Where The Heart Is (Choices of the Heart, book 1) (4 page)

Chapter Four

Martin glanced out the kitchen window and nearly dropped the plate he was drying. A buggy was pulling into the twilit yard, with Hugh and Margaret Paxton, parents of his dead wife, on the seat, sitting as rigid and unbowed as they’d been at Eleanor’s funeral.

Martin had only seen them once or twice since then. They’d visited rarely enough while their daughter was alive. He’d never really felt acquainted with the Paxtons, but he knew them well enough to surmise that this was more than a social call. With a tense knot forming in his stomach, he answered the door. “Hugh. Margaret. Come in.”

Eleanor’s father nodded and stepped inside, with his wife behind him like a drab gray shadow. Hugh Paxton looked like the church elder he was, tall and spare, with a thin-lipped mouth and small, pale blue eyes that didn’t warm when he smiled. Eleanor had inherited her generous curves from her mother, but Margaret’s generosity ended with her figure. She and Hugh were well-matched. Martin could never fathom how they’d produced a daughter like Eleanor, with her easy laughter and love of music and dancing.

“Now then, Martin.” Hugh cleared his throat. “We’re glad to find you in. We’d an errand to run at the Mallonby store and we decided to stop here on our way home. We’ve meant to call for some time.”

“You’ve something particular on your mind, then, I’ll warrant.” Martin gestured toward the sofa facing the hearth. “Come and sit down.”

Margaret’s gaze darted around the room as she perched on the sofa next to Hugh. Martin kept the place clean after a fashion, but not as clean as Eleanor had. Her mother made it plain that she noticed, without saying a word.

Hugh cleared his throat again. “You’re right, Martin, we do have something in particular to discuss. Leah’s nine months old now, so you’ll be lookin’ for a place for her soon. We’ve been talkin’ it over, and we’ve decided we’re willing to take her ourselves rather than see her go to strangers.”

Now there’s a twist
. As far as Martin knew, Leah’s grandparents had never visited her at the McShannons’, and they certainly hadn’t broached the subject of raising her before.

When he and Eleanor were courting, her parents had taken little interest in getting to know him. His comfortable farm and respectable reputation were enough to satisfy them. They’d shown little emotion at their only child’s wedding, and no more at her funeral.

“I can’t pretend I’m not surprised, Hugh. You’ve never mentioned this before, but Leah is your granddaughter. I thank you for your offer, and I’ll consider it. Have you been to see her, then?”

Margaret spoke, her thin, reedy voice so different from Eleanor’s rich contralto. “Nay. We saw no reason to impose on the McShannons before Leah was ready to be weaned. If you let them know at the forge that we’ll be calling, we can begin getting to know the child.”

Thinking past his surprise, Martin guessed that the Paxtons had gotten a whiff of gossip. Someone had criticized them for allowing their granddaughter to go to strangers, and they wouldn’t stand for it. His hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms, as his temper, always at a flashpoint these days, threatened to explode.

Mind your tongue, Martin.
It would be a cold day in hell before he’d send Leah to the Paxtons to be raised in the same rigid, cheerless way they’d raised Eleanor, but they could make trouble for him if they chose. He’d be wise to mollify them.

“I’ll tell Caroline the next time I see her that we’ve spoken. You can visit Leah, and we’ll see how you get on before I make a decision.”

Apparently satisfied, Hugh and Margaret rose together. Hugh cleared his throat one more time. “Aye. We’ll see how it goes. We’ll call at the forge the next time we’re in Mallonby.”

After watching them drive away, Martin lit the lamp. He burnt his finger with the match and clouded the chimney with smoke before he got the wick properly set. He muttered a few choice words, dumped the chimney in the wash basin and scrubbed it clean.

You might be a poor excuse for a father, but no child of yours will grow up in their house while you’re still drawing breath.
But time was passing. He couldn’t put off making a decision about Leah’s future much longer.

