Firefly

by Linda Hilton

  And the irony, of course, was that he thought no such thing. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  He rolled onto his side and pounded the cushion, but it did not mold to his beating the way his pillow did. He flopped down again, disgusted and tired and uncomfortable but unwilling to climb the stairs. In one room Amy’s portrait waited, and the other room was the one they had shared. Wrestling with his conscience was enough; he could not face her, too.

  Julie, however, was another matter. He could no longer avoid declaring his intentions to her, if she would even listen to him. Out of necessity—and he swore at Horace again for dying so precipitously—he and Julie had entered into this relationship without looking far enough into the future. He could use her plans, or lack thereof, with Wallenmund as an excuse to present his own case. If indeed she loved the bastard and was determined to marry him, then Morgan need not go any further. He would merely suggest that she turn her attentions to her fiancé. Finding another nurse would be difficult, but he had warned himself not to take her for granted, and he would set about finding a replacement as soon as possible. Winnie might be able to help out some, but even her assistance would be temporary.

  If, on the other hand, Julie had the slightest doubt, the barest hint of reluctance, perhaps another man stood a chance.

  That was the wrong thing to start thinking about. Try as he might, Morgan couldn’t get comfortable on the sofa. It was too short and too narrow and too hard to allow him to fall asleep. The more he tossed and turned, the more awake he became. And the more awake he was, the more he thought about Julie. Not the Julie of the medical books or the applesauce cake or the broken spectacles or the neatly embroidered sutures. The woman whose images filled his brain was the one who had curled against him and kissed his skin.

  Part of the pain was memory, part of it was reality. They had had so few encounters that it was easy to remember them all with startling clarity. And he was, as he remembered just as clearly, only a man, as mortal and human as any other. He was not a saint, able to endure this easily relieved torment.

  He twisted onto his back again, and one leg slipped off the sofa, his bare foot finding the tiled floor cold. If there had been any water left in the creek, a dip in it might have washed this terrible wanting away, but it would return, he knew, probably even before the temporary lull allowed him to fall asleep. And it was summer now. Cold Creek was just another dry wash.

  There were, of course, the girls at Nellie’s. The brothel was but a short walk from the adobe house, and Nellie would be discreet. But Morgan had never sought the services of a paid companion before, and he would not do so now. When he thought of Maude, whom Hans had beaten, or of pretty, slightly dim-witted Iris, he could not imagine himself with them. Any attempt to relieve his needs with a whore would result in failure, and he would return home to the same agony he now experienced.

  He had told Julie he was a man who put the desires of his heart above those of his body. She believed and trusted him, and betraying that trust, when he intended to declare all of his desires to her, was impossible.

  He chose, therefore, the simplest, easiest solution.

  His fingers fumbled with buttons pulled too tightly, but at last the swollen flesh was freed. Frantic strokes of thumb and fingers brought him to a hasty climax that held no satisfaction, no pleasure, only a release from the immediate pain. As his penis softened and his panting breaths settled to quiet, troubled snores, he knew his desire for her had not been sated any more than the desert is quenched by a thimble of water.

  In the morning, when he was rested, he would face the rest of the problem. He would decide how to go about telling her of his feelings, and probably rehearse a speech as moronic as the one with which he had proposed to Amy. But it would have to wait until morning.

  *

  The storm that wakened Julie in the middle of the night, just in time to close the window before the rain soaked her, continued through until late morning. Thunder rumbled and echoed off the mountains, lightning shattered the leaden clouds, and steaming rain poured in sheets.

  She wandered down to the kitchen at the usual hour to prepare breakfast and found her mother already at work. Though still hampered with the broken arm, Katharine had managed to fry a dozen strips of bacon and was now stirring shredded potatoes in the skillet. Above all these scents, the aroma of hot, fresh coffee floated.

  “I’ll finish that, Mama,” Julie offered, rushing to take the spatula from Katharine’s hand.

