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“Will you release me now?”
In answer, I feel the cold bonds falls away from my legs. When I look up to thank Mary Preston, she has already vanished, a lingering chill the only trace that she was ever here.
I rush to Mother’s side. She’s twitching and fitful, her brow clouded with worry even in her sleep. When I take her hand and try to comfort her she jerks away and murmurs a jumble of nonsense. She calls for her childhood nurse. She insists that her mother is going to thrash her for making a mess of her embroidery sampler. She asks me who I am and what I’ve done with Emeline, her little pearl. Mary Preston was right; she wants rest.
I sit helplessly, dabbing at her brow when she’s still enough to permit it, offering soothing words that I hope she can hear somewhere deep inside her mind. Eventually she exhausts herself, falling into a fitful sleep.
Outside the rest of the world is waking up. Joe crunches across the drive to fetch firewood, and a crow’s rasping cry cuts the frigid stillness. I shift in my seat.
“Mother, I... I expect Father will have told you I agreed to marry Cyrus. That’s changed now, everything has changed now.”
I dab a wet cloth at her lips. Mother’s eyes move rapidly under her lids, but she’s stopped crying out. Talking is calming her so I go on.
“Mr. Barrett came last night. He asked after you, wanted to know if there was anything he could do. He wants so badly to help. He cares.”
The cloth trembles in my hand. John told me that we would face Cyrus together, that he wouldn’t let him publish Catherine’s letter. In the safety of his arms it had been easy to believe him, but now with my mother lying fragile and dying in front of me, nothing seems certain.
“Mother, I made a horrible mistake in trying to handle everything, to protect our family. I don’t know if I can undo it all without hurting you and everyone else. I know you told me I have nothing to be sorry for, but I am. I’m so very sorry.”
I take her frail hand in mine, resting my head against her side. It might be my imagination, but as my eyes start to grow heavy I feel the tiniest pressure from her fingers. She hears me. And she forgives me.
* * *
When the door creaks open a couple of hours later I expect to see Ada with a bowl of broth for Mother and a cold sandwich for me, but instead it’s Father’s balding head peering in.
He looks lost, but when his gaze rests on me, he gives me a grim nod of his head. “That will do, Lydia. I’ll sit with your mother now.”
I rise to leave, and as I pass him, he puts a hesitant hand on my sleeve. “You’re a good girl, Lydia,” he says. He gives my arm a pat, and then gingerly perches himself on the edge of Mother’s bed. His head is bent low to hers, murmuring secret words as I quietly slip out and close the door behind me.
33
EVEN MY ABILITIEScannot prevent the blanket of snow that has accumulated and covered my herb garden over the past weeks. I trudge outside, basket on my arm, but when all I can find are a few brown and withered stalks protruding from the snow, I return inside, deflated. I’m setting my basket down in the kitchen, wondering if herbs are something that can be gotten at a market, when I remember the small store I set aside for drying for Ada. They hang in the corner from bits of string, delicate and fragile filaments of hope. Closing my eyes, I let my fingers brush through the dried bundles. Just like the day the dark voice in my mind guided me to the rue, my hands work of their own accord. But unlike that day, the impulse that draws me to the right herbs is something deeper within me. Something light and pure.
Borage for fever. Chamomile for rest. Lavender and mint for comfort. Although Mary Preston said that if Mother recovers it will not be because of any magic, I can’t help but focusing my thoughts as I prepare the tisane, pouring all my hope and wishes for Mother’s health into the water along with the herbs.
I bring the cup upstairs, but Mother is too weak to drink it on her own. Tilting her head up in my hand, I pour the tisane in dribbles into her mouth. If nothing else, I hope it brings her comfort, a deeper rest.
* * *
“Should we call the minister?”
Catherine is standing by the window, watching the gathering clouds as she knots her hands together. Mother has lingered for two days on the cusp of death, showing no signs of improvement, though no signs of decline either. Every few hours I slip into her room with a cup of the tisane, making sure that she gets at least a few drops down her throat.
We stopped going to church around the time the rumors began back in Boston. All those disapproving faces watching us as we walked in became too much for Mother to bear. But even before that, we were never a family with much need of God. Father’s business prospered, we were healthy, we were together. Now I wonder if we angered some divine force and are reaping our just rewards.
I don’t think Catherine heard me and am about to ask again when she frowns and turns from the window. “I don’t know. Father certainly doesn’t care about ministers and that sort of thing.”
“He might now,” I say, thinking of the other day, of his head reverently bowed beside Mother, his hands clasped in supplication.
Catherine nods, for once mute, pulling a wrinkled shawl tighter around her shoulders. It’s hard to believe this is the same person whose barbed words and bitter heart have made my life so miserable. Without all her makeup and bright smiles she looks worn and old. I take a step toward her, but then stop in my tracks, teetering. This is also the person who lied to me about John’s engagement, who has systematically set out to ruin my life. It’s too late for embraces, for gestures of reconciliation, so I just say, “I’ll tell Joe to fetch the minister.”
* * *
When Joe comes back an hour later it’s not with the minister in tow, but John.
“Minister’s at the Wheeler house,” Joe explains. “Baby is breech, Mrs. Wheeler wants him there just in case.”
John turns his hat in his hands, looking apprehensive, but when he catches my eye he relaxes. “I was on my way to town when I ran into Joe. He told me that your mother... I thought I would come.” He glances at Catherine and then his gaze settles back on me, his expression full of our shared secrets. “I hope you don’t mind.”