Читать книгу On the Head of a Pin - Janet Kellough - Страница 9

II

It took Lewis a week to cover the northern part of his circuit, and when he returned home, Betsy was low again. He had hoped that the move might help her — a different place, a milder climate. But she had found the disruption of moving their household effects exhausting. She had kept going as long as she could, with all the washing of crockery and packing and unpacking of goods to do, but when he returned, she was once again lying on the kitchen bed, the makings of an evening meal only half-prepared on the table. The stove was nearly out and the child crying. He got the fire going and set the kettle on, then settled young Martha down with a crust of bread.

“I brought some chamomile,” he said. “Can I make you some tea?” Chamomile was one of the few things that gave Betsy any relief. That and the laudanum that was far too expensive to use unless the need was dire.

“Fever,” was what the doctor said, and it was true enough that fever had felled her. But Lewis knew that far more was weighing on his wife. Sarah’s death had dragged them both down. You would have thought that they would be used to losing children by now — they had lost so many.

But the others had been so young when fever, or accident, or just plain difficulty in living had taken them away — Sarah had survived where all his other daughters had perished. She had been a young woman with a daughter of her own. God could choose to take you at any time, he knew that full well, but it was the manner of Sarah’s death that had so disrupted them — lying there on her bed with those strange marks on her neck, the swell of another babe rounding the cloth that covered her.

Sarah had been a sweet seventeen-year-old with a laughing, teasing manner that made the most sombre of people brighten. She had always made friends easily — something that was an advantage for a circuit rider’s daughter, since they moved so often.The only surviving girl in a family of younger boys, she had ruled them with a combination of charm and intelligent wit. Sarah had only to speak a word to her brothers and they would do her bidding. All too often her magic worked on Lewis as well. He supposed that he had spoiled her. Betsy often accused him of it, but for him she was the embodiment of all his other daughters who had perished before her.

As a young woman she had had many admirers. Any number of young men would have wed her gladly — good, solid young men with excellent prospects. But they had all drifted away soon after Sarah first laid eyes on Francis Renwell. It was clear that she wanted no one else.

Lewis had been uneasy about the match from the first; though Renwell could match Sarah’s spirit, and they made a handsome pair, there was something about the man that he didn’t like. Betsy claimed that he wouldn’t have liked anyone his daughter picked, and that he’d better get over it, because she was going to marry regardless. But Renwell, in his opinion, was unsteady, perhaps even feckless, and was given to sudden enthusiasms and unconsidered outbursts of opinion.

He had tried to keep these thoughts unuttered, since doing anything else would only subject him to jokes from his daughter and scathing looks from his wife. He just wanted his daughter to be happy, to be safe, to be cared for. And it appeared at first that Renwell was willing and able to do just that. The young couple took up a farm near the lower end of Rice Lake and together they sowed and chopped and reaped and built.

They rejoiced at the safe delivery of their first child, Martha, but whether it was the arrival of the baby, or just a general boredom with the hard lot of a farmer, soon after that Renwell began to pay less attention to his work and his family. He started frequenting the many taverns that were within a day’s riding distance. Sarah did not confide this information to Lewis, but rather to her mother, who wisely kept her counsel. It was only afterward that he found out, but by then it was too late.

When Sarah had written to tell them that she was expecting another child, Lewis had asked for a posting nearby, close enough that Betsy could be a help when the babe arrived. It was not new life that claimed their attention, however, but an unexpected death. It was to them that the task fell of preparing the body and arranging the burial after they had found Sarah in the cabin, Martha screaming in her cradle, her father nowhere to be found. Lewis was convinced that there had been argument, an altercation, and that Renwell had killed her and fled into the night. The doctor could find no evidence of foul play, and in his opinion Sarah had died of “natural causes” — just what those causes might have been, he couldn’t say.

Renwell had disappeared that night and not a whisper had been heard of him since. What had transpired between them that would have caused him to choke the life out of his beautiful wife, Lewis’s only daughter? For who else could it have been but Francis Renwell? If Lewis had not been a man of God, he would have cursed the name.

Betsy was stirring, trying to rise. “Tea?” he asked again. “It won’t take long.”

He always tried to adopt a cheerful tone when Betsy was down. It struck a false note, he knew, but he wasn’t sure what else to do, and at least then one of them sounded cheerful. Sometimes she didn’t answer him at all when he made these simple inquiries, but this time she leaned up on one elbow, groaning as her weight shifted onto inflamed joints.

“I’ll get it.”

“No, no, I’m fine. You stay where you are. I’m on my way again tomorrow and you’ll have to get your own tea then.”

It would take him four weeks to ride the entire circuit, he figured — four weeks of meetings, of preaching, of calling on the sick and dying, and welcoming the newborn. Four weeks when Betsy would be more or less on her own, for he would seldom be close enough to return home at day’s end. He must speak to the boys again and urge them to help their mother more while he was gone. The problem was, he thought, that some days she was fine, and you wouldn’t know anything had ever been the matter, but then that was the intermittent nature of the fever that plagued her. The boys, in the way of the young, assumed that one good day was equivalent to full recovery, and forgot that their mother had been deathly ill and still needed looking after.

“There were some men here looking for you,” Betsy said as she hobbled over to the stool beside the stove.

“What did they want?”

“All the veterans are being called out to patrol the borders in case Mackenzie attacks with the Americans. You’re to go to Kingston and report.”

“What, all us old men? That’s ridiculous.”

“They said there are armies massed all along the border. You’re not going, are you?”

“No. I’m an ordained minister now. They can’t make me fight again.”

“The men were quite nasty. They seemed to think you should have gone already.” She looked a little frightened, but whether it was the thought of Americans attacking or just the notion that he might be in danger, he wasn’t sure. It certainly wasn’t the thought of being left alone. She’d be left alone whether he reported to Kingston or not, and after all these years as the wife of a saddlebag preacher, she was surely used to it.

“They can think what they like. I’ll ride to Kingston and get a deferment, but not until I’ve made at least one complete round of the circuit. I’ve only just been appointed here. All the good Methodist Society members would think it most remiss if I left them on their own so soon.”

She nodded, mollified, and turned her attention to Martha, who had gummed down her crust of bread and was fussing again.

Poor little motherless mite, he thought.