A Proper Marriage (8 page)

Her paper and charcoal had always provided a refuge from her loneliness and her troubles. Now it kept her mind off her guilt at having posted her letter to George. A thousand times she had wished it back. But perhaps it didn’t matter. He had not replied.

Luke leaned his back against an old tree, watching the swiftly moving waters of the creek. “Pretty spot here, isn’t it?”

“Um-hmm.” Her hands stilled over her sketch of the Millses’ barn across the creek.

He leaned over. “Can I see what you’re drawing?”

She shrugged. “It’s only a barn.”

“But it’s good. You were right not to let me throw your things away when we started up the mountain.” He swatted at a bee buzzing around their heads. “I’ve seen pictures in magazines that weren’t as good as these.”

“I’m only a dabbler.” Though she had once hoped for much more. In her last semester at Miss Pritchard’s, a cousin of the headmistress, one Jeremy Bradstreet, had arrived at the school from England, bringing a new book of his poems illustrated by a Miss Julia Octavian. Mr. Bradstreet had praised Olivia’s work and said it reminded him of Miss Octavian’s. He had offered to take some of her sketches back to his publisher in England, but Father had forbidden it. Unseemly, he said, for a woman from a respectable family to pursue work like one of the lower classes. Of course he had said much worse after learning of her lost virtue.

A dove rose from a tree with a whir of wings and settled on a branch higher up. Luke shaded his eyes and pointed. “Look. He’s waiting for his true love.”

She smiled and added more shading to her sketch. “How can you be so sure?”

“Doves mate for life.” His dark gaze met and held hers. “They find another steady dove and stick together no matter what.”

The lowering sun cast long shadows across the creek. Luke got to his feet and took his fishing pole from the water. “Reckon we ought to be getting on back to the house. I’ve got a long day tomorrow delivering those barrels to Laurel Grove.”

She accepted his proffered hand and got heavily to her feet. “But you’ll be back before dark?”

“I hope so.”

“Me too.” Delia and Samuel had left with the Thornburgs for a Friends gathering near Hickory Ridge and wouldn’t be back until Friday. Olivia realized how much she counted on Luke’s presence. How desperately she dreaded being alone in the isolated cabin on the banks of Sweetbriar Creek.

“I’ll leave you my rifle. In case any critters come calling.” Luke picked up his creel. “Samuel and I saw bear tracks the other side of the creek last week.”

“I’m sure I’d be too frightened to fire a rifle.”

Luke grinned. “In that case, just throw it at him.”

They started up the path to the cabin. She stumbled over an exposed tree root in the path. He steadied her, one strong arm around her shoulder. He smelled of damp earth and wood shavings. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Just clumsy these days.” She clutched her sketchbook to her chest. “My feet are swollen. I should not have worn these shoes all day.”

“When the baby gets here, though, it’ll be worth it.”

“It’s easy for men to make light of a burden they will never be required to bear.”

“I swear, Olivia, sometimes you talk like you don’t even want the child. Or me.”

She glanced away. “I—”

“I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “I didn’t mean to make you mad. We’ve had such a nice afternoon—let’s not spoil it now.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry for sounding so cross. And this afternoon was lovely. The nicest since we came here.”

The expression in his eyes went softer and the tension in him seemed to drain away. “We’re nearly home. You can take your shoes off while I clean the fish. Just don’t go thinking you can put them back on again.”

She laughed. “Are you planning ever to let me live that down?”

They reached the cabin. Luke cleaned the trout and fried it in the skillet. Olivia sliced a tomato, and they sat down to supper.

Luke polished off his meal and wiped his hands on his napkin. “What we need now is a peach pie.”

She ate her last bite of tomato, the flesh soft and juicy and still warm from the sun. “I’ll make one as soon as you finish getting the crop off the trees.”

He gazed out the back door toward the small orchard. “I wanted to finish this week, but with Samuel gone I got behind in my chores. I need to get the peaches to Prater’s store as soon as possible. It’s a real good crop this year, Olivia. Samuel says we ought to get a good price for them.”

His mention of Prater’s reminded her yet again of her letter to George and her growing regret at having posted it. A person could not right a wrong by doing wrong to someone else. With each week that passed she became more determined to make up to Luke for her duplicity, to earn his trust and affection. To show him what a good mother she intended to be. She rose from the table, a dirty dinner plate in each hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“What for?” She poured water into the dishpan and reached for the dishrag.

“For not being able to offer you the kind of life you wanted.”

“None of this is your fault, Luke. You’re doing fine.”

He looked pleased. “Honest?”

“Honest. And I ought to tell you so more often.”

He found a match and lit the lamp. “What would you like from Laurel Grove? The mercantile there has a lot more things than Prater’s. I’m saving all I can for when we get our own place, but I want to bring you something.”

She began washing their plates. It would take a king’s ransom to turn the leaky cabin into the kind of home she dreamed of, but she wouldn’t hurt Luke any more than she already had by saying so. “Some fabric for curtains might be nice.”

She plunged the greasy skillet into the dishpan. “Sewing is the one useful skill I learned at Miss Pritchard’s.”

“All right. What color?”

“You choose from whatever is available.”

“No, ma’am.” He shook his head. “I’m not much good at fancying up a room. I expect you ought to specify.”

“Blue and white check, then, if they have it.”

“I had a feeling you were partial to blue.”

She finished the dishes and set them on the drainboard to dry.

Luke moved toward the door. “Reckon I’ll feed the chickens and go on out to the barn for a while.”

“All right.” She picked up her sewing basket and settled herself on the worn settee.

“I won’t be long. I need to get up early in the morning.”

Olivia dipped her water bucket into the clear-running waters of the creek, one eye on the roiling sky. Despite the threatening weather, Luke had left for Laurel Grove before dawn, the new barrels secured to the Millses’ wagon with rope. Now midmorning clouds obscured the mountain, and a restless wind stirred the meadow grasses.

