The entire family knew what a poor liar she was, although she had lived another persona for several months at the hospital, playing the part of Mrs. Highwood, instead of Miss. When he was released to his aunt’s house, Zachary had refused to play along, ordering her home as soon as he was able. His concept of what a proper young lady should be allowed to do was hopelessly outdated.
Knowing that further questioning would be futile, she turned and left the room, resisting the urge to stamp her feet just a little. Or slam the door.
Instead, Louisa picked up the kitten mewing at her heels and took herself outside to assist their newest patient in the intricacies of stitching a fine seam. He’d resisted the idea of knitting, but when she switched the focus to sewing and reminded him that men made good tailors, he’d accepted the needle and thread. After all, his lack of legs didn’t take away the ability of his hands. She set the kitten down in the lap of a soldier who had not as yet smiled.
‘‘Miss Louisa, you make this sewing look so easy, but it ain’t, not in the least.’’ The young man, who’d served as a lieutenant, pointed to his uneven stitches.
‘‘Hmm. It could be the light.’’
‘‘It could be the needle, or the thimble, or the . . .’’ The glare was more for the material in his hands than for her.
‘‘When you first shot a gun, did you hit the target all the time?’’
‘‘Well, no, but—’’
‘‘When I first held a needle, I was five, maybe four, years old. My stitches were far worse than yours, and I had far less patience. But my mother refused to let me quit, no matter how hard I begged. Sometimes I near to wore out the thread, I had to take it out so many times.’’ She held his work up to see better. ‘‘Just remember, the smaller the stitches, the less likely the seam will rip. All the difference between a soldier being warm enough or freezing in the winter.’’
‘‘I understand.’’ He made himself smile, for her sake, she knew. Learning to live without legs sent some men into such depression that they were unable to continue living. This man was trying.
Louisa wanted to hug him. Surely he was older than she, but he seemed like a baby brother. Even though she was only eighteen, she felt ancient. Ever since her Lieutenant Lessling died, she knew she’d aged years. She glanced over to see the ginger kitten purring beneath a stroking hand.
She patted the young legless man’s shoulder. ‘‘You’ll make it. Our Father will see you through.’’
He sighed. ‘‘Not so sure I believe in ‘Our Father’ anymore. Not after all the things I saw.’’
Louisa knelt beside his chair. ‘‘If we give up, Satan wins the battle. Remember, the Bible says ‘If God be for us, who can be against us.’ ’’
‘‘I know.’’ He looked into her eyes, searching her soul. ‘‘But do you really believe God is still for us?’’
Louisa swallowed. ‘‘I believe God is for each one of us, and when we trust in Him, He never fails.’’
‘‘But what if I don’t trust no longer?’’
‘‘God never changes.’’ But please don’t ask me if I believe God is on the side of the South. I can’t say that any longer. ‘‘Excuse me, I see that Abby needs me for something. You keep on practicing those stitches. You’ll do fine.’’ Before he could ask her another question she left the veranda. Thank God for Abby.
‘‘Missy Louisa, Miss Sylvania, she don’ look too good. I made her go up and take a lie-down.’’
‘‘Thank you, Abby. I didn’t realize she’d returned from her sewing circle.’’
Twice a week Aunt Sylvania attended the sewing circle at her church. While she’d given up asking her niece to join her, she still faithfully attended. Louisa knew she enjoyed the gossip as much as the sewing. Together the group sewed for the war effort, just like they did at home.
‘‘I’ll go check on her.’’ Louisa made her way up the stairs to her aunt’s room. She tapped on the door. ‘‘Aunt Sylvania, may I come in?’’
‘‘Of course, dear.’’
Crossing the sunny room, Louisa stifled a gasp.
Sylvania lay against the pillows, her face nearly as white as the pillow slips. She raised a hand, trembling like a leaf in the wind.
‘‘What happened?’’ Louisa took her aunt’s frail hand in hers.
‘‘Your hand is freezing.’’
‘‘I . . . I just felt dizzy, and now my head aches.’’ Sylvania’s voice sounded fretful, like a confused child.
Louisa felt her aunt’s forehead, the skin papery beneath her fingertips. A faint sheen of perspiration had formed, but she was not hot with fever.
