by Betty Bolte
"I am sorry." Samantha laid a hand on Emily's arm. "I know you miss her, as you should. But she will always be part of you. You have her child to remind you of her every day, so you will never forget your sister. That should be some comfort as well."
"It should." Emily dabbed her eyes. She tucked the damp cloth back inside her sleeve and stared at the fire burning in the fireplace. Something about the dance of the flames fascinated her. She could stare at it for hours, thinking, wondering, planning. Ignoring the pain in her heart.
"What do you mean, it should?"
"Tommy is not my child, and yet he's my responsibility. I want my sister back, not her child. I want more from my life than to be tied to the house." She shrugged and frowned at her friend. "I want to learn new things, go to new and distant places, meet new people. I want more than this."
"You can still have those things," Samantha said. "He won't be a baby forever. He'll grow up and become his own person, with your help along the way."
"I don't want to raise a child, don't you understand?" She rose and paced the room, twisting the gold ring so hard it almost flew from her finger. How could she explain? She took a deep breath and gazed at her friend and confidante. "I... I sometimes think I hate the boy."
Samantha stood and glided to where Emily paused at the chests nestled between the front windows. "You don't mean that, surely."
She nodded slowly. "Sometimes, I do, yes. When this war ends, more goods will be needed and we'll have greater access to the yields from our plantation. Then I shall start my apparel shop and be my own person, and Tommy will be Frank's responsibility alone."
Samantha crossed her arms and regarded her for a long moment. "I know you're struggling. Give it time, and you'll see you do not have to resort to extreme measures."
"I won't risk my life having children. Not like Mother did." Recalling the conversation the previous evening before dinner, she gazed at her friend. "Did you know I had a fourth brother?"
"No, I didn't." Samantha shrugged. "It's not uncommon, though, for women to not speak of their little ones who die."
"It's tragic that no one but your mother remembers him." She brushed at her gown, smoothing the worn fabric. "I meant to ask Father about it last night, but other events intervened."
Samantha studied her as she pursed her lips in thought before relaxing her mouth into a slight smile. "I'm sure your father recalls the boy. For now, let's start with your mother. Maybe the events surrounding that long-ago day will be less painful to contemplate."
Emily clasped her hands in a silent prayer for strength. All she knew about her mother stemmed from what others shared with her. The secondhand recollections resided in her head like songs heard at the tavern, echoes of someone else's experience and imagination.
Samantha returned to the little table and picked up the book, opening it to a page half filled with her neat script. "What do you know about how she died?"
"Not much." Emily moved to stand by the fireplace, gazing into its secrets. Snippets of stories floated through her mind like dust motes in the morning sunlight. Jasmine sang a haunting gospel tune in the kitchen out back, the scent of freshly baked bread drifting into the room. In the distance a mockingbird shared its medley of songs. Samantha paced behind Emily.
"Anything you recall may help." Samantha strode to the bookcase and lowered the writing desk door to create a flat surface. Within the compartment resided the tools needed to make notes from the plethora of books surrounding the miniature desk. She laid the book alongside the quill pen resting next to its stoneware ink pot, and then retrieved a side chair.
"She didn't have any problems delivering either of us," Emily said. "Not that anyone noticed. She sang to us when we were both in her arms, did you know that?"
Emily sat down on the couch, watching Samantha with wet eyes. She swallowed the tears with difficulty, refusing them release. Wanting to help her friend, she drew a deep breath and released it as she counted to five.
"What a lovely welcome into our world she gave you," Samantha said. "That's a precious gift."
Emily wrinkled her nose. "She apparently loved every one of her children with all her heart. Though she only lived a little while after Elizabeth and I were born. Something to do with the afterbirth not being shed completely, I think, led to the infection that stole her from us. She cried out in pain, my father told me, grabbing her stomach. He held her hand, never leaving her side. He watched her gasp and close her eyes, never to open them again."
"Did a midwife attend her? Was there no one there to assist her?"
"Yes. I don't know who, a newcomer to town, I believe. Perhaps a childhood friend of Father's, as I recall. But what could she do?" Emily shook her head. "From what Father said, it all happened too quickly."
"Did anyone send for a doctor?"
Emily laid her head on the tall back of the couch and studied her friend. "Doctors in this area weren't of much use back then. They hadn't the same training."
Emily watched Samantha press her lips together as she dipped the quill and scratched in the journal. She apparently struggled to remain silent, to not say whatever bothered her. Ever since returning from caring for her ailing grandmother, her reticence to share her thoughts had become more and more apparent.
"Let's talk about Elizabeth if you're ready." Samantha looked at her, unsmiling. Her quill pen hovered above the page, ready to capture Emily's next words. "It seems your sister had a similar experience, didn't she?"
"Yes, she lived two days after Tommy's birth before succumbing to infection."
Emily wrapped her arms around her waist, holding her pain inside. Two days filled with Elizabeth's laughter and singing, her beatific expression every time she gazed on her newborn son. A maternal connection to the boy Emily would never have, even if she wanted to. A tiny voice chided that she did like the boy and one day she might even grow to love him, but she silenced it. Her dreams of husband and family had transformed into her nightmare, one she must avoid despite any residual feelings she may have otherwise.