  “No, you won’t. Dr. Morgan was just here and told me you’re to rest all day. You get yourself right back up to bed and sleep.”

  Stunned, Julie put up no resistance when Katharine grabbed the spatula back and flipped the hash browns over quite neatly. Their underside was just perfectly golden brown.

  “And no coffee for you either,” Katharine added. “You may have a glass of milk, but coffee will keep you awake, and he gave specific orders. Sleep is what you need, and I intend to see that you get it.”

  “May I have some toast at least?”

  “Yes, but I’ll bring it up to you after your father leaves for work. Now, do I have to chase you out of here?”

  Katharine laughed lightly, a hauntingly familiar laugh that Julie remembered quite well, though it had been years since she had heard it. It was almost as though the last nine years had simply disappeared, and this was the mother she had known so long ago.

  Confused and acknowledging that a few more hours sleep wouldn’t be unwelcome, Julie left the kitchen and slowly climbed the stairs. She heard her father moving in his room, smelled the tingling scent of shaving lather borne on steam, and knew that Katharine had brought him his shaving water. The morning became more perplexing than ever.

  Julie did not go immediately back to bed, but straightened her room first, picking up the clothing she had shed sloppily last night. The dress was indeed ruined, though not just because of the stains. Somehow she had torn the skirt loose from the bodice in two places where it had previously been mended, and the fabric was too worn to bear further repairs. She would have to replace it, and perhaps, if she was to have this day away from the clinic, she might buy material from McCrory’s and begin some sewing.

  Though tired enough to lie back down on her bed, Julie could not shake the years and years of early rising quite so easily. She was yawning with her eyes closed but still wide awake when Katharine arrived with a tray covered with dishes.

  “Oh, Mama, I can’t eat all that!” Julie exclaimed when she saw two eggs nestled on a mound of potatoes, golden toast dripping with sweet butter and strawberry preserves, four thick slices of bacon, and a tall glass of milk.

  “Dr. Morgan told me I was to see you had a good breakfast, too, so that means I’m going to wait right here until it’s all gone. You’d better start eating, young lady.”

  As stern as Katharine was, she continued to smile. Julie looked at her and wondered where the old sincerity had come from. She hadn’t seen that smile on her mother’s face since long before Willy was born.

  Under Katharine’s unswerving eye, Julie began to eat, and before very long, she discovered she had eaten almost every bite. The food was delicious, and not only because she hadn’t had to cook it. Not once during the entire meal had she been interrupted, and Katharine even asked her if she wanted more.

  “I don’t think so, Mama. I’m really very full.”

  “Good. You always sleep better on a full stomach.”

  Unfortunately, Julie was more wide awake than ever. Curiosity had roused her from the last hold of weariness.

  “I slept well last night, Mama, and it wasn’t that late when I got home, so maybe—”

  “It was almost midnight when you walked in the door! Don’t you call that very late?”

  “Midnight? But you were still up and so I thought—”

  “Of course, I was. I was waiting to make sure you came home safely.”

  Julie was too accustomed to watching her words to blurt out the accusation tha
t Katharine had never been so concerned before, but care with her words did not stop her curiosity from its usual badgering. Not only was Katharine’s staying up late unusual, and her explanation, but Julie detected something, almost like disappointment, in her mother’s last statement.

  “Well, even though it was late, I slept well, and after this breakfast, I’m sure I’m too awake to sleep now. I thought maybe I’d get some goods from McCrory’s and do some sewing. I’m afraid I ruined my dress last night.”

  Katharine lifted the tray from her daughter’s lap and paused as if lost in serious thought for a moment.

  “It’s raining, you know. You’ll be soaked through to the skin before you can cross the street and the doctor will have a fit if you take a chill and get sick and then can’t work for him.”

  “I won’t get sick, Mama.” Julie threw the sheet back and swung her feet to the floor. “It’s still awfully warm outside, and I won’t be in the rain but a minute or two.”