She returned to the cabin and began setting out pots and pans to catch the inevitable drips once the rain began. Samuel had promised to help Luke repair the roof, but so far there hadn’t been time. Getting the peach crop ready for harvest was more important than mere creature comforts.

A roll of thunder announced the coming rain. She shooed the squawking chickens into the safety of their coop and fastened the latch. The wind caught an empty tin bucket and sent it rolling across the yard. She retrieved it and gained the shelter of the back porch as the first drops splattered the dusty ground. The gray sky turned to the sickly shade of green that signaled a coming hailstorm.

Her stomach clenched. If the hailstorm came, the peaches would be ruined. Worthless. She darted across the yard and crossed the footbridge to Samuel’s barn. She couldn’t save the remaining crop, but even a few bushels were better than losing everything. She owed Luke. If not for her, he would not be in such dire circumstances. The least she could do was save whatever she could.

She lifted the heavy bar and shoved the door open. In the dim light she looked around for a ladder and the empty baskets Samuel stored there. She found the ladder and dragged it into the open doorway. Her foot caught and she twisted free, clutching at the wall for support. Something lay hidden in the corner beneath a worn horse blanket.

Despite her hurry, she lifted the blanket. A baby’s cradle, made of the finest walnut and polished to a satin sheen, sat next to Luke’s woodworking tools and a tin of beeswax.

She leaned against the wall, filled with shame and regret. All those evenings when she was certain Luke was avoiding her, he had been out here, making a cradle for her child. She had been mistaken about so many things. Maybe she could never redress all the wrongs she had inflicted on him. But she would try.

A clap of thunder rattled the barn. Olivia replaced the blanket and dragged the ladder across the creek and into the orchard. She propped it against a tree and ran back to the barn for the baskets.

Despite the steady downpour, she climbed up and began pulling the fragrant, heavy fruit from beneath the rain-polished leaves. When her apron was full and she was soaked to the skin and trembling with exhaustion, she descended the ladder to place the ripened fruit in the baskets.

The first rush of hailstones needled her face. The wind dislodged her clothesline and sent it snaking across the yard. In their coop, the chickens flapped and squawked. Abandoning her ladder, she dragged two full baskets to the porch and wrenched open the door. The room spun before her eyes. A poker-hot pain ripped through her, bringing her to her knees. She yelled, knowing there was no one to hear. She staggered to the mattress in the corner, fighting for consciousness. Luke would be back in a few hours. All she had to do was hold on until then.

The pain, the ragged wind, the deafening pounding of hailstones on the tin roof became as one. She drifted into the blackness.

Chapter Ten

S
he was dreaming, and in her dream George was cradling her against his broad chest and she was safe and warm and free of the blinding pain. She tried to speak his name, but speech eluded her. Something niggled the edge of her consciousness. Luke. Where was Luke?

“Easy, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

Thank God, Luke was home. There was so much she wanted to tell him. So much she wanted to share. She opened her eyes and started. “George?”

He looked down at her with the same devil-may-care smile she remembered, but his blue eyes were red-rimmed and full of concern. “Praise God you’re all right. I was afraid I might lose you too.”

Too? What did that mean? She blinked and sat up, her heart beating like a trapped bird in her chest. And what on earth was she doing in Delia’s house? How had she gotten here?

She looked around. “Where’s Luke?”

“I don’t know, Olivia.”

“What day is this?”

“Wednesday.”

“He should have been back from Laurel Grove two days ago.” She threw back the pale-blue coverlet and attempted to rise from the feather bed. Her head swam.

“Stay put,” George said, his voice raspy with fatigue. “You’ve just lost a child.”

She was too stunned to cry. Until she’d seen the cradle in the barn, she hadn’t allowed herself to think too often about motherhood. About how a child would change her life, and Luke’s. But knowing he cared enough to lavish such effort on a cradle that soon would be outgrown had given her a hope—unacknowledged until this moment—for their shared future. Now that hope was lost.

George busied himself straightening the room, no doubt wanting to give her time to absorb the news. She noticed then a pile of soiled linen on a chair in the corner, a washbasin and ewer. A pitcher of water and a cut-glass tumbler. Now she remembered the hailstorm, the ladder, the stunning pain. The black oblivion.

“How did I get here?” She clapped a hand to her forehead as a wave of nausea rolled over her.

“I found you half-conscious in that disgusting hovel across the creek and carried you here. There was no one home, but I figured that under the circumstances they wouldn’t mind.” He cleared his throat. “By the time I found you it was . . . too late for the child. Not that anything I could have done would have made a difference. It was just too soon for him to come into the world.”

She forced air into her lungs, and the nausea subsided. “A boy, then.”

“Yes.” He poured a glass of water and handed it to her. “I took care of the burial yesterday. I thought it would be best for you.”

She nodded and sipped the water.

“When I was in the barn looking for something to make a coffin, I noticed the milk cow was about to explode. I took care of her and fed the chickens.”

She frowned. “Samuel was going to ask Mr. Sutton’s boy to take care of things while Luke was away. He’ll be glad you looked after the poor cow.”

He drew a chair near to the bed and sat down. “I received your letter last month.”

“I shouldn’t have sent it. Luke deserves far better from me.” She set the glass aside and raked her sweat-matted hair from her eyes. “It was a foolish impulse. I realize now that I meant nothing to you.”

“That isn’t true. I was . . . am . . . very fond of you.”

“I see. Then why did you disappear after we . . . after that afternoon in your cabin?”

“I had some business of my father’s to attend to. I was gone for several weeks and found your letter waiting when I got back.” He shook his head. “I don’t know which news was more shocking—the child or your marriage to Luke.”