Beauty for Ashes (36 page)

That day his father had tried, not for the first time, to instill in his elder son a respect for the duties incumbent upon one of his station, for the nuances of Southern honor. Absorbed in getting to know his new mount, Griff half listened, determined not to spoil the day for himself or for his mother. Like other mothers of her social standing, she chose not to interfere with her husband’s efforts to mold her firstborn into a younger version of himself. But behind the scenes, she encouraged Griff to follow his heart, listen to his own instincts. Finding her own choices severely limited, she wanted something more for her son.

The barn door slapped in the wind. Griff turned over on his mattress and closed his eyes. Was Carrie still awake? He couldn’t forget the look of utter desolation in her eyes, the sag in her shoulders when he delivered the news. He felt terrible for her, for all of them. He hoped that somehow she and Mary could forge ties that would keep the remnants of their fractured family together. Because watching Carrie’s relationship with Mary and the boys, fractious as it was at times, had changed him. Made it clear that, in the end, family and God were all that counted.

He listened to the mice scrabbling in the barn and the gruff purr of the resident cat. How was his father getting on? There had been no word from Philip since his brief visit to Hickory Ridge last summer. For all Griff knew, his father might well be dead. The thought chilled him far more than the wind seeping into the barn.

Delilah, restless as he was in the unfamiliar barn, nickered and stirred. Griff quieted her with a soft word. He couldn’t leave Hickory Ridge now, not with his business proposition to the banker still pending. Not while Carrie, immersed in grief, needed someone to steady her. But one day soon he’d make a trip to Charleston, try to salvage whatever was left of his family.

He hoped he wouldn’t be too late.

THIRTY

Snow began falling around midnight, thin flurries that grew into fat, wet flakes that stuck to the windowpane and piled up on the sill. Cupping her hands to the glass, Carrie peered out at the night-blued snow, listening. Mercifully, Mary and her sons seemed to be asleep.

In the seven long weeks since Christmas, none of them slept very well. Nearing the end of her confinement, Mary was often too uncomfortable to stay in bed and roamed the house all hours. Caleb and Joe, still reeling from the news of Henry’s death, woke from nightmares with endless requests for a story or a glass of water. Carrie found their need for constant reassurance exhausting.

She’d dreaded telling them that their new papa would not be coming home, even to be properly mourned, but they’d absorbed the news better than she imagined. She expected tears from Joe, but it was Caleb who cried inconsolably before running out of the house. Joe crawled back beneath his bedcovers with his illustrated book. And now they’d returned to their daily routine and their noisy, rough-and-tumble rivalry. Except for the nightmares, they seemed to have forgotten their grief. Perhaps they hadn’t lived with Henry long enough to realize how much they had lost.

But Henry’s death was an ever-present source of sadness for Carrie. Tucked into the back of her Bible were two letters from Patrick Sullivan, Henry’s foreman, expressing deep regret at her loss and confirming that in the absence of information about Henry’s family, his body had indeed been donated “to medical science.”

“You may take comfort,” one letter said, “in knowing your loved one will contribute to increased knowledge and better medical care for all.”

What comfort was there in having no place to go to mourn Henry? No grave or marker to remind the living of his short years on earth? Perhaps in the spring she would plant a garden of his favorite irises and start a new vine of morning glories on the trellis. Something to remind her that despite her terrible loss, life would go on.

Turning from the window, she crawled beneath the covers and closed her eyes. For now, she had enough food to get them through the rest of the winter. Some of the meat from the pig they had butchered still hung in the new smokehouse. And when word of Henry’s death got around town, nearly everyone in Hickory Ridge had come to call, bringing whatever they had to spare—a sack of dried apples or roasted chestnuts, ham and sausages, jars of beans and plums, and enough hummingbird cakes and vinegar pies to stock a good-sized bakery.

But how on earth would she continue supporting Mary and three growing children? Though she and Henry had been largely self-sufficient on the farm, she would still need to buy seeds and pay someone to help with the planting and harvesting. Her bread-baking enterprise alone would never earn enough to buy clothes, shoes, and books for the older boys, medicine and blankets for the baby, and staples such as sugar, flour, and salt.

