by Naomi Musch
Marilla smiled. She wished so too. She wished the world for Delia and Theo. Perhaps if they'd had children before Theo went away, Lang would have found his own fireside more appealing than his sister-in-law's. She squeezed her eyes and squashed out bitter thoughts, thankful that her coat hid the small indications of her own secret. Yes, she needed to go to church. Needed to be around others to make her troubles disappear. "Thank you, Delia. I'll come home straight-away after service." She lowered a bag of diapers and bottles from her shoulder and set them on a nearby stuffed chair.
"You needn't hurry." Delia reached out and laid a hand on Marilla's arm. "I know you need this. Maybe next week we'll both go."
Marilla swallowed and nodded. She turned to go, but as she reached the door, Emmett rushed up from behind and clung to her legs. He started to cry. Marilla stooped down and hugged him. "It's okay, Em. Mommy will be back soon. You go play with Theodora and Auntie Dee."
He cried harder. Marilla swallowed again and picked him up, brushing huge tears off his apple cheeks.
"Shh... Don't cry. I'll come back." She glanced at Delia. She'd never left Emmett alone at Delia's. He was used to being at her mother's, but not her sister's. Oh, why did he have to be difficult today?
"He'll be all right once you leave." Delia stepped into the kitchen with encouraging words, but Emmett sucked in a breath and wailed.
Marilla sighed with a huff, her nerves a rattle. "Maybe I'll just bring him along. He'll be no trouble for me, if you can just keep Theodora."
Emmett laid his head against her shoulder and sobbed while Delia looked on, holding the baby. "Whatever you want, Rilla. Dora and I will be just fine."
Marilla nodded and patted Emmett's back. Settling him back inside the car a minute later, his crying subsided. He wiped his tears and Marilla gave him a smile. How could she blame the boy? He had been as cooped up as she, and he missed his father. Whatever would they do when another baby came?
The singing had begun when she reached the church and slipped inside the door. Everyone was standing when she carried Emmett along the outer wall to the left looking for a seat. It wasn't difficult to find a space near the back. The crowd was half its regular size. Likely many had stayed home to avoid the spread of germs. Hopefully, no one in their congregation had been stricken with the flu. Marilla sighed deep and silent as the pastor bid the congregation to sit. Resting on the hard, wooden pew, peace tumbled with angst in her heart. God called her to trust, but she could not let go of the wrestling within.
I know I should write to Lang and tell him I'm pregnant, Lord, but I am still angry and hurt. He doesn't care. I've given him two children already. Another won't change how he feels.
She folded trembling hands over her stomach. She had known for a long time now, since the beginning of summer, but the thought of another little one already had been too much to bear. Her first instinct had been just like the other times—to tell Lang and make him love her—but the memory followed that he hadn't loved her better or more because she'd given him a son and a daughter. He still went to Delia. Still sniffed after her sister like a hound.
Her prayers went all one way and another, filled with longing for him, desiring to stay connected with him half a world away. Wanting to share her news, and hope for his joy, yet wishing to ignore him. Hoping, praying for his safety, but not wanting to think about the pain he'd wrought her. Not wishing to consider that she was soon to have another baby to care for without his help.
The minister preached, and the congregation sang. She heard bits as she cried out inside to the only One who knew her thoughts. Emmett, bless his little heart, was a perfect angel, sitting beside her on the pew, playing with a compact from her purse. He had fallen asleep with his head in her lap by the time the service ended.
She was loath to wake him as the congregation departed. She let them pass. A number of old friends stopped to greet her and comment on what a big boy Emmett was becoming. They asked about the welfare of the baby and Langdon of course. "He is doing well," she said, hoping it was still true. She turned the topic to Theo's injury and shared the hope that they would all pray for his soon return home from the hospital in England.
The church was almost empty when Jacob Hessman appeared at the end of the pew, while Rilla was struggling to put a sleepy Emmett into his coat. "Allow me to help," he said, as she flopped the boy forward, tugging the coat into place.
