by Lorin Grace
As she began to descend the narrow stairway, Lucy’s legs gave out on her. Only her tight grip on the banister kept her from tumbling headfirst down the last four steps. Pulling herself upright, she noticed the Bible where it lay open on the table. One more chore before she could crawl into bed.
Retrieving Mama’s writing desk from its shelf, Lucy opened the Bible to the back, where her Grandfather Stickney had recorded the names of his parents, wife, and children. Under her mother’s name below the date her grandfather had penned thirty-six years ago on the occasion of Mama’s birth, she wrote the word died and the date. Then she turned to the page after her mother’s marriage to Mr. Simms and his death date, to the marriage of Mama to Papa Marden eight years ago, which was written in Mama’s beautiful script. Mama had added the dates of Ben’s and Papa Marden’s deaths to the book. Below little Jane’s name and death date, Lucy poised her pen to write “Baby boy.”
Tears blurred the page before her. How sad that her tiny brother had come into the world and then out without even a name. She was the only person alive to have ever seen him or hold him. He’d breathed but a little, but he deserved a name—Papa’s name.
Wiping her eyes with her sleeve lest a tear fall and smudge the ink, she wrote in her neatest script:
James Marden Jr., Born and died the 27th day of November in the year of our Lord, 1797.
The words ran together, and Lucy straightened to protect the wet ink from her tears. The room spun. She steadied herself. At the top of the page, she noticed her name written in an unknown hand. The words didn’t make sense… maybe it was her tears or the dim light from the lantern playing tricks on her eyes.
Extinguishing the lamp, she vowed to read the entry again by daylight. Her limbs felt as stiff as deadwood as she stood. For a moment she doubted she could manage the ten short steps to her room.
Finally reaching the bed, she sat on the end to remove her boots, her hands shaking, and the dim light of the fire casting macabre shadows on the floor and walls as it filtered through the door to her room. Lucy rubbed her eyes and sighed. Then, grabbing her quilt, she turned into her pillow and sobbed.
Three
Emma Wilson brushed out her hair, not daring to guess at the number of gray strands weaving their way through its length. She refused to believe they represented the majority. With ten children, seven of whom were living, it was a wonder any hint of color remained. This fall sprouted more gray hairs than could be attributed to little Mark’s illness or the early blizzard. She blamed them on the return of her second son from Boston. Samuel, who had always been of a cheery disposition, had returned silent and moody. In the past two months, he had been the cause of more silvering than the twins in a year. Too bad hair powdering was falling out of fashion. Her hair would soon be white.
She’d cornered Samuel again this morning to learn of his plans, to no avail. Every question was met with a shrug of his shoulder or grunt, his unwillingness to speak turning the conversation into a lecture.
Her brush caught on a tangle.
In the mirror, she watched her husband, Thomas, cross their bedroom toward her. He reached over her shoulder, removed the brush from her hand, and started brushing her hair. Though he did not count aloud, Emma knew he would brush exactly 126 strokes.
After having her hair up all day, it felt like a bit of heaven to feel someone brushing her tresses out. Emma closed her eyes and relaxed. Thomas never seemed to tire of the nightly ritual he’d initiated the first night they were together. On that night, tucked in the sleigh, he’d used his fingers for a comb after pulling out all her hairpins and tucking them in his pocket. And he’d spoken of his love with each pin. “One hundred strokes for beauty,” he whispered in her ear as he finished. He would whisper the same tonight, adding, “Plus twenty-six for the years of my love.”
On nights when he felt particularly amorous, he would forgo the brush for his fingers, returning them both to the days before her blonde hair had darkened and started to gray. On four occasions, he’d even come into the bedroom while she’d labored in childbirth and brushed her hair, much to the annoyance of the midwife.
