Heart of Glass

by Diane Noble

  I remembered the notice on the house: Owners deceased, and stepped backward with a gasp. “Zeb … ?” I uttered a small cry and covered my lips with my fingertips. “Tell me, please. What’s happened to Zeb?”

  Charlotte and Zebulon exchanged a puzzled look, and Charlotte started to cry again.

  “Zeb died on the train, Fairwyn.” She met my gaze, her own unwavering. “He knew you were running away, and he’d gone to bring you back home.”

  I felt the room begin to spin. “No,” I cried. “Please. Tell me it’s not true.” I reached for a chair to break my fall, but it was too late. I heard it clatter against the wall as I sank into a velvet blackness.

  Thirty-One

  “Fairwyn, wake up.” Jeannie’s soft voice drifted like a haunt into the fog of my pain. “Please, wake up!”

  I struggled to open my eyes, but the effort was too great, the pain in my abdomen so white-hot and terrifying I couldn’t get away from its grip. I heard a moaning, a cry. It frightened me that someone might cry out so.

  The cry came again, and this time I knew it was my own. I waited, my leaping, uneven heartbeat thundering in my ears, knowing another racking pain would soon overwhelm me. Already, I knew it had a rhythm, like Welsie’s ocean, like my dulcimer playing.

  I opened my mouth to speak to the shadowy face before me. Jeannie? But I couldn’t get the word out. Jeannie? Another rushing wave of pain carried me on its crest. Higher. And higher. I heard my cry again—unearthly and frightening—and felt a cool, gentle hand take mine. I clutched it, squeezed it, holding on as if I would surely die if I let go. The pain reached its peak and held me there, silent and weeping, then lifted me and sent me whirling far, far away.

  Now it was relentless. It ebbed, only to return higher than before, each time carrying me farther away. I was no longer fearful. Only weary. So weary.

  I was drowning in pain. The thought didn’t frighten me. I just wanted the pain to end.

  “Fairwyn!” Someone’s hands were on my cheeks. “Fairwyn, wake up! Now, this minute!” My head was moving side to side. Then someone lightly slapped my wrists.

  “Fight, child, as you’ve never fought before!” A deeper voice moved into the foggy place where I floated. “Come back to us! Fight, child! Fight …”

  Charlotte?

  “I can’t bear to lose you, too. Fight this, Fairwyn!” I heard weeping, a shadowy, sad sound, barely audible in the rushing roar of the pain. “Think of the baby … you must fight to save your baby!”

  My baby?

  The pain hung over me now, a white-hot cloud, pulsating, drawing me into its depths. I felt inches from death.

  My baby?

  I drifted back toward consciousness … Charlotte was wrong. It was too soon. My baby would die!

  At the thought, the ache in my heart surpassed the physical pain. Another wave lifted me. I was carried again to that faraway place. This time I welcomed the drowning.

  The death of another—that of my precious child—was on my hands. First Zeb. Now our child. Punishment for my mistakes.

  I sank deeper into the formless, overwhelming pain and let myself go this time. I drifted farther away from the fuzzy voices … the shadowy sounds … until I thought I couldn’t return.

  There I stayed until I saw a man standing on the shore. He beckoned to me, but I turned away. I couldn’t bear to look in his face.

  “Father,” I said. “Let me die, but don’t take my baby.”

  Come to me, beloved.

  Still I kept my face turned away. “I thought you had forgiven me, but now I know better. I thought the worst was over. But my sorrows have just begun.”

  Fear not, beloved, I have redeemed you.

  “You cannot know the full extent of the evil within my heart. I caused my husband’s death!”

  I have called you by name. You are mine.

  I drifted farther away from shore, sinking, unable to help myself, unwilling to fight any longer. “I want to know your mercy, but my sins are too great. Now, especially …” I thought of Zeb and began to weep. “I have failed miserably.”

  When you pass through the waters, I will be with you.

  Even life’s rivers, child, will not overflow you.

  “I am not worthy …”

  Reach out to me, beloved. I am here.

  “I am sick. And weak. So very weak,” I cried. “My arms can’t reach that far.”

