Maps of Fate
Page 18
There was a sudden twinge in Inga’s abdomen, which she masked with a smile. She ignored the stab of pain, turned and swept her arm grandly toward the sun, which had just become visible on the eastern horizon. “Of course, Milady Marx, what else could it be?”
Rebecca’s lips formed a suppressed smile. She set the bucket down, and reached out a hand. In her palm was Johannes’ pocketknife. “You might tell Johannes to be a bit more careful. I found this in the wagon…” She looked at Inga with a definite twinkle in her eye, “he should take care to collect whatever drops from his pants.”
Inga felt her blush deepen. Heat seeped through her cheeks. She took the folded blade from Rebecca and in a serious tone replied, “I shall definitely do that, Milady Marx. He must’ve somehow dropped it looking for supplies yesterday.”
Rebecca stooped over to pick up the bucket. “I need to get this water into the kegs and organize my bedroll in the wagon.” She straightened up, and looked directly into Inga’s eyes with a warmth and concern that Inga did not expect, “Be careful.”
Inga watched her turn and walk toward the rear of thewagon, her petite figure bent like a willow stick toward the weight of the water bucket.
The grumbles in Inga’s belly were more insistent. The first small wave of nausea crept into her throat. The vacillating feeling of cold and clammy, sweat and surges of heat that she had grown accustomed to over the past week began to increase. She knew that, within moments, she would be sick. Slightly hunched forward, she looked around desperately. A short way from the circled wagons there was a small, dense stand of young trees, their leaves just beginning to bud, the base of their trunks hidden here and there by willows.
“Milady Marx,” she called out to the rustles in the wagon. “I will be back shortly.”
She looked around carefully to make sure no one observed, and walked as quickly as she could into the clump of trees, hunching her tall figure slightly forward, one hand on her stomach.
Sarah pulled the wool blankets over her head. The muted morning sounds of the camp preparing for the day filtered through the wagon’s curved canvas cover. She lay on her side, her knees drawn up to her chest, as another wave of lightheadedness washed over her and the bitter taste of bile rose in her throat.
She did not want to be sick in bed. That had already happened once. She tentatively pulled the blankets down from over her eyes and looked apprehensively at the ties in the rear canvas flap, wondering if she could stave off the nausea long enough to get up, untie the lashes and make it to that group of thick mixed trees she had taken care to pick out the night before, just in case.
She had known for several weeks that she was pregnant. Jacob’s child grew in her belly. The surreal thought disgusted and frightened her. Her time of the month had been regular and then, when she had anticipated it in the days immediately before their departure from St. Louis, it hadn’t come. At first she had hoped, and prayed, that the stress of contending with Jacob, the trauma of the repeated rapes, and the whirlwind of events from the time she set foot on the train back in New York until the wagons began their great journey west from the Mississippi, had merely thrown her cycle off. But now the evidence was overwhelming. The tenderness in her breasts and belly, the daily nausea, the feeling of fullness in her middle, and the missed arrival of the monthly curse had removed all hopeful doubt. An ungodly situation, she thought grimly.
The flap seemed a long way away. Fortunately, she had been exhausted the night before. She had laid down fully dressed, with every good intention of rising and then disrobing for bed, but that had not happened. She sighed, carefully slipped off the covers, palmed the Deringer from under the grain sack, which was her makeshift pillow, and stumbled to the rear of the wagon.
She concentrated intensely on untying the flaps while trying to ignore the worsening nausea. She made it to the ground, resting momentarily against the open tailgate as the sweat on her face evaporated in the cool dawn air. She was relieved to see Jacob was not under the wagon. His blankets were rolled, tied, and leaned against one of the wagon wheels. He had learned not to poke his head inside the wagon for any reason unless invited. He finally took seriously Sarah’s promise to blow it off his shoulders if he intruded upon her privacy in the least.
Sarah turned weakly toward the trees, measuring the distance. Then, not bothering to see who might be watching, she walked unsteadily toward the trees, both hands pressed to her middle. She staggered the last few steps to the trees almost doubled over. Edging behind the first trunk large enough to hide her still slight figure from the wagons, she turned sideways, sagged against the trunk, and collapsed to her knees, her shoulder bruised by the rough bark.