Emma pictured the younger versions of themselves at this same spot in the days when their cares and worries had been so different. Discussions of harvesting, war, and weather had peppered their conversations. Diapering and midnight feedings had been exchanged for talk of grandchildren. Thomas Jr. and his wife were to present them with a second come early spring. Yesterday at church, she’d learned her Carrie would birth her first sometime in the summer.
Thomas held her hair in one hand, lowered his head, and nuzzled the spot behind Emma’s ear. The gesture almost guaranteed she would be awake for a while longer.
She bent her neck, allowing him better access.
“So what is bothering my wife this night?” Thomas bowed low to wrap her in his arms. She leaned into the curve of his shoulder and let his strength soak into her.
She started to braid her hair, and Thomas released her.
When she’d secured her braid with a length of ribbon, she stood and turned into her husband’s arms.
“It is your Samuel who vexes me. What is he thinking?”
“I take it my wife does not agree with the girls he spends his time with.” Thomas tugged her to the edge of the bed.
Emma nodded as she allowed herself to settle onto her husband’s lap. “I am too old and too fat for this, you know. After ten children, I am not as thin as I used to be.” Emma batted at her husband’s shoulder.
“Ah, but the blizzard has set me in mind of a sleigh ride and a good snuggle.” Thomas captured his wife’s lips to prove his point.
Emma couldn’t help but giggle. “Mr. Wilson, you are a naughty man.” She punctuated her statement with a kiss and soon forgot all about the gray hairs her son was giving her.
Much later, in the warmth of her husband’s arms, Emma again pondered Samuel’s actions. Without warning, he’d returned from Boston declaring that doctoring was not for him. In the weeks since, there had been no further explanation.
“Why does Samuel seem determined to take up with one of the empty-headed girls from town, especially after posting intentions with Lucy?” Gloomy enough when she thought he might fall for Margaret Drabble, but Elizabeth Garrett?
Thomas gave her a little squeeze but didn’t comment.
“She is a mother-in-law’s worst nightmare, if ever one existed.” The conniving girl would make every family gathering miserable with her complaints and airs. Elizabeth had learned from the best because her mother was ten times worse. As wife of the magistrate, Mrs. Garrett considered herself the grande dame and demanded to be treated as such. If Samuel ever married Elizabeth, Emma would need to resort to kidnapping her grandchildren in order to see them. Emma couldn’t stand the thought of such spoiled grandchildren.
“I think what the children saw is being blown out of proportion. I don’t believe Samuel had anything to do with it.”
“Really, nothing to do with a kiss?”
“Mm-hmm.” Thomas nuzzled her shoulder, a sign he wanted to sleep.
Why can’t he just marry Lucy? He’d proposed to Lucy by letter late last spring. They’d posted intentions during the summer, hoping to wed when he came back from medical school this December. Afterward, they would both return to Boston. If any of her children had the opportunity to be as happily married as she and Thomas were, it was Samuel with Lucy.
On the verge of falling asleep, she realized the Mardens had been absent from church again yesterday. With all the excitement of Carrie’s announcement of their newest grandchild, she’d noticed little else. By the time she searched for Anna to share the news, most of the congregants had left. Now that she thought about it, the Marden pew had been empty. Guilt flooded her. Becoming a grandmother was no excuse for forgetting her dearest friend. Snugglin
g deeper into Thomas’s side, her last coherent thought was that she must check on Anna in the morning.
Emma watched a figure emerge in the gloom. The woman’s cloak was pulled tight around her body. As she stumbled in the snow, the wind howled all about her, tangling her cloak and making it difficult to walk through the high snowdrifts it created. The woman fell into a drift but made no attempt to rise. Her unbound hair shrouded her face like a veil. Emma drew near and pulled the hair aside. It was Lucy who lay dying in the snow, just as Anna had twenty years ago. But unlike her mother’s, Lucy’s pale face was not covered with blood.
Heart racing, Emma sat up in bed, relieved to find she’d only dreamed the frightening scene. Emma often dreamed of that terrible night with Anna but never had Lucy taken her place. The setting was different too—not in the woods but on Hill Road, near their house. Emma’s breathing slowed. A dream. Not a memory but a warning. She was sure of it.