It had wounded her pride to accept charity from her neighbors. After a life lived mostly on their own, she and Henry had developed an aversion to taking help from anybody. Undoubtedly, some of Mary’s contentiousness came from these same feelings. Maybe she and Mary were more alike than she imagined. And maybe Jasper Pruitt was right and God intended a lesson in humility in all of this. Even so, the problem of providing for a family of five indefinitely would not go away.

Wat Stephens
. The mere thought of his name made her shudder. More than once he had bragged to Henry that he was sitting on enough money to buy the Bells’ farm with money for a calf left over. Carrie punched the pillow. She would never sell off everything, but Stephens had long had his eye on the twenty acres of Bell land that backed to Owl Creek. Though it pained her to even consider selling a single acre of it, especially to Stephens, the hard truth was that she needed money, and soon.

The parlor clock struck the hour. Carrie drew up her covers and thought of Griff. For the first couple of weeks in January, he’d ridden out to the farm every few days to bring the mail. He never arrived without some small trinket for the boys, chocolate for her and Mary, and news from town. On the last visit, they learned that eleven students had appeared for the opening day of the new term under Mr. Webster and two more new tenants had moved into the Verandah.

Carrie thought of her brief time at the hotel, when she had a job of her own at Nate’s bookshop, and life had offered more possibilities. Now there was only one course open to her: looking after Henry’s family.

Griff had also said that one of the men who had come to Hickory Ridge for the horse race, a Mr. Blakely from Maryland, had fallen in love with the mountains and was thinking of building a fancy resort just up the rail line from town. That would mean an increased demand for timber and for men who could clear brush, build a road, and construct the resort itself. “If Blakely follows through,” Griff told her, his dark eyes alight with excitement, “this could be the beginning of better times for Hickory Ridge.” He’d hinted at plans of his own too, but despite Carrie’s hopeful urging, he’d been unwilling to share them. “I don’t want to say too much till I’m sure.”

Lately his visits had grown less frequent. He was busy with his own plans, most likely, but land’s sakes, she missed him. Maybe one day soon, he’d—“Carrie?” Mary’s urgent voice drifted up the stairs. “Wake up.”

Carrie grabbed her dressing gown and hurried into the hallway. Mary stood at the bottom of the stairs, holding aloft a guttering lamp that cast attenuated shadows on the wall. In the flickering light, her face shone pale as a moonflower.

Carrie raked her hair off her face. “What is it? Leg cramps again?”

“It’s time.”

Disoriented and exhausted from long nights without sleep, Carrie frowned. “Time?”

“The baby’s coming.”

“Now?”

“Babies don’t consider the clock. They come when they’ve a mind to.” Mary pressed her belly. “I’m going to need your help.”

“I’ll hitch the wagon and fetch Dr. Spencer.”

“It’s snowing,” Mary said calmly. “And anyway, there isn’t ti—oh!”

“I’m coming.” Carrie hurried down the stairs. “What should I do?”

She had helped Henry deliver a calf once and, another time, a litter of piglets. But a baby, Henry’s baby, was a different matter entirely. What if she made a mistake? Nerves skittered along her spine.
Dear Lord, please help me. Help Mary and this little baby
.

“Help me back to the bed.” Mary’s face went white with pain. “And whatever you do, don’t let the boys come in here. You’ll need plenty of warm water. And the knife.”

“A knife?”

“To cut the cord, Carrie. And towels. I hope you aren’t squeamish at the sight of blood. There might be a lot of it.”

Mary seemed preternaturally calm, but Carrie’s stomach roiled. She swallowed. “I’d better get the fire going.”

Mary gasped as another pain gripped her. “Please hurry.”

In the kitchen Carrie shoved kindling into the stove, lit a match and tossed it in, then added a couple of small sticks of wood. The kindling caught, sending gray smoke trailing into the room. She filled the teakettle and a pan of water and set them on the stove.