She groaned. Her upper body sank forward until it was supported by her hands spread wide on the ground in front of her. Her back bent as her stomach involuntarily spasmed, and she retched. She closed her eyes. The back of her throat burned. She tried to catch her breath and then retched a second time, her hands still spread in front of her, the rough ground cold on her knees even through the fabric of her blue dress.
When she opened her eyes, the sight of bile seeping over the dried grass and brown leaves brought another wave of nausea. She rolled partly back against the tree, leaned her head against the bark and took deep breaths. She felt better, though clammy from the previous sweat. She closed her eyes, and, partially propped up by the tree, spread one hand on her still upset but no longer queasy, stomach.
What am I to do? How can I hide this? I wonder if I will be showing by the time we reach Cherry Creek? Frightening snatches of thoughts tumbled through her mind. Her heart sank. She slowly wagged her head back and forth against the bark of the oak tree. “Not fair, not fair, not fair. What will Reuben think?”
Somewhere in front of her, leaves rustled. There was the snap of a twig. She froze. Carefully, without turning her head, her eyes searched the woods, looking for any movement in the visual alleyways between the tree trunks. She slipped one hand into the pocket she had sewn into her dress, and closed it around the Deringer. She let out a quiet gasp of surprise as a tall blond woman shuffled with a staggering gait into sight. The woman’s shoulders were hunched forward, her head was down, and both her hands were pressed against her belly.
That’s Inga! Why is she here?
Inga’s eyes were fixed down. She barely looked up in front of her, and certainly did not glance left or right. She hasn’t seen me! Sarah held herself very still, and let her pass. Inga stopped, reached out a long arm and steadied herself against an elm tree. She suddenly bent forward, her upper torso almost parallel with the ground, and threw up, her free hand attempting to keep her long blond hair out of her face. She groaned, and sank down on both knees, her hands folded in her lap, shoulders stooped, and began to sob.
Not caring any longer if she was discovered, Sarah rose shakily to her feet and walked slowly over to Inga. She knelt gingerly beside her. Inga’s eyes were closed. She was still crying and, Sarah realized, still oblivious to Sarah’s presence. She reached out her hand and lightly touched her shoulder. Inga’s head snapped up, and she started so violently that she almost fell over. The look of surprise and embarrassment on her face was unmistakable and all-consuming.
Sarah reached out again and lightly grasped the taller woman’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”
Inga’s eyebrows lowered. She pressed her lips closed and nodded slowly. Her skin was blanched, with small beads of sweat across her forehead.
“You are Inga, Johannes and Reuben’s friend, and you travel with Rebecca Marx?”
Inga nodded again, the furious red in her throat an obscene contrast with the pasty pallor of her face. “And you are Sarah? I’ve seen you, of course, and heard Milady Marx speak of you since the campfire the first night. I saw the two of you talking. Reuben and Johannes mention you often.”
Sarah’s heart simultaneously leapt at the news that Reuben talked about her, and beat faster with dread of what those discussions might have been about.
“There, there. There, there,” Sarah put one arm around Inga’s shoulders.
“I certainly hope I didn’t disturb your privacy, Sarah. We have so little of it as it is. If I’d known you were here I would have found somewhere else.”
Sarah laughed softly, a bitter irony in her chuckle. “I’ve not been feeling well either, Inga. If you had seen me just a few minutes before I saw you, I would’ve been in the same condition.” Sarah leaned her head toward Inga in a conspiratorial posture, but as she said the last words, a realization struck her. Her chin snapped up, and she felt her eyes widen at the thought.
Inga had eased back onto her heels. She was focused on her hands, which were smoothing the skirt over her thighs in repetitive motions. She did not notice Sarah’s startled, pensive expression. “It is just as I feared…” she said in a low, sad voice. “I am sick and you have it, too. It’s a strange illness. We will probably infect the entire train.” She turned her head to look at Sarah, who had returned some control to her facial expression. Her large blue eyes were watery, and beseeching. “Do you think it is serious, Sarah? Do you think we will die? I have rarely felt so wretched and surely not for days on end. I think it’s getting worse.”
