Enduring Love

by Bonnie Leon

  The two friends settled at a table in the corner of the café. Lottie waved at them when they walked in. She and her mother sat at a table near the front windows. “I’ve got to say hello,” Lydia said and hurried across the room. Hannah followed.

  “So how ye keeping, eh?” Lydia asked, giving Lottie a hug. “We’re fine now.” She looked at her mum.

  Grace nodded. “Charles and I were laid up with some sort of fever, but are quite well these days.” She smiled. “You’re looking fit.”

  “I am.”

  Grace glanced at Hannah. “So good to see you again.”

  “It would seem we’ve chosen similar paths today.”

  “Indeed.”

  “We’ll let ye finish yer lunch,” Lydia said. “Good day.”

  “I’ll look for you on Sunday, then.”

  “Yes. We’ll be there.” Lydia circled Hannah’s waist and they moved across the café to a table in the corner. “Lottie’s looking lovely, isn’t she?”

  “Yes. Very.”

  “When we were on the ship, she was such a frail little thing.” “Those days were beastly, especially for the children.” Hannah could still see Lottie, a resolute little waif. She’d needed a mum after losing hers, and Hannah had needed Lottie. The two had comforted and bolstered one another. “Her strength carried her through.”

  “That and yer mothering.”

  Mild melancholy touched Hannah. To this day, she missed being Lottie’s mother. “God was good in giving her Grace. She’s a fine mum.”

  “That she is.” Lydia leaned her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her hands. “Ye look good, Hannah.”

  “Thank you. I’m well. Thomas and I are . . . comfortable.” She studied her friend, thinking something was different about her. “You’re looking especially pretty today. Have you changed something? Your hair or . . . I don’t know just what it is, but you’re quite beautiful.”

  “Beautiful? Me? I’ve never considered myself something to look at.”

  “You’ve always been lovely.”

  “What, me with my freckles and square hips?” She smiled and sat back, keeping her hands on the table in front of her. “Something is different, though.” She waited for a moment, as if holding a secret. “I’m going to have a baby.”

  “Oh Lydia, how wonderful!” Hannah glanced at her friend’s abdomen mostly hidden behind the table. “When?”

  “Sometime in May, anyway that’s what David thinks.” She smiled brightly. “I can barely believe it. I’m going to be a mum.” Her eyes dimmed slightly. “I wanted ye to be the first to know. I just wish ye had a little one of yer own.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m thrilled for you.” Hannah smiled. Should she tell Lydia about her own condition? She’d decided John should be the first to know, but Lydia might be of help. Hannah was uncertain of just how to tell him.

  She clasped her hands in front of her on the table. “I have news, as well.” She pressed her palms against the tabletop. “It would seem we have something in common.”

  Lydia studied her, a question in her eyes.

  “I’m also in the family way,” Hannah whispered.

  Lydia’s green eyes widened. “But how . . . ?”

  “If you don’t know the answer to that, then you’re not as bright as I thought.”

  “Of course I know how . . . but . . .”

  “Just before John moved out . . . well, we . . . we gave in to passion. That’s why he moved to town. If we’d not been living so close, it wouldn’t have happened. I told him I’d go to the Athertons’, but he insisted on being the one to leave.”

  Lydia leaned across the table and quietly asked, “Does he know?”

  “Not yet. I don’t know how to tell him.”

  “Well, ye’ll have to soon. Ye must be nearly five months gone.”

  “Four and a half, but I can barely tell.”

  Lydia smirked. “I wondered why ye’d taken to wearing those shifts.”

  Hannah glanced down at her plain dress. “In time, even this will not hide the truth.”

  “When do ye plan to tell him?”

  “I don’t know. What do I say? This complicates everything. I’ve actually considered moving away.”

  “Ye can’t do that.”

  “I know. I can’t take Thomas away from John.”

  “Of course not. But ye’ve no reason to fear telling John. He’ll be a fine father, and when he hears the truth, he’ll be delighted.”

  “Delighted? Lydia, have you forgotten we’re not married. It will be a scandal.”

  “Well, ye were still married . . . sort of . . . when it happened.”

