A half-moon lit his way home, and the cool night air helped to clear his head. By the time Martin reached the farm the rush of the fight had left him, making way for the familiar emptiness. He went inside, lit a lamp and tended to his battered face. The stillness weighed on him again, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.
This had been a quiet house for as long as he’d known it. As an only child, Martin had spent more time with his fiddle than with any companions, but home had always been warm with love. When his parents’ deaths had left him alone, he’d found Eleanor. Now, the silence without her was a fierce thing that gnawed at his heart.
Unbidden, the image of Rochelle McShannon popped into Martin’s mind. Truth was she’d lurked in the background of his thoughts since she’d dropped his butter on the floor and his daughter in his arms. She’d go through life upsetting apple carts, that one.
Martin put the girl firmly out of his mind. She’d caused him enough trouble already. He was starting to feel his hurts, and he didn’t want to think about what he’d look like in the morning, but the remembered feel of his fist connecting with Drew’s face did wonders to dull his pain.
As expected, he woke in the morning aching fiercely all over, unable to open his left eye and with a good-sized lump on his jaw. He worked his way through the morning chores, then returned to the house, made coffee and sat at the table while it brewed, trying to decide how to spend the day. Not going to church, that was for sure and certain. He wouldn’t have gone with a face like this even if he’d been in the habit.
If he wasn’t going to keep the Sabbath, he might as well break it. With haying over and harvest not yet on, it was time some of the smaller jobs around the place got done. Perhaps he’d clean out the shed loft where he’d stored his fleeces. He’d ended up selling them to the mill after all, though it galled him.
Someone knocked at the door. Who the devil could that be at this hour on a Sunday? He toyed with the idea of simply shouting for whoever it was to bugger off, but that was bound to hurt his sore mouth. Less painful to tell them face to face.
The devil turned out to be Rochelle McShannon with another package of butter. Her eyes widened at the sight of his face. She raised a hand to her mouth, then dropped it and blushed. In her yellow print dress, with her face tanned by the summer sun, she lit up the whole yard.
Martin took the butter and opened his mouth, ready to tell her he was busy. “Come in, lass.”
He didn’t bother to ask himself why he’d changed his mind. Rochelle McShannon might be flighty and headstrong, but suddenly he just didn’t feel like drinking his coffee alone. He set the butter on the kitchen dresser and pulled two mugs from a cupboard. “I’d have expected you to be in church this morning. I was about to have coffee. Care for a cup?”
“We’re going to service tonight, and yes, I have time for a cup.”
He filled the mugs, brought them to the table and fetched cream from the icebox. Martin winced as the hot coffee hit the raw place on the inside of his cheek, where Drew’s fist had smashed it into his teeth.
Color rose in Rochelle’s face again as she took a sip. “Gossip travels even faster in Mallonby than it does at home. Brian heard in the village last night that you were in a fight at the pub.”
“Aye, I guess that’s obvious enough.”
“He also heard the fight happened because of me. I offered to bring the butter today because I wanted to see if you were all right, and to say I’m sorry.”
The half-grateful, half-ashamed look in her eyes left him feeling annoyed. Martin had started the fight because his anger goaded him into it, not out of any sense of heroics. If Drew’s remarks about Rochelle hadn’t given him an excuse, he’d have found another. “You’ve naught to be sorry for, lass. Drew has been asking for a beating for years now, and last night I happened to be there and in the mood to give it to him.”
Her mouth quirked in a small smile. “You don’t like being caught in a kindness, do you?” Her smile widened to a grin. “Brian heard that Drew looks worse than you do.”
Martin shook his head, wishing he hadn’t invited her in. Her humor touched places inside him that were still raw, places he forgot about when he was alone. “That’s a satisfaction.”
He watched Rochelle look around his home, a feminine assessment that took in all the details, from the books on the mantle over the hearth and the green muslin curtains that framed the windows, to the well-worn oak floors. The place looked much the same as it had when Martin was growing up, though Eleanor’s rag rugs had replaced the old ones and the sofa facing the hearth was relatively new. He wondered if Rochelle noticed that the kitchen dresser bore the scars of time, as did the heavy ash farm table that had always been too large. The Rainnies ran to small families.
