Читать книгу The Baby Bequest - Lyn Cote, Lyn Cote - Страница 12

Chapter Four

Standing outside the Stewards’ cabin after Saturday supper, Kurt tried to figure out exactly what he was doing there. He’d been surprised when the Stewards had invited him and his family to eat with them and Miss Thurston. The meal had been tasty, and he’d enjoyed talking about farming and the fall hunting with Martin, who was about his age. Unfortunately, Gunther had eaten in sullen silence, in contrast to Johann’s lively chatter.

As the sun had disappeared behind the trees, a sudden awkwardness Kurt couldn’t understand sprang up.

“Mr. Lang,” Mrs. Steward said in a voice that didn’t sound quite genuine, “I wonder if you would save Martin a trip and drive my cousin back to the schoolhouse?”

The question startled him. And it also startled Miss Thurston. He saw her glance at her cousin.

In Germany, this request would have caused Kurt to suspect matchmaking. Here, however, he could not think that he’d been invited for this reason. So why?

Miss Thurston’s face turned pink, revealing her embarrassment.

“Yes,” Martin spoke up, sounding as if he’d been rehearsed about what to say, “I have my wife’s pony hooked up to my cart. It only carries two adults, so perhaps your brother and nephew can just walk home?”

Now Miss Thurston’s face burned bright rose-red.

“I am happy to,” Mr. Lang replied, mystified. What else could he say?

Gunther favored both of them with an odd look but gestured to Johann to come with him, and the two headed down the track in the fading light of day.

Kurt took the reins of the two-wheeled cart as Martin helped Miss Thurston up onto the seat beside him. She clung to the side of the bench as Mr. Lang flicked the reins and they started down the track to town. He noticed that she sat as far from him as she could. He hoped she didn’t think he’d engineered this so that he could be alone with her.

Kurt couldn’t think of anything to say to her. When they were out of sight of the Steward cabin, she finally broke the silence.

“Since we’ve been given this opportunity to talk, just the two of us, there is something that I have wanted to discuss with you, Mr. Lang.” Her voice quavered a bit on the last few words, as if she were nervous.

“Oh?” he said, hoping for enlightenment.

“After the fight at school, you kept Gunther home only one day, right? Have you been sending Gunther to school the rest of this week?”

He stiffened. “Yes, I send him. What do you mean?”

“I thought as much. He has been playing hooky.”

“Hooky?” Mr. Lang turned his gaze to her.

“Sorry. Playing hooky means not coming to school.”

Kurt wanted to explode; instead he chewed the inside of his mouth. But he tried to stay calm for Miss Thurston’s sake. “Why does he not obey me?”

“Sometimes it’s not a matter of obedience,” she replied, sounding hesitant.

“Then what is it about?” he asked, his cheeks burning.

“Isn’t this really about whether Gunther learns more English and more about this country?” she replied in a gentle voice. “Our history and our laws? Isn’t that what you want, more than his obedience?”

Her question caught him off guard. He stared at her, noticing the wind playing with the light brown curls around her face. Startled by both her question and his sudden awareness of her, his mouth opened, and then closed tightly.

Night was overtaking them. Fortunately the half-moon had risen so he could see to drive. He glanced at its silver half circle above the treetops. Then, after many quiet moments, he asked, “What am I to do with him?” He didn’t try to hide his anxiety.

“Making him sit with little children won’t work,” she stated.

“But he must learn. And I cannot teach him.” His words rung with deep feeling he couldn’t conceal.

“I think private lessons would be best,” she said. “I asked my cousin to invite you tonight so we could discuss this without calling attention to Gunther. If I came alone to your place...” Her voice faded.

“Private lessons?” he echoed.

“Yes. Why don’t you bring him two evenings a week? I will help him improve his English, and learn American history and government. You can make sure he studies at home on the other evenings.”

“That will make more work for you. I cannot pay.”

She touched his forearm. “I’m the teacher here in Pepin. Whether I teach in the daytime or evening, I’m being paid.” Then, seeming embarrassed, she removed her hand from his sleeve and looked away.

He wished she hadn’t taken her hand away so quickly. Her long, elegant hands, covered in fine kid gloves, were beautiful. “You are good. But still, I think Gunther must not be given good for bad behavior.”

“Very few sons of farmers attend school beyond eighth grade. Don’t you see? It isn’t normal for Gunther or good for him.”

