Queen Anne's Lace

by Susan Wittig Albert

  When Adam wasn’t with her, however, uncomfortable questions nudged themselves into her consciousness. Douglas, too, had always lived by a strict moral code, both in his personal life and in his business. What would he say about what she and Adam were doing? How had she gotten to a point in her life where she could justify sleeping with her neighbor’s husband? Even if it was just a short-lived affair and Delia never found out about it, it was wrong.

  But there was something even more disturbing. Annie already knew that she wanted Adam’s baby, wanted it just as much as she had wanted her own first baby, Douglas’ son. Her desire signaled—to her, at least—that this was not an ephemeral affair that would be concluded when her lover’s wife came home. It could surely have no good consequences. Where was it going to end?

  Annie pushed the questions as far to the back of her mind as possible, so they wouldn’t dim the glimmering happiness that sent her spinning giddily through her days. Still, she was sensible enough to know that there were things that had to be done, and her happiness was no excuse for not doing them. She might want Adam’s baby, but allowing herself to become pregnant was simply out of the question. She needed something to ensure against that happening, but she didn’t dare buy one of the patent medicines at Mr. Carter’s pharmacy. Mr. Carter was a dapper little man who prided himself on knowing everything that was going on in town and wasn’t above passing the news along. As a widow, if she bought one of the patent medicines that women used as a contraceptive, it would be all over Pecan Springs in a day or two. She couldn’t ask a friend to do it, either, for she would have to confess why she wanted it, and she couldn’t do that.

  So Annie mustered her courage and went to see Mrs. Crow, who had a reputation for keeping women’s private matters to herself—and was much nicer than Mr. Carter. Mrs. Crow took her to a small room adjacent to the kitchen. There was a drying rack filled with bundles of herbs, a worktable fitted out with equipment for distilling essential oils and making tinctures and salves and lotions, and shelves of glass jars and boxes of dried herbs, small bottles of tinctures, and little pots of salves. Mrs. Crow knew that she was a widow, so Annie excused her request by saying that she was purchasing the herbs on behalf of a friend, a young, newly married woman who lacked instruction in the matter and was too shy to come herself. Oh, and she—Annie, that is—wanted some hibiscus tea, please.

  Annie flushed uneasily when Mrs. Crow peered over her wire-rimmed spectacles and remarked in a knowing mutter, “You can tell your friend, my dear, that rue in thyme is a maiden’s posy.”

  “I’m sorry,” Annie said contritely. “What does that mean, exactly?”

  Mrs. Crow raised her eyebrows. “It’s an old Scottish proverb that means more than it seems to say. To be sure she’s safe, your friend can drink a strong tea of rue and thyme as soon after the act as possible. On the other hand, she might find it better to repent of what she is about to do, in time to change her mind and not do it.”

  “Ah,” Annie said, coloring. “I see.”

  Mrs. Crow chuckled wryly. “But we women do what we must, of course, when we must, since the matter is not often left to us, but to our husbands.” She went to a shelf and took down two jars. “I will give you some rue and thyme to take to your friend for those times when she finds repentance beforehand inconvenient. Or impossible.”

  “Thank you,” Annie stammered, wondering uncomfortably just how much this wise old lady guessed. “I would . . . I’m sure my friend will appreciate that.”

  Mrs. Crow gave her a shrewd look. “I tell all my ladies that it’s best to take care of the matter immediately afterward, of course. It is all too easy to make a mistake. But if a second monthly is missed and it’s a little too late for rue and thyme, there are other plants that can help.” She gestured toward a shelf of glass jars. “Wild carrot seeds and cotton root are both known to be reliable.”

  “I’ve heard of wild carrot seeds,” Annie murmured, remembering what Adam had told her. “Perhaps my friend should have a supply of those, as well.”

  Mrs. Crow nodded and began ticking items on her fingers in what sounded like a practiced recital. “Women used different plants back east, where I grew up. But in our part of Texas, there’s epazote, tansy, pennyroyal, mugwort, and staghorn milkweed. In fact, I grow these right here in my garden—or I gather them myself, outside of town. Ladies ask for them quite often, as you can imagine, so I keep a good supply on hand for teas, and also as tinctures. The choice of plants and the dose depends on how far along a woman is, and her size and general health.” She looked over her glasses again. “If your friend is in that case, Mrs. Duncan, it would be best if she could come herself. I might be of more help if I could have a look at her.”

