Patricia Rice

by Wayward Angel

Dora's eyes flew open to see to whom he was talking. When she saw that she was the only one in the room beside Carlson Nicholls, she turned wide eyes of puzzlement to the stout doctor. "I am fine. Bloodletting just makes me queasy."

  He harrumphed and put his tools back in his bag. "I imagine everything has made you queasy these last few months. How far along are you? Four months? It's hard to say with a woman your size."

  Dora stopped breathing. She didn't know what he tried to say. His words had nothing to do with her. But the whole time her mind denied it, her body screamed agreement. She'd been queasy for months. Her stomach had constant butterflies lately. She'd put on weight. She had difficulty buttoning her bodices. Those things couldn't mean anything, could they? Was she ill?

  But she knew she wasn't. Even before the doctor uttered his next prosaic words, the truth finally dawned.

  "When was your last menses? July?" At her anguished nod, he snapped his bag closed. "Well, that'll make it an April baby. Good time of the year. Not too hot, not too cold. You just make sure you get plenty of rest and drink lots of milk and you'll do fine. If you have any problems, just call for me." He glanced at the man in the bed. "You'd better make plans with the funeral home. I'll have them send someone out here if you want. There's no point in waiting until it's all over but the shouting. These things take time nowadays."

  He left before Dora even had time to register his suggestions. Carlson was dying. She was going to have a baby. She had always wondered how God knew to give babies only to married women. Now she knew.

  She had done what only married women should do.

  Chapter 18

  The corruption of the age is made up by the particular contribution of every individual man; some contribute treachery, others injustice, irreligion, tyranny, avarice, cruelty, according to their power.

  ~ Montaigne, "Of Vanity," Essays

  Carlson Nicholls had another attack that night and died before he regained consciousness. His black mistress filled her pockets with every valuable she could find and disappeared before dawn. Dora was left to call the undertaker.

  They waited three days to hold the funeral, sending telegrams far and wide to scattered relatives. Josie Ann arrived in time to attend. No word came from Pace. They already knew Charlie couldn't come. He'd been captured outside Atlanta and resided in a Yankee prison camp.

  Harriet Nicholls refused to attend. The weather was nasty, wet, and cold. She probably shouldn't expose herself to it, but it made for a dismal turnout when the only close relative attending was a daughter-in-law. Dora felt sympathy for the angry old man, but she could do naught else but pray for his immortal soul.

  Dora had her own problems. Once the house cleared of sympathetic neighbors, Josie stayed behind to resume her rightful place as head of the household, since Harriet refused the role. Now that she knew the true cause of her thickening waist, Dora dreaded the pending confrontation. Josie would almost certainly be the first to notice.

  Dora surreptitiously let out the seams of her gowns so they hung on her loosely. She wore full aprons and didn't tie them tight. She felt immense. At night, before she donned her night shift, she ran her hand over her swelling belly and wondered at the magnitude of what she had done. She had allowed Pace to plant his seed in her, and now a child had taken fruit. She should have known that. She should have understood what they did. But Mother Elizabeth had neglected that part of her education, no doubt saving it for her wedding night.

  So Dora stayed out of everyone's sight, delaying the inevitable.

  Despite all their precautions, Harriet Nicholls came down with a pleurisy of the lungs and demanded around-the-clock care. Dora took on the burden gratefully, hiding away in the invalid's room, allowing others to carry up her meals. Josie brought Amy in once or twice a day to check on her mother-in-law, but she scarcely paid attention to Dora. Her mind was distracted by the thousand-and-one things that needed doing around the house and fields. She expressed her gratitude that Dora had taken one of them off her hands.

  Pace didn't write. No one knew where he was or what he was doing. Furious at the burdens dropped on her shoulders, Josie wrote him a scathing letter and addressed it to his regiment. She received no reply. She should have expected none. The farm belonged to Charlie and was no concern of Pace's.