“This house is so much older than the houses where I grew up. Has it been in your family a long time?”
“Aye, over two hundred years.”
“That’s hard for me to imagine. Dad built our house in America twenty years ago.” Then, as if it followed naturally she added, “I’m going to miss Leah when she leaves us. She’s starting to walk now and—” Her voice died away in embarrassment as she looked at him.
Martin’s anger welled up again. After her last visit here, she should know better. “Aye. I’m obliged to you all for takin’ such good care of her.”
He deliberately let his annoyance show, but it seemed that Miss McShannon had an axe to grind. She lifted her gaze to his. “The Paxtons have called to see her once or twice. Will she be going to them?”
The concern on her face roused Martin’s guilt. Would Leah be that much worse off with her grandparents than if he farmed her out elsewhere? He’d made some inquiries, and there weren’t many families willing to take on a child for what he could afford to pay. Leah couldn’t stay with the McShannons. If Brian and Jean were to have another child, they simply wouldn’t have room. “I haven’t decided yet.”
Elbows on the table, Rochelle leaned forward, her blue eyes dark and troubled. “Mr. Rainnie, how well do you know the Paxtons?”
The knife of guilt stabbed deeper. “I know them well enough. They made a decent job of raising Eleanor, and I’ve no reason to think they’ll do worse with Leah if I send her to them.”
The concern on Rochelle’s face deepened into something akin to anguish. “That was quite a few years ago. They’re not exactly young now, and…” With a visible effort, she stopped herself. “I’m meddling. I’m sorry. I should go. Goodbye, and take care of that eye.” She got to her feet and hurried out.
As he drank his lukewarm coffee, Martin felt the walls closing in on him again. Because the lass had left, or was it guilt over Leah’s future that bothered him? Finally he grabbed his cap, whistled for Gyp and strode down the lane, away from Rochelle McShannon and her accusations.
Hold on, lad. She made no accusations.
Perhaps not, but she might as well have. She’d implied that she cared for his daughter’s welfare more than he did.
Was she right? It didn’t matter, Martin told himself as he turned onto the track leading to his pasture. What mattered was Leah. He wanted her to be raised by people who would love her as she deserved, but where was he going to find them?
* * *
“Calm down, child. Your mam’s had three babies. She knows what she’s about. Chelle, are you ready?”
“Yes, I’m right behind you.” Chelle followed Caroline and the agitated seven-year-old messenger, Annie Wilson, out into the fine summer night. It only took fifteen minutes to reach the Wilsons’ home near the other end of the village. Annie’s mother, Phyllis, heavily pregnant, met them at the door.
“Now then, Caroline. I didn’t want to send for you so soon, but John insisted. I’ve barely started painin’. Annie, be a good lass and take your brother and sister down to your gran’s, now, will you?”
“But Mam—”
“Go on, Annie, and do as you’re told. I’ll be all right.” Phyllis looked at Chelle with obv
ious doubt, but it seemed the Wilsons knew Caroline well enough to weigh against any gossip they might have heard about her niece befriending Kendra Fulton or about the fight at the pub. “Come in, lass. I’ll do my best not to keep the two of you here all night.”
Mr. Wilson stood in the background, a tall, lean fellow who owned the coal store next to the Binghams’ mercantile. He was the nervous type. Once the children left the house, Caroline took him in hand. “John, why don’t you go down to the Crow for a pint? You’ll only be five minutes away, and I’ll send Chelle for you if you’re needed.”
“Aye, John, go,” his wife urged. “Caroline doesn’t need you underfoot.”
“All right then, run me out of my own home.” He took his cap and made for the door, but out of his wife’s sight he beckoned to Caroline. She followed him out to the step for a moment. In the kitchen, a few minutes later, under pretence of checking the water heating on the stove, she whispered to Chelle.
“John told me he thinks Phyllis’ heart has been acting strangely. She’s been putting her hand to her chest now and then, and her hands and feet have been swelling, though she denies anything’s wrong. Let’s hope it’s just him being jittery.”