* * *

“Oh, drat!” Chelle rolled her eyes at the wrapped pound of butter on the pantry shelf. Aunt Caroline had intended to take that to Mr. Rainnie today, but she’d been called out to a birth and might not be home till late.

As part of the arrangements for keeping Leah, Mr. Rainnie supplied the McShannons with milk and cream. Aunt Caroline converted some of the cream to butter, most of which went to the Binghams’ store, but she always kept some back for Mr. Rainnie. He insisted on paying for it, which put Caroline’s nose a little out of joint, but she forgave him because he also said she made the best butter in the district.

The men were in the middle of a full day’s work and Jean had gone to visit her mother for the afternoon, with little Peter. Leah had just woken from her nap. Chelle could deliver the butter, but she’d have to take the baby with her.

So, she would. It couldn’t be a better day for a walk, and it was cool enough to keep the butter from melting on the way. She wasn’t keen to see Mr. Rainnie again, but he’d likely be out in the fields haying. Aunt Caroline had mentioned once that she just stepped in and left the butter on the kitchen table if he wasn’t in.

Chelle tied a shawl into a sling for Leah, settled her in it and set off, carrying the butter by the string that bound the brown paper wrapping. The walk took longer than she expected because she hadn’t realized that the lane to the house wound a good half mile back from the track to Mr. Rainnie’s pasture. When she came to the lane’s last bend, Chelle stopped to adjust the sling and take the place in from a distance.

The lines of the house, softened by the branches of an ash tree at either end, blended into the landscape from which its stone had come. Rough grass grew up to the walls of the buildings, except for one spot by the house where the remains of a perennial bed offered a few splashes of color. As she got closer, Chelle made out one bright-blue delphinium lifting its head above a riot of wild daisies and phlox. The garden clearly hadn’t been given any attention this season.

Hens scratched busily in the dirt by the open byre door. Chelle stuck her head inside and saw only a ginger tabby cat skulking across the aisle. Through the open door at the other end, she saw Mr. Rainnie’s Clydesdales grazing in a paddock. So he wasn’t haying.

Chelle crossed to the house, knocked on the door and got no answer. She opened it a crack. “Mr. Rainnie?” She heard heavy steps on stairs and swung the door open.

He stood at the bottom of the staircase that must lead to the bedrooms, filling the opening with his broad shoulders. The surprise on his freckled face swiftly changed to annoyance, then pure anger when he saw that Chelle had brought his daughter with her. His sea-colored eyes fired sparks at her. “I told your aunt and uncle—”

Chelle stood her ground, refusing to let him intimidate her. “Aunt Caroline got called away this morning and couldn’t bring your butter. I decided I’d bring it since it’s such a fine afternoon, but I couldn’t leave Leah home with no one to mind her. Here it is.”

She held out the package of butter. Just as Mr. Rainnie reached for it, the string broke. The wrapping fell away as the soft butter landed with a dull
splat
at Chelle’s feet. Without thinking, she moved one foot forward, just enough that it skidded in the butter. Chelle felt herself falling and instinctively pushed Leah into Mr. Rainnie’s arms. He stood as if he’d been turned to stone, holding his daughter, while Chelle scrambled up from the floor.

“Is Leah all right?”

The baby gurgled when she heard her name, but Mr. Rainnie didn’t answer.

Her face burning, Chelle pulled her handkerchief from her pocket and wiped the butter from her shoe. “I’m sorry. What a waste. Let me clean that up for you.”

“No.” Mr. Rainnie clipped off the word, his voice vibrating with anger. As soon as Chelle stood upright again, he thrust the baby back into her arms. “I don’t know what you think you’re about, but I’ve no patience for meddlers. The butter could have waited till tomorrow. You’d best learn now, rather than later, that folk here mind their own business.” He shouldered past her, strode across the yard and disappeared into the byre.

Her stomach knotted from the force of Mr. Rainnie’s words, Chelle looked down at the wasted butter. She’d never felt like such a fool. She cuddled Leah close. “I should have known better. We’d better be getting home before we make things worse.”

