The Endless Forest (26 page)

She pressed a fist to her mouth.

“Lily.” His tone had deepened, and she braced herself.

“Lily. Spring is in the air. Ye want tae be oot in the sun.”

She said, “You must really be worried. You’re speaking Scots.”

“Aye, I am.”

“Because I was cranky with Ma and Hannah?”

“Because something is wrong. Something has ye worried, but ye canna speak of it and so ye pick at everything else. Martha Kirby, for example.”

Lily tried not to scowl. “My worries about Martha Kirby are well founded. And don’t grunt. It’s true.”

“We’ll leave the subject of Martha Kirby’s love life for the moment, shall we? Noo, are ye claiming there’s naught else pressing on ye but the idea that your brither is fond of yon Martha?”

Lily had known this moment would come, that Simon would corner her and draw her fears out like thorns. In a way she was relieved. She was certainly thankful that Simon was the kind of husband to take note.

She hated to put the words into the world, but he was right; they were poisoning her.

Simon said, “Are ye bleeding, is that it?”

“No,” Lily said sharply. “I wouldn’t keep that to myself.”

“What, then?”

Lily drew a deep breath and put her hands on the rise of her belly. “I haven’t felt the baby quicken.”

He didn’t jerk or startle; his voice came in its normal warm tone. “And it’s owerlate for the quickening?”

Lily nodded, because her throat was full of tears.

Simon was watching her face. He said, “Have you spoke to any of the women about this?”

She shook her head. He leaned forward to touch his brow to hers.

“Afraid?”

“Terrified.” And then: “But I know, I know I have to talk to Hannah about it. I wanted to yesterday, then the little girls came in to tell a story, and—I lost my nerve.”

“And ye canna gae someplace quiet to think,” Simon said.

A very large yawn escaped Lily, which seemed to cheer Simon. He smiled. “It’s no surprise ye need to rest after putting that burden doon.”

He rolled off the bed and ran his hands through his hair. “Sleep, Lily. And when ye wake ye’ll talk to the women. Whatever it is they have to say, we’ll go on together, as we always have.”

“The two of us,” Lily said softly.

Simon said, “And if it should stay that way, I will still count myself the luckiest man in the world.”

But she could not. She would not. She turned her face away to hide from him what he already knew.

—

It wasn’t Hannah but Jennet who came to see her next, bringing her lunch. Jennet, who had given birth twice and would do so again, in a matter of weeks. Lily tried not to look at her cousin and good-sister too closely, as she avoided all women with child. It was pure superstition, but it felt like a necessity. She wondered if Jennet noticed, and if she took offense, and then she laughed at her own vanity. Jennet had a busy life and would not spend her time wondering what anyone thought of her.

Now she dropped into the bedside chair and blew out a long sigh.

“So,” Jennet said. “I’ve brought ye lamb stew, and I am under strict orders to see that ye eat all of it. While you’re applying yourself to that, I have a story to tell. But first I have a confession to make.”

Lily sat up a little straighter.

“When I was carrying the twins, the midwife feared I would deliver too soon, and so she ordered me to stay abed. She banished me from my own household, and complain as I might, Luke wouldnae budge. He swore he’d tie me tae the bed if I couldnae follow orders, and so there I stayed for close to two months.

“The lads were at that age when ye cannae turn awa for even a moment for fear they’ll be dancing on the roof or digging up roses, just tae see how deep the roots could go. Oh, they were awful.” She said this with quiet delight.

“When did they grow out of that?” Lily asked, happy to play her part in this family story.

“Grow out of it? What man ever grows so old? You and I, we could tell each other tales for days and never come to the end of it. Why, not a month ago Luke took Nathan and Adam down to the docks and had them racing each other up the masts. And then the lasses wouldnae let up until he took them too. Thank providence they’re too small still to reach the handholds.”

Jennet’s outrage was only halfhearted, which gave Lily permission to laugh out loud.

“So there I was, abed. We had Mrs. Landry—you met her, our housekeeper—and help enough, but I couldnae rest easy wondering what devilment the boys wad think up next. It put me in a terrible mood, and I turned sour and crankit as a June apple. It was the worry, Luke said time and again, as if to excuse me. But it was more than that.