The school came into view through the opening in the forest. Kurt tried to come to grips with what Miss Thurston had suggested.

Then an unusual sound cut through the constant peeping of tree frogs. Kurt jerked the reins back, halting the pony. He peered ahead through the dark shadows.

Miss Thurston did the same. The sound came again.

A baby crying.

They looked at each other in amazement.

“It’s coming from the rear of the school, near my quarters,” she said, stark disbelief in her voice.

Mr. Lang slapped the reins and jolted them over the uneven schoolyard to her door. A shaft of moonlight illuminated a wooden box. The crying was coming from inside.

Without waiting for his help, Miss Thurston leaped over the side of the cart and ran to her door. She stooped down and leaned over the box.

The wailing increased in volume and urgency.

Kurt scanned the shadows around the schoolhouse as Miss Thurston called out, “Hello? Please don’t leave your child! I’ll help you find a home for the baby! Hello?”

No answer came. Only the crickets chirped and toads croaked in the darkness. Then he thought he glimpsed motion in the shadows. He jumped down and hurried forward a few steps but the cloaking night crowded around him. The woods were dark and thick. Perhaps he’d imagined movement.

The baby wailed as he walked toward the teacher’s quarters. He joined Miss Thurston on the step, waves of cool disbelief washing through him. “Eines kind? A baby?”

“It seems so.”

She looked as if she were drowning in confusion, staring down at the baby, a strange, faraway expression on her face. She made no move toward the child. Why didn’t she pick up the child? In fact, Miss Thurston appeared unable to make any move at all.

* * *

Ellen read his expression. How to explain her reluctance? She hadn’t held a child for nearly a decade, not since little William. Her baby brother.

“How does the child come to be here?” he asked, searching the surrounding darkness once more.

“I don’t know.” The insistent wailing finally became impossible for her to avoid. She stooped and lifted the baby, and waves of sadness and regret rolled over her.

“What is wrong?” he asked.

She fought clear of her memories and entered her quarters, Mr. Lang at her heels. She laid the baby gently on her bed and tried to think.

“Does this happen in America?”

She looked at him. “What?”

“Do women leave babies at schoolhouses?”

“No. I’ve never heard of this happening before.”

The child burst into another round of wailing—frantic, heartfelt, urgent.

Mr. Lang surprised her by picking up the infant. “He is hungry.” He grimaced. “And the child needs a clean...windel.”

“Windel?” she asked.

“The child is wet,” he replied.

She lit her bedside candle. In the light, she noticed the child had a dark reddish discoloration showing through his baby-fine golden hair. Was it called a port-wine stain? Memories of her brother so long ago made it hard to concentrate. She could feel Kurt looking at her, most likely wondering why she was unable to take action.

“Do you have an old cloth to dry dishes?” he asked when she offered no solution. “We could use to...”

“Yes!” She hurried to the other side of the room, threw open a box of household items and grabbed a large dish towel.

Mr. Lang completely surprised her by snatching the dishcloth, laying the baby on her bed and efficiently changing him.

“You know how to change a diaper?” she asked, sounding as shocked as she felt. She couldn’t help but admire his quick, deft action.

“I raised Johann from a baby. We must get milk for this one.” He lifted the child. “We will go to Ashford’s Store, yes?”

Glad to have direction, she blew out the candle and followed him outside. They rushed past the pony and cart and headed straight for the store. The motion of hurrying seemed to soothe the infant.

Within a few minutes, Ellen and Mr. Lang arrived at the back of the store, at the stairs to climb to the second-floor landing. Moonlight cast the stairwell in shadow so she held the railing tightly as she hurried upward. She rapped on the door, and rapped again and again. The child started wailing once more. Mr. Lang stood behind her, trying to soothe the child. She wrung her hands. What seemed like forever passed.

Then Mr. Ashford in trousers and an unbuttoned shirt opened the door. “What do you...” he began forcefully, then trailed into silence, gawking at Ellen.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Ashford, but we need help,” she said.

He stared at them yet didn’t move.

“We come in, please?” Mr. Lang asked even as he pushed through the door and held it open for her. She hurried inside, again thankful for Mr. Lang’s support.

Mr. Ashford fell back, keeping them by the door, still looking stunned. “Where did that baby come from?”

“We don’t know,” she nearly shouted with her own frustration.

“We find him on the doorstep,” Mr. Lang said. “We need milk and a bottle. You have these things?” His voice became demanding on the final words.

