Then he opened his eyes, smiled at her and she was herself again, strong and sure. This was what mattered. Only this.
When Edgar Lord and Serena came to offer their help in leaving the ferry, she was grateful to them. She had liked Serena at once and it was a relief that she need not deal with the entire problem of getting Wade and their bundles off the boat by herself.
Wade shook hands with Edgar cheerfully and flashed his winning smile at Serena. Then he swung himself up on his single crutch while Edgar reached for Doc’s old carpetbag.
“Good to see you both,” Wade said. “But we’ll be all right. If Peter hasn’t followed instructions to meet this boat I’ll wring his skinny old neck when I get my hands on him.”
“That’s the spirit,” Edgar said. Nevertheless, he and Serena stayed close by until Peter himself—a lanky fellow with a wide grin—came to greet them. He touched his cap to Lora and gave her a quick look before he turned his attention to Wade and the problem of helping him into the carriage.
“Your mother’s waiting, Mr. Wade,” he said when they were settled and he had tucked the buffalo robe around them.
“I would suspect as much,” said Wade dryly. Under the thick fur his hand found Lora’s, held it tight, and she knew he was not wholly confident of the coming meeting with his mother.
II
Steam from the breath of the horses smoked in the frosty air and there was a jangle of harness as they stamped the ground restlessly. From his seat Peter flapped the reins and the carriage turned onto the rutty, frozen ground of the road. Lamps from hacks and other carriages shone in the gloom near the landing, but Lora had already lost sight of the Lords.
As the Tyler carriage followed a course which ran parallel with the long, dark ridge of hills, Wade gestured toward the hillside.
“Do you see those three clusters of lights up there above us? That’s where Dogwood Lane curves around and makes a loop. The lights on the lower right are those of our house, the ones farther on along the hill are at the Lords’.”
There were many more lights shining in the Lord windows and to Lora’s eyes their welcome seemed somehow warm and bright. The fewer lights at the Tylers’ had a spare, cold look. There she went again with her ready imaginings, she chided herself, and turned her attention to higher lights on the hill far above.
“I see you have other neighbors. Who lives in the house on the hilltop?” she asked.
Wade’s fingers slackened about her own, and she sensed withdrawal as he spoke. “The name is Channing. We do not care for their society.”
She put the matter by as having no particular interest for her at the moment. It was not the neighbors who concerned her, but the woman who waited for her son to bring home his new wife.
Lora had exchanged several letters with Wade’s mother in the days of his illness. She had written to her at once when she found the address among his papers and Mrs. Tyler had replied, sending money, asking that no expense be spared in the care of her son. But there had been no one to care for him except Lora herself, for Pineville had no second doctor and there was no nearby Union hospital to which he could be moved, or encampment to which she could appeal. She had written to his company, but the letter had been delayed and there was no answer until she no longer needed their help.
The superficial shoulder wound healed quickly and cleanly, but the state of his leg had frightened her. She knew about the horrors of amputation if gangrene set in. But somehow, miraculously, the leg was healing in its own way, though it would be long months before it would carry his weight without aid.
The letters from Mrs. Tyler had been curt and faintly imperious, but Lora had sensed her anxiety and had written fully and warmly in return. She learned that Mrs. Tyler could not come to her son because she was bound to a wheelchair existence. Later, during Wade’s convalescence, Lora had asked about Mrs. Tyler’s injury and he had told her briefly that his mother had fallen downstairs some years before.
In the long days when she had fought death away from her patient, Lora’s own capacity to feel pain had returned and with it had come tenderness and pity for Wade. That the girl he called for through his fever was the wife who had died a year before, she was quick to discern, and the fact that he too had suffered a loss drew them more closely together. Wade’s need of her, the way he began to cling to her and take some cheer from her presence, had increased the tenderness of her own feeling toward him, though at the same time she had shrunk a little within herself as she sensed what might be happening.
