Page 2 of A Promise of Love

M adelaine Cuthbertson hugged her oldest daughter tightly, almost in apology for having faced the Squire alone.

Once, she had been an attractive woman. Twelve births since she had married at seventeen had aged her until she looked as frail as a fragile summer flower.

Only five of those children had survived childhood and, as the Squire was quick to point out, they were all worthless girls .

Madelaine's hair had whitened as her husband's, nature softly bleaching the soft strands of blond around her face until it appeared as if she wore a halo.

In fact, everyone who knew her thought she had a spirit and a personality to match the most devoted of God's angels.

She was a peacemaker in a house whose walls trembled with the Squire's temper, a soothing presence in a room filled with the sometimes whiny voices of her daughters, a gentle soul in a life that had not been gentle although it had not lacked in comfort .

Judith gripped her mother's arms tightly, kissed her cheeks and reluctantly pulled away to answer the questions from her sisters .

They were all present in the room, even Sally and Jane, who had both married the year before.

Their husbands' farms were not far away, a fact which enabled them to visit their mother often, bringing with them their infant sons, who were feted and spoiled as only boys can be in a totally female household .

Two months had not made a substantial difference in her third sister’s appearance, Judith thought, but there seemed to be a serenity about Dorothea which had been missing before. Dorothea did not seem to dread her marriage, but, instead, eagerly anticipated it .

Elizabeth, the youngest of the five, had not changed at all.

At fifteen, she was the antithesis of the Cuthbertson females, who matured early.

There would always be something childlike about Elizabeth.

By unspoken agreement, Judith had been her champion, protecting her from the harsh and sometimes critical judgments of others, including her father.

He knew well that Elizabeth was different from his other daughters, but refused to believe that she could not be changed by a little discipline and hard work.

The fact that he had not succeeded in his approach was due more to the nature of Elizabeth's malady than to Judith's occasional pleading intervention .

"Tell me what happened, Judith," her mother coaxed, leading her to a cushion by the fire.

Even in spring the old house was dank and chill.

Judith sank gratefully beside the hearth, allowing Elizabeth to take the box from her hand, and Sally, her still dripping bonnet.

She slipped the top two buttons of her dress free, then ignored the clinging of the sodden cloth.

She could endure the discomfort a little longer .

She had borne far worse .

Judith knew her mother wasn't speaking about her father's welcome .

"The Matthews were emigrating to the Colonies, Mother," she said, repeating the same lie she'd told her father. Judith fervently hoped her mother wouldn't pry beyond that sketchy explanation .

Hiram Matthews was a fawning, drooling lech, who seemed intent upon waylaying her at every opportunity, even as she escorted his children on their morning walks.

He wanted her to accompany him on a journey, true, but it would have lasted no farther than the most convenient inn.

Her last employer seemed fixed upon the idea that her duties should be nurse to his children, companion to his wife and his occasional whore, whenever chance and inclination made that possible .

Madelaine Cuthbertson knew there was more to the story than her daughter was telling, but she was also aware that unless her oldest child chose to divulge it, there was little she would learn.

While the other girls seemed to share their every thought, Judith would often remain quiet and watchful, engrossed not in being the center of attention as much as she was in observing life around her.

As an adult, Judith remained as unapproachable as she had been as a child, contained in herself.

Madelaine suspected that Judith’s silences hid far more than a simple wish to avoid discussing herself .

Yet, despite Madelaine’s appearance, she was not a saint, nor did she have the courage of one.

There had been times in the past when she might have broached the wall surrounding her oldest child, but she had never done so.

And this moment passed also, the opportunity for candor untaken, the bridge untraveled .

Judith sat, staring at her hands, trapped in her isolation and her mother did not disturb the sanctity of it .

Elizabeth sat as quietly beside her, occupied with the box and the string's intricate knots .

"You would be better served by retiring to a nunnery, Judith," Sally said with an edge to her voice. "You would not have half the difficulty you have now, in either keeping a position or a husband ."

"I, for one, do not blame Judith for her troubles. First Poor Peter, and then Anthony." Dorothea shivered. She was glad her own prospective groom was strong and handsome .

"Peter Willoughby was simply Peter Willoughby until Judith married him," Sally said, scathingly. "Now he is forever referred to as Poor Peter ."

"Do you blame Judith for his death, sister?" Dorothea asked calmly, as if Judith were not sitting five feet from her .

"No, I suppose not," Sally admitted reluctantly, "but it's said that marriage hastened his demise ."

“In all fairness, ‘tis his mother who spreads that tale." This unexpected defense came from Jane, who glanced at Judith over the skein of wool she was winding. “She blames Judith for Peter succumbing to pneumonia even now .”

“Denton’s mother is near as bad, Judith,” Jane explained, her eyes narrowed at the thought of her own mother-in-law, “but she has not yet taken to carrying a scrap of her son’s counterpane through the village like Mrs. Willoughby, using it to mop up her tears.

Everyone knows not to ask how she fares, she will tell them straight out that her life is not worth living since Poor Peter’s death . "

“He had always been a delicate child,” Madelaine contributed. “And her only one. It’s natural she should be feeling grief ."

“Yet, Anthony was not delicate, Mama. He was a soldier ."

“It was a chicken bone which ended his life, Sally. He had as good a chance as losing his life in King George’s War as choking to death .”

“Still, misadventure seems to follow Judith like a lodestone.

Tell me, sister, have you brought bad luck to us, now, or are you angling for a husband again?

" Sally’s look was narrow eyed. "Surely you do not think there is another man in England who would want you?

You have chosen the right road, Judith, in caring for another's children.

I might employ you myself, as I am breeding again.

" Sally preened as she made that announcement, enjoying the cacophony of congratulations and hugs from her mother, Dorothea and Jane .

She was glad there was no child, Judith thought, either from Peter's apologetic coupling, or Anthony's brutality.

A child would have bound her to her dead husbands' families with inexorable ties. Now, she had no reason to ever speak to Peter’s mother, who had screamed words of accusation at her over Peter's casket, or glimpse the stern, set face of Anthony's brother. For that fact alone, she was grateful .

Judith looked into the fire, wishing the home to which she’d returned was a haven in fact.

Yet, she’d always felt the bite of alienation here.

While her sisters should have been the closest of friends to her, they remained as far apart as distant strangers.

No, strangers will treat each other with civility.

Siblings had a way of tearing at wounds until the flesh was free of the bone.

She and her sisters were, however connected by blood, worlds apart in temperament and inclination.

Like prisoners housed in a common cell, they shared their accommodations, but little else .

She had the feeling, though, that her father would not allow her much time in this genteel prison .