The Vow
Page 11
“Reiver, what’s wrong?” Hannah crossed the room to his side. “Did something you read upset you?”
He looked at her, his expression bleak as he fought to control his emotions.
“No, Hannah, nothing’s wrong. I just received another shipment of inferior cocoons from China, that’s all, and I’m steamed about it.”
Hannah moistened her dry lips. “Reiver, I have something to tell you.”
He smiled. “And I have something to tell you. The women can go on reading. If anything, their productivity has improve over the last three months, so I see no reason to stop.”
Hannah flung her arms around her husband’s neck and hugged him. “Oh, Reiver, that’s wonderful!” But she drew away in puzzlement when he stiffened in her arms. To hide he confusion over his rebuff, she added, “I have news of my own.” She took a deep breath. “I’m going to have another baby.”
He stood there in silence for a moment, then he tilted her chin with his fingers and kissed her swiftly on the mouth. When he released her, he smiled wanly. “So I’m to be a father again. Thank you, Hannah.” But the joy he had displayed those other two times just wasn’t there.
Crushed, Hannah stepped away from him. “Aren’t you happy about this baby?”
“Of course I am. I’ve just had a particularly hard, frustrating day, that’s all.
Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s something I have to attend to down at the mill.”
And he walked out of the parlor, grabbing his coat before disappearing out the door.
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Hannah stared after him, her eyes filling with tears. She hadn’t expected him to be so unenthusiastic, so cold. And she didn’t believe an inferior shipment of silk was the cause. Reiver’s mood had been pleasant that evening.
She looked over at the Hartford Standard crumpled on the floor where Reiver had thrown it. Something he had read upset him. She was sure of it.
Hannah picked up the newspaper and scanned the headlines of the page Reiver had been reading. A steam boiler had exploded…the banker Amos Tuttle wed the widow Cecelia Layton…the Connecticut River was lower than usual due to the dry autumn.
Hannah frowned in puzzlement. Nothing written here should have upset her husband so.
She folded the newspaper neatly and placed her hand reassuringly on her abdomen. “Don’t worry, little one. He’ll come to accept you in time.”
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Chapter Six
“Mama, is Abigail an idiot?” Benjamin said, kneeling on the floor and peering into his baby sister’s cradle.
“Benjamin Shaw! What a horrible thing to say!” Hannah lifted her eight-month-old daughter and held her against her shoulder as if she could physically protect her child from hurtful words. “Who called Abigail that?”
Benjamin shrugged. “I don’t remember. I just heard it somewhere.”
“Was it Mrs. Hardy? Or that gossiping Millicent? Come, come. I’m waiting for an answer, young man.”
He rose and scuffed the floor with the toe of his shoe. “I said I don’t remember!”
“Fine. Then you’ll go to your room and stay there until your memory returns.”
For one moment defiance flared in Ben’s eyes, then he muttered, “Yes, Mama,” and left the nursery to accept his punishment. Hannah knew from past experience that he would remain in his room for the rest of the day and evening, and even then he might not capitulate unless his father scolded him. Ben idolized his father, whose disapproval hurt more than a whipping.
Once alone, Hannah hugged Abigail, her cheek pressed against the downy blond head. “You’re not an idiot, my darling. You’re my sweet, precious little girl.”
But though her mother’s heart denied it with a lioness’s protective ferocity, Hannah’s rational mind suspected that her daughter wasn’t quite right.
The Vow
Abigail always had been slow. In the womb, she hadn’t kicked as often or as hard as the boys, and she took an excruciating three days being born, almost taking Hannah’s life.
As the weeks passed and she grew, she took longer to raise her head and roll onto her stomach.
Hannah shifted Abigail in her arms and looked down at the grave, chubby face, and her heart sank when the baby made no sign of recognition, just stared up at her mother as if she were a stranger. Without warning, recognition finally dawned like the rising sun and Abigail smiled, filling her mother with false hope.
Hannah smiled back and tickled her daughter’s chin. “Why, hello there, little Abigail.” Her smile died. “You’re not an idiot, and when I find out who dared call you that…”
She shouldn’t compare Abigail with the boys. After all, she was a little girl, and little girls were different, quieter and less fussy. Hannah knew that Abigail possessed all her mental faculties, and she would catch up to her brothers all in good time.
Hannah carried Abigail downstairs and found Mrs. Hardy in the buttery, giving Davey some gingerbread.
Mrs. Hardy’s silver gaze went to Abigail, and she frowned slightly before looking up at Hannah. “Where’s Ben? I’m waiting to take him and Davey for a walk.”
“Ben’s being punished,” Hannah replied. “Mrs. Hardy, will you step into the parlor while Davey finishes his gingerbread? There’s something I have to say to you.”
“I can see I’m in for a talking-to,” the housekeeper muttered.
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Once in the parlor, out of Davey’s hearing, Hannah said, “I’ve sent Ben to his room because he asked me if Abigail was an idiot and wouldn’t tell me where he heard the word. Do you know who would dare make up such a horrible lie about my little girl?”