“Aunt Carrie?”

She jumped at the sound and whirled around. “Caleb?”

“How come you’re up?” He blinked. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Your mother is having the baby.”

His eyes widened. “Don’t we need the doc for that? He told me and Joe he has medicine that makes the pain go away.”

“Ideally, yes, but there isn’t time, so I’m going to help.”

He frowned. “You ever helped a baby get born before?”

“No, but I’ve delivered baby animals, so I sort of know what to expect. And your mother will tell me what to do.” She smiled to reassure him. “She brought you and Joe into the world, after all.”

“Is she going to die?”

“Of course not. She’ll be fine. The baby too. You’ll see.”

“Jimmy D. Washburn’s mother had a baby and she died.” A sob caught in his throat.

Carrie opened a cupboard, looking for a towel. “I won’t lie to you, Caleb. Sometimes that does happen. But your mother has been in bed all this time, resting, so she’ll be strong enough for when the baby comes. You mustn’t worry about it.”

He nodded and threw both arms around her. “I’m sorry I hit you that time. I’m sorry for showin’ Joe how to start a fire and for not mindin’ you. I’ll try to do better.”

She stroked Caleb’s mussed hair. “I grew up with a big brother. I know how boys behave.”

He pressed his face to her dressing gown. “You don’t know what else I done. I chopped up Papa’s best fishin’ pole.”

“Oh, Caleb.”

“Ever’ time I passed by it in the barn, I thought about him.” He looked up at her, his eyes wet. “I figgered if I got rid of it, I could forget all about him, and then maybe I wouldn’t feel so bad. But it didn’t work.”

“No. But I know how you feel.”

The kettle shrieked. Carrie made tea and handed him a cup. “I was only a few years younger than you when my parents died. It hurt so bad I wanted to forget them too. But my granny talked about them every day. She told stories about my mama and how she loved to sing and gather the wildflowers that grew all over Muddy Hollow. How my daddy came courting her one time riding on the sorriest old mule Granny’d ever seen.”

“He shoulda had a horse like Majestic.”

Carrie smiled as she took the kitchen knife from the cupboard. “Pretty soon I started looking forward to Granny’s stories. They made me feel closer to my mama and papa.” She patted his arm. “It wasn’t forgetting that made me feel better. It was remembering.”

Caleb sipped his tea and made a face. “You aren’t mad at me for chopping up the fishin’ pole?”

“I wish you hadn’t done it. Henry set a lot of store by that pole. But I understand why you did it.” She laid a hand on his shoulder. “Now, I need you to go back upstairs and stay with Joe. Do not come down until I call you. No matter what sounds you hear, you stay put. All right?”

“I guess.”

“Not good enough.” She draped a towel over her arm and lifted the pot of boiling water from the stove. “I need your solemn promise.”

“I promise.” He ran from the kitchen.

When Carrie returned to the bedroom, Mary’s eyes were bright with pain, her skin shiny with sweat. Her damp gown clung to her thighs.

Carrie set the towel and water aside. “How are you? Is the pain really bad?”

Mary nodded. “Worse than when Caleb and Joe were—ahhh!” She gripped the bedcovers and went rigid until the pain passed. Then she leaned back against the pillow, her breathing ragged, her body limp. “I—I don’t think I can take this.”

“I know it hurts. But it won’t be long until you’ll hold Henry’s child in your arms. You’ll have a part of him back again.”

“Yes, but—oh dear God!” Mary clenched her teeth. Rivulets of sweat ran down her face.

Instinctively Carrie gripped Mary’s hand. “Hold on. Just a little long—”

The wrinkled, misshapen creature entered the world in a rush. Her hands trembling, Carrie cut the cord and lifted the child, who lay silent and motionless in her arms.

“Carrie?” Mary rasped.

The world receded. Carrie’s heart pounded. What to do? She couldn’t lose this baby.
Please, God. Please help me
.

“I don’t hear a cry,” Mary whispered. “The baby’s dead, isn’t it? And it’s my fault.”