* * *

Martin gave the girl a fifteen-minute head start, then stopped pushing straw about in Tessa’s stall, left the byre and started down the lane. Perhaps a pint in the village would soothe his nerves. No, a shot or two of good Scotch was more like it.

The lass couldn’t have known that he’d never held his daughter before. He was still reeling from it. So small and fragile and perfect. The sight of Eleanor’s eyes in Leah’s little face stabbed Martin to the heart, but that wasn’t what terrified him.

Connection. He’d done his utmost to avoid feeling it, and now, the first time he held his child there it was, threatening to tear him open inside and leave him empty and exposed. His coloring, his chin, Eleanor’s eyes and mouth… Leah was part of him, part of all that had been good in his life. He couldn’t deny it. How was he going to live with it?

Martin settled himself at a back table in the Split Crow, grateful for the pub’s cool dimness. He didn’t relish the thought of anyone seeing him clearly right now. The familiar worn oak bar, the voices of two old men talking quietly over a pint across the room, felt more homelike than home did these days. He tossed back a shot of whiskey and called for another.

Harry Tate, the pub owner, brought it. He glanced around the nearly empty room and pulled up a chair. “Have ye got your hay in then, Martin?”

“Aye, finished yesterday.” Martin took a swallow of strong amber nectar. It eased some of the tension in his gut.

“You’d best slow down, lad. It’s early yet.” Harry lifted a brow. “I don’t think I’ve seen you drink aught but ale before.”

Martin shrugged. “The sun’s over the yardarm, and I’m not in the mood for ale today.”

“Aye, I can see that.” Harry held Martin’s gaze for a moment, then pursed his lips and shook his head like a doctor assessing an unsatisfactory patient. “Martin, you finished shearing before anyone else in the district, and now haying. I’ve known you all your life, so I hope you’ll forgive an old man for talkin’ out of turn, but you can’t keep this up. Sooner or later, you’ll have to stop and face things.”

“I’ve faced them, Harry. The wean’s taken care of. As for me, it’s easier if I keep busy.”

The edge to Martin’s voice didn’t ruffle Harry. His lips quirked in a half-sad, half amused grin. “Aye, and safer too. You’ll see that in your own time.”

The mill whistle blew for dinner break. Martin seized the chance to change the subject. “What are you hearing about the mill these days, Harry?”

Harry shook his head. “A lot of grumbling. You know Westlake’s dropped his price for wool. There’s some that say he wants to lower wages but doesn’t dare. If he isn’t careful, he’ll have a lot of angry workers to deal with. He ought to talk to some of the older folk who were here during the Luddite trouble and see what he’s letting himself in for.”

Martin hadn’t been born when the Luddites brewed up a storm in Yorkshire and Lancashire, destroying mill machinery and, at times, shedding blood as they protested the mechanization of the textile industry, but he’d heard the stories from his parents. Slow-burning anger pushed Leah from his mind. “My mam worked in the mill as a girl. It ruined her health and shortened her life. What do you think Westlake’s about? I know the war in America has the cotton mills starved, but what’s that to him?”

“Just greed, I’d guess. If people can’t get cotton they’ll have to wear woolens, and he wants to take advantage of the market before things adjust themselves.” Harry sighed, glanced down at the half-empty glass of Scotch on the table and put a hand on Martin’s shoulder. “One more for the road, and that’s all you’ll be gettin’ from me. On the house.”

“Thanks, Harry.” Martin finished his second drink, felt the sharp edge of his grief dull into merciful numbness. As he nursed the third, images of his daughter’s face blurred into the McShannon girl’s, with her cheeks flushed due to his rudeness, her hair windblown from her walk, and those sapphire eyes…

Lad, you’re half drunk. Go home.

Chapter Five

“Chelle, there’s Kendra Fulton coming to see Caroline. Let her in, will you? Peter needs changing.”

Jean headed upstairs with her son. Chelle put Leah in the cradle and answered the door. “Come in and sit down, Miss Fulton.”

“Nobody calls me that. Call me Kendra.”