‘‘I think we should call the doctor.’’
‘‘Oh, pshaw, he’s too busy with really sick folks. I’ll just have me a lie-down for a while. I didn’t sleep too well last night.’’
‘‘How about if we make some willow bark tea for you?’’
‘‘I don’t know.’’ Sylvania closed her eyes and sighed. ‘‘My stomach doesn’t really feel like anything. Perhaps a cold cloth would help.’’
‘‘I’ll get it.’’ Louisa paused at the doorway. ‘‘Anything else?’’
Sylvania fluttered her hand in dismissal.
‘‘What you think?’’ Abby met her at the bottom of the stairs.
‘‘I think we should send Reuben for the doctor. But in the meantime, a cool cloth, some willow bark tea laced with honey, and a rest should help.’’
‘‘I gets the tea made. She ain’t been eatin’ ’nough to keep a bitty bird alive. No wonder she done feel poorly.’’ Abby bustled off, muttering all the while.
After sending Reuben on his way, Louisa took the cool cloth back upstairs and laid it across her aunt’s forehead. Gentle snores never changed cadence with the attention. Louisa studied her aunt’s slack face. Was there something wrong with the right side? Surely it was only a shadow.
Her stomach clenched. Dear God, please let nothing be wrong with Auntie. She crossed to the other side of the bed where the light was better. Sure enough, the right eye drooped, the skin of the cheek slacked, the mouth pulled downward like wax slightly melted. ‘‘Oh, Lord, apoplexy.’’
A bit of drool slipped from the right side of the older woman’s mouth and pooled on the pillow slip.
Louisa darted from the room and down the stairs. ‘‘Abby, come quick.’’
‘‘Tea most ready.’’ Abby stuck her head around the doorframe.
‘‘No, come now.’’
Drying her hands on her apron, the black woman hurried up the stairs, muttering, ‘‘Lawd, have mercy. Lawd, have mercy.’’
She knelt by the side of the bed. ‘‘Ah, Missy Louisa, look at her face.’’
‘‘I know. I hoped . . .’’ I hoped I was just seeing things. That’s what I hoped. ‘‘Do you know of anything to be done?’’ Louisa took her aunt’s hand and stroked the back of it. Sylvania slept on.
‘‘No. Nothin’ to do but wait. See how bad. I helped wid a neighbor. Some get better, some get worse.’’ Abby swiped at a tear on her cheek. ‘‘Please, Lawd, let her get better.’’
Louisa echoed the simple prayer. ‘‘I’ll stay with her, you go send Reuben up as soon as he returns. Perhaps the doctor will have something to help her.’’
Abby left, shaking her turbaned head, her sniffing audible over the sound of Sylvania’s breathing.
When the doctor finally came just before supper, he only shook his head. He lifted the old woman’s eyelids, listened to her heart and lungs, and counted her pulse.
‘‘Her heart is strong, but all we can do is keep her comfortable. Has she tried to speak since this happened?’’
‘‘No, she’s been asleep since shortly after she lay down. We talked briefly then. She said she’d felt dizzy at church and her stomach was so upset, so she came on home early. She mentioned a headache, so I set Abby to making willow bark tea. She never woke up to drink it.’’ Louisa stepped back from the bed and motioned to the doctor to follow. Lowering her voi
ce, she asked, ‘‘Will she wake again?’’
‘‘Oh my, yes. Unless she gets much worse, I feel this is a minor case of apoplexy. We’ll know more in the next few days how severe the damage is.’’
‘‘Can you tell me what happened?’’
‘‘A blood vessel has burst in her brain. The damage depends on how large a vessel and the location. Sleep is the best thing for her right now. When she wakes up, if she has a hard time speaking, reassure her that it likely won’t stay this way. She can learn to speak again. The same with the use of her hands and feet. As I said, this seems like a light one.’’
‘‘Can you give her anything?’’
‘‘If she were real restless, I would suggest some laudanum, but . . .’’ He shrugged and raised his hands, only to drop them again at his side.
Louisa knew both the gesture and the situation. If she could find some laudanum on their next trip, she would keep some for her aunt.