  “Thank you,” Annie said again, impressed by Mrs. Crow’s knowledge. She had often heard her grandmother and her mother and her aunts talking about the plants they used, of course. Women didn’t need to consult a doctor when it came to managing their families. They knew what had to be done when their husbands didn’t want to make their beds in the loft and their health wouldn’t permit them to bear another baby—or when they felt that eight or nine children were quite enough. They had grown most of the plants themselves, or they knew where to gather them, but in these modern times, with a pharmacy in town, many women found their answers in Lydia Pinkham’s tonic or Madam LeRoy’s pills. She added, “I’ll let my friend know what you’ve said.”

  “Well, just tell her to keep me in mind,” Mrs. Crow said with a benign smile. “I can give her tinctures or dried herbs and tell her how to use them. Some of the plants can be dangerous, if you don’t know what you’re doing.” She took down a large glass jar and spooned out some prickly-looking brown seeds. “Now, these are wild carrots. Queen Anne’s lace, they’re sometimes called. Your friend should soak them in water to soften them a bit, then right afterward, chew a teaspoonful and wash them down with a glass of water. Not the tastiest things in this world, I’ll grant you. But those who dance must pay the piper.” She did a quick calculation. “That’ll be forty-five cents for everything, please. That includes your hibiscus.”

  Annie paid for the herbs and went home with a packet of wild carrot seeds as well as envelopes of rue and thyme and a paper bag of ruby-red hibiscus flowers for tea. That night, as she and Adam lay together in her bed, naked under a single sheet, she told him what she had done. She wanted him to know that she was taking precautions so he wouldn’t worry.

  “Rue in time,” he said soberly. “Truth be told, Annie my sweet, I rue it all the time. Not us, of course,” he added hastily. “I don’t regret us in the least. I’m just sorry it has to be this way. If we could . . . if we could only . . .” His voice died away.

  She could tell by the shadow that crossed his face that he, too, was thinking of the irony. It was almost funny, although she didn’t dare laugh. The two women in Adam’s life—she and Delia, lover and wife—were using all the wiles they knew of to make sure that neither would bear his child. The difference was that his lover desperately wanted his baby but didn’t dare become pregnant, while his wife just couldn’t be bothered. But Annie didn’t want to put the irony into words, for it would only remind them both of the painful truth: that she was not his wife and Delia was.

  And then he put it into words. “I wish you and I could have a child together,” he said, and traced the line of her jaw with his finger. “I want that more than anything.”

  His voice was low and gruff and she could hear the raw regret in it. She knew that he was asking himself the same questions she was. Where was this taking them? Where, where, where would it end? Surely tragedy loomed, one way or another. She turned away from him, shivering, suddenly possessed by the image of the two of them alone on an idyllic island surrounded by a threatening sea, with a hurricane of incalculable consequences looming over the horizon.

  But he pulled her back and bent over her and kissed her, and she relaxed into his
arms with a grateful sigh, willing herself to blot out the image, yielding herself to his protective strength. She shared his desire to have a child, but she knew he was relieved to hear about her precautions. She treasured this mark of their growing closeness, their deepening intimacy.

  In other ways, too, things seemed to be looking up. Annie had scratched St. Louis off her list of future possibilities; to leave Pecan Springs now was unthinkable. She took the train to San Antonio, where she located two dress shops and a millinery shop on East Commerce Street, each of which seemed to cater to the wealthiest women of the city. The proprietors were so impressed with her laces that they bought every scrap she had with her—bought it all outright, rather than taking it on consignment. And then they gave her orders for more, to be produced as quickly as possible.

  “All I’ve been able to get is the cheap machine-made stuff,” one shop owner told her. “Your work is beautiful, Mrs. Duncan. It will please my most demanding clients.”

