Honor in the Dust (5 page)

“Now, we eat!” She smiled, and her eyes sparkled.

Claiborn picked up the single sharp knife that they had. He cut off some of the best part of the rabbit and put it on Grace's plate, knowing she would protest.

“Oh, that's the best part. Take it for yourself.”

“Not a bit of it, Sweetheart. You eat that. It'll make you fat and pretty, as I am.”

She giggled, picked up a bit of the meat, and ate it.

“You know,” he said, after he had taken his first bite, “the French have a new invention.” The well-seasoned meat was the best thing that he had ever tasted, he thought.

“What kind of invention?”

“It looks like a very small pitchfork, small enough to hold in your hand.”

“What do you do with it?”

“Why, you cut your meat up into small portions with a knife, then stab a piece with this fork. Then you bring it to your mouth.”

“Doesn't it get dirty?”

He laughed. “They're washable, you know. I don't think anything will ever come of it. A knife and fingers, that's good enough for any Englishman.”

They ate half the rabbit, saving the rest for a meal later on, and moved on to what they ate at every meal, baked potatoes. The savory white rabbit meat had filled him up for the first time in what seemed like a year. Well, not filled exactly, but as close as he was likely to come. As he ate his potato, wishing for more rabbit, he watched how daintly she ate. She had always been slender but lately had grown frightfully thin. How much longer could they make it here?

He turned away from his foul thoughts, not wanting to ruin
her Christmas. Once the trenchers were cleared, he pulled her down in front of the fire. They sat on some old sacks, and he held her tightly, pulling a blanket over them to preserve the precious heat. Staring at the smoldering fire, they grew sleepy, and Claiborn felt his wife relax in his arms, her breathing becoming slow and deep. He tried not to think of the next day, of fighting the gray earth again.

Grace spoke, surprising him. “It's been a good Christmas.”

“Yes, it has. I wish I had gotten you something, though.”

“You give me yourself every day, Claiborn. That's a Christmas gift year 'round.” She lifted her head to look at him. Her eyes were enormous in the dim light, it seemed, and she said, “I wonder if this house is anything like the innkeeper's where Mary and Joseph sought shelter.”

“Both his house and stable were probably warmer than ours.”

Grace smiled at him and ran her hand across his broad chest. They sat there not speaking, and finally she said in a halting whisper, “I—I do have a gift for you.”

“Oh, Grace, you don't! It makes me feel terrible. I haven't given you anything.”

“Oh, but you have.”

He stared at her. “What do you mean? I haven't purchased any presents.”

“You didn't give it to me exactly today, and I can't give yours to you until—well, until spring.”

Claiborn had grown sleepy. He held her tightly as they soaked up the warmth. She did not speak again, and for a moment he was puzzled by what she had just said. “I can't have it until spring? What in the world is it, woman?”

“Can't you think of a gift that takes a few months for a woman to prepare?”

And then with a rush it came to him. It took his breath away as cleanly as when a fellow knight struck him in the solar plexus.
He sat up, set her apart from him to get a better look at her, and saw that she was delighted. She squeezed his hand. “Merry Christmas, my darling. You've given me life, and I'll be giving you our son when summer is upon us.”

“How long have you known?”

“For some time now.”

He pulled her forward again and kissed her cheeks and then said, “How do you know it'll be a boy?”

“I just know. He'll be as strong and handsome and good as his father.”

Claiborn felt a surge of joy. He saw that she wanted to be told that he was happy, and he was, indeed filled with a happiness such as he had never known. Even in the cold, dank, murky interior of that sod house his happiness was like a living thing.
A son. A boy who will be ours. He'll be me, and he'll be Grace too.

He said these things to her, and he could see that she was reveling in their shared joy. Finally they rose and had another toast in the remaining beer. A toast for the son that was to come.

But even as he spoke the words of cheer and joyous intention for Grace to hear, his mind was saying,
I can't let Grace have our baby in this place!
He forced a smile and ran his hand over her hair. He was not a man of prayer, but desperation drove him to try.
God, give my wife a better place than this to have our son.

Grace stared helplessly at the cupboard. There was only the end of a loaf of bread, an onion, and a small sack of dried beans. “There's not enough even for Claiborn,” she whispered. A thought came to her. She picked up the bread and took a bite of it. She chewed it, and hunger gnawed at her vitals. There was never enough to eat, and it frightened her to think that she was not eating enough to feed her growing child. She tried to calculate when the baby would come, but could only guess that it would be late summer. She looked at the small store of food and smiled. “Well, now I won't be telling a lie when I tell him that I've already eaten.”

Quickly she put the beans in a pan to soak over the fire and sat down to wait. Claiborn had gone to town on an errand. He had not said what it was exactly, but she suspected that he had gone to bargain for something to eat. She knew that he felt terrible about not being able to provide for her or their baby, but what were they to do? She filled the echoing house with her prayers, fending off the spring cold and the fear with words of faith, as had become her daily custom. She prayed for the baby within her womb, for Claiborn, and for herself, of course. She pushed away thoughts of the life that she had had before she came to this place, begged God to banish them from her mind
and heart. She knew that Claiborn was grieved and carried a burden because he had not been able to provide luxuries or even a simple livelihood for her. So she prayed again that she would never show her dismay. It had occurred to her more than once that he was doing the same thing, that both of them were pretending that the hardships, the hunger, and the cold did not matter.