  “Well, all right. I just hope the doctor doesn’t see you and blame me for it. If I had the use of both hands, I’d help you with the sewing.”

  When her mother had left the room, Julie dressed again, pulling on the faded green calico she had donned earlier. She took a moment to search her wardrobe for something that would be a smaller loss if damaged, but the green was the most sadly worn of all her few remaining dresses.

  Katharine sat in the parlor with several magazines, including the new Godey’s and some back issues of Frank Leslie’s and McCall’s. She motioned to Julie to join her.

  “I think we could duplicate these waists quite easily, don’t you?” she asked, showing Julie the drawings of several styles. “You’ll want something relatively simple, with sleeves that can be rolled up like a man’s. And none of these impossible collars! How could a woman work in weather like we have here and breathe with all that lace strangling her throat?”

  “But then I’d need skirts, too. I only have two, and the green is—”

  “That green is ready for the rag bin! Yes, you’d better have at least three or four more skirts. We’ll purchase the material today, and then I can do the sewing while you’re at work. Dr, Morgan said I’ll be at least able to do some chores when this thing comes off Monday.”

  “Monday?”

  “Yes. Look, I think the rain is letting up a little, so why don’t you run over to the store and buy what you need. I’ll clean off the dining room table and we can begin cutting in there.”

  If the rain had let up when Katharine looked out the window, it had returned to a downpour by the time Julie stepped off the porch. She didn’t dare run, because the muddy street was too slippery and dangerous. Besides, the sucking slime pulled at each step, forcing her to take extra care not to lose a shoe.

  She climbed the stairs to the sidewalk and ducked under the dripping overhang, though she couldn’t avoid a drenching stream down her back. It didn’t matter: she was already soaked nearly through to the skin. While trying to stomp the worst of the mud off her shoes, Julie realized she had no idea how she was to pay for the dry goods she intended to purchase. She had brought not a single penny with her.

  Under no circumstances, despite the orders from Morgan regarding aprons, could she put the bill on his account.

  Expecting Ada, who usually waited on customers, Julie was surprised when Simon strolled from behind the hardware counter at the back of the store.

  “Mornin’, Miss Julie,” he greeted.

  “Good morning, Mr. McCrory.”

  She nodded politely and smiled, and Simon thought that wet and bedraggled as she was, she certainly didn’t look much like the girl he and Lucas used to watch carrying dinner to her father. Not that the storekeeper was ready to say she was pretty, not yet anyway, but she had lost some of that dreary, dusty, worn-out look.

  “I came for some yard goods,” she told him as she walked purposefully in that direction.

  “Good day for sewin, ain’t it.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is.” She reached the sloppily piled stack of bolts and ran a finger down the edges. The calicos and ginghams were mixed right in with the denim and muslin and sturdy broadcloth, with nothing in any particular order. “I’ll take four yards each of the black, blue, and brown broadcloth. No, not the brown. Make it this green instead.”

  Simon pulled the bolts from their places in the stacks, miraculously avoiding toppling the colorful ziggurat. While he unrolled and measured the fabrics, Julie studied the bright prints and checks. It was hard to make up her mind when faced with so many choices, especially after such a long time without the temptation. She particularly liked a soft lavender gingham but knew it wouldn’t be suitable, nor would the bright red and yellow calico that sat on the top of the heap.

  She had to be practical, she reminded herself. Plain and practical, just as she had always been.

  “And three yards each of the blue and white muslins plus this yellow.”

  Simon was panting by the time he had pulled those three bolts out, because the butter yellow calico, printed with small blue flowers, was on the very bottom. But as he realigned the tottering stack, Julie caught sight of another bolt, so slim it had lain hidden between the others. Once she had seen the clear cornflower blue color, however, she knew she could not leave the store without it.

  “And this blue batiste: is there enough left on the bolt, do you think, for a blouse?” she asked Simon.