"Would you? He's gotten so heavy."
She leaned away, and Jacob scooped the boy up in his thick arms, tucking him close to his chest. "He's no heavier than a peck of sugar."
She smiled. "A mighty sweet but heavy peck. Thank you."
"You did not bring the baby?"
"I left Dora with my sister. I would have left Emmett too, but he was upset at my going. I guess we both needed to get out."
"It's been a long time since I've seen you at the store." They stepped outside into the autumn sunshine. The day had warmed.
Fall was Marilla's favorite season. She took a deep breath. "Too long, because of the flu, you know."
He nodded. They paused, and each shook hands with the pastor standing outside the door. Marilla thanked him for the message and told the same news—or lack of it—concerning Lang, and again asked prayer for Theo.
"And what about you? How are you holding up, Mrs. Prescott?" he asked. "I know you have family nearby, but are you managing all right with your husband away?"
She felt her smile was weak, but she couldn't force it more than she did. "Well enough, yes."
"I will pray for you, just as I do all the ladies whose husbands have been called away. Be sure and let me or one of the deacons know if there's anything the church can do to help."
"Thank you." She thought of the old men left behind to serve on the deacon board. She had more strength than most of them, yet her heart swelled at the kind offer. Yes, she would covet his prayers. "Really, pastor, it means a great deal. There are...things. I do need your prayers."
He nodded and pressed her hand again before she and Jacob moved down the steps to the street. Jacob settled Emmett into her car as the little boy began to wake up. He reached inside his coat, removed a penny candy stick, and handed it to Emmett. Marilla smiled at Jacob, surprised and pleased. Jacob blushed. "I never know when children will be at church." He stepped back and allowed her to get into the car.
"Thank you for helping, Jacob. For being...such a good friend." She thought her smile might dissolve to tears. The emotions swam from one direction to another. She despised them!
He squeezed her shoulder. "Thank you, Marilla, for considering me your friend."
She held her breath and pinched her lips, and then exhaled as she fastened onto composure.
"Is there anything you need from the store?"
"Plenty. I am nearly out of dry beans and molasses. I need spices and baking powder. I could make some crackers for Dora, but she so enjoys the store bought with her teething. Daddy plans to collect things in a few days, but he's been so busy bringing in the potatoes along with everything else. I will just have to take a trip into town. Maybe tomorrow—"
"Maybe tomorrow I will bring them to you." He stared at her, stopping her list of anxieties from growing.
She couldn't accept this man's generous offer to help, could she? He was always so kind. Jacob never failed to offer his help, kind words, and attention. Was it friendship he felt, or was it something so much more? She had always known he cared for her, but she had been married to Lang for almost three years. Jacob had never shown any impropriety, yet... "It's too much to ask." Her words were almost a whisper. Even as she said it, she knew she didn't sound convincing.
"It isn't. Business is slow. I will close the store at four o'clock tomorrow and bring you everything you need." She opened her mouth to protest, but he didn't let her. "It is an honor to help. Please, allow me."
Yes, she knew his business had been slow. No one but she and the pastor had spoken to him in church, as far as she had noticed. She
stared at him as he stepped back and shut her door for her. He lifted his hand in farewell. As Marilla pulled away from the church, her heart split open. She was a woman alone. How could she not accept such a kindness from Jacob? He, too, was alone in his way. Perhaps with simple friendship, they could find grace to help one another through these perilous times.
~~~~~
After eighteen days aboard the ship, Lang got his first sight of lighthouses on the coast, and the following day they landed in France. He had never felt so relieved to feel the ground, not even after a hard winter. The day they landed in Brest was damp and humid. He could smell the red-brown earth. He was glad he wasn't a sailor. Gladder still he hadn't gone to Superior a few years back and taken a job on the ships. It was okay for twenty days, but he wouldn't want to make a job of sailing. Yet, even with the traveling he'd done back home, he had never felt so far away. The land was foreign and familiar at once.