The next few hours gave Mr. Wilson’s fears the lie. Phyllis’ labor progressed like clockwork. By midnight she was in the final stages, ready to push her child into the world.
And then the unthinkable happened.
In the middle of a strong contraction, Phyllis relaxed and stopped breathing. She just lay there, eyes staring up sightlessly. Caroline grabbed the woman’s wrist. Her face turned stark white. “I can’t find a pulse. Chelle, run for Doctor Halstead, then go and fetch Mr. Wilson.”
Chelle stood rooted in place. In her mind, Mrs. Wilson’s face became her mother’s, as it had looked on the bright March morning when Chelle walked into her room and found her—
“Hurry, lass! Go!”
Her aunt’s voice snapped Chelle out of her trance. She ran as fast as she could, though in her heart she knew it was already too late. Little Annie and her brother and sister would have to grow up without their mother.
Chelle found the doctor home. He left for the Wilsons’ before she’d even finished explaining. Then she had to face Mr. Wilson.
As soon as he saw her outside the pub window, he ran to the door. Seeing the fear on his face nearly strangled Chelle’s voice. “You’re needed at home. The doctor should be there by now. Hurry.”
Mr. Wilson disappeared down the street. Chelle stood there, gasping for breath, a hand pressed to the fierce stitch in her side. Scalding tears trickled down her cheeks.
Chelle, you promised Aunt Caroline you’d be ready for anything.
But how could anyone be ready for something like this? How could Aunt Caroline be ready? It was too cruel.
Moving as stiffly as an old woman, Chelle returned to the Wilsons’. Mr. Wilson sat on the front room sofa, his shocked face pale in the dim light of the lamp on the mantel. Chelle’s heart broke for him, but she walked through the room without speaking. What could she say that would matter?
She found Aunt Caroline sitting at the kitchen table with the doctor. She looked ten years older. “There you are, lass. The baby survived. A healthy little lad.”
Doctor Halstead laid a hand on Caroline’s shoulder. “Will you call for Mrs. Wilson’s mother on your way home? I’ll stay here until she arrives.”
“Aye.” She rose stiffly and picked up her bag. In the front room, Caroline stopped to speak to Mr. Wilson. “I’m so sorry, John. Try to remember that you have a healthy new son.”
He didn’t acknowledge that she’d spoken. Caroline and Chelle left him sitting there, staring stonily into space.
Out on the street, Chelle wiped the traces of tears from her cheeks. “Aunt Caroline, I’m ashamed of myself. I couldn’t even speak to Mr. Wilson. I know we’re strangers, but I could have at least said I was sorry.”
A weary smile tugged at Caroline’s lips. “Don’t worry yourself, lass. He knows.”
Perhaps, but Chelle still felt like a coward for skulking by the man twice without a word. She could only hope that in his shock, he hadn’t noticed her.
“What will he do now? He won’t be able to look after the children alone.”
“The baby will have to be put out to nurse, of course, and the other three will likely go to their grandmother until Annie is old enough to keep house for her father. Of course, John might marry again before then… though I doubt it, somehow. He’s the type that takes things hard, like Martin Rainnie.”
“I hope he won’t reject the baby the way Mr. Rainnie rejected Leah.”
“Don’t judge, Chelle. Eleanor was Martin’s whole world, and she hasn’t been gone a year yet. He’s doing the best he can.”
“Do you think sending Leah to the Paxtons is the best he can do?”
“It might be when it comes to that. There aren’t many families around Mallonby ready to take on a child. Most have more than enough of their own. The Paxtons can provide for Leah, and they’d never mistreat her, that’s for sure and certain.”
“Maybe not, but will they love her?”
“It’s Martin’s decision to make, Chelle. I’m sure he wants what’s best for Leah as much as we do.”
Caroline’s tone told Chelle the discussion was over. They walked the rest of the way home in silence. Chelle crept into the children’s room, lifted Leah from her crib and held the sleeping little girl close. “Your father will change his mind, Leah. He has to.”