  By January, Harriet Nicholls had improved and the house was in such chaos that Dora felt she had no right to hide any longer. She suspected the old woman had already guessed her condition but prudently hadn't mentioned it. In only a matter of time, everyone would know. Well into her fifth month, she showed beneath all her loose skirts, if anyone cared enough to look. She could scarcely hide herself until April, and even if she could, she would have a difficult time hiding a squalling baby.

  Dora contemplated selling the farm and leaving town, but she was too much of a coward. If she couldn't gather enough courage to defy Pace's edict and become a nurse, she couldn't find enough to run away to a strange place where she knew no one and had no means of making a living. At least here she and the babe would have a roof over their heads and food in their mouths. It wasn't as if the scandal would ruin her nonexistent social life. She didn't think anyone in the Nicholls household would be cruel enough to put her out.

  It took Josie a little while to actually notice the changes in Dora. Too many chores needed doing. They had to be in too many places at once. They spent little time in each other's company, particularly since Dora continued eating in the invalid's room. But one day Dora made the mistake of standing on a chair while repairing a minor rent in the heavy parlor draperies, and the bright light from the window silhouetted the shape of her figure. Josie walked in just as Dora reached to pull the final thread through the fabric.

  "Dora!"

  Josie's gasp nearly had Dora falling from the chair. She grabbed the drapery to steady herself and turned to see what had taken Josie so aback.

  With a sigh of resignation, Dora snipped off the thread and climbed down from the chair. "I was in no danger of falling," she said dryly, responding to a caution she suspected hadn't been in Josie's cry. If Pace had been here, he would have warned her about climbing on chairs. But Pace wasn't here.

  Josie twisted her wedding ring uneasily, unable to broach the topic of unmarried pregnancy. A lady must express things delicately, but there wasn't anything delicate about Dora's condition. Cautiously, she asked, "Is David the daddy?"

  That made an easy escape, but Dora had been taught not to lie. She had learned to evade the truth, however. That must be Pace's influence, or perhaps her early childhood. "David is dead," she stated flatly.

  Josie nodded thoughtfully, started to say something, then just shrugged. "We'll need to look for a midwife. I'm not as talented as you." Then she twirled around and left the room.

  It was a relief to finally have it out in the open. Dora went about her chores with a lighter step. She carried the child easily. The queasiness had disappeared, and she felt almost like her old self, except for the growing movement of the child in her womb. Butterfly wings became something a little stronger. She had not only come alive again, she carried a new life within her. That knowledge terrified and thrilled her.

  The only male left around the place, Solly was too easily distracted to go to town alone. Whenever they needed supplies, Josie went with him in the cart with the one horse they had left. Dora was relieved that Josie took over that burden. She had no desire to expose herself to the malicious gossip in town.

  She had even given up going to Meeting. Finding transportation across the river had become too difficult long before her pregnancy had become noticeable. Now she no longer worried about explaining herself to the gentle people who had so generously taken her in. She was grateful for the new life they had given her, but she was grown now. She must find a life of her own.

  But there came a day when Amy had a croupy cough, Josie was still recovering from a virulent cold, and they had no sulfur left in the house with which to complete a snuff plaster. Dora paced Amy
's sickroom, alternately testing the child for fever and racking her brain for other remedies for the terrible cough. Emetics and purgatives were recommended, but she hated torturing the tiny child with such harsh treatment. She knew the snuff plaster would work, if she could just get the sulfur.

  While Amy slept, Dora hurried into Josie's room to check on her recovering patient. Josie still had a hacking cough, a slight temperature, and congestion. She was improving, but not enough for venturing into the chilly February wind. She simply had no choice. She would have to go into town herself.

  Pulling a concealing cloak around her, Dora covered her head and bonnet with a hood, and borrowed a hand muff from Josie. Perhaps her invisibility would protect her. She need only go into the mercantile. On a blustery day like this, perhaps there wouldn't be too many people around.

  Always eager to escape the narrow confines of the farm, Solly whistled and chattered as he drove the cart at a quick pace down the lane. Dora tried to find ease from her tension in his nonsense.

  "Why hast thou stayed when all the others have left?" Dora asked him as they drew closer to town.

