind the children,” he said suddenly to Liz, “while I get supper.” It wasn’t as if he had been reading her mind, but it was an answer at least to her most immediate problem.
She had no easy task in quieting down the brood now that supper had been mentioned, but Liz managed to keep them fairly distracted. Still holding the newborn, she got Isabel to help her tend Hannah’s fever. While she laid Hannah before the hearth, she had the girl dampen with cool water a large cloth Rev. Sinclair provided. This she wrapped around Hannah’s naked body, covering it with a dry blanket. Though Liz did not want to think of where she would spend this night, she did pray for Hannah’s sake that it would be in the warm cabin.
Before long the meal was ready. Sinclair had managed it with no cooking, save the preparation of coffee. It consisted of dried smoked turkey and dry corn biscuits, which very likely could have been baked when Rebekah was alive, for they looked too hard to chew. However, dipped in coffee or milk they would be palatable.
Micah was called in for the meal, then everyone squeezed around the table. No formal invitation was offered to Liz, but a place was made for her. Except for the various noises of the young children, all who could talk were silent. Liz noted that Micah, especially, was silent and sullen.
There was a moment, unsettling even to Liz, of uncomfortable silence before Rev. Sinclair took a biscuit from a dish, signaling for the meal to begin. Liz herself was not accustomed to saying grace before meals, but she’d assumed a religious family such as the Sinclairs would do this by ingrained habit. She knew the omission of this was the cause of the momentary lapse.
When Rev. Sinclair spoke midway during the meal, his voice was awkward amid the chortles of babies. “I have gi
ven thought to naming the new baby.” His voice was strained and formal. “When we, that is, your mother and I, named each of you, there was always some special meaning to your names. Micah, you know your name is that of a biblical prophet I had been studying at the time of your birth. The name means ‘like unto the Lord.’ Isabel was the name of your mother’s favorite aunt. Leah means ‘weary,’ and though it is not the most joyous of names, Leah was one of the great matriarchs of the Bible.” He paused, glancing at his youngest daughter who chose that moment to grab her spoon and pound it noisily on the table, obviously aware that she was being spoken of. Benjamin’s lips quirked at the child’s antics but did not quite make it all the way to a smile. “That brings me to the new baby,” he continued with a brief glance at the cradle where the child in question had waked from a brief nap and was crying for his supper. “I have decided to call him Oliver. The name is Latin for olive tree, which is the traditional symbol for peace. I hope some day he will live up to his name.” Sinclair paused, then added wryly, “I hope it is sooner rather than later.”
Liz thought to chuckle at what she perceived to be a rare bit of humor from the dour preacher, but when no one else at the table responded, not even Sinclair himself, Liz remained silent. And there was no further fan-fare to the momentous occasion of naming the child. The meal continued silently, at least as silent as it was likely to get with five children present.
Micah was the first to bolt from the table without so much as a “by your leave.” Rev. Sinclair looked as if he might protest the boy’s rudeness but instead clamped his mouth shut in disgruntled silence. When Isabel asked to be excused, Sinclair only nodded. He then caught hold of the very active Leah as she began clamoring to be let down.
“It’s time for you children to get ready for bed,” Rev. Sinclair announced.
General mayhem followed while nightclothes were found and trips to the outhouse were made. Liz made herself useful by preparing a bottle for Oliver and feeding him. The bedtime routine, if the ordeal could be called that, went on for half an hour, with each of the children finding excuses to remain awake, even Leah managing to do so without the ability to talk.