  Back home, Annie and the girls, thrilled by their success, worked with an even greater dedication. They could meet the orders, she thought, but if they fell behind, she could look for other needlewomen to help. Annie’s Laces had stepped back from the brink of disaster.

  Between that daily excitement and the nightly delights with Adam, the weeks rocketed by, and if Annie felt any pangs of guilt, she simply refused to acknowledge them. She was no longer in control of events. She was simply moving as the feeling and the opportunity took her. She was comforted with the thought that if she couldn’t help herself, she couldn’t blame herself—not a very sophisticated argument, but the best she could come up with under the circumstances.

  In one way, it was frightening to feel herself so entirely in the grip of circumstance.

  In another, it felt utterly natural and right and good, and she simply refused to think of consequences, calamitous though they might be.

  Chapter Nine

  The carrot has a long and distinguished history. Wild carrot was cultivated in Northern Europe as early as 2000–3000 BCE, but not as an edible plant. Rather, it was grown for its flavorful, aromatic, and medicinal leaves, roots, and seeds. It was used to treat bladder and kidney ailments, and the seeds (in small doses) help to calm and settle the stomach and ease flatulence. The seeds were used as an aid to family planning.

  Rich in phytonutrients and antioxidants, carrots have long been known to have cardiovascular and anticancer benefits. They’re good for the eyes, too. Recently, researchers at the University of California at Los Angeles determined that women who ate carrots at least twice per week have significantly lower rates of glaucoma.

  In modern times, carrot seed oil has become a popular wrinkle-fighting skin treatment. You can add a few drops to an ounce of olive or rosehip seed oil to use as a facial oil. If the carroty scent is strong and you find yourself being pursued by rabbits, you might try diluting it with a few drops of lavender oil.

  “Anne’s Flower”

  China Bayles

  Pecan Springs Enterprise

  Caitie was up before dawn on Thursday morning. I could hear her singing happily to herself in her bedroom, and when she came downstairs, she was wearing her pink Have You Hugged Your Chicken Today? T-shirt. She skipped outdoors before breakfast to give her contestants some last-minute loving attention—cleaning their feet and polishing their toenails, removing all traces of poo, and fastening on the numbered plastic leg bands she had received with the entry form. Then she came back in the house and got her stuff together: the birds’ feed and water dishes; the vet’s Pullorum-Typhoid testing report, showing that the chickens were disease-free; and her emergency repair kit (baby wipes, olive oil, manicure scissors, nail clippers, and tweezers). She also unplugged her chicken cam from the bracket in the chicken yard and packed that, as well.

  “You’re taking your camera?” I asked doubtfully. “Why?”

  The camera livestreamed a video feed to Caitie’s Texas Chix blog, enabling people around the globe to see what her chickens were doing. It could also save sound and video to a flash drive and allow for cell phone monitoring, but I didn’t think it was necessary for Caitie to keep an eye on her chickens while they were at the fair.

  As usual, however, she had a logical answer. “I want to take the cam so I get a picture of the judges pinning a ribbon on the cage,” she said reasonably. “Plus, I think people who visit my blog would like to see what goes on at a poultry show. I won’t try to do a live feed, because I’d need Wi-Fi and that might get really complicated. But I can record the video to the flash drive and put it on the blog later, or upload it as a video.” She slid me a glance. “I asked Dad and he said it was okay. He was going to help set it up in the poultry tent.”

  When you’re surrounded and outnumbered, all you can do is give in as graciously as you can. “Well, okay, then,” I said. “But here’s the thing. Your dad’s not here to help, and I’m clueless when it comes to electronics. Can you set it up yourself? And did you check to be sure that there are no rules against video cameras at the show?”

  “I’m sure I can do it. I helped Dad when he installed it in the chicken yard.” She frowned. “But I didn’t think about rules. Why wouldn’t they want people to put up cameras?”

  I could come up with a half dozen reasons, but it would be quicker to check. “How about if I call Mr. Banner,” I said. “He’ll probably know.”