Mrs. Ashford, tying the sash of a long, flowered robe, hurried down the hall, followed by Amanda in her long, white, flannel nightdress. The two asked in unison, “A baby? Where did it come from?”

“It is boy,” Kurt said.

“We don’t know,” Ellen repeated, nearly hysterical herself from the baby’s crying. She struggled to stay calm as memories of her little brother bombarded her. “He was left on my doorstep.”

“He needs milk. And a bottle to feed. Please,” Mr. Lang repeated.

Stunned silence lasted another instant and then Mrs. Ashford moved into action. “Ned, go downstairs and find that box of baby bottles. Mr. Lang, bring that baby into the kitchen. Amanda, light the kitchen lamp.”

Grateful to follow the brisk orders, Ellen followed Mrs. Ashford and Mr. Lang. The lady of the house lit a fire in the woodstove while her daughter lit the oil lamp that hung from the center of the ceiling. As if he sensed that help had come, the baby stilled in Mr. Lang’s arms, his breath catching in his throat.

Mrs. Ashford began rifling through her cupboard and then triumphantly brought out a tin and opened the lid. “Horlick’s Malted Milk,” Mrs. Ashford read the label aloud. “Artificial Infant Food. It’s something new, made east of here in Racine, Wisconsin.”

Standing beside Mr. Lang, Ellen’s nerves were as taut as telegraph wire. In contrast, Mr. Lang looked serious and determined. Having him with her had made this so much easier.

The storekeeper entered the kitchen with a wooden box of glass bottles. With their goal in sight, Ellen slumped onto a chair at the small kitchen table. Surprising her, Mr. Lang lay the child in her arms and stepped back.

Again, holding the baby brought Ellen the waves of remembrance. Struggling against the current, she watched Amanda scrub a bottle clean while the older woman mixed the powdered milk with water and set it in a pan of water on the stove to warm. Within a few minutes, she handed Ellen the warm, wet bottle. Ellen wanted to offer the child to Mrs. Ashford, but the little boy flailed his hands toward the bottle and she quickly slipped it into his mouth. He began sucking. Bubbles frothed into the bottle.

Relief swamped Ellen.

Mrs. Ashford sat down at the table near her, watching the child eat. “He’s evidently hungry.”

“He has good appetite,” Mr. Lang agreed, gazing down with a grin.

Ellen released a pent-up breath. She felt as if she’d run a ten-mile race.

“Where did he come from?” Amanda asked again.

“I drive Miss Thurston home from her cousin’s,” Mr. Lang replied. “We find the baby in a wooden box on the doorstep.”

“Did you see anyone?” Mrs. Ashford asked sharply.

Ellen frowned. “I thought I saw movement in the woods. I called out but no one was there.”

“I’ve heard of this happening,” Mrs. Ashford admitted, “but I never thought I’d live to see it here. Someone has abandoned this child.”

“And on Miss Thurston’s doorstep,” Amanda murmured.

All of them stared at the baby in her arms.

No other reason could explain the child’s appearance. People didn’t go around misplacing infants.

Ellen gazed down at the small face that had changed from frenzied to calm. The evidence of tears still wet on his cheeks drew her sympathy, and tenderness filled her.

Who could part with you, little one?

“How old do you think he is?” Ellen asked.

“Hard to say,” Mrs. Ashford said, reaching over to stroke the white-blond, baby-fine hair. “But not more than a month old, if that.”

“Nearly newborn, then.” Ellen cuddled the child closer. The tension suddenly went out of the little body. The baby released a sound of contentment, making her tuck him closer, gentler. More unbidden caring for this child blossomed within her.

“Some people are superstitious about babies born with marks like that,” Mr. Ashford said, pointing at the baby’s port-wine birthmark. “Maybe that’s why they didn’t want him.”

“Yes, it’s sad the poor thing’s been born disfigured,” Mrs. Ashford agreed.

Ellen stiffened. “On the contrary, I’ve heard people say birthmarks are where babies were kissed by an angel.” Nonsense of course, but she had to say something in the child’s defense.

Mr. Lang bent, stroked the child’s fine hair and murmured some endearment in German. His tenderness with the child touched Ellen deeply.

“I can’t think of anybody hereabouts who was expecting a child. Can you, Katharine?” Mr. Ashford asked.

His wife shook her head.

“But babies don’t really come from cabbage patches,” Amanda said reasonably, “so where did he come from?”