  Very carefully, he extracted the fabric from under the weight of those pressing down from above. The stack wobbled, startling Julie to reach for and steady it with a gasp.

  “Can’t tell without measuring it.”

  He was grumbling, she could tell. This wasn’t Simon’s area of expertise, and he acted as though perhaps he felt foolish measuring out and cutting fabric for women’s clothes. Julie had felt some self-consciousness herself at first, when she was still thinking about how to pay for the goods, but the idea of sewing that lovely soft fabric into a garment brightened her entire day.

  “Then measure it,” she ordered.

  It came to four and one quarter yards, more than enough, and Julie took it all. And while Simon was measuring it, she had even thought of a way to pay for it.

  “You can put this on my father’s account,” she told the storekeeper calmly. After all, Katharine had suggested the purchases and had even offered to help with the sewing.

  None of it seemed odd enough to warrant analysis until Julie stood at the counter while Simon totaled the amount of her purchase, and then wrapped the bundle in paper to protect everything from the rare but welcome rain. Watching him, she began to think about the work ahead of her, today and in the weeks to come that it would take to finish all the garments. She would be glad for Katharine’s help, which she suddenly realized had never been offered before. Why now? she wondered.

  Barely remembering to thank Mr. McCrory, Julie wandered slowly away from the counter and towards the door, her mind fully occupied with questions.

  Most of them concerned her mother.

  Katharine had looked remarkably fit this morning, standing over the kitchen range with a spatula in her hand. In the weeks since beginning the treatment Morgan had prescribed, Katharine had had moments of seeming vigor, but she never quite lost that invalid look about her. Her eyes drooped lazily, except when she was alone with a magazine, and she almost always walked with that same languid effort. Her headaches came and went with puzzling irregularity, and her digestion seemed little improved at times. Yet today, as Julie had remarked to herself immediately on the discovery, Katharine looked as though she had never been ill.

  Which was exactly what Morgan had told Julie. She had almost forgotten his accusation in the wake of other confessions of that afternoon. Was it just yesterday? And the one question for which Julie could find no answer began to spread like a plague, first one isolated infection and then another, until by the time she reached her own front porch again, drenched without having felt the rain, the curiosity had become an
epidemic.

  “Oh, Julie, look at you?” Katharine exclaimed from her chair in the parlor. “Get right upstairs and out of those wet clothes! I’ll put on some tea.”

  Julie set her package on the bottom stair and then proceeded up. In the privacy of her room, she dared to examine some of those questions individually, like a surgeon dissecting a cadaver.

  Why, if Katharine had never been ill, had she pretended to be for so long? Two possibilities came to mind at once. Either she hated her daughter and took some kind of revenge upon her by forcing her to this slavish existence, or she maintained an elaborate fiction simply to deny her husband his marital rights. Julie thought, in an uncharitable moment, that this latter was almost absurd. If indeed Katharine were afraid of the results of another pregnancy, she could merely have used that as an excuse. If, on the other hand, she intended only to deny Wilhelm, she could still have pled the risk of pregnancy. Couldn’t she?

  Julie peeled off her dripping dress and shivered until she found a towel to dry with.

  The other alternative, that Katharine hated her first-born, raised no such difficulties of explanation. Or at least not until this morning. Why, if she so disliked Julie all these years, had Katharine suddenly changed her tune to one of helpful kindness and almost affection?

  And, Julie asked herself, why am I suddenly so suspicious?

  She pulled on a dry blouse and stepped into the frayed green skirt, then padded down the stairs in her stockinged feet, having left her wet, muddy shoes by the door. When she arrived at the bottom of the stairs, she looked into the parlor, expecting to find Katharine still lounging with her periodicals. Instead, the sound of rustling paper and light humming drew her eyes to the dining room.

  “The tea is all ready, there on the sideboard,” Katharine told her between snatches of murmured melody. “I’ve been looking at your selections, and I can’t say I entirely approve.”