“Now I’ll tell ye something I have never said tae anybody, not even Luke.

“I wasna ower pleased when I fell pregnant with the lasses. The very idea of another babe in arms made me weary to the bone. But I had naught to complain about, with a guid man who looked after us and saw to it we had everything we could need or want. And that made it all the worse. I was resentful, and guilty for feeling that way, and angry that I couldnae be reasonable and happy.

“Every day I spent in bed listening to the house go on without me made it worse, but I couldnae say anything to Luke or even the midwife for fear that they’d tell me what a miserable excuse for a woman I was.

“And then your mither came to call.

“It was in the afternoon. I heard her and your da in the hall and then I heard her step on the stair, and then there she was standing in the door, all smiles, and before she could say a word, I began to weep and wail. And can ye guess what she did?

“She closed the door and sat wi me while I wept. She held my hand and waited, and when I had no tears left she called for tea and sent everyone who came to the door awa and sat down again to wait.

“And when finally she did speak, she surprised me. She said, ‘Every woman fears childbed and will say so, but few are honest enough to talk about what comes after. What it’s like to be held hostage, how it chafes.’

“Aye, she said just those words. And she talked about how each time she came close to her time she was torn. She couldnae wait for the baby to come, and dreaded it all the same. ‘You see,’ she told me in her calm way. ‘Everyone will praise the new baby, even the women with children of their own who know the truth.’”

Jennet paused.

“Go on,” Lily said, a little breathlessly.

“It’s just this. A newborn child is a tyrant. A merciless despot, far worse than Napoleon or King George or any other mannie ye could name. But there’s no cure but time itself. With the second pregnancy most women spend the whole nine months gathering up courage not so much for childbed, but for doing battle with a wee dictator.

“‘Now, Jennet,’ said your mam. ‘Of course you’re angry. You thought you had another month of freedom, but no. That wily child you would gladly die for has wrestled you to the ground already, and there’s naught to do but submit.’”

Jennet’s expression was so serious, but Lily could not help herself. She hiccupped a laugh.

“My ma said this.”

“Och, aye.”

“Why hasn’t she told me the same thing?”

Jennet raised an eyebrow, and so Lily answered her own question. “I wasn’t ready to hear it. At least not from her. So the advice you’re giving me is—”

“Surrender gracefully. In time you’ll find it was worth the sacrifice. But it will require time and patience and perhaps most important, a sense of humor.”

Later, when Jennet had gone, Lily felt as if she had been relieved of some great weight.

She wondered if she could do what was required of her. If she could simply give up, and surrender to her fate. The idea didn’t shock or frighten her, which she realized must mean she had already taken the first step.

With that idea drifting around her, she slipped away to the very edge of sleep, and then was suddenly awake again.

A gentle tapping. A fluttering that came and went and came again. The child quickened just now, as though she had passed a test, and earned a reward.

On the way into the village Daniel put the idea of Hakim Ibrahim’s letter out of his head. There were more immediate concerns, and more pleasant ones.

The ice-out party was something he looked forward to every year. There would be music and dancing and food enough to feed the crowd three times over. Friends he hadn’t seen in a good while would be there, and if he handled things right, Martha Kirby might be there too.

But first he’d have to call on her and ask, and the fact was, he had never invited a girl—a woman—to anything before in his life. And another fact: He hadn’t seen her since she moved in to Ivy House, and she might be offended at that, or hurt.

When he thought about it, he realized he would much rather make her mad than unhappy. When Martha was mad her color rose and her eyes flashed and her whole body trembled. He had made her mad a
couple times just to see it happen, and he had the idea he’d be doing that again soon.

The truth was, the idea of calling on Martha made him jittery. He didn’t know who he’d come across there, and what conversations he’d get caught up in. There were already rumors running around the village about Martha coming to teach, and that was a subject he wanted to talk to her about alone. There were a lot of things he needed to talk to her about alone.

