Saving Grace (The Grace Series Book 2) (13 page)

He held that baby the whole time the doctor ministered to Jessica. There was still a great deal to be done. The clock on the wall ticked and ticked. The soft bells chimed the arrival of the next hour and still the doctor worked. Still Jon Kinsley remained, cradling his child.

The doctor was kneading just under Jessica’s belly button when he said, “Do you see what I’m doing? You will need to do this every four hours or so. Deep, downward pressure. You want her womb to stay hard like it is now. If her belly gets soft and spongy, she is hemorrhaging. If that happens, send for me right away.”

The captain cleared his throat and rasped, “Is she…? Will she…?”

“She’s lost a lot of blood,” the doctor said. He reached out for another towel and Ruth handed it over. This one he used to wipe his hands. “If we can prevent internal hemorrhage and there are no other complications, she should be alright in a few days. The bleeding should slow down. I’ll plan to stop by tomorrow afternoon to see how she’s doing, but if the bleeding increases, or her abdomen gets soft, you send for me right away, no matter what time.”

“But will she… will she be okay?” the captain asked again.

“If she stops bleeding, she should be fine,” the doctor repeated. “I’ll leave you some laudanum. Give her a spoonful every couple hours, but no more than that.” And then he asked, “Do you want me to take the fetus?”

The captain looked suddenly panicked. His eyes darted between Ruth and the doctor.

“We’ll take care of it, sir,” Ruth said.

That seemed to calm him. He took a deep breath, expelled it slowly and then so gingerly Ruth didn’t think he was ever going to fully let go, he laid the weightless infant in her hands.

* * *

“Take the rocking chair in for him,” Ruth told her husband.

“What rocking chair?” Ditter’s eyes were bloodshot. She knew he was tired. He hadn’t slept yet. None of them had.

“The one from his room. Move it into her room,” she told him.

“Oh,” he said. “Has she woken up yet?”

“No, she hasn’t.”

Ditter headed toward the staircase to do her bidding, but stopped short and retrieved something from his pocket. In the dim lamplight the rings in his palm sparkled. “I found these. What should I do with them?”

“Give them to him,” Ruth said.

She went to the kitchen to make yet another pot of coffee. She was on her way back to Jessica’s room, approaching the door when she heard Ditter say, “You might be more comfortable in this.”

Through the doorway Ruth saw the captain nod, but his eyes didn’t waver from his wife. For hours he’d been in the same place, seated on the bed beside her.

“I found these in the foyer,” Ditter said.

The captain glanced briefly at the rings in Ditter’s hand, but his attention reverted quickly. “Put them on the dresser,” he said. “I’ll take care of them later.”

“I’m very sorry, sir,” Ditter said. “We all are.”

So the vigil carried on. For Ruth it meant carrying tray after tray of coffee from the kitchen. She brought some bread and cheese, too, but the captain didn’t touch it. Every four hours, as the doctor ordered, she went in, but after two or three times of watching Ruth do the kneading, the captain told her he would take over. Most of Ruth’s diligence thereafter was spent hovering outside the bedroom door.

It took a while for the captain to move to the rocking chair Ditter brought for him. Even after he did, he didn’t sit back and rest, like he should have. Instead, he perched on the edge, with his elbows on the bed. Only once did Ruth happen upon him with his head down by their joined hands. At that point the first rays of sun were peaking past the edges of the drawn curtains. As soon as he heard her, he sat up.

That morning, Ruth tried to get him to eat, this time providing him with eggs, toast and bacon. There was fruit, too, and a biscuit. He picked at that, but touched nothing else. Martha came to take over, which gave Ruth a chance to get some much needed sleep. But she didn’t stay away long. She couldn’t. She returned in the afternoon, shortly before Herlin came.

Herlin stood just inside the door, nervously fingering his cap. He said, “I spoke with the undertaker. Everything is arranged. But I didn’t say anything to Reverend Nash. I wasn’t sure—”

“I’ll do it,” the captain said.