  Turn to me, child …

  Micheil’s words came back to me in a flood of images, tumbling together like a river of light and beauty.

  Grace is that place between where our short arms reach out to him and his powerful hands stretch toward us. That place where we fall so short of our own expectations. Fall short of what we think are God’s expectations.

  If we keep reaching toward him, we see the bridge of his love crossing that space between. No matter what it is we’ve done, no matter how short we’ve fallen of his glory—he’s still reaching out. His big hands are open wide to catch us, to draw us nearer to his heart. That’s grace, lass. That’s grace.

  I turned to the One who stood waiting onshore. The kindness, the love, the light of his countenance quickened my spirit. I reached out my arms.

  Just as Micheil had said, my arms were too short. For an instant, I despaired, thinking I surely was lost.

  But glory of all glories, the waiting one reached out to me, his arms open wide. He lifted me across the wide gulf between us and brought me close to his heart.

  He held me until I was no longer afraid.

  “Fairwyn …” the fuzzy voice said again. “Fairwyn …”

  I tried to move my lips. “Baby …”

  “Did you hear?” someone next to me said. “She’s trying to speak.”

  “Baby …” I fought to open my eyes, but didn’t have the strength. I tried to touch my stomach, but felt only my fingers move.

  Then a cool, soft hand cradled mine, moving it gently until it lay on my hard, bulging abdomen. “Your baby,” Jeannie whispered. “Your baby is coming.”

  I heard footsteps approach, and Charlotte spoke next. “You’ve got to help us, child. You’ve got to fight. The baby is breech. The midwife will try once more to turn him. At the next pain, don’t bear down. Can you hear me? You mustn’t, Fairwyn.”

  My eyes still closed, I tried to nod. Someone held a cup to my lips, and I sipped.

  The searing pain struck hard, and I gasped at the depth, the breadth, of it. My baby, my baby … I breathed, focusing on the life within. My baby.

  The pain grew larger than before, but when I felt myself drifting to unconsciousness, I pulled myself back. Only my baby’s face could keep me from that far place. I thought about his toes, and counted them in my mind … next his fingers and thumbs. I imagined his eyes, crystal blue like my Smoky Mountain skies … his hair, as yellow as a mountain daisy’s.

  “Breathe, Fairwyn,” a strange voice said. The midwife, I knew. “Breathe, slowly now. And when I tell you, bear down. Do you understand?”

  I breathed deeply and tried to nod. Seconds later, she said, “Now!”

  Pain exploded, so huge and overwhelming, I was lost in its entirety. Just when I thought I couldn’t bear it a moment longer, Jeannie cried out.

  “It’s a boy, Fairwyn! Your son!” Her voice was filled with awe.

  A tiny cry filled the room. I forced my eyes open and stared unbelieving at the tiny bundle the midwife was handing Charlotte, who reached for him with an open blanket.

  “Oh, the little sweetheart,” Charlotte said bringing him closer. “Do you want me to clean him up first?”

  Unable to speak, I shook my head. She was about to lay him in the crook of my arm when the midwife said, “You’d better hang on to that one, Miz Deforest. Fairwyn’s going to be busy … We’ve got another one coming.”

  I bit my lip, my tears still flowing. I reached out a trembling hand to Charlotte. “Stay,” I whispered, turning my head toward her to stare in amazement at my son.

&nbs
p; “You’ve got one more push, Fairwyn,” the midwife said. “This one should be easier—you’ll know when.”

  The next wave of pain rose and fell, almost unnoticed, because my baby’s face was all I could think about. I rose on the crest of it, this time unafraid, this time looking to the joy that I knew would follow.

  “Here she is,” the midwife said with a chuckle. “Tiny, like twins usually are, but healthy. Wiry and feisty.”

  A small mewing cry came next. I strained to see, but fell back on my pillow, exhausted. After the midwife finished with me, covered me with fresh linens and blankets, and carried the basins from the room, Charlotte and Jeannie carried the babies to me. Charlotte tucked my son beneath my left arm. I gazed down at him, his eyes closed in sleep, a silken crop of flaxen hair capping his head. Jeannie brought my daughter, gently helping me cradle the child beneath my right arm. It was too soon to know the hue of her fuzzy head, but in a certain light, it might just be red. Like Welsie True’s when she was a girl.