"When did you notice the signs of illness?" Samantha held her quill poised.
"The evening of the first day, Elizabeth seemed restless, and when I asked if she was all right, she said her stomach ached, likely from the contractions. She looked so happy I didn't press the issue. But I should have. Tarnation! I did mention it to your mother at the time, but she agreed it probably meant nothing."
"My mother?" Surprise registered on Samantha's face. "Mother attended Elizabeth as the midwife?"
"I assumed you knew," Emily said, taken aback. "My apologies, I forgot you were in Savannah when Father asked her to tend Elizabeth, when she first discovered she was with child."
"And when she passed, I had gone to the Neck to tend to several slave families who needed aid." She sighed, a long-drawn-out exhalation. "I'm sorry I failed to help."
"You had other obligations. Amy stayed here, along with my father and your mother," Emily reassured her. "We did all we could."
The front door banged shut, and the sound of heavy boots on the wood floors echoed into the room. "Emily! Where are you?"
"In the parlor," Emily called back.
She considered following up on her earlier conversation with her father about her dreams of a shop, but with Samantha present, it simply wasn't appropriate to have such a delicate conversation with her father in front of a visitor. Hopefully after Samantha left, her father would listen to her plans. If he was in a good mood, of course. Emily's father hurried into the parlor, charging the atmosphere with his presence as he had done all her life.
"Yes, sir?" Emily detected the fresh tang of sea air carried on her father's long cloak.
"Miss Samantha." He nodded at her before turning to Emily, his bushy brows arched. "What have you been doing today, my dear?"
"Samantha and I have spent the morning talking about how Mother and Elizabeth died." Emily's wavered on the last word. She swallowed to clear her thoughts and voice.
; "Such a sad conversation for a beautiful fall day." The hefty man folded his arms and shook his head like a rusty pendulum. "Why are you dwelling on such a subject?"
Samantha waggled the feather of her pen. "I thought I'd make notes on the circumstances surrounding healthy childbirths and compare those to stillborn births and infant mortality." Replacing the quill, she gazed at him. "Can you recall which midwife assisted your wife?"
"Naturally. Your mother."
Samantha blanched. Emily feared her friend would faint from the sudden loss of blood to her head.
"My mother?" Samantha blinked in puzzlement. "I had no idea she lived in Charles Town so long ago."
"She's an old family friend," Emily's father said. "I became acquainted with her shortly before she moved into town. So when she did, and my wife announced she expected another child, I naturally requested that she tend her. Unfortunately the little boy did not live. But she also helped in delivering Emily and Elizabeth, and look how well they turned out."
Emily sensed he withheld more to the story, given the guarded expression he wore. "So you asked her to attend Elizabeth."
"Naturally. Cynthia has been a good friend for many years. I trust her to do her best in all things." Emily's father put his hands on his hips. "However, I sought you out because I've been requested to go on a short sea voyage."
"For whom?" Emily folded her hands and laid them in her lap. "Isn't that risky with the many enemy ships at anchor?"
He shrugged at the question. "I received the request at the town meeting this afternoon. The British have stepped up measures to locate those in town who aid the patriotic cause in a last-ditch effort to punish this town. Frank will return to the house soon, of course, to look after your safety. Prudence requires caution."
Ignoring the burst of anger coursing through her, setting her teeth on edge, Emily approached him. "Yes, Father. But a voyage? For how long?"
"A few days, perhaps a week. I don't want to miss telling my famous ghost stories, after all."
"Or infamous." Emily tried to recover her good humor with an effort of will.
Samantha shook off the concern in her eyes and grinned. "Perhaps we should ask Amy to dream up some new stories."
He feigned horror at her suggestion, then laughed. "Only if they prove spookier than mine. I'll not have any happy ghosts in my house."
* * *
Glad to finally reach the outer bounds of Charles Town, Frank sighed. Returning home to Emily and Tommy made his trip away tolerable. He'd slipped out of town with the excuse of researching the validity of a news item, but in truth to rendezvous with an aide to General Greene. He reined in his horse as he approached the sentry, watching the young British lieutenant in the pendulum-like plodding that served as guard duty. After exchanging the requisite formal credentials, Frank paused at a sound behind him. A dusty pair of grays with black manes and tails pulled a light carriage bearing two women up to the guard and halted. He recognized the carriage as well as its occupants.
"Why, Mrs. Abernathy and Miss Amy, you've returned at last." Frank urged his horse over so he could greet them properly.
Amy scrutinized his face but only smiled. Odd, she usually returned a greeting more rapidly. What had they been up to on their little excursion to the Abernathy plantation? His suspicion hummed at the intriguing question.
The lieutenant sauntered over to Amy's side of the carriage and grinned up at her, tipping his hat in greeting. "Ladies. Your papers?"
Mrs. Abernathy handed over the scrunched document with a rueful pout. "We arrive tardy for when we expected our homecoming."
"Late?" The young man looked at her with raised brows, then peered at the page.
"We should have returned yesterday, but it couldn't be helped." She shrugged, a slight lift of shoulders.