“You have to accept it, Hannah. This poor mite just isn’t like the other children.”
Hannah reared back. “That doesn’t mean my little girl is an idiot!” She pressed her lips to Abigail’s forehead. “She’s just a little slower than the boys, that’s all. She’ll catch up one day.”
Mrs. Hardy’s doubtful expression spoke volumes.
Hannah said, “You’ve all been discussing Abigail behind my back, haven’t you?”
A guilty red flush stained the housekeeper’s neck. “I won’t lie to you. We’ve talked among ourselves. We’ve all noticed that Abigail isn’t as”—she groped for the right word—“lively as the boys were at her age. Reiver didn’t want us to upset you.”
Suddenly fatigued, Hannah dropped down into the rocking chair. Abigail, oblivious to the undercurrent swirling about her, had fallen asleep in her mother’s arms. Ben and Davey had always been quick to sense tension and quicker to wail in protest, but not Abigail. Despair rose like bile in Hannah’s throat.
Four-year-old Davey, his chin still decorated with gingerbread crumbs, appeared in the parlor doorway. “I’m finished, Mrs. Hardy,” he announced. “I want to play with Ben now.” Davey stuck to his older brother like a shadow.
“You can’t play with Ben today,” Hannah said. “He’s being punished and will have to stay in his room.”
Davey blinked hard, his eyes filling with tears.
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“Take him for a walk,” Hannah said dully. “I’m tired and I want to be alone with my little girl.”
Mrs. Hardy nodded, brushed crumbs from Davey’s chin with her apron, then took his hand and left for their walk.
Just before the door closed behind them, Hannah heard her son ask, “But why is Ben being punished?” Then the voices died and she was alone.
Hannah rocked back and forth, back and forth, letting the soft creak of the runners and the quietness of the house soothe her. She looked down at Abigail, so serene in repose, and her heart clenched in fear.
What did life hold for her innocent, imperfect daughter? Would she recognize her own name? Would
she be able to read and make her letters? And when she grew into a young lady, would some respectable young man fall in love with her and ask her to marry him? Or would people ridicule her and call her an idiot?
Idiot…
Why had God done this to her child? Why? Hannah closed her eyes, squeezing hot, bitter tears onto her cheeks. But she brushed them away as soon as they fell.
“God may have abandoned you, my precious little girl,” she whispered, “but I won’t. I’ll always be here to protect you.”
Always.
Reiver walked home to the faint pounding of hammers.
Instead of going directly to the house for his noon meal, he turned left and went to see how construction was progressing on his new house.
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We should be able to move in by the end of summer, he thought in satisfaction, for the framing of the large Greek Revival-style house had just been completed. At last he would have a residence large enough to house his growing family comfortably, and one that would reflect the modest success of his silk mill.
Samuel and James would remain in the homestead, however.
He looked back over his shoulder at the cluster of buildings where once the rearing shed had stood. Now he had three sheds for reeling where once he had one, and a separate building for the wet, smelly work of dyeing. Someday rows of buildings would stand there.
Reiver saluted the carpenters, then headed home.
When he walked through the door, a thin, high-pitched wail scored his nerves like a cat’s claws. Reiver shuddered in revulsion. This one—he couldn’t bear to think of it as his daughter—even cried differently. “Hannah?” he called, rolling up his sleeves as he strode into the buttery to wash his hands.
Seconds later she appeared in the doorway, her pale face tear-stained and drawn, and her blue eyes desperate. Her arms cradled the wailing baby, and she murmured, “Don’t cry, sweeting,” over and over.
Reiver suppressed his rising resentment and dried his hands. He turned to Hannah. “You look exhausted. Why don’t you give the baby to Millicent for a while and join me for luncheon?”
“Do you know what Ben said about Abigail?” she asked.
“Hannah—”
“He called his baby sister an idiot.” She pressed the baby’s head to her cheek, quieting Abigail instantly. “I’m sure he was just repeating something he overheard.”
Reiver turned away to hide his guilty expression.
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Hannah said, “Who would dare say such a cruel, hurtful thing? I’d hate to think Samuel or James—”
“Don’t dwell on it.” He turned to face her. “Bring her upstairs to Millicent. I want to speak to you alone, in the parlor.”
Hannah left the buttery without protest and returned to the parlor a minute later, her arms empty and her expression bleak.
“Please sit down,” Reiver said, and when she did so, he knelt at her feet and grasped her cold, stiff hands in his. “Hannah, there is something wrong with this child.”
Her face crumpled and she squeezed his hands. “But she’s not an idiot, Reiver. She’s not.”
He thought of his midday meal growing cold and the three new girls demanding his supervision at their looms, and his impatience grew. He rose and released her. “You’ve got to be strong, Hannah. You’ve got to accept the fact that Abigail may be simpleminded for the rest of her life.”
“No!”
“Hannah—”
“I want Dr. Bradley to examine her. Perhaps he can do something.”
“Bradley tries to heal bodily ills. There’s nothing he can do for an affliction of the mind. Nothing any of us can do.”