  As it happens, our nearest neighbor, Tom Banner, is a reserve deputy for the Adams County sheriff and also manages the security team at the county fair. I caught him on his way to the fairgrounds and asked my question. A few moments later, I was able to tell Caitie that there were no rules preventing her from keeping an electronic eye on her chickens—but only, Tom said, because nobody had ever thought to ask. Next year, they’d probably make a rule against it. In the meantime, he offered to help her set it up. He’d meet us at the poultry tent.

  “Cool!” she said when I told her about the arrangements, and we finished packing. We ate breakfast, toted Caitie’s gear and her chicken contestants (in Winchester’s doggie carrier) out to my white Toyota, and we were off.

  The Adams County Fair is the biggest event of the summer in Pecan Springs. It’s held at the fairgrounds a couple of miles west of town, where nobody minds if the carnival stays open until midnight and the country music and old-time fiddlin’ go on until the wee hours. The weather is always hotter than firecrackers, but folks don’t seem to mind that, either. They look forward all year long to the carnival rides, the Cowboy Breakfast, the calf-roping and pig-wrangling contests, and the chance to win a blue ribbon for their canned peaches or strawberry jam or embroidered pillowcases. If you live in the city and are accustomed to sophisticated entertainment—off-Broadway shows, foreign-film festivals, opera and the ballet—you may find our down-home doings just a little too folksy for your taste. But for people who live in Pecan Springs, this old-fashioned country-style entertainment seems exactly right. It seems right to tourists, too, which is why the Chamber of Commerce gives it a double spread in the new four-color Why You’ll Love to Visit Pecan Springs brochure.

  The poultry tent is located between the 4-H tent and the food tent, on the west side of the fairgrounds, but close enough to the carnival that we could hear the cheerful hurdy-gurdy music as we waited in line at the poultry check-in booth. That’s where every bird is carefully inspected for bugs, dirt, germs, and communicable unmentionables before being allowed into the company of other people’s chickens. Although there have been no recent cases of avian influenza in Texas, it’s still the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room. We’re smack in the middle of the Central Flyway, the migratory route that wild birds take from Canada to the Rio Grande. Even the most diligently tended backyard flocks can catch the virus via direct or even indirect contact with infected migrants. Hence the careful checking.

  The volunteer scrutinized Caitie’s chickens from one end to the other, compared the
numbers on their leg bands against the numbers on her entry forms, stamped her vet’s P-T report, and gave her an exhibitor’s badge.

  “Section One,” he said, and pointed toward a row of double-stacked cages arranged along both sides of the tent and down the middle, over a cedar-mulch floor. Section One was for chickens and ducks. Section Two was reserved for turkeys and geese, and Section Three for guineas, peacocks, quail, and pheasants. The air was filled with a raucous pandemonium of crows, cackles, clucks, quacks, honks, whistles, and shrieks. (The shrieks came from the peacocks on the other side of the tent. They sounded for all the world like a throng of women complaining about being murdered.) If you wanted to be heard, you had to raise your voice over the cacophony.

  “Hey, China, over here!” Tom Banner saw us and waved. As security coordinator for the fair, he was uniformed and wore his duty belt, and since he’s well over six feet and muscular, he cuts an impressive figure. “You’re down at this end,” he said over the hubbub, and walked us to the cages where Caitie’s chickens would spend the next three days.

  Tom and his wife, Sylvia, both experienced homesteaders, live just up the lane from us. As a volunteer reserve deputy sheriff, Tom—a former Delta Force officer in Iraq and Afghanistan—does weekly partner ride-alongs with the deputies, responds to emergencies, serves warrants, and generally helps to keep Adams County peaceful. At home, he raises chickens, geese, and ducks and is familiar with just about every homestead critter there is. Sylvia, a talented spinner and weaver, tends a flock of about a dozen Gulf Coast Native sheep. I wondered if she was showing her sheep in the livestock tent, and maybe some of her work in the Weaving Club’s Sheep to Shawl exhibit.

  When Extra Crispy and Dixie Chick were comfortably housed in their individual show cages, Tom and Caitie moved off to the side to attach the video camera high up on a nearby post. I stowed her gear under the cages and took a moment to glance around. And did a jaw-dropping double take.