They passed down narrow streets lined with stone houses and shops boasting signs written in a language Lang had no notion of as they marched to their camp. The very essence of being a world away from Wisconsin and home appeared in everything he looked at, even the faces of the children waving and calling out to them as they passed. Distance was palpable.
"Well, looks like war really is hell," Dickie remarked when they reached the camp. The number of barracks was insufficient, and they had to set up their pup tents in the mud.
It rained nearly every day that week, but Dickie was delighted, despite their discomforts, when French peasant girls came selling wine, nuts, and fresh fruit.
Now, weeks later, those first damp days in Brest eating fruit and sleeping in tents seemed like a vacation. They had since made their way to the front, and Lang had experienced the real taste of war. For what little warmth it was worth, Lang pulled his mud-caked blanket tighter around his shoulders and hugged his body close to the dirt wall of the trench as another shell whistled overhead and exploded somewhere just past them. "Head down! Head down!" he yelled at Dickie. He didn't need to shout. Dickie hunched tight, both arms curled over his head, his gun leaning against the mud.
"What?" Dickie’s expression screwed up as pulled his arms from his ears.
"Nothing." Lang waited in position a moment longer before slumping to the ground. Rain began to fall again, adding cold insult to their already wet misery.
Dickie crawled closer and handed him a cigarette.
"Where do you get these?"
"My sister sent 'em. I've been saving them for when things are tight."
Lang poked the smoke into his mouth. "Got a light too?"
A white-toothed grin flashed out of Dickie's dirty face. "Just pretend. My matches are wet."
Lang smirked and tucked the cigarette into his pocket. "Maybe later, then."
They'd been blasted by rockets all day—all week. There were times they had to crawl over bodies to get from one part of the trench to another, but no one dared try to bury them. No one had the energy. The days had turned into one long hell. At least it must be something of what hell was like. Lang hoped they would survive it. He spent the hours when they weren't cowering in mud or belly-crawling through barbed wire or shooting into the smoking shadows, dreaming about green fields and forests that weren't blackened into ash. He'd lost count of the times he imagined Delia walking toward him across a green pasture, his body hot with sweat, hers cool and lovely in a thin dress void of heavy stays. His dreams went further still, and in times of heaviest battle, he dwelt there with her on one side of his thoughts, while on the other he automatically fought to survive. He fought to be with her.
The rain stopped with the next morning's haze of gray light. The only sound was the breathing of men and the occasional cough that could not be stilled. How many of them had died from disease? He and Dickie watched some of them carried out on stretchers, equally as many as the wounded who died before a stretcher could reach them. Still, the two of them remained unscathed. Dickie said it was because of his mother's prayers. Lang supposed someone prayed for him too. Rilla probably. Might Delia also? He pulled out the sheaf of papers he had been writing on, a little damp from his inside pocket, along with the stub of pencil he kept with them. He struggled to make out the words he'd written, but he remembered what they said.
Dearest Delia,
I should say, my dear sister Delia, but I cannot. I cannot use such a familial word in writing to you. I am lying in a trench in France. Where? I'd tell you, but then you might not get this letter. They take things like that out or take away the letter completely, I am told. It isn't important anyway. It's all the same. This whole scarred land is a burned up plain of sameness. We barely move. We are like worms, here, digging through the ground, hardly recognizing the light of day for the clouds of smoke and charred country that surrounds us. It is an unrecognizable landscape. Black, pitted, strewn with wire and dead men. Shells scream through the night, but the rest of us hang on. Most of us anyway.
I am not telling you all these things so that you feel sorry for me. I'm writing to say that you are what keeps me alive. It is time, Delia, darling, to tell you what I feel.
Lang laid his head against the earth. He had tried to tell her so many times. Offered his heart in so many ways. Yet she had reared back. Fear, he supposed, kept her from allowing him to say more, but here he lay in a trench. He might never come home. Whether he did or he didn't, he couldn't leave her doubting any longer. She must know, when her love ran out for Theo, Lang would still be there to hold her. She would never be alone. He scratched more words with the dull pencil.