  Solly grinned. "I'se waiting for Marster Pace to come home. I figger I'se a free nigger right now, but I can't make no money out there with rascals just waitin' to get their hands on me and whup me back into the fields. So I'se gonna wait. Marster Pace gonna take care of me, and then I can take care of my fambly."

  Dora shot him a curious look. "The farm belongs to Charles, Solly. He won't necessarily see things thy way."

  Solly shrugged. "We'll see. Marster Charles ain't been home in a long time. He don' write. He might not come back. I'll wait."

  A certain stubbornness prevailed behind some of Solly's immature beliefs, and Dora didn't argue with him. She was grateful that they had at least one man, or almost man, around to bear some of the burden.

  She sent Solly to water the horses at the livery while she went into the mercantile. She didn't want the poor boy observing her disgrace if the town gossips started in on her as soon as she entered the store.

  She found Billy John's wife behind the counter, knitting at a baby bonnet. Sally looked up in surprise when Dora entered, and hurried to greet her.

  "It's been a coon's age since I've set eyes on you, Dora! Where've you been keepin' yourself?" Her voice lowered conspiratorially, and her eyes darted around the room to see if anyone listened. "What's Josie and Mizz Nicholls gonna do when they auction off the house? Go to live with you?"

  Dora blinked, adjusting her eyes to the dim light of the store, trying to grasp the meaning of what Sally said. Cautiously, she asked, "Auction?"

  Sally's face lit up like a lantern. "Haven't you heard? Billy John was fussin' on about it somethin' fierce the other night. He's certain Joe Mitchell and his daddy have got their fingers in it somehow, but we haven't got two pennies to scrape together right now, and he doesn't dare raise a ruckus against the mayor and his father. It's just like that time they tried to take Tommy McCoy's place. I'd've thought you all would have brought Pace home to take care of it by now."

  Head spinning from this excess of information, or misinformation, Dora clasped her hands around the counter and sought the kernel of fact. "Are you saying they're planning on auctioning the Nichollses' place for back taxes?"

  Sally nodded her head. "Isn't it awful? You'd think they'd give a poor widow woman a little while to get things together, wouldn't you?"

  The child beneath Dora's ribs did a somersault. "There must be some mistake. Friend Carlson always paid his bills promptly. We haven't seen any notices saying the taxes weren't paid. Wouldn't they have to send out notices?"

  Sally's expression became sympathetic. "Are you still staying out there then? I thought Josie would look after the place now." She frowned as she realized she'd been asked a question. "Well, I suppose they send out notices. I don't rightly know. Billy John takes care of all our paperwork."

  "How did thee hear about the auction?" Dora asked.

  Sally brightened at being able to answer this question. "Billy John was over to the courthouse in the county seat yesterday, saw the bill posted. Said they were auctioning the place for nonpayment of taxes this afternoon. He sure would have liked to bid on it, but the taxes on a place like that are more than we make in a year. There's no tellin' how much it will go for."

  Dora felt an ugly, sick feeling in her stomach. This had all the evidence of Joe Mitchell's dirty dealings. She'd thought him a friend of Charlie's, but obviously friendship was worth sacrificing when a plum like this came available, especially when that friend was conveniently behind prison walls. She'd heard rumors of Joe buying up property around the county for little or nothing. As mayor, he knew who owed what and when. And with a district representative for father, he would have the law on his side. No doubt they would declare the notice of auction "lost" if anyone protested. By then, the deed would be transferred and the opportunity lost. She couldn't let that happen.

  Dora bought the sulfur and hurried back to the cart. Solly hadn't returned yet. That was all right. She needed to talk to somebody, somebody on her side, or Pace's, at least. She didn't trust Charlie's friends any farther than she could throw them.

  She hurried down the back alley praying the man she sought still lived. It had been years since she had gone down this road. She hoped Pace had kept in touch better than she had.

  The shack was a little more run-down than she remembered. No one had cut the autumn weeds, and they brushed the split log sides with a dry rustle. But a lantern light glowed behind the yellowed paper window. Someone lived there.