  “I’ll be ruined.”

  “I doubt ye’ll be ruined. I’d say people will be more likely to pity ye.”

  “I don’t want that either.” Hannah hadn’t wanted to think about the ramifications, but soon she’d be forced to. “There’s nothing to be done about it now. Unlike my first, I cherish this baby. And no matter the consequences I’m thankful for its life. I’ll have a part of John with me.”

  Lydia reached across and rested a hand over Hannah’s. “I’ll do anything I can to help.” She glanced about the nearly empty café. “And if anyone says an unkind word, I’ll set them straight.”

  Hannah had to smile. She could imagine just how Lydia would stand up for her. A memory of Ruby flashed through her mind. Lydia was like her old chum. Hannah wondered how Ruby fared in London. She’d not thought of her in some time. “Thank you,” she told Lydia. “I couldn’t have a better friend.” Lydia took a deep breath, and the light seemed to fade from her eyes. “I’m hoping the baby will set well with David’s parents. Perhaps they won’t be so vexed over his marrying me.”

  “I should think they’d be thrilled to have a grandchild.”

  Lydia smiled. “I hope so.”

  A heavyset woman walked up to the table. In a bored tone she said, “We’ve vegetable soup, mutton, or roasted chicken. There are carrots and turnips along with bread.”

  “I’ll have roasted chicken,” Lydia said. “And some tea, please.”

  “And you?” the woman asked Hannah.

  “Just a bit of soup, thank you.”

  “Anything to drink?”

  “Tea will be fine.”

  With a nod, the woman walked away.

  “Hannah, ye’ve got to eat better than that. Ye’ve a babe to think ’bout.”

  “I thought I was hungry when I came in, but my appetite’s disappeared.” Her mind was on John and the upcoming scandal she’d been trying not to think about. She’d experienced disgrace before, and although her friends had been loyal, it had been a painful ordeal. “I hope John will be happy. There will be those who’ll be appalled. And they’ll make no attempt to hide their feelings.”

  “Ye can’t spend yer time worrying ’bout them. Those types are nothing but a lot of hot air. Ye’ve got to think ’bout that baby.” She smiled. “We’ll both have little ones to raise together. It will be grand.”

  Hannah loved Lydia’s enthusiasm, and she felt her own spirits lift. “There’s something else troubling me. I probably shouldn’t even bring it up, but it’s been nagging at me.” She unfolded her napkin. “Some time ago, Dalton came to me. He’d heard rumors about Margaret. He was told she’s not who she says she is, that she has a foul temper.”

  “I’ve never liked her, ye know that.” Lydia shrugged. “But I can’t say I’ve heard anything shocking ’bout her.”

  “Everyone can have a fit of temper now and again. She’s been kind to Thomas and to me. In fact, she brought me a lovely gift box with a sachet in it.”

  “Really?”

  “She said she hoped we could put aside our harsh feelings . . . for Thomas’s sake.”

  Lydia cocked an eyebrow. “Must say, that surprises me.”

  “You’ve not heard anything I ought to be concerned about?”

  “No. I’ve seen nothing, but she does unsettle me a bit. Of course I’ve cause. She
took my closest friend’s husband from her.”

  “John was married to Margaret first.”

  “True enough.” Lydia thought for a minute. “I did see her with a man once.”

  “Do you know anything about him?”

  “No. He came into town with her is all. It was months ago.”

  Hannah leaned back and folded her arms over her chest. “He could be most anyone—a business associate or even her brother—she has brothers.”

  “True enough.”

  “I’m not generally one to listen to gossip. But if you see or hear anything that doesn’t seem quite right, will you tell me? I don’t want to cause John or Margaret harm, but . . . well, I’d hate to see John hurt again.”

  “Of course I’d tell ye. From the moment she showed up in Sydney Town, I thought there was something unseemly going on.”

  15

  Hannah gazed at a hazy blue sky, wishing that a cleansing rain would wash away the dust. Summer sun and heat had parched the land, leaving it dry and thirsty. Each breath of wind carried withered grass and soil skyward, casting a dirty veil over the heavens. Heat waves flickered like flames above brown fields, and the air smelled of burnt grass.