The thought of the journey triggered panic to flutter her stomach. She and Zachary were supposed to leave tomorrow.
‘‘Thank you for coming so quickly.’’ She showed the doctor out, wishing, as he did, that the diagnosis had been different.
‘‘I’ve known Miss Sylvania for twenty years or more, doctored her husband and her children, poor thing. She lost them all. She hasn’t had an easy life, and now to have this happen to her. Hard to understand the Lord’s will at times.’’ He patted her arm. ‘‘You take care of yourself now, with all these folks to care for.’’
‘‘Of course, and the same for you.’’ The two of them exchanged a look of secret commiseration, both recognizing the polite deception. They’d often met each other coming and going on errands of mercy all hours of the night or day.
Before he reached the street, she thought of something and dashed out the door. ‘‘Doctor?’’
He paused and turned to wait for her.
‘‘If I have to be gone for a few days, would Abby and Reuben be able to care for my aunt?’’
‘‘Of course, my dear. I’m counting on her to be up and about as early as tomorrow. If there are any further developments, send Reuben for me immediately.’’
‘‘Thank you again, Doctor.’’ She watched as he climbed into his black buggy and clucked to his horse. Why was caring for wounded soldiers easier than for her own aunt? But as she returned to the house, she knew the answer. While she cared about the soldiers, she loved her aunt, her father’s last remaining sister. And besides, the men were under orders to mind her, while Aunt Sylvania had never minded anyone, if Louisa’s father’s stories were to be believed.
Louisa made her way out to the veranda, where the men were enjoying their afternoon lemonade and cookies.
‘‘How is she?’’ The question came from all directions at once.
‘‘We’ll know more by tomorrow.’’
‘‘Is there anything we can do?’’ The lieutenant asked for the four of them.
‘‘Pray.’’
He arched an eyebrow, and from their earlier discussion, Louisa knew what he was thinking.
‘‘Sometimes we find it easier to pray for someone other than ourselves. If I could think of anything else, I would tell you.’’
‘‘Thank you, Miss Louisa. My prayers, for whatever they are worth, will be rising for Miss Sylvania. We all miss her sweet voice as she reads to us.’’
‘‘I will tell her so.’’ Oh, Lord, let her return from her slumbers with a mind to understand how we love her and appreciate all that she does.
Louisa ambled back inside, offering to help Abby with the supper preparations.
‘‘You just go on up and sit by Miss Sylvania till I calls you.
Reuben done taked my place. I need his old worthless hide down here to carry water to the washtubs. After supper I wash de sheets. Take dat kitten with you.’’
Louisa knew better than to argue. Abby felt strongly on issues of what the missies of the house were allowed to do. Washing was not one of them. She swooped up the kitten, setting him to purring when she stroked his head, and headed upstairs.
‘‘She not move yet.’’ Reuben rose from the chair, speaking softly, as if in a house of worship.
‘‘We need to talk normally. Perhaps she can hear and needs to know we are here.’’ Louisa sat in the chair and took her aunt’s frail hand in her own. The little kitten snuggled down next to the sleeping woman, his purr loud in the stillness. How could her aunt look so fragile so quickly, or had this been going on for a time and none of them noticed? If only there were ways to find some answers.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘‘So what actually happened to Aunt Sylvania?’’
‘‘The doctor says she has apoplexy. We will know how severe in the next few days. He seemed to think it’s fairly mild.’’
‘‘And we are to leave in the morning.’’ Zachary thumped on the desk with his only hand.
‘‘I cannot do that, Zachary. I will not leave her.’’
Zachary stared at her, the intensity of his gaze burning into her mind. ‘‘You would put an old woman ahead of helping our wounded men?’’
‘‘Zachary Highwood, how can you say such a thing? Aunt Sylvania isn’t some old woman we are talking about. This is our aunt, who has opened her house and heart for us all this year. She has taken us in and shared everything she has.’’ Anger swelled at the sight of his appearance of disinterest. Had he lost all concern for his own family, all semblance of Christian love even?