She sounded a little grudging. Chelle gave her a welcoming smile. She’d been waiting for this opportunity. “All right, Kendra. And I’m Chelle. Aunt Caroline took some butter in to the store a while ago, but she should be home soon.”

Noticeably bigger than she’d been the day Chelle had returned her change, Kendra settled into a chair with a sigh. Flushed and warm from her walk, with curly wisps of hair escaping from her bun to frame her face, she looked healthy and prettier than ever, but her eyes hadn’t lost their wariness. “I’ll wait for her then, if that’s all right. I don’t fancy walking home and then back here again later.”

“Of course. Are you feeling well?”

“Aye, well enough, just tired.” Kendra ran a hand over her belly then straightened up in her chair as if she were bracing herself for more questions. “Are you settling in, then?”

She looked as if she must be eight months along now. Knowing what she did about Kendra, Chelle didn’t expect earning her trust to be easy, but she admired the girl’s courage enough to try. After all, she needed friends as much as Kendra did.

“Slowly. I don’t think Mallonby is very used to newcomers.”

“No, it isn’t.” Kendra hesitated, then went on in a softer tone. “I heard you lost your mother just before coming here. I’m sorry.”

Chelle leaned forward, bridging a little of the distance between them. If her loss made her seem more approachable, why not use it? “Thank you. I miss her so much.”

Kendra held Chelle’s gaze for a moment, long enough for her to see the barriers between them beginning to drop. “Aye. I can’t imagine what I’d do without Mam.”

“It would be even harder for me if it weren’t for Leah and Peter. They keep me occupied. Sometimes I almost feel like a mother myself.” Chelle put on the coaxing smile that had usually worked on her girlfriends at home. “Kendra, I’ve been wondering if maybe, after your baby comes, you’d bring it out here for walks. I’ve gotten to know the country between here and Carston fairly well, but I’m sure you know it like the back of your hand, and out there we wouldn’t have the whole village staring at us.”

A sullen look flashed in Kendra’s eyes again. “If you want to make friends here, that wouldn’t be the way to do it.”

Chelle threw her a challenging glance and snorted. “I certainly don’t care what the likes of Drew Markham think of me.”

For a moment Kendra looked taken aback, then she lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “Nor do I. No one in Mallonby cares a rap what Drew thinks when it comes to that. The mill hands don’t speak to him at work because he’s in the office, and he’s never gotten on well with his family. I’d feel sorry for him if he weren’t so rude.”

Chelle shivered at the memory of the contempt in Drew’s dark eyes. “I think he could be worse than rude if given the chance.”

“Likely. Stay clear of him.” Kendra looked past Chelle out the kitchen window. “There’s your aunt now.”

Caroline came in, dropped a few packages in the pantry and took Kendra upstairs for her examination while Chelle waited in the kitchen. “Everything’s fine,” Caroline said when they came back down. “Kendra, I’d say you’ve got about three weeks left to go, maybe four. Send your mother for me when you start having pains, and in the meantime, take care of yourself.”

The relief on Kendra’s face as Chelle walked her to the gate showed just how much fear she was hiding. “Do as Aunt says and take care of yourself, Kendra. And think about coming to visit. You’ll be welcome.”

Kendra started to walk away, then looked back over her shoulder with another brief smile. “Aye, I’ll think about it.”

* * *

July came in with a heat wave, at least by Mallonby standards. When Jean and Caroline complained of the sultry weather, Chelle hid a smile, wondering what they’d think of summer back in Morgan County.

Helping around the house, caring for the children, long walks on the dales. Life had settled into a routine, familiar and at times, a little dull. At home, she’d had her brother and her friends… and Rory.

In this secluded corner of Yorkshire, the war in America hardly seemed real. As far as Chelle could tell from the sketchy articles in the London papers, no major battles had been fought as yet. She had no idea whether Rory and the other boys from home had seen action.

“If it does come to war, it’ll be over by Christmas,” he’d said one of the last times they’d spoken, a few days before her mother passed away. “Once we show that we mean business, Mr. Lincoln will let us go.”