Chapter Seven
Jean looked over her shoulder as she finished pinning Peter’s nappy. “What’s wrong with that one this morning?”
Chelle struggled to get Leah’s arms through the sleeves of her dress as the little girl kicked and whimpered. “I don’t know. She’s normally so happy in the morning.”
By the time she was dressed, Leah’s whimpers had turned to peevish sobs. She settled briefly after breakfast, but started fussing again soon afterwards and refused to eat at dinnertime. Jean and Caroline were puzzled. Weaning had gone well for both babies, with no upsets, and Leah had never been whiny.
“There’s something not right,” Caroline said. “She’s always eaten well.”
By late afternoon, Leah was running a low fever. Chelle put her to bed and managed to get her to sleep. When she checked on the baby half an hour later, she ran down to Caroline as fast as her legs would take her. “Aunt, Leah is burning up.”
Caroline followed her back to the children’s room. Leah’s face was flushed, her eyes glazed with fever. Caroline’s lips set in a worried line. “I’m at a loss. She and Peter have been eating the same things and he’s fine, but something’s certainly upset this one. Run and get some cold water, Chelle.”
Leah screamed when Caroline started bathing her with icy well water. Chelle’s heart started to race. She’d never seen a child this ill. “Aunt, do you think someone should go for her father?”
Caroline laid the baby in her crib, naked except for her nappy, still shrieking. She hesitated for a moment. “I don’t like to alarm him, but aye, lass, perhaps so. I don’t like the look of this. Go get one of the men to saddle Lady, and tell Jean to make some agrimony tea. And send someone for the doctor.”
Brian, who’d been in the kitchen when Chelle first came downstairs for his mother, had the mare saddled by the time Chelle got out to the yard. When he made to mount, she stopped him. “Let me go. Lady can carry me faster, and you can go for the doctor.”
“All right, go on, then.” Brian stepped back and gave her a leg up. “And try not to frighten Martin too much. These things happen with young ones.”
* * *
After an afternoon spent digging potatoes, Martin came home for an early supper, intending to go out to the sheep afterward. Only he’d had a poor night’s sleep, and after eating he dozed off on the sofa. He woke with a start at the sound of frantic knocking at the door.
He sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He�
�d half a mind not to answer it, to let them think he was still out in the fields, but then the caller shouted.
“Mr. Rainnie? Mr. Rainnie, are you there?”
Rochelle McShannon. There was only one reason why she’d pound on his door like that.
Leah.
Chelle knocked again. Wide awake now, stomach knotted with dread, Martin ran to the door. He almost lost his supper at the sight of her white, frightened face.
“Mr. Rainnie, Leah’s ill. She’s running a dangerous fever. Aunt thinks you should come in.”
This must be a nightmare. Martin stood there gaping at the girl like a half-wit until her voice jerked him back to the moment.
“Mr. Rainnie, please…”
Instinct took over. He pushed past Chelle, ran to the byre, bridled his black cob and swung up bareback. The girl mounted her horse and followed him down the lane at a gallop. The horses’ hooves pounded out a beat that became words in Martin’s mind, a frantic, repeated prayer.
Please, God. Not her too. Please.
Was this punishment? The price for turning away from all that was left of Eleanor? From a part of himself? He knew nothing of his daughter, had cared nothing for her except to keep her housed, fed and out of his sight. He’d given her nothing of himself, and now he could lose her.
Brian came out of the house to take the horses as they clattered into the forge yard. Martin slid to the ground, his legs threatening to buckle as he followed Chelle inside.
Caroline hurried down the stairs toward him. “You’re here then. She’s about the same.”
Her tone, her worried expression, took Martin back to the night Leah was born. He’d refused to hold her that night, refused to have anything to do with her. Now, this might be his last chance. “I want to see her.”
“Aye, come with me.”
He followed Caroline and Chelle up to the children’s room. Leah lay in her crib, crying fitfully, her fine red curls plastered to her head with sweat. When Martin reached out to touch her hand, she opened her gray eyes wide and screamed.
Where The Heart Is (Choices of the Heart, book 1) Page 6