Hannah bolted to her feet. “There’s got to be something—”
“Enough!” Reiver grasped her arms. “Do I have to remind you that you have a duty to me and our two other children?”
“But Abigail—”
“And what of the mill girls? You haven’t set foot in the mill since this child was born. And don’t think that Constance and Henrietta haven’t noticed.”
“My daughter demands my complete attention right now.”
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“So do your sons and my brothers!” He gave her a little shake. “Don’t defy me on this, Hannah! I’ll not have you placing her welfare ahead of anyone else’s.”
Her eyes widened in stunned comprehension. “You hate her because she’s not perfect, just as you hated your own father for not being perfect.”
He grew very still. “Who told you about my father?”
“It doesn’t matter. I know you hated him because he was the town drunkard and an object of scorn.”
His hands fell away and he stepped back. “And with good reason. He was a lazy, no-account drunkard who made our lives a living hell. It has nothing whatsoever to do with the way I feel about Abigail.”
“Reiver—”
“No matter what you may think, I don’t hate her. I am merely being realistic, and if that sounds unfeeling to you, so be it. As the head of this family, I have to decide what’s best for everyone, and I will not see our sons neglected by their mother!”
“The boys will do just fine. It’s Abigail who needs more of my love and attention.”
Reiver scowled. “You are my wife and you will obey me for the good of the family.”
“Must I obey you even when you are wrong?”
Her unexpected retort caught him by surprise. Then he said, “Especially when you think I’m wrong.”
Hannah hung her head, but her hands were balled into mutinous fists at her sides.
“I’ve made my wishes known,” he said, rolling down his shirt sleeves. “Now I’m hungry and I’d like to eat.”
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Without another word, Hannah returned to the buttery to fetch Reiver his noon meal. He ate the cold food in even colder silence.
In the nursery, Hannah looked down at Abigail sleeping so sweetly and wished they could run away.
Then, wafting through the open window came Davey’s carefree voice exhorting poor Mrs. Hardy to run faster, and Hannah felt her love and loyalty part like the Red Sea, one half staying with Abigail and the other encompassing the rest of her family.
She sighed. Reiver was right. But while she could forgive him for that, she would never forgive him for not loving their imperfect daughter.
She knelt down and stroked Abigail’s smooth cheek. “Don’t worry, my sweet little girl. I will always have enough love for the both of us.”
The following morning a new shipment of raw silk arrived, and Reiver asked Hannah if she would help Constance Ferry sort cocoons and reel the silk fibers.
As the two women sorted, Hannah asked, “Do you like working here, Constance?”
Constance didn’t even glance up from her work. “Yes, ma’am. I earn more than I ever could in another factory. Oh, I’ll quit when I get married someday.”
She blushed a guilty shade of pink and lowered her voice. “But don’t tell Mr.
Shaw.”
Hannah smiled. “It will be our secret.”
Hours later, when the cocoons were sorted, Hannah said, “Now what do we do?”
“We boil ’em,” Constance replied, rising and taking a basket of cocoons to another room, where a large tank filled with scalding water stood near the
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reeling machine. “Be careful of your hands. The water has to be hot to loosen the silk fibers.”
Hannah watched the other woman toss the cocoons in, let them soak for a moment, then quickly dip her fingers gingerly into the hot water and brush away the outer web before finding the end of the true cocoon. When Constance had the filament ends
of six cocoons, she began reeling the silk.
Hannah said, “Let me help with the next batch.”
The moment her fingers touched the hot water, she wished she had never volunteered, but once her hands got used to the temperature, she managed to find the filaments so Constance could reel the silk.
Later, when Hannah was through, she left with sore red hands and a new appreciation for the mill girls’ hard work.
Reiver hadn’t seen Cecelia for two years, ever since the day in 1845 she told him she was marrying Tuttle. Tonight they were among the Shaws’ four dinner guests, for Reiver needed a loan from Tuttle’s bank to expand the silk mills. But from the way Cecelia studiously avoided Reiver’s gaze, he could tell she knew the second reason for the invitation.
Her adoring husband kept her well, judging by her elegant, lace-trimmed gown in a flattering shade of rose. The necklace at her throat flashed with genuine sapphires, not humble garnets and seed pearls.
“Nice house you’ve got here, Shaw,” Tuttle said, his bland, boyish face flushed with envy. In a manner reminiscent of Ezra Bickford, he mentally assessed the value of every stick of furniture in the parlor. “It’s new, isn’t it?”
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Reiver nodded. “We just moved in two months ago.” He smiled at Hannah, seated next to Cecelia on the settee. “With our growing family, we need the room.”
He compared his wife with his former mistress. While Hannah wore her light brown hair as she always did, parted in the center and swept over her ears into a chignon, Cecelia favored fashionable beribboned ringlets that gave her a sweet dainty air. Her graceful movements contrasted sharply with Hannah’s broad, abrupt gestures. Cecelia’s vivacious personality drew a man’s attention like a sailor to a siren, while Hannah didn’t merit a second look.