If Chelle had heard that said once, she’d heard it a hundred times and kept her silence, but this time she couldn’t. Not with Rory’s life at stake. “What if he doesn’t? If it comes to war, where is the Confederacy going to get guns and ammunition? The South doesn’t have the factories to make them. And do you have any idea how badly outnumbered you’d be?”

Rory couldn’t have looked more shocked if she’d slapped him. Chelle couldn’t blame him. She’d never heard one of her female friends voice an opinion on the war, let alone a negative one.

“England will supply us. She needs our cotton.”

A lady left such subjects to the men, but Chelle had never considered herself that much of a lady. She was too much like her father. “And how will we trade with England if our ports are blockaded?”

Now, three months later, with the Union blockade of Confederate ports in place, the London papers were full of the incipient crisis in the British textile industry. Chelle took a grim satisfaction in being right. The sooner the war ended, the less damage done, the fewer lives lost.

One hot, still July evening, not long after the mill whistle announced closing time, Chelle opened the kitchen door to a flustered-looking woman who, from her resemblance to Kendra, had to be her mother. She stepped inside, breathing hard as if she’d run all the way to the forge.

“Is Caroline home, lass? Kendra’s in labor. Has been all day and didn’t send for me, the little fool. I hope she hasn’t done herself harm by it.”

Chelle ran upstairs for her aunt, who’d been helping Jean settle the babies. Caroline found her shawl and washed her hands while Chelle and Mrs. Fulton chafed in the background.

“She should have sent for me at the mill. Her water broke this morning and she’s having strong pains now.”

“Then it’s likely she’s progressing well, Sarah.” Caroline laid a hand on Mrs. Fulton’s shoulder, then picked up her birthing stool. “Let’s be off, then.”

Chelle didn’t think she could wait there, powerless and wondering, until Aunt Caroline returned. “Aunt, I want to go with you. That is, if it’s all right with you, Mrs. Fulton.”

Caroline exchanged a look with Kendra’s mother. “I’d say that’s up to Kendra.”

Chelle laced her fingers together, a small pleading gesture. “Please. If she doesn’t want me there, I’ll leave.”

After a brief, tense silence, Mrs. Fulton nodded. “All right then, come along, and we’ll see what Kendra says.”

By the time they reached the Fultons’ cottage, Chelle’s heart raced from more than hurry. She’d seen animals born, but never a baby. Along with her fear for Kendra and the child, Chelle acknowledged a little selfish anxiety.

Will she send me away?

They found Kendra in the rocker, catching her breath after another contraction. The relief in her eyes turned to doubt as she saw Chelle. She held Kendra’s gaze, willing her to accept the friendship she offered. “Kendra, if you want me to leave I will, but I’d rather be here with you than thinking about you at home.”

Hands on her belly, Kendra weighed the sincerity of Chelle’s words. Finally she nodded. “You can stay.” Then her lips curved slightly in a reserved smile. “Thank you.”

Chelle returned the smile without the reserve. “Thank
you.
”

Evening stretched into night, while Kendra paced the floor between contractions and rested in the rocker when she got tired. Chelle and Mrs. Fulton took turns walking with her while Aunt Caroline checked Kendra’s progress every so often.

“You aren’t dilated yet,” Caroline told her at midnight, “but that’s not unusual. The first one often takes its time.”

By dawn, Kendra’s pains had grown more severe, but the baby still wasn’t dropping. Mrs. Fulton took Chelle aside while Caroline checked Kendra again. “Will you go to the mill for me and tell the floor supervisor that I won’t be in today? I don’t like this. She should be further along by now.”

“Of course I’ll go, Mrs. Fulton.” A short time later, Chelle looked from the window and saw the mill’s employees starting up the road to work. She slipped out and joined them to deliver Mrs. Fulton’s message.

It appeared that Chelle’s father was right about the slaves at home being treated as well as the mill hands in Mallonby. The hard, too-mature faces of the children, the exhaustion in the eyes of the adults, told a bleak story.