  I looked from one rosebud face to the other and back again, my heart flooding with joy.

  Charlotte stepped closer. “Would it be all right for Zebulon to come in and see?”

  “His grandchildren,” I finished softly. “Yes. I want him to meet his namesake.”

  Her eyes watered. She turned and hurried to the door.

  I closed my eyes, weary, sinking into my pillow. Jeannie, sitting by my bedside, said, “Do you want me to take them?”

  “Not yet,” I whispered.

  Charlotte and Zebulon tiptoed in a few minutes later. I sensed them standing nearby and forced open my eyes. “Meet your granddaddy,” I said to my sleeping son.

  Zebulon moved closer, looking down at the child in wonder.

  “His name is Zebulon Deforest IV.”

  The baby’s grandfather smiled. “Thank you,” he said softly, his eyes still on the baby’s face. He looked across at my daughter. “And this young lady?”

  I smiled down at the little girl. “This is Michela,” I said. “Michela Fairwyn Deforest. Fairwyn is a tradition in my family.”

  “And Michela?” Charlotte asked. “Is that also a family name?”

  I thought of Micheil and shook my head. “The name of a dear friend,” I said.

  The babies were taken from me, and I fell into a deep and peaceful sleep, waking only to feed them or to sip tea and soup. Charlotte and Jeannie took turns by my bedside. Many times during my convalescence I sensed that both women wanted to talk about what had happened on the train, what happened with Zeb.

  I needed to ask forgiveness from them both. I was terrified of what they might say, so I waited until I felt stronger.

  One April afternoon after the babies had been fed and were sleeping in their cradles, I sat in my room by the window in a wicker rocking chair. Below me, robins splashed in the fountain and sang in the gardens. The very spot where I’d overheard Zeb and his parents arguing about me.

  They had disliked me, felt I was wrong for their son, back then. How would they feel when I told them the full extent of my deception? Would they blame me for his death?

  Old fears rushed from the corners of my mind. What if they still thought me unfit to be the mother of their grandchildren? What if they tried to take my babies away?

  I stood, my gaze on the fountain where so many heartaches had begun. “Father, I am so weak,” I cried silently. “Help me.”

  When you pass through the waters, I will be with you.

  “It would be so much easier to take my babies and run to my mountains.”

  Even life’s rivers, child, will not overflow you.

  I bowed my head and prayed for strength.

  A light tap on the door interrupted my prayer. “Fairwyn?” Jeannie called from the other side. “I need to talk with you.”

  It was time. My heart pounding, I stood and moved to open the door.

  Thirty-Two

  I held the door open, and Jeannie entered my room. She glanced at me, looking worried, then she walked to the cherry wood cradles by my bed. Bending over Michela, she tucked the blanket around the baby’s neck and shoulders. Next she tenderly touched Zebbie’s cheek with the backs of her fingers.

  “They’re beautiful,” she whispered. There was a soft anguish in her face when she straightened and turned back to me. “How do you keep from just looking at them and doing nothing else?”

  “It isn’t easy,” I admitted. “Sometimes, when they’re sleeping or when I’m feeding them, I just stare, completely lost in the awe of God’s workmanship.”

  Her face was pale and solemn as she studied me. “I—we need to talk,” she said.

  “Please, sit down.” I nodded to the damask upholstered window seat.

  With a sigh, she crossed the room and settled onto it, nervously smoothing the folds of her long skirt.

  I sat near her in the wicker rocking chair, my gaze intent on hers.

  “I’ve talked to Charlotte,” she began, “so she knows what I’m about to tell you.”

  I bit my lip, my heart pounding. “I can guess what you’re about to ask,” I blurted. “It’s about the train wreck. Charlotte and Zebulon have sent you to find out what happened to me.”

  She looked startled, frowned, and shook her head. “Why, no. That wasn’t why I came to you at all.”