Thomas, disturbed by her movement, pulled her back into his embrace. Although comforted by her husband’s closeness, she slept little the rest of the night.
Samuel, his father, and his brothers all waited eagerly for Ma to place the platter of biscuits on the table and sit with them so they could say grace and eat.
But Ma did not sit down. “I dreamed about Anna Marden. Someone must check in on them today.”
Samuel watched as his father closely studied each of his brothers. Oblivious to their father’s scrutiny, his brothers eyed the biscuits and ham on the table. Who could be spared today? Whoever Father sent would be gone most of the day. James Marden would no doubt need a hand after the blizzard. Thomas let his gaze rest on the twins for a moment. They were of an age where they could be a great help, or a great bother. Since the younger boys were not yet big enough to help any more than the young Marden boy, that left—
“Samuel, you will go to the Marden’s. Help James with whatever he needs. I expected Ben to come by now to sled with Daniel and Mark.” Thomas tousled the hair of his youngest son, who despite being gravely ill not two weeks ago seemed none the worse for it.
“Can I go too, Pa?” Mark reached for an unusually fluffy biscuit. The action did not go unnoticed.
“Grace has not been said yet.” Emma moved the biscuits to the opposite side of the table, then she answered for her husband. “No, Mark. Sarah was ill two weeks ago when Lucy and Ben brought the molasses, remember? It was the day before you became ill. Until we know they are all well, you need to stay here.”
Mark bobbed his head, still focused on the fluffy biscuits now beyond his reach.
Samuel forced himself to answer. “I’ll go.”
The Marden’s. The last place he wanted to go but the one place his heart wanted to be. Ready or not, today is the day I stop avoiding Lucy.
All the things he needed to apologize for pelted his mind like last night’s snowballs. He hoped his apology would convince Lucy to rekindle their relationship. Being whitewashed by his brothers was more comfortable than Lucy’s cold shoulder. Didn’t she realize it was half her fault Elizabeth had thrown herself at him because she was jealous? Another poor excuse.
He could justify all he wanted, but he was a louse.
Samuel looked up when amens echoed around the table. He’d missed hearing morning grace, but no one seemed to notice. His four brothers were focused on getting their share of the food before starting the day’s work. Doubtless, more than one had eyed the biscuits during their father’s talk with God. He grabbed the fluffy one and plunked it down on his plate. Across the table, Mark’s shoulders slumped.
Emma handed the butter crock to Samuel. “I’ll send a small basket of food with you.
Samuel took the boiled eggs from Daniel. No one reacted to Ma’s announcement. With the expectation of another Marden after Christmas, it would have been odd if Ma didn’t send something.
His stomach churned. He hoped he could keep his breakfast down. Childbirth was another of his failures as a doctor’s apprentice. Thankfully, Ma and Widow Potting handled most of the birthing around here. He’d shared his failures with old Dr. Page, who had counted on Samuel’s help in the growing community. How did I ever think I could be a doctor? The thought filled him with shame and made swallowing difficult.
Ma finished her meal and bustled around the large kitchen, adding more than bread and butter to the Marden’s basket. Crocks of this and slabs of that were wrapped and nestled inside of the third largest of the baskets Ma kept in the kitchen. Samuel cringed. Riding a horse and balancing one of mother’s not-so-little baskets would be harder still in the snow. A cloth sack would be simpler to maneuver, but it would be useless to suggest it, as cloth sacks allowed the bread to become smashed and the jellies to tip. He could walk the mile and a half to the Marden farm, but with the snow, he would rather take his horse.
Emma set the basket next to Samuel. “Stop playing with your biscuit and get moving. I feel as if the Mardens need our help now.”
Samuel stuffed the last bite into his mouth. No one ever argued with Ma’s feelings. More often than not, they proved to be like Biblical Joseph’s gift from God, telling of a future only he could see. Perhaps that was why his mother’s intense gaze made him wonder what she didn’t tell them.