“They don’t take them in at seven like they did when I was a lad, but there’s plenty that start at ten or eleven,” Chelle’s father had told her. She counted her blessings that she wasn’t one of those children who, like the slave children at home, didn’t get to have a childhood.

The mill stood on the top of a knoll a quarter of a mile outside the village. At this hour it was quiet, the din of the machinery not yet started for the day. A stern-faced man stood at the door to the production floor, watching the workers as they came in.

Chelle chose a moment when there was a gap between groups of incoming workers, squared her shoulders and walked up to him. “Mrs. Fulton sent me to tell you she won’t be in today.”

The supervisor gave Chelle a cold stare. “Is she ill, then?”

“No, she’s taking care of her daughter.”

“Ah.” The man’s lips curled in a sneer as he turned away. Looking past him through the open door, Chelle got a glimpse of the production floor with its fulling tables, spinning machines and enormous power looms. The strong smell of lanolin pervaded the place. She couldn’t imagine the noise of all that machinery working.

So this was how Mallonby’s people lived. She’d seen articles in English papers decrying American slavery, all written by people who had almost certainly never seen a slave. Had any of those writers seen a place like this? Chelle turned on her heel, as eager to get away from the mill as she was to get back to Kendra.

The day wore on with little progress in Kendra’s labor. Her pains were intense now, but her womb still hadn’t opened. She dozed in the rocker when she could, worn out after over twenty-four hours of pain and lack of sleep. Mrs. Fulton looked almost as tired, her face drawn with worry. “Something isn’t right, Caroline. I know it’s her first, and she’s young for it, but…”

“This could all be perfectly natural, Sarah. We don’t want to frighten the girl.”

But Chelle saw concern on her aunt’s face. She moved a chair to sit beside Kendra, wiped the sweat from her face with a cool cloth and gave her friend a reassuring smile. “Have you chosen names yet?”

Barely awake, Kendra nodded. “Sarah if it’s a girl. And if it’s a boy…”

Chelle squeezed her hand. “David?”

“Aye.” A faint smile glimmered in Kendra’s eyes. “Chelle, I’ve been thinkin’ about what you said before about coming down to the forge, and there’s a few places on the dales where I used to go when I was younger… I haven’t been to them for years, not since I started at the mill. Once the baby’s strong enough, I can show them to you if you like.”

“I’d like that very much.” Chelle squeezed Kendra’s hand again, just before another contraction hit her. She closed her eyes and let out a choking cry. When the pain was over, she let her head fall back against Chelle’s shoulder.

“That was the hardest one yet.” Her voice became a whimper as tears sprang to her eyes. “I’m so tired. I can’t do this much longer.”

Her mother took her other hand. Caroline knelt, checked Kendra again and stood, smiling. “You won’t have to do it much longer, lass. You’re open now. Let’s get you on the birthing stool.”

After all the hours of waiting, the birth happened so quickly Chelle could hardly take it in. Kendra’s mother kept her upright on the stool while Chelle held her hand. Kendra screamed with each pain as the final agonizing moments of birth came upon her, then she and her mother wept tears of relief as Caroline laid the baby in Kendra’s arms.

“You have a son.”

Chelle cried too as she looked down at the red-faced little mite squalling in Kendra’s arms. “He’s all yours, Kendra. You worked hard enough to bring him into the world.”

She saw no fear in Kendra’s eyes now, only wonder. “He’s the spit of Davy’s mother. Mam, I wish…”

Her mother knelt by her. “What do you wish, love?”

That little David’s father was here to see him?
If so, Chelle shared the wish.

Kendra shook her head and cuddled her son closer. “It doesn’t matter. He’s here and he’s healthy, that’s all that matters now.”

Once Kendra and her son were in bed asleep, Caroline and Chelle walked home under a clear evening sky pricked with early stars. Now that all was safely over, Chelle felt let down and inexplicably homesick, acutely aware that her mother wouldn’t be there to share the pain and wonder of it when—
if
she ever had a child of her own.