Why he couldn’t just walk over to see Martha, what exactly was holding him back, that wasn’t so clear. Either she’d be glad to see him and want to see more of him, or she wouldn’t. There wasn’t any way to know until he showed up, and so he only wasted his time worrying over it. It was the reasonable way to think about the issue, and it gave him no peace at all.

Daniel turned onto a deer path that would take him around the village and right to his mother’s door. If he was going to call on Martha, he’d go see Lily first. Sparring with his twin always sharpened his wits. And he owed her a visit too. He hadn’t been to the house since Lily came home and Martha went to stay in the village, as his mother had pointed out so clearly.

Once the decision to move Lily was decided, he had slipped away and stayed away. There was little he could do to help—a one-armed schoolteacher wasn’t much use when it came to carrying trunks and baskets and pregnant sisters up and down hillsides—and he hadn’t yet mastered the art of standing by while other men worked. It raised all kinds of feelings, none of which made him suitable for company.

He came into the clearing just a hundred feet from Curiosity’s front porch, where his nephews had been put to work cleaning shoes and boots. They were deep in an argument that had to do with a bear and they didn’t see him at first, but then they were all flying off the porch yelling his name as if he were deaf.

Dirty faces surrounded him, raised up to his with an expression that made his heart ache.

“Tell us the story about Bump and the bear, will you? Will you?”

There were places for him to be, conversations he must have before the day was much older. But he was an uncle, and uncles had responsibilities, the most important of which was telling of the family stories. Beyond that, it would give him a few more minutes before he saw Lily.

“All right, then,” he said, and sat down on the porch to tell the tale.

Johnny promptly climbed into his lap. He was a sturdy boy of four, no longer Hannah’s youngest but still in need of noodling now and then.

“The porcupine that killed a bear, you want to hear that one again?”

They did indeed.

“From the beginning,” Johnny said, “and this time don’t leave anything out.”

Martha found that she was delighted with the little house, and contrary to those worries she had kept to herself, she wasn’t in the least bit lonely. Being back in the village meant that people came by to visit, which kept her busy answering questions and passing teacups.

The one subject nobody dared to raise was Jemima. She was thankful for that, and for the many kindnesses people showed her. Most folks brought little gifts to welcome her. A few eggs, a cutting from a favorite geranium, a small basket woven from reeds; Becca came with a quart of her best gooseberry preserves.

“A peace offering,” Becca said.

“But why a peace offering? You have been the soul of generosity.”

Becca grunted. “I’m right put out with my girls. Alice most especially. She had no call to talk to you the way she did, and if I know her she ain’t finished yet.”

“No one has done me any harm,” Martha said. “Alice will come around eventually, and if she doesn’t we will keep out of each other’s way.”

Becca seemed to relax. She drank a cup of tea, provided what news there was from the rest of the village, and finally went back to the Red Dog looking determined.

All in all, the move had been a good idea, though Elizabeth seemed to be ill at ease about it. She had come to say good night to Martha the night before the move and apologized for what she called her rude behavior. She wanted to keep Martha at Uphill House, and she needed to have Lily at home, and she could not at first think of a way those two things could exist side by side.

“But it occurs to me,” she said. “That it would take less than a week to add on a room. Nathaniel and Simon believe it can be done, and then you can come back and stay with us as long as you like.”

Martha tried to say something, but Elizabeth held up a hand to ask for another moment.

“I am making a muddle of this, but really what I want to say is that we would like to keep you here with us, despite all the talk about getting Lily home. We’d like to have you here, and we will do whatever is required.”

“Lily is your daughter,” Martha told her. “There’s no need to apologize. Of course you need and want to have her here, and really, with all the building that needs to be done in the village, it would be very selfish of me to let Nathaniel and the others drop everything to see to building me a chamber. Ethan’s little house will suit me very well.”

“I still am very unhappy about the idea of you on your own,” Elizabeth said.

“There’s Mrs. Thicke,” Martha reminded her, but it didn’t seem to help. The crux of the problem was that she had no people of her own. No matter how loved and cared for she had been in the Spencer household, in the end she was not related to any of them by blood, but only goodwill. And now even that was at an end; she was able to see to her own affairs; she was an adult, and responsible for her own welfare.