Sarah shifted her knees slightly so that she was closer to Inga. She tightened her arm around the tall woman’s shoulder, which was at the level of Sarah’s eyes. She rested her forehead against the heavy fabric of Inga’s dress and tried to speak in a reassuring tone. “It’s all right, Inga. I don’t believe we have any strange illness, and I am quite sure we are not going to die, or infect anyone else.”
“Why are you so sure?”
“Inga, can we be friends? Good friends? I think we both need someone to talk to. We can share secrets, and perhaps help each other deal with the journey and our conditions.”
“Our conditions?” Inga was staring at her again, salty dried tracks of tears staining her cheeks. There was a small bit of saliva at the corner of her mouth. The muscles below her left eye quivered. Her jaw dropped and she stared wide-eyed at Sarah.
“Oh, Lord. How could I not have known? I feel so foolish. Of all people, I should have realized.” She shook her head.
No doubt if I had had a looking glass, that would have been my exact expression when I realized Iwas with child, Sarah thought. “You have been with Johannes?” she asked.
“Have I been with Johannes?” Inga repeated slowly. Some color returned to her face and she looked down. “Yes, I have. But, it is different. I love him very much. I think I have since we first met on the train to St. Louis. I believe he loves me, too. He hasn’t really said so, but I feel it.”
Sarah wondered momentarily about Inga’s words, “of all people,” and “it is different.” Different than what?
“Well, unfortunately,” Sarah said bitterly, “loving has very little to do with pregnancy.”
“What am I to tell Johannes? Or Milady Marx? Do you think they will know?”
“Before I saw you stumbling around in here like I had been minutes before, I was asking myself the same questions, Inga.”
Inga’s eyes widened further, an intake of breath clearly audible through her long fingers still covering her mouth. She shook her head in disbelief, took her hand from her mouth and placed it gently on Sarah’s leg, “Do you mean you’re pregnant?”
Sarah nodded slowly. Her teeth bit into her lower lip.
“Oh my,” Inga shook her head slowly from side to side. “Oh my. Oh my.”
The two women leaned their heads together. Inga pulled away, and her eyes searched Sarah’s face. “But, but, I thought that Irishman you are traveling with was simply a traveling companion. During supper the other evening, Reuben had said something about how the two of you pooled your money to buy the wagon and were making the journey west together for pure convenience. Rebecca mentioned she enjoyed talking to you at the campfire and Reuben asked her for her opinion. Milady Marx said that she agreed with Reuben’s assessment of your situation...” Inga’s voice trailed off.
Despite the grip of their shared despair, Sarah felt a strange sensation. Since she had last seen her sister, Emily, tearfully waving farewell from the doorway of their Liverpool sewing shop as she clambered into the carriage to Portsmouth, and the Edinburgh, she had felt very much alone. There was no one to trust, even Aunt Stella. No doubt guilty about not being able to provide the job in New York she had promised Sarah in their trans-oceanic correspondence, her aunt had been more preoccupied with justifying her decision than in listening to her niece.
And then Jacob. His brutal rape of her the very first night in the train, the continued assaults, wrought changes in her that she did not quite yet understand. What a godsend to find out that Rebecca Marx of all people could be trusted, and now to make friends with a woman who was, by quirk of fate, in a position identical to her own. Then she heard Inga’s voice and realized she had asked her a question.
“Is it the Irishman’s baby?” Inga repeated.
“It could only be Jacob’s child,” Sarah said stiffly.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I did not mean…” Inga paused, “but, when did your relationship change? He did not appear at all respectable at the pig roast, and many people commented on his treatment of you and Milady Marx. Did you find yourself falling in love with him?”
The familiar rage welled inside her. She looked down momentarily and then back into Inga’s eyes. “You and I are friends, Inga. For whatever reason God has put us in this place, at this time, in similar circumstances. I despise Jacob O’Shanahan.”