While there was never any time when she sought to dream Wade into Martin’s place, that was what he was plainly doing with her and his memory of Virginia. He seemed to take joy in finding new resemblances between her own gentleness with him and the gentle ways of Virginia. Lora had struggled against this for a time—insisting that she was not Virginia, and not like Virginia, that it was dangerous for him to build such a likeness in his mind. But when he clung to her in desperate need, she could not chide him.
The silence in the carriage had grown heavy and she wrenched herself back to the demands of the present. The horses were walking now, as they climbed the steepening road toward the crest of the hill.
She reached again for Wade’s left hand beneath the fur robe. As her fingers touched it she felt through her thin gloves the jagged scar that marked palm and back where something had pierced it long ago.
“You must be anxious to see Jemmy,” she said. “As anxious as I am to meet him. I suppose he’ll be waiting at the door to greet you.”
She felt him stir beside her as he drew his hand from beneath the robe. “Jemmy is not given to demonstrative action, Lora. He is a strange child, as I’ve tried to make you understand. Not at all like his mother. It may be that he will disappoint you.”
“He will not,” she asserted firmly. “I’ve told you about the little brother who died a few years after my mother. Jemmy is going to take his place. Besides, you’ll remember that I’ve been a schoolmarm for the last few years, and I like little boys.”
Wade said nothing. He had leaned back against the seat and she knew he was weary to the point of exhaustion. The miserably long ride on the jerky train, with its frequent stops, had been hard to endure. She must be quiet now, let him gather his forces against the encounter ahead.
She felt that it had been wrong not to write his mother of their marriage until just before they left home. There had been no time for Amanda Tyler to answer. But that was the way Wade had wished it. Last night and today they had stayed at the St. Nicholas Hotel in New York, and Wade had sent a message to the island for Peter to meet the last ferry tonight. But he had rested badly at the hotel and the intended respite had not helped him.
She sighed and her breath misted the air within the carriage. How strange to be going as a bride to her husband’s home in so cheerless a manner as this. All her plans with Martin had been full of laughter and teasing and gaiety. He had grown up across the street, always known to her, pulling her pigtails when she was little, kissing her under the mistletoe at Christmas time a few years later. How long ago it all seemed to her twenty-two years. Martin had still been a boy when he had gone to fight for the Union cause, and somehow her girlhood had gone with him. Already she felt that she was older than Martin had ever been and that perhaps he would not recognize her now. She felt older even than Wade, who was her senior by seven years.
The horses were turning, the carriage wheels bumping over a driveway, and Wade awoke from his uneasy doze with a start. A moment later they had come to a halt before a flight of porch steps and Peter had dismounted from his seat to open the carriage door. Lora got out quickly and while Peter helped Wade, she stood looking up at the tall, frowning house before her. Candlelight flickered in the hallway, and there was a lamp in the window of a front room upstairs, but that was all. There were no parlor lights in evidence. The frowning aspect, she decided, was due to peaked eaves and a narrowness of architecture. It took a generously wide house to smile.
Ellie’s smile was toothy but fond as she greeted Wade. Like her husband she had only a quick glance for her new mistress, as if she dared not look too closely until a higher jurisdiction sanctioned her interest.
“Your mother’s waiting for ye, Mr. Wade. It’s better you see her first afore ye go upstairs. Though your room’s sparkling ready.” She darted a look at Lora and added, “An’ yours too, Miz Tyler.”
Lora thanked her and stepped into the dimly lighted hall. It was a narrow hall, running past dark, closed doors on right and left, vanishing toward the rear of the house. At one side rose a steep, equally narrow staircase, with a dark-red runner mounting toward the second floor.
Since the hallway was too narrow to permit easy passage of two side by side when one swung a crutch, Lora stepped back for her husband to go ahead. She had a sudden reluctance to face the old woman who waited for them in the back parlor. Her gaze sought the stair landing and the railing above, half expecting to see the bright eyes of an eight-year-old boy peering down at her. But the upper hall was dark and there was no small boy watching for his father.