“We’re all praying for her,” Herlin said.

The captain didn’t respond to Herlin. He was up out of the rocking chair, hovering over his wife. “Jessica, Jess, my love… Sweetheart, it’s okay… you’re okay…”

Jessica was waking up. The poor girl was drained and in pain. She needed help to sit up and drink. She protested and fought him, but the captain didn’t leave. He tried to get her to eat, too, but she refused. Before she fell into a laudanum-induced slumber, she mumbled, “Go away. I hate you.”

Later that afternoon, the doctor warned them to watch for fever. His prediction couldn’t have been more well-timed. By the evening, Jessica’s face was flushed. Ditter carried pots of water and Ruth brought more towels, but it was the captain who bathed her and draped cool cloths over her brow. It was the captain who soothed her when she cried out and spoke deliriously. She called out for her father. She mumbled things to her brother and none of what she said made much sense. Once, after the captain called her by the endearment, Sweetheart, Ruth heard Jessica say, “I like it when Jon calls me that. I used to like it. I used to…”

When she ranted, “Don’t let him die! Don’t let my baby die!” the captain said gently, “Don’t worry about the baby. Right now, we have to get you well.”

That night, Ruth said to him, “I can stay with her for a while. You need to rest.”

“Leave me alone,” he said.

She said the same thing to him the next day, adding, “You’re exhausted, sir.”

“No!” he barked. “Don’t ask me again!”

By mid-afternoon of the third day the bleeding had slowed considerably. Jessica still had a mild fever, but she looked much better. The captain, however, did not. With the exception of a handful of trips to the outhouse, he had yet to leave her side.

Ruth brought in another tray of food, wondering as she set it down on the table why she bothered. He wasn’t going to touch it. He reached for his coffee cup, took a sip, and then went to set it back in the saucer. There was no mistaking how unsteady his hands were. The cup clinked so loudly, the noise roused Jessica.

“Get out!” she screeched. She was lucid and enraged.

The captain whipped around. “Sweetheart, you’ve—”

“I said get out!” she cut him off. Her voice shook and her eyes filled. “I don’t want you here!”

“Please, Sweetheart, don’t get upset—”

“Don’t call me that! I hate you! I don’t want you near me!” she screamed. “Go away!”

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.” Slowly he rose and walked out of the room.

Ruth’s eyes followed him, but she turned to the bed as soon as Jessica spoke.

“Did I lose the baby, Ruth?” the poor girl asked.

“I’m so sorry, honey,” Ruth said gently. “What can I get for you? Is there anything in particular you would like to eat? Anything you need?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jessica whispered. “Nothing matters.” But then she looked up. “I don’t want the captain in here. Please don’t let him come in.”

“Miss Jessica,” Ruth said, “he hasn’t left you for three days. He’s been taking care of you almost entirely by himself.”

“He was just waiting to see if he should shoot me like he did Bonnie.”

“Oh, Miss Jessica,” Ruth murmured sadly. “Please don’t say things like that. The captain cares for you a great deal.”

“No, he doesn’t,” she said. “He doesn’t care about anyone!”

Ruth shook her head, but there was nothing she could say. “I’ll bring you something to eat.”

She found the captain out in the hallway. He was right outside the door, leaning against the wall. Ruth closed the bedroom door behind her. Quietly she said to him, “She didn’t mean it.”

“Yes, she did,” he said. “I need a bath.”

“I’ll tell Ditter.”

He pushed himself off the wall, went down the hallway and closed himself in his room. Ruth stared after him anxiously. Jessica’s wailing sobs began in earnest. Ruth knew those horrible sounds of anguish would carry through to his room. And she knew he would stay there and listen to them until he was drenched.

* * *

Sebastian was lounging in his parlor trying to read, but he comprehended none of the words on the page. The lacerations on his back were scabbed now. If he sat perfectly still he could lean back without any discomfort at all. It wasn’t his injuries, however, causing his preoccupation. He’d gone out several times since the incident, making deliberate appearances, because he refused to let the Klan have the satisfaction. The blatant shock on William Hughes’s face when he walked into the church on Sunday, and successfully hid any hint of pain, was one memory that gave him a great deal of gratification. He smirked as he dropped his book to his lap. The stupid clowns would not, could not win!