  I rocked back gently in the chair and let out a pent-up breath. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Please go on.”

  She let her gaze drift from my face to the window and the garden below. “I should have come to you for forgiveness long ago.” She turned to me again. “I never wanted to hurt you, Fairwyn. I didn’t. You must believe me.”

  I frowned as old jealousies and fears rose again into my heart.

  She leaned forward, clasping her hands in her lap, so tightly her knuckles turned white. “I’ve been in love with Zeb since we were children. I never thought he might not love me in the same way I loved him. I assumed—especially since our families arranged for our betrothal—that life would be just exactly as I planned it. We would marry, live in a lovely home, have a houseful of children, and grow old together.”

  Her face was lined with pain. She looked down so that I couldn’t see her eyes. “Then Zeb met you,” she said quietly. “He followed the thread of his book to your mountains and fell in love with a young woman so beautiful and bright none other could compare.”

  Beautiful and bright? I stared at her, incredulous. I was an awkward, uneducated old maid when we met.

  “When he came home, he could speak only of you.” She was looking at me again, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “He spoke of everything in context of you … what you might think of his work, his handling of the material in the book, of the Appalachian heritage.”

  “He never told me. Never once did he seem to give my mind a second thought.”

  Her expression was almost angry when she continued. “You were so busy thinking you were somehow inferior to him that you didn’t once notice how he really thought of you, Fairwyn. He was proud of you and your accomplishments. Proud of how you carried yourself, how you worked hard to fit into what he knew to be a difficult social setting.”

  Her eyes glistened and narrowed. “Did you see how he looked at you on your wedding day?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The love in his eyes …” She shuddered and turned away. “It broke my heart.” She fell quiet, and her voice was a whisper when she continued. “Yet even then I couldn’t stop loving him.”

  “I know,” I said quietly.

  She turned to me again. “No, I don’t think you do. I dreamed of you leaving him so that he would turn to me. I planted the thought of your … instability. Your emotional hysterics. I was the one who suggested he quietly put you away.

  “That day he took you to the asylum?”

  “Yes.”

  “He was supposed to leave you there—against your will.” She was crying now. “Oh, Fairwyn, how could I have thought of such a thing?”

&nb
sp; “It was you?”

  She nodded, tears streaming down her face. “I hoped he would be mine. I daydreamed tragic scenes of how he would long for me, but remain true to his insane wife … finally unable to keep himself from me.” She fluttered her lace handkerchief. “It’s not worth telling.” She quieted for a moment, then said, burying her face in her hands, “I’m just so ashamed.”

  “You don’t need to tell me all this, Jeannie. Please, don’t do it to yourself.”

  “No, there’s more. And I must tell you. I can’t live with myself if I don’t.”

  With a sad sigh, I said, “Go on.”

  “I knew you would find us in the library that day.”

  I sat forward, intent on every word.

  “I saw your dulcimer by the fireplace and called Zeb into the library to ask him a question.” She paused, looking ashamed. “I wanted you to see us. I wanted you to behave exactly as you did. Or worse.”

  The scene came into my mind, every detail. I stared at her dumbfounded. “He looked perfectly willing to me,” I said. “In fact, more than willing.”

  “I had practiced that scene … and others … for years. I knew your husband well. I knew his weaknesses, his strengths. I played on his weaknesses. I drew him into my arms, Fairwyn. It wasn’t the other way around.”

  “I heard him say …” I knew the words perfectly so often they had played in my heart, stabbing it with sorrow each time. “He said it had always been you.”

  She smiled. “He’d always held a tenderness toward me. I was his childhood sweetheart. What he said meant nothing more than that.” Her face softened. “He never stopped loving you, Fairwyn. You must believe me.”

  “Did he know that I saw you … saw you kissing?”

  “I saw you come in the door, of course. I was waiting for you. But Zeb didn’t know until later. I didn’t tell him until the following morning.”

  “The following morning?”

  She nodded, remorse flooding her dark eyes. “Just as I expected, you ran away. I watched by my window, hoping to see you ride by. And there in the distance … in the rainy dawn … you did.”