The stale chill of the unheated hallway penetrated to Lora’s bones as the outside cold had not done, and she found her teeth chattering as she followed Wade. Ellie scuttled ahead to open the door and announced their coming with a bobbed curtsy to the woman who waited there.
“Come in, come in and shut the door!” commanded a voice that was firm of texture, with no quaver of age to mar its resonance.
Ellie gave Lora a nervous shove, giggled an apology, and shut herself promptly into the hall, leaving the others in the room. Lora was aware of a wave of heat and an odor of wintergreen, of firelight flickering on the ceiling and a lamp aglow on a round walnut table. Then Wade stepped to the side of his mother’s chair and she could see for the first time the woman who sat there.
Amanda Tyler wore full black skirts without hoops; black relieved only by the round lace collar and cameo pin at her throat. She sat tall in her chair and one sensed a backbone that was well trained, even though her injured hip had betrayed her. Her hair was still brown, with only a streaking of gray at the temples, though she was well past sixty, and her eyes were remarkably blue and unfaded. There was no evidence of past beauty here, but the strength of will was plain. This was a woman accustomed to her own way, who held her own strong convictions.
She raised her hands to her son and as Wade bent gallantly to kiss them, Lora noted the flash of jewels against their whiteness. Here were beautiful, well-kept hands, betraying age in the blue tracery of veins, but cared for, nevertheless, and revealing a certain vanity on the part of their possessor. Lora had removed her mended gloves, but now she wished they still hid her own rough hands.
Wade turned to present her and she moved forward into the firelight to face sharp blue eyes and take the hand extended to her. It felt cold and dry in her own, like parchment that might crumple if she pressed it, but the strength of the thin fingers startled her.
“My wife, Lora,” said Wade and she sensed the stirring of anxiety in him.
The old lady released her hand as if the touch of it displeased her, but her gaze did not waver.
“I shall want to know all about you, Lora,” Mrs. Tyler said bluntly. “But that will keep for later. I can see that my son is weary. So now I will merely thank you for your kindness in caring for him. Though I still question your wisdom in trying to do it yourself.”
“There wasn’t anyone else, Mother,” Wade said gently. “For a while the Confederates were between us and our own lines. If it were not for Lora I might not be here now.”
“Then I am grateful indeed,” said Mrs. Tyler, but her eyes remained cold. It was not necessary, she seemed to imply, to marry one’s nurse out of gratitude.
Wade, however, seemed to have thrown off his first uneasiness over this meeting with his mother. The rosy firelight had lessened his pallor. It found bright highlights in the thick dark hair which he wore long above his collar in the fashion of the day. His somewhat ascetic good looks had not been impaired by his thinness and to Lora’s eyes he looked at the moment like a portrait she had once seen of a famous English poet.
“It’s good to be home, Mother,” Wade said and touched her shoulder with the hand not engaged with his crutch.
No word had been spoken of his son and Lora could contain herself no longer.
“I’m very anxious to meet Jemmy,” she said. “Has he gone to bed by now?”
Mrs. Tyler threw her a look which discouraged friendly interest. “He has indeed. Though this is Friday and a school day he had to stay home. All day long he refused to eat a bite and at dinner I insisted that he finish every scrap of his meal. I will not have such nonsense. But he has thrown it up since, disgracefully. Weak stomachs never ran in my family—this must be an inheritance from your father’s side, Wade. At any rate, he should be asleep by now and I suggest that you do not disturb him.”
A sapphire sparked blue fire as she reached her hand to a small bell on the table beside her. Its chime was silver-clear and hung vibrantly in the air for a second or two before fading. At once Ellie appeared, letting in a chill breath from the hallway.
The old woman nodded to her. “Will you show Mrs. Tyler to her room, please. You will have your old room, of course, Wade. And while you did not give us much time, Ellie tells me she has done her best with the rear guest room for Lora. I will say good night now, Lora. But perhaps, Wade, you will stay with me for a moment?”