Hearing an unusual sound, she went to the door and pushed it open. She gasped in surprise, bringing her hand to her mouth.

There was her husband atop a cart of sorts and driving a fine brown horse. She watched as he pulled the horse to a halt before the house, saying, “Whoa, there.” He jumped to the ground and came at once to the door. She stepped back and pulled him inside.

“Where did you get the horse and cart?”

He put his arms around her and kissed her, his eyes alight with excitement. “They belong to Mr. Sullivan.”

“Well, then, what are you doing with them, Claiborn?”

“Sweetheart, I have a found a way for us, a way to make things better for you. I've been trying for weeks now to think of a way to get you out of this place, and it came to me last night.”

“Out of here? But where would we go?”

“Well, you know Mr. Sullivan's wife has been taken ill. He must attend to his business, and the poor woman can't move. She can't do anything for herself. You're going to go and take care of her.”

“All right. But what about you?”

Claiborn hesitated for a moment, and then he said, “Let me tell you what you'll get. I've seen the house. You'll have a warm room, and you'll cook for Mr. Sullivan and his family, care for his wife. You'll have good food, Grace, all you can eat. You'll be warm and safe, and Mr. Sullivan has told me that when it is time for the baby, he'll see that a midwife attends you.”

“Mr. Sullivan will see to it,” she repeated softly. Grace was watching his face carefully. “Where will you be, Claiborn? What is it you have planned?”

“I had an offer, Grace. You know the Irish lords are having trouble with the Scots invading up in the north, or about to. There is one I've known a long while. We got along well. He's a good man. He sent word, asking me to come to his aid.” He hesitated, then said, “He wants me to join his forces.”

“Oh, no. You can't do that, Claiborn.” Fear came to her then for the first time. “I can't be without you, especially with the baby—”

“Look, Grace, we can't go on as we have been. The baby needs nourishment, and you need a better place. I'll be an officer. It pays well.”

“I don't want you to leave.”

“It won't be for long. These little wars never last. I'll save my pay, and if we take prisoners, I'll get a leader's share of the ransom money.”

He held her tightly and talked steadily, and she saw the hope that was in him.

“It's not what I'd like, but I can't stand seeing you hungry and cold. It'll help me, Grace, to know that you're in a warm house. Mr. Sullivan is a fine, Christian man. He's already promised me that he'll see that you get anything you need. And it won't be a hard job taking care of Mrs. Sullivan.”

“Won't it look strange my being there with my husband gone?”

“No, Mr. Sullivan is an older man, and his two boys will be there. So you'll be housekeeper and cook. Not an unusual situation. He's a good, solid, kind man, and he means to do well by you. And he needs you, Grace. Their family needs you. By spring, summer at the latest, I'll return to you.”

Grace grew fearful, but somehow she knew this had to be. The baby had to be cared for. “Your son will have a good place to
be born. That's what's important. I'll be all right. Don't fret over me. Just care for yourself so you can return to us.”

“With a fine boy coming and you awaiting me, I'll take better care than ever. Now, let's move your things, and tonight you'll be eating at a real table with real food, all warm.”

“You leave this night?” she asked in alarm.

“I must report on the morrow, Grace.”

“So soon,” she moaned.

“The time will go quickly, you'll see. Pray for me, and hopefully I'll return in time for our son's birth or soon after.”

He was leaving, leaving her. Leaving them. But they might come together again and begin anew. With hope. With a future. But he left for battle. What if he was injured … or worse? She clung to him, wanting to remember what it was to be in Claiborn Winslow's arms. Wishing he could hold her forever. Wishing there was another way. But knowing there was not.

The spring had come and gone in a single bound, it seemed, and as Grace stood at the window holding Stuart, who was six weeks old, she felt a wave of gratitude to God. The midwife had said, “That's the easiest first child I've ever seen born. You were made to have children, Mrs. Winslow.”

She walked back and forth, stopping beside the fire from time to time to tend the supper she was making. It had been a good time for her. Mr. Sullivan was indeed one of the kindest men she had ever known. His two boys were quiet men who worked hard, always respectful to her. And Mrs. Sullivan had made tremendous strides in regaining her health; she was often back on her feet for hours at a time, working beside Grace. If only Claiborn were home, here to meet and adore his bonny son alongside her.

She stopped and stared down at Stuart's face. The baby they
had agreed to name Stuart, after one of Grace's grandfathers, had stolen her heart as clearly as his father had. “Your da will soon return to us,” she whispered and kissed the fat cheek. The baby's eyes opened, and he made a bubble, which amused her. She wiped his chin and said, “How about a meal, then, Stuart Winslow?” She sat down, nursed the baby, and then she rose to lay him in his cradle. But as she did, she heard a voice calling her name. Her heart seemed to stop for a moment—for it was Claiborn's voice. She turned to the door as it burst open, and there he was, strong and hale-looking.