You didn't want to hear me say this before. That day in the milk house right before I left, you remember? That wasn't the only time. You stopped me, but I know you understood, and now I've got to say it. I've got to. You must have seen it in my eyes, felt it when I've comforted you, held you, yes? I have always loved you, Cordelia, and only you. I never should have married Rilla. It has always been you I've loved, since the first day I came to your father's farm. Delia, my darling, Delia. Please let me love you.
I know, I know. You are married to Theo, and you feel like you can only love him. But I can give you something more. I promise you. Delia—I promise you I can. I have bottled these feelings inside for so long. For years. Could you not tell? I love you. Darling Delia. I am in love with you..."
A shell screamed. Lang dove for cover, crushing the letter against his chest. His filthy fingers shook as he folded it up and tucked it away again. He reached for his rifle and, lifting his head above the ramparts, commenced firing.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
October 1918
Jacob Hessman relaxed into the chair at Marilla's table. His long legs stretched beneath. He was talkative while Marilla fixed their supper. The first time he'd visited, that Monday in September, he had brought her groceries and stayed for supper. A home cooked meal was the least she could offer him. He had come once a week since. Today was his fourth visit, and she had prepared them a ham dinner, complete with potatoes, gravy, and yams he had gotten her the week before. The children would love them.
Sundays were quiet for Jacob. His store was closed, so after church each week he would load some goods he thought she needed and bring them to her house in the afternoon. She would have either eaten Sunday lunch alone or dinner with her family and then come home to settle in and prepare for the week ahead. By suppertime, no one was likely to intrude upon them asking questions.
Not that she had anything to hide. No. Her friendship with Jacob was harmless. They were comfortable looking out for one another, at peace having someone else to talk to. It was Jacob who had convinced her she should write to Lang and tell him her news. "It will give him the courage and strength to remain safe," he told her. She wondered if the words were hard for him to say. She wrote to Lang as Jacob suggested. Telling Lang he would be a father again by the time he returned was easier to say on paper than she had expected. It felt surreal. It was like telling no one. He might not even get her letter.
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For some reason, Jacob finding out the news had been harder. She hadn't told him, but he had noticed the second time he'd come to her house. She had begun showing well. The family had all realized she was pregnant. Delia had offered congratulations, but her pain was obvious. She so wanted a child. Marilla would have given anything for it to be Delia and Theo having a baby rather than her. Yet, after the news came out, and the baby began to grow and writhe inside her, her love unfolded for this little one coming in mid-winter. Perhaps Theo would be home by then, and he and Delia wouldn't mind taking Dora and Emmett for a while, giving her time and strength to adjust to the new little one.
She set a trivet on the table and turned to the oven, opening the door and letting a flush of heat into the room which felt good against her skin.
Jacob jumped up. "Allow me to lift the pot."
She scooted aside and allowed him to retrieve their dinner. He set it on the table and removed the lid with a flourish. The salty, sweet scent of ham filled the room, and Jacob inhaled. "You are the best cook I know." He pulled her chair out for her. "Sit. I will do the rest."
She flushed. "You don't have to."
"Sit," he insisted.
She took a seat and sighed. It did feel good to be waited upon. Dora sat in her own high chair, banging her spoon on the wooden surface. Emmett sat in a wooden seat Lang had built to raise him higher on a regular chair. "I'm hung'y! I'm hung'y!" he chanted.
"It's coming."
After the meal was in place, and Jacob had fetched them each a glass of milk, he bowed his head and prayed. His voice sounded rich and deep as he thanked God for their food and for the good news that Theo would be home before Christmas, or so his last letter said. He prayed for Lang's safety and thanked God for Marilla's good health, the baby to come, and their friendship. His final words were brisk and somewhat breathless, yet spoken with great feeling. He was looking at her when she lifted her head, but he turned away and offered to slice the ham.