“That’s enough about where babies come from,” Mrs. Ashford snapped.

“You better go off to bed,” the girl’s father ordered and motioned for her to leave.

Ellen sent the girl a sympathetic glance. Some topics were never discussed in polite society. “Good night, Amanda. Thank you for your help.”

The girl stifled a yawn as she left. “See you tomorrow at church, Miss Thurston.”

The mention of church snapped Ellen back to reality. “I better be getting home then. Dawn will come soon enough.”

The baby finished the bottle and Mrs. Ashford placed a dish towel on Ellen’s shoulder.

Laying the baby on it, Ellen rose, patting his back. She prepared to leave.

The older couple looked flummoxed. “You can’t mean you’re going to take this baby home with you to the school?” Mrs. Ashford popped to her feet.

“I don’t see that I have any other choice,” Ellen said, and waited to see if she’d be contradicted.

Despite her initial misgivings, the truth had already settled deep inside her. Someone had entrusted her with this child and she would not shirk that responsibility.

Mrs. Ashford said something halfhearted about Ellen not knowing how to care for an infant in an uncertain tone that didn’t fit the usually overconfident woman. Ellen hadn’t appreciated the woman’s comment about the child’s disfigurement, and she also knew without a doubt that the Ashfords shared the common prejudice against the illegitimate, the baseborn. “I’ll keep the child. I’m sure someone will realize they’ve made a mistake and come back for him.”

“I hope so,” Mr. Lang spoke up. “This is serious thing, to give up one’s own blood.”

His statement struck a nerve in Ellen. What had driven someone to give up their own child, their own kin?

Mrs. Ashford handed Ellen a bag of rags, three more bottles and the tin of powdered infant food. “Just mix it with water right before you need it.”

Ellen thanked them sincerely and apologized for bothering them after dark. The two had been more helpful than she would have predicted. Maybe she had judged them too harshly.

Ellen and Mr. Lang walked down the back staircase with the baby in her arms and the cloth sack of supplies over his shoulder. The toads still croaked at the nearby creek. Ellen brushed away a mosquito, protecting the baby from being bitten.

The baby had slipped into sleep. Still, his lips moved as if he were sucking the bottle. With a round face and a nice nose, he had white-gold hair that looked like duck down. His skin was so soft. She’d not felt anything so soft for a very long time.

Ellen had always told herself that she didn’t care for babies much, holding herself back from contact with them. But she knew—when she allowed herself to think about it—that all stemmed from losing her infant brother. His loss had altered her life, and led her to not fulfill her accepted womanly role. This had grieved her mother.

But now everything had changed. This child—who had been given to her—needed her. She bent down and kissed his birthmark.

“William.” She whispered the name that still caused such hurt.

“What?” Mr. Lang asked.

“I lost a brother by that name.” She couldn’t say more.

After a moment, Mr. Lang said quietly, “This baby will cause trouble.”

She paused.

“People will talk.”

She tilted her head as she gazed up at him tartly. “Everyone will know that this couldn’t possibly be my child.”

“I... Sorry,” he stammered. “I do not mean that. I mean, people will not want this child here. If someone gives away a child, no one wants him.”

She wanted to argue, but recalling the Ashfords’ comments and attitude, she couldn’t. “I will keep him, then.”

Mr. Lang looked quite startled. “They will not let you.”

“Why not?”

He lifted both his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “You are schoolteacher and unmarried. They will say—”

“What do you say, Mr. Lang?” she demanded suddenly, prodded by something she didn’t yet understand.

He gazed down at her. “I say that troubled times come here. Soon.”

She couldn’t argue with him. But she wouldn’t relinquish the child except to someone who would love him as he deserved. “Good night, Mr. Lang. Thank you.”

“Good night, Miss Thurston.” He paused as if he wanted to say more, but then merely waved and headed toward the cart.

She gazed down at the child as she entered her home and shut the door. She moved inside, rocking the child in her arms, humming to him. His resemblance to William, who had died before he turned one, brought back the pain and guilt over his loss, and for a moment, it snatched away her breath. Her little brother had been born when she was nearly fourteen, and he had left them so soon. And even though she didn’t want to remember, to be reminded, she couldn’t help herself.

She thought of Mr. Lang and how he’d helped her, how he’d also cared for a baby not his own.

“I will call you William,” she whispered and kissed him again. “Sweet William.”