Four
No smoke curled up from the chimney silhouetted against the ice-blue sky. No fresh footprints in the dusting of snow that had fallen last night.
The bellowing, mooing, and bleating coming from the barn sounded to Samuel like a protest of neglect.
What Samuel didn’t see or smell as he rode Old Brown into the Marden’s yard worried him more than what he did. The animals would keep.
Ma was right. Something was wrong at the Marden’s.
Vowing to check on the animals as soon as he checked on the family, he secured Old Brown to the porch rail. Bound to the nearby post, three ropes ran up and over the roof. He fingered the intricate knots, wondering why James Marden had tied them there. He jerked his hand away as a reason came to mind. He hoped he was mistaken. There were few reasons to lash anything to a roof during a winter storm.
He knocked on the door. Thud. Something fell just beyond the door, but no one answered.
“Hello in the house.”
Bang. Scrape. Bam. The door vibrated as someone attempted to open it.
Impatient, Samuel set the basket down. He stepped to the window and tried to peer inside. The curtain parted, revealing a small, chestnut-brown head of hair and a pair of tear-filled hazel eyes.
“Samuel!” the child shouted with relief.
He tried the door. Bolted. “Can you open the door?”
The child shook her head. Her attempts must account for the noises he’d heard through the door. Wasn’t there someone else to open the heavy door? There was no way he could lift the crossbar from outside. Should he break the window?
The little face disappeared. More scraping and banging echoed from within the house. Samuel stood perplexed. A slam from the back of the house solved the mystery. The lean-to door. Of course. Why hadn’t he thought of it? Years ago Lucy had shown him the loose stone in the garden wall where James Marden had hidden a key.
“Samuel! Samuel, you came!” The shout crescendoed as the child raced around the corner. Her ill-attached cloak flew behind her, and her stockinged feet left little footprints in the snow. She launched herself into Samuel’s arms. “You camed! You camed! I knew you would.”
What on earth? The little girl was half dressed. Breadcrumbs stuck to her face, which smelled of apple preserves. How long had things been in such a condition to leave a child of five years fending for herself? He dreaded the answer.
“I prayed and prayed you would come!” She hugged him, transferring the crumbs and apple preserves to his shirt.
“Thank you, God!” she said and raised her arms to the sky.
&nbs
p; Samuel struggled to place a name for the girl—Jane? Sarah? He wasn’t sure which of the girls had passed while he was in Boston. The impatient child squirmed out of his arms.
“Hurry, Samuel!” She grabbed his hand and tried to drag him off the porch. He scooped her up and carried her around the house over the half-cleared path.
As they reached the back of the cabin, Samuel’s heart sank. Strapped to the roof were three quilt-wrapped bundles—frozen corpses awaiting burial. From the sizes, one must be Ben, the other two adults.
Please, not Lucy. Still carrying the child, Samuel ducked inside the lean-to’s squatty door. No fire blazed in the massive stone fireplace, and his breath hung visible in the air. The dim light coming through the curtains showed the large gathering room was clean and tidy. The little girl must not have been left to her own devices for long. Where there were three bundles on the roof, someone besides the child in his arms was still alive.
Or they lay in the house with no one to add their body to those on the roof.
The girl wiggled out of Samuel’s arms and dashed through the door near the stairs, her cloak falling to the floor as she ran. He noticed the tracks made by her wet stockings. Samuel shed his heavy coat and hung it on a peg by the door. Picking up the girl’s cloak, he did the same for her. As cold as it was, he would have kept the coat on, but it hindered his movements.
“Lucy, wake up! He is here. I told you he would come. I prayed. Please, Lucy.” The girl’s words changed to sobs, and Samuel’s heart stopped. Lucy was not one of those on the cabin roof, but neither was she conscious. He froze. The young one might not recognize death.