  Turning to her task, Hannah walked to the clothesline, a basket of wet laundry braced against her hip. Fevered air pressed down on her and felt heavy in her lungs. I don’t recall November being this hot.

  She set the basket on the ground, and taking a handkerchief from her apron pocket, she patted the moisture on her face. Returning the cloth to her pocket, she lifted one of Mr. Atherton’s shirts from the basket and clipped it to the line with a wooden clothespin.

  The pounding of horse’s hooves reverberated from the drive. Hannah turned to see a rider leaning over his horse and spurring it to a full run. What kind of person would ride so hard in such heat? She shaded her eyes, looking to see who would risk their mount’s life. Dust billowed around the horse. The rider turned and headed toward the cottages. It was Quincy! Hannah felt a tremor of fear. He wouldn’t jeopardize his horse’s life without cause. Something was wrong.

  Leaving the basket of clothes, she lifted her skirt and ran toward the cabins. Quincy had stopped at hers and was already on the porch. “Quincy!” she called.

  He must not have heard because he knocked and then opened the door.

  Sucking heated air into her lungs, Hannah ran to the porch and into the cabin. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  Quincy turned to her, his face red and dripping with sweat. “Praise be. Hannah.” He dragged off his hat. “It’s John. He’s sick . . . bad sick. I went for Doctor Gelson, but he’s not home. I didn’t know who else to ask for help. I figured ye’d know best what to do.”

  Panic rising, Hannah pressed her fingertips to her temples to soothe the sudden pounding in her head. “How sick is he? What are his symptoms?”

  “He’s off his feet and heated up real bad. And fighting for breath.” He glanced at the hat in his hands. “Could be quinsy.” “I pray not.” Hannah moved to the door. “Where’s Margaret?”

  “She’s gone—to Sydney Town—yesterday.”

  “I’ll come. First let me speak to Mrs. Atherton.” Hannah stepped onto the porch. “Can you see to the buggy? I’ll be there momentarily.”

  “I’ll get it ready for ye.”

  Quincy strode toward the barn, and Hannah hurried to the main house.

  Catharine stood at the top of the veranda steps, her face pinched with concern. “What is it?”

  “It’s John. He’s sick. Could be quinsy. Doctor Gelson’s gone and Margaret’s not home, so Quincy came for me. I have to go.”

  “Of course. But do be careful. We can’t have you fall ill as well. Quinsy is a terrible disease.” She pressed a hand to her throat as if she could feel the pain of the disease. “Perhaps someone else should go. If you were to get sick . . . well, what would become of Thomas?”

  Catharine’s statement felt like a hot prod being thrust into Hannah’s gut. She’d not even thought of Thomas, nor her baby. She should have.

  “I can’t leave John to die.” She glanced toward the carriage house, then back at Catharine. “If something should happen . . .” Hannah couldn’t finish the request. It was too terrible to contemplate. “There’s no one else. I must go.”

  Catharine nodded. “I’ll have Mrs. Goudy pack some food and remedies for you.”

  “Thank you. Quincy’s gone to get the buggy. I assumed . . . you wouldn’t mind. I apologize if I’ve overstepped my place.”

  “Don’t be silly. Of course you can use the buggy. And ‘your place’ is one of friendship.” She took Hannah’s hand. “Now then, you go and do what you must.”

  Hannah knew this could be bad—that she might not return. She hugged Catharine.

  “Now then, take whatever you need. I’m sure Mrs. Goudy knows what’s best for quinsy.”

  “Thank you.” Hannah stopped and looked at Catharine. She might not see her again. “I love you. You’re like a mum to me.”

  Catharine’s eyes teared and she gave Hannah an extra squeeze.

  With his horse tied behind the buggy, Quincy urged the team forward. Hannah asked, “How bad is he?”

  “I don’t know ’bout such things.” He shook his head slightly. “I never seen him this sick, though. I’d say he’s bad.” He slapped the reins over the horse’s hindquarters. “Ye know what to do for quinsy?”

  “A little. I’ve never actually seen anyone who had it.” Hannah clutched a bag in her lap. “Mrs. Goudy put together these remedies. They’re supposed to help. She told me what to do.”