"I'm not authorized to permit anyone with an expired pass." The sentry's shoulders drew back as he straightened his spine and fingered the paper in his hand.
Frank smothered a sigh. The officious lieutenant obviously planned to adhere to the regulations today. Why the heightened awareness of procedure? Mayhap something had changed for the British and not for the better. Amy didn't seem to notice, or hid it well.
The lady in question grimaced and shook her head. "It's hard to imagine that so many ill-timed events could happen in such a short span." She let her breath out in a rush, her eyes searching the soldier's face.
Frank gentled his high-spirited mount and hid a smile. Amy could spin fascinating stories, as their circle of friends well knew. Discerning fact from fiction provided much entertainment for her avid audiences at parties.
"Indeed?" The soldier didn't look as though he believed her, but still listened.
Another dramatic sigh and then she continued. "My poor granny felt better after a dose or two of our good doctor's medicine. Too good, perhaps, because she decided she wanted to sit on the front porch and breathe some crisp fall air."
"Amy, please." Mrs. Abernathy frowned. "The lieutenant has no care for our misfortunes."
Despite the frown, Emily's aunt seemed to hide a grin. Frank stifled his own reaction. This should be interesting. Frank's horse shifted beneath him, the leather tack creaking with the movement.
"She had just sat down in her favorite rocking chair when a hornet—you know, one of those that sound like a whole swarm of bees chases you? Well, it buzzed past her, startling her so she rocked backward violently. The chair overturned, throwing her to the floor. Unfortunately in all the fluster and tumble she sprained her ankle and broke her wrist." Amy twisted in her seat and leaned closer to the young soldier, inviting his attention to where a lace kerchief nestled in the plunging neckline of her golden gown, tantalizingly hinting at creamy mounds beneath the fabric. Her eyes crinkled as she followed his gaze. Fanning herself with one hand, she succeeded in redirecting his attention back to her face. "We sent for the small town doctor because he lived closer and he patched her up as soon as he could, but not soon enough that we could return yesterday as scheduled."
"How horrible for her." The lieutenant's gaze drooped again to where the pulsing slip of lace obscured the valley between Amy's breasts.
Amy bobbed her head in agreement, her mouth twisting into a wry grin. "We thought so too at first. Then the doctor turned out to be a school chum she hadn't seen in ages." Amy shrugged. "Who knew they'd end up rekindling an old crush from way back then."
"That's one way to renew a friendship." Frank chuckled. "Will you be seeing Emily upon your return?"
"That depends on this young gentleman giving us entrance." Amy adjusted her skirts and fluffed the lace at her bodice. She peered into the young man's eyes, batted her lashes once, twice.
The lieutenant followed her movements with a slight frown. When he licked his lips, Frank cleared his throat, startling the infatuated soldier.
"Well, sir, will you grant them leave?" Frank's horse dipped his head to scratch his nose on one leg, nearly unseating Frank with his sudden downward movement. Gathering the reins more firmly, he pulled the stallion's head up.
"I don't suppose fine ladies such as you could be any trouble." The lieutenant handed back the pass. Tipping his hat once more, he waved them through. "Travel safe."
With a slap of the reins, Mrs. Abernathy set the carriage rattling into motion. Nobody spoke until out of earshot of the smitten lieutenant.
"Now that's to bed, what has you out of town, Frank?" Amy asked.
"News printing business." The less they knew about his clandestine activities, the better for everyone. However, he wanted to confirm his thoughts about their activities. "I do hope your grandmother is feeling much better."
"Grandmother?" Amy blinked twice slowly and grinned. "Why, whatever do you mean?"
"As I thought." Frank laughed with the ladies as they rode back into town. Amy's stories always proved entertaining. The open question was how long before Miss Amy landed in hot water for her fictions.
Chapter 8
Frank braced hi
s tired hands on the heavy leather apron hugging his hips and stretched his screaming back muscles. He had spent hours hunched over the metal trays of letters, ones reset three times already and still not aligned properly. Having to place the letters in backward so they printed right side up and reading left to right when his mind kept drifting to Emily's face, her scent, her laugh, frustrated him on many levels. He slammed a hand onto the thick wood table.
A folded paper glared accusingly at him from one corner of another table set at right angles to the first. He had found the pages when he unlocked the door. The pages were signed by Penny Marsh. He did not recognize the name, which was downright mysterious. British guards ensured the town remained closed to comings and goings at night. So who might it be? Someone wanted him to be at odds with the entire community, not just part of it. He slammed his hand down again to hear the satisfying thump followed by the high, tinny sound of the metal tiles wavering in their slots. Suggesting men sold women via marriage into bondage as often as they sold slaves would see him shot. Or worse, hung. Marriage did not equal slavery. His parents had demonstrated that to him through their love and caring for each other.
He considered his marriage to Elizabeth, forced on him by his own sense of honor. He had not wanted to marry anyone at that juncture in his life, with the war all around, but could not abandon his brother's child or the woman having it. His conscience had balked at walking away from his responsibility. Nor could he let an innocent child endure the shame of being labeled a bastard. The war may take the boy's father away, but his uncle would see to it he grew up proper and with pride.