  Uncle Jas's voice hadn't diminished with age as he yelled for her to come in when she knocked. Hesitantly, Dora pushed open the door and peered inside.

  The old black man sat on a stool in front of the fire, whittling at a piece of log. "Come in, chile, and close that door. The draft is intolerable."

  She slipped in and shut the door as firmly as it would go. "I'm sorry to disturb thee, Uncle Jas."

  "You ain't supposed to be here now any more than you was when you was a chile. You don' never learn, do you?" He shook his head, and when he looked up, Dora could see that his eyes had grown white with disease. For all intents and purposes, Uncle Jas was blind.

  She ignored his admonitions. "I need help. I don't know where to get it."

  He snorted and waved his carving knife. "So you come to a blind old man? That's a lot of faith you have, gal."

  "Thou knowest everything that goes on around here," she answered accusingly. "Why didn't thee warn us of this auction?"

  Jas shrugged. "I don' owe Marster Charlie nothin'. Let him take care of his own."

  "And what about Pace? That's his home too. It might not belong to him, but it's all he's got right now."

  The old man's head nodded to his unspoken thoughts. "Still that way, is it? S'pose that chile is his, too?" When Dora stiffened, he just laughed. "Don't matter none to me. But I'd kindly like to see that boy Joe taken down a notch some. What do you think I can do?"

  "Thou knowest Pace's friends, who to trust. If I can just keep Joe from that auction, I might halt it or do something to keep the place from being sold."

  Jas looked at her shrewdly. "Wouldn't paying the taxes be easiest?"

  "I thought of that. Today's Saturday. City Hall isn't open. I'd wager that notice never got posted until yesterday for just that reason. If Joe isn't around, I might persuade them to take the tax money at the courthouse in the county seat."

  "That's a long old ride to the courthouse. You could hurt that babe."

  "I'm fine. I'm healthy. I can do it. I just can't let Joe get away with this. Someone must stop this nastiness. If we don't, he'll own the whole town."

  Jas shrugged. "Far's I can see, he and his papa already does, but that ain't none of my concern. I cain't vote against the rascals. I cain't own property they can take. I ain't even supposed to live here like I do. But I'll do it this time, for Pace. He's a might wild, but his heart's always been in the right
place. You go on now and get yourself over to the courthouse. I'll see what I can do about Joe."

  "I thank thee," Dora whispered in relief before fleeing out the door and back up the alley.

  Solly was loitering about the street, staring in shop windows when Dora returned to the main road. He looked up in surprise when she hailed him, but he was all seriousness when she ordered him to hurry home. She would send some of the smoked ham in the shed to Uncle Jas in return for his help. And a basket of jellies. If he could pull this off, she would see that he never worried about food again.

  When they came in sight of the house, she ordered, "Give the mare some grain when we get there, Solly, but don't unhitch her. We're going to the courthouse just as soon as I can run in the house and come out again."

  "Somethin' the matter, Miz Dora?"

  "Something bad's the matter, Solly, and thou wilt have to help me stop it."

  He stayed silent for the rest of the ride, concentrating on reaching the house as quickly as possible. He didn't ask questions and Dora didn't explain. They would have time enough for that later.

  For now, she had to find enough money to pay the taxes.

  Chapter 19

  There is no courage but in innocence;

  No constancy, but in an honest cause.

  ~ Thomas Southern, Fate of Capua

  Dora clasped her chilled hands and the little bag of federal notes, hoarded gold, and receipts inside Josie's muff as the rude wooden cart rattled down the winter-ravaged road. She was shaking inside, but the jolting of the cart had little to do with it.

  The Nichollses' place had become as much a home to her as her own small farm. It was Pace's birthplace, Amy's home. It still supported a half dozen slaves as well as Pace's mother. Furnishings carefully carried over the mountains from Virginia by earlier generations filled the rooms, along with the expensive china and carpets and other luxuries acquired in the years since then. It was a true home, a shelter for generations of family. It would be a sin to have all that destroyed by one greedy man. It would be a sin for Charlie and Pace to come home to nothing.