  John had a better chance of fighting off the suffocating disease than a child might, but Hannah understood that no matter whom the illness struck, it was always serious and took victims as it willed. In spite of the heat, she felt her skin prickle with fear. What if she were to get it? What of the baby? Was she being foolishly careless with her child’s life, like she’d been with the first? Lord, John needs me. I ask for your protection— for me and my little one. And I beseech you to lay your hand of healing upon John.

  The buggy bounced over a rut, nearly tossing Hannah off the seat. She grabbed for a handhold and did her best to turn her mind away from her fears. “Do you know when Margaret is supposed to return?”

  “Nope. All I know is she had errands to see to in Sydney Town.” He jutted out his jaw. “John was already sick when she left.” Hannah felt rising outrage. “How could she leave him when he’s so ill?”

  “John told her to go, said he’d be all right . . . said it was nothing but a bit of a sore throat.”

  “Even so, I would have stayed,” Hannah said, unable to disguise her ire although she knew quinsy usually started out innocuously—presenting as a simple sore throat. “Did you speak to Lydia when you went for the doctor?”

  “I did. Told me she’d give him the message when he returned. He’s out at the Fairgates—both of their children are down sick.”

  “With quinsy?”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “Oh, no.” Hannah said a silent prayer for the children. How cruel sickness could be, especially for young ones like the Fairgate boys. The oldest was only three and the younger not yet a year. If they did have quinsy, they’d most likely die.

  “I never thought much ’bout my name before. But quinsy and Quincy sounds an awful lot alike. After this, I might start using me middle name.”

  Hannah patted his arm. Under the circumstances, Quincy did seem a wretched name.

  Quincy drove to the barn and stopped the buggy there.

  “He’s not in the house?”

  “No. Even as sick as he is, he said it’s not right for him to be living there.”

  Hannah didn’t wait for Quincy to help her down but climbed from the buggy and hurried into the barn, making her way around a pile of hay with a pitchfork thrust into it. She moved to the small tack room and found John lying prostrate on a cot. He looked alarmingly sick, his skin pale and damp.
With each breath, a whistling sound emanated from the back of his throat.

  “Oh, John,” Hannah said, going to him. He didn’t respond. She knelt beside the bed and placed a hand on his brow. His skin was hot. “John. I’m here. I’ll help you,” she said softly, trying to keep the terror out of her voice.

  John squinted up at her, his eyes more closed than open. His lips tightened into a grimace. “No. Go . . .” He struggled for breath. “Go away.”

  “I’ll be going nowhere, except with you into the house.” She stood and looked at Quincy, who stared at John from the doorway. “He needs a proper bed.” She glanced about the tiny room. “This is no place for a sick man. Help me get him indoors.”

  “Right.” Quincy moved quickly to the cot and hefted John, draping an arm around his shoulder. Hannah braced him on the other side. Together they half carried, half dragged him to the house and up the front steps. John tried to walk but couldn’t muster enough strength.

  “How’d he get so ill so quickly? I thought you said he had only a sore throat yesterday?”

  “Like I said, he was sick when Margaret left and got worse as the day went on, but not so much that I was worried. When I came upon him this morning, I was truly shocked at his state.” Fury reached for Hannah. Margaret shouldn’t have gone.

  Once they made it up the stairs, Quincy held on to John while Hannah opened the door. With a grunt, Quincy picked him up and carried him to the bedroom. Hannah hurried ahead and pulled back the blankets. Fear swelled as she watched Quincy lower John to the bed. He reminded her of a rag doll she’d once had. “It’s intolerably hot in here. Can you open the windows?”

  “The flies are bad.”

  “Then they’ll just have to be bad. He needs air.” Hannah turned her attention to John while Quincy moved about the house, opening windows. She leaned over John, but he didn’t open his eyes. Each breath sounded as if he were being strangled by unseen hands. A deluge of uncertainty threatened to overwhelm Hannah. Her mind flashed back to her mother. She’d been so ill. Hannah hadn’t known what to do. And she didn’t know now. Lord, please bring David.