“Of course, Mother,” Wade said and smiled at Lora, who stood uneasy and hesitant, not knowing what was expected of her.
Mrs. Tyler gave her a nod of dismissal and Lora spoke a quick good night to Wade and went into the dim hallway. A candle in Ellie’s hand lighted their way up the narrow staircase to the hall above.
“Your room’s at the back on the left,” Ellie explained. “Mr. Wade’s is across the hall at the front. And that other front room is—was Miss Virginia’s. Jemmy’s room’s right back here across from yours.” She waved the candle toward the dark wood of a closed door.
“How is Jemmy?” Lora whispered.
Ellie shook her head. “He’s been chucking up all evening. I think he does it on purpose. How an angel as sweet as his dear mother could have such a changeling for a son, I’m sure I don’t—” She broke off, for the blank door had given way suddenly to a patch of lamplight and a small figure stood in the opening.
Jemmy Tyler was wearing a long flannel nightshirt that hung below his knees and his feet were bare on the cold floor. The dark shock of hair that tumbled over his forehead was like his father’s, but there any resemblance ended. He had none of his father’s good looks, though his eyes were dark blue and hauntingly intense.
“Good evening, Jemmy,” Lora said quietly, making no move toward him.
Jemmy troubled with no amenities. “I know who you are,” he announced directly. “But you’re not my mother and I’m not going to do what my grandmother says.”
Lora smiled at him. “What does your grandmother say you must do?”
There was no returning smile. “She says I’m to call you Mama. But I won’t. Nobody can make me.”
“Of course not,” Lora said. “It would be foolish to call me Mama when I’m not, wouldn’t it? Just as foolish as it would be if I called you Son.”
Jeremy blinked astonishingly long lashes and shivered faintly.
“Goodness!” Lora cried. “It’s cold out here. You’d better hop back in bed and wait for your father to come tuck you in. I think he’ll be up in a moment.”
There was wisdom in Jemmy’s eyes that was greater than his eight years. “My father doesn’t like me. And I don’t like him.” He turned and went back into his room, but before he could clos
e the door Lora went quickly after him.
“All little boys say things like that sometimes. But they aren’t very sensible. Hop in bed and I’ll tuck you in this time.”
“I don’t need to be tucked in,” said Jemmy stiffly and crawled beneath the star-patterned quilt on his narrow bed.
“That’s for you to decide,” said Lora. “Would you like your lamp on or off?”
“Ellie said to leave it on while I’m being sick.”
Lora’s fingers touched the brass knob that would turn down the wick. “But you’re through being sick for tonight, aren’t you?”
He pulled the quilt up to his chin and thought about that solemnly. “It’s funny, but I think maybe I am.”
“Of course you are.” The light dimmed and went out beneath her fingers and only Ellie’s waiting candle in the hall pushed back the shadows in the small room. “You were only sick because I was coming. You were worried about what I might be like. But now you’re not worried any more, so you’ll go right to sleep.”
“How do you know?” he challenged from the darkness of the bed.
“My father was a doctor,” she told him. “He taught me lots of things about people who get sick. Good night, Jemmy.”
He did not answer and she moved toward the door. But before she could close it, his voice stopped her again.
“What am I to call you?” he asked.
She hesitated, seeking for some answer that would satisfy him, but no happy choice came to mind.
“I’ll have to think about that,” she said. “Shall we talk about it tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” he said, and she closed the door softly. At least she had given him something to ponder.
Ellie shook her head wonderingly. “I thought you’d have more trouble with him than that. He’s a limb, that one.”
“I like limbs,” said Lora, and went through the door into her own room.
“Peter told me to fix a fire for you,” Ellie said grudgingly. “Bathroom’s right next door. Anything else you want?”
The Quicksilver Pool Page 2