His smile faded as his worries overwhelmed him yet again. His few appearances were not enough. He’d holed himself up, convalescing far too long. With the exception of taking care of Apostle and feeding his chickens, he hadn’t been outside of his house for days. He needed to speak with Sam. He needed to speak with Herlin. He needed to speak with—

The creak of the rusty hinges on the rear door of the parsonage interrupted his thoughts. He sat up. He’d been locking himself in, ignoring callers, but this morning, after his brief trip to the barn, he forgot to secure the rear entrance. Someone had brazenly come right into his house.

Sebastian reached for the loaded revolver lying on his end table. With the gun in his grip, and his eyes trained on the parlor entrance, he listened to the oddly slow footsteps drawing closer through the hallway. Whoever it was stopped just outside of the parlor, hesitating briefly before rounding the corner.

Sebastian released his breath and lowered his weapon. “Well, look who’s here,” he chortled. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming back.”

“You look better. Is there anything you need?” Jon Kinsley asked.

“I’m fine.” Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. “Come in. Have a seat.”

Jon shook his head. “I can’t stay. But I… I need to ask a favor.”

“Certainly,” Sebastian replied warily. Something wasn’t right. He felt it in his bones. Yet, Jon Kinsley appeared the same as he always did, perfectly groomed and tailored. Even his lazy, absent expression was unchanged.

“When you’re up to it, if you have time, it would be good of you to pay a call on Jessica. She… she needs to see you,” Jon said.

Sebastian’s laughter burst out of him. “You want me to visit Jessica? Are you drunk?”

At the very least Sebastian expected a caustic retort. It didn’t come. Jon closed his eyes and said nothing.

Sebastian’s laughter faded. The foreboding that had plagued him earlier returned with a vengeance, but this time from an entirely different perspective. He set his revolver on the table. “I apologize. That was out of line.” Tentatively, he asked, “What happened? Jessica wasn’t at church on Sunday. Is she alright?”

Jon opened his eyes, took a deep breath and another, and Sebastian thought he was going to say something, but he didn’t. Then and only then did Sebastian notice, albeit well guarded, the tenuous state of the other man’s emotions. He wanted to kick himself for his stupid jest. “Did you have another argument?” he asked. “Did you give her the cradle you made? Is that what’s wrong?”

Jon shook his head, and there was another stretch of silence before he spoke. Although he stuttered, his tone was clipped. “Jess… Jessica lost the child.”

“Oh no.” The words fell out of Sebastian in an anxious whisper, and he winced, but the pained expression had nothing to do with his own discomfort. Raising his voice, pushing himself to his feet, he said, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Jon was staring at the floor. “I have to go. I thought perhaps, you could… if you’re up to it… I don’t know what she wants to do about… if she will want… if there will be a… I’m not sure—”

“Jonny, stop,” Sebastian gently cut him off. “I will take care of it.” He crossed the short distance between them. “Whatever you both want to do, I will do for you. You know I will.”

Sebastian watched as Jon raised his hands. He was holding them closely to his chest, twisting and rubbing his fingers around each other, as if he were cold. It was warm outside, warm in the parsonage, so he couldn’t possibly be. Then he cupped one hand under the other, and squeezed his fingers with the hand underneath so tightly Sebastian thought he might break them. His head was bowed, and he stared at his hands as he slowly whispered, “It was a boy. He was beautiful. Every finger. Every tiny toe. So small and so perfect. I didn’t think he would be like that. I didn’t expect—”

Jon’s hands turned into fists and he dropped them. And then he closed his eyes. Standing before him, Sebastian could feel Jon’s torment like it was a tangible force in the room. It made it difficult to hold onto his own emotions. He swallowed once, twice. “Come, sit down. Talk to me.”