Louisa squared her shoulders. ‘‘Yes, brother dear.’’ She honeyed her words. ‘‘I would put an aunt I dearly love ahead of wounded soldiers.’’ And as titular head of our family, you should too. She kept the thought from registering on her face, along with the urge to slap the supercilious look off his face. Surely he must be putting on an act to convince her to leave. ‘‘I will make this compromise. If Aunt Sylvania is much better by the morning, we can leave on Tuesday.’’ Surely one more day wouldn’t make a difference.
‘‘But I have tickets for tomorrow’s train.’’
‘‘We’re taking the train?’’
‘‘Yes, west.’’
‘‘You’ll have to find someone else or put off this trip. I’m not leaving our aunt like this.’’ There, she’d had her say.
She waited for him to say more, but when he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, she realized the discussion was over. ‘‘Is there anything else I can get you?’’
A headshake, so brief she’d have missed it had she not been glaring at him, sent her to the doorway. She paused. ‘‘I take it I am dismissed?’’
A slight lifting of a corner of his mouth let her know he knew what she was doing.
Louisa and Abby took turns sitting with Aunt Sylvania through the night. Toward dawn, on Louisa’s shift, Sylvania opened her eyes and looked around. Bewilderment etched the good side of her face. Louisa moved from the chair to the edge of the bed.
‘‘Can I get you something?’’ She took her aunt’s hand in hers, feeling a slight quiver.
‘‘Thirsty, so thirsty.’’ The words came slowly, as if Sylvania were unsure of her tongue.
‘‘Oh, dear Aunt, you can speak, thank our good Lord.’’
Sylvania quirked her left eyebrow, a familiar sign that she questioned her niece’s good sense.
‘‘What is so, so . . .’’ A look of total confusion caused lines to deepen on the left side of her face, but little happened on the right. ‘‘I . . . I can’t find the word.’’ She tried to raise her right hand to her face, and it lay flaccid on the coverlet. She stared at the hand, and then her gaze darted to Louisa like that of a child pleading for mercy.
‘‘What . . . what has happened?’’
‘‘You’ve a mild case of apoplexy.’’ Louisa smoothed the wisps of gray hair off her aunt’s forehead. ‘‘It has affected your right side, your face a bit, and now we know your right hand. Can you move your foot?’’
Sylvania looked toward her feet and
smiled, making Louisa more aware of the distorted face. ‘‘It moves—that’s good, right?’’ She stared at her hand, which finally lifted off the bed but fell back limp, like wet laundry.
‘‘Good, very good.’’ Louisa stood and walked to the pitcher of water sitting on the commode. She closed her eyes and breathed a prayer of thanksgiving. Taking a cup of cool water back, she held it for her aunt to drink.
‘‘My mouth . . . not workin’ right.’’ The tone became petulant, like a small child in need of a nap.
‘‘I know, but I think it will get better again. Doctor said he would be back today when he could.’’
‘‘He came?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
Sylvania nodded. ‘‘He would.’’ Her eyelids drifted closed. ‘‘Sleepy, so sleepy.’’
‘‘You rest now, and when you wake we’ll bring some breakfast.’’ Louisa realized her patient was already asleep.
When Louisa entered the kitchen, Abby already had the iron stove plenty hot for biscuits, grits steaming in a kettle, and syrup warming on the back of the stove. For a brief second, Louisa craved ham. How long since they’d had ham and redeye gravy for breakfast. A thick slice of ham that needed cutting with a knife. Thoughts of such a ham brought memories of home, memories salt and sweet, just like the meat. The smokehouse at Twin Oaks, the walls standing impregnated with salt and smoke and the dripping grease of untold delicacies, meat taken for granted, a smokehouse part and parcel of the ongoing life.
She sighed as she stepped out onto the veranda. Would life ever be the same again?
Silly question, she chided herself. Of course it won’t. It can’t. Another sigh. She leaned against the brick wall and gazed over what was once Aunt Sylvania’s glorious rose garden. Now vegetables were planted between the few remaining roses. Where once only blossoms reigned, now green beans climbed poles and lettuces made borders, along with feathery carrot tops. Dewdrops glistened on petals and leaves, while bitty bushtits gleaned the roses of aphids. A mockingbird sang through its repertoire. A wren twitted from the magnolia.
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