Inga drew back, obviously stunned by Sarah’s vehemence. “Actually, that is not nearly a strong enough word,” Sarah continued. “I hate him. He raped me—over and over again.” Her chest tightened and her throat constricted. “He is a brutal man.”
Inga looked shocked and appalled. She leaned forward, her long fingers wrapped around Sarah’s upper arm, “He raped you? Will he force you to marry him? Does he know about the pregnancy?”
“I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do, Inga. But I would kill him before I would refer to him as husband.”
Inga put her arm over Sarah’s shoulder. “I am so sorry, Sarah. I understand. Truly, I do.”
Sarah felt her emotions turn cold and she pulled away. How could she possibly understand? Her voice was bitter. “You are in love with Johannes. Carrying the child of a man you love is quite different than being pregnant with the bastard child of a man you despise. Though you are kind enough to say you understand, I am not sure I can fully explain the pain this situation has caused my heart and my mind.”
Inga leaned closer, put her hand on Sarah’s leg, and squeezed, “I really do understand, Sarah,” she whispered, “my parents died when their fishing boat capsized in the fjord below our home in Norway. I was only thirteen. I was devastated. My father’s brother, a sloth of a man came, he said, to take care of me. It was my father’s wishes, he told me.” Inga shook her head sadly, tears again welling in her eyes.
“He sold our beautiful stone cottage, overlooking the brilliant blue fjord and the white foam of breaking waves on the rocks below it, the cries of seagulls, and the fishing boats going to and fro each morning and evening. It was my last connection with my parents….” She took a choking breath, “and my uncle sold it. He took all the money and dragged me off to New York City with him to a dirty, dingy, little more than one-bedroom flat in a filthy part of the city. I was a virtual prisoner. He drank more, grew more obese, more disgusting and…”
Inga took another deep breath. “And he… he…he molested me….” There was a deep tremor in her voice. “I obtained sleeping potions, and one night when he was in a drunken stupor I mix
ed them all into his whiskey while he snored like a pig on the couch. I don’t know to this day if it killed him, but I hope it did.”
Inga paused, a faraway look in her eyes, her grip on Sarah’s leg viselike. Sarah waited, riveted to her story. “I left that night with a few meager possessions, the clothes on my back and my most treasured item, a silver handled hairbrush my father gave me when I was ten.” She looked up, a sad, wistful smile on her face. “I use that brush every day. It is like my parents are there, brushing my hair.”
Sarah put her hand over Inga’s. “But you were only thirteen, and alone in New York City. How did you survive?”
Inga looked at her for a long moment, beginning a reply several times, and then simply said, as she loosened her grip on Sarah’s thigh, “I did what I had to.”
“We are the same in many ways,” Sarah said, “each doing what we must do.” She paused, “and it is a miracle that we would come together here, like this.” She lifted her arm and swung it in a small circle that encompassed the stand of trees and the wagon train beyond.
Just then, Sarah heard a woman’s raised voice, faintly but distinctly calling out, “Inga…Inga, where are you? We’re almost ready to go.” Seconds later, a man’s deep, thick, accented baritone shouted, “Inga…the team is hitched.”
“Rebecca and Johannes,” Inga said, starting to rise. As they helped each other to their feet, in an intimate gesture, Sarah pressed her face into Inga’s shoulder. Inga rested her chin on the top of Sarah’s red hair, and they embraced.
Sarah stepped back. “You see, Inga, things are good for you. There are people who care about you and love you.”
Inga hugged her again. “And now you have someone who cares about you as well.”
Sarah nodded, “That I do, and be assured that you do, also. We shall help each other through this even though, in the end, our decisions might be quite different.”
Inga nodded, then turned and started walking toward her wagon. Quite different, Sarah said to herself. She turned and headed toward her wagon but stopped after four or five steps. She turned around. Thirty feet away and framed between two trees, Inga had stopped, too. Her face lit up with a wide grin, and she waved. Sarah waved back.