Tomorrow's Dreams (27 page)

Ashamed but unrepentant of her self-serving prayers, she reached up and gave the older woman's arm a fond squeeze. “You work so hard all the time, Minerva. Why don't you rest for a while? I'll take care of Tommy.”

“I don't know about resting, but I do need to finish fixing supper,” she replied, understanding shining in her brown eyes.

Penelope smiled her gratitude. As usual, the woman was sensitive to her need for time alone with her son.

Lingering long enough to pull back the baby's diaper and point to the patchy red skin on his groin, she said, “I've been treating Tomkins' rash with zinc powder. You'll find a box of it in the basket along with clean napkins. The rest of his clothes are in the chest under the cot.” After giving the baby's belly one last tickle, she went to the table at the far end of the cabin and began chopping vegetables.

Left alone, Penelope undertook the painstaking task of changing Tommy's diaper. No larger than an infant of seven or eight months, her frail son's legs were unyieldingly rigid and locked in a closed, almost scissorlike configuration that made the changing process into what most people would view as a trying ordeal. But not for Penelope. She cherished the few precious moments she spent caring for him. So much so, that she promised herself that once they were safely back home, she would forego the services of a nanny and tend to his needs herself.

Singing snatches of a lullaby remembered from her own childhood, she cleaned and diapered him, then turned her attention to finding something special for him to wear.

From the chest beneath the cot she pulled out a woolen binder, followed in quick succession by a hand-knitted undervest and two flannel petticoats. After a moment's deliberation, she drew out an elaborately tucked and embroidered white muslin gown she'd purchased in Chicago. A soft linen day cap, a pale blue knitted outdoor bonnet lavishly trimmed with darker blue satin ribbon, and several warm shawls completed her selections.

As with changing his napkins, dressing Tommy was a task that required the patience of Job. Like his legs, his upper extremities were stiff and pulled into unnatural positions. His wrists were twisted back at awkward, inflexible angles, terminating in hands that were forever clenched into fists. His arms, reed-thin and as delicate as those of a Dresden doll, were fixed at the elbow in a crooked position reminiscent of a gentleman offering a lady his escort.

Though Penelope knew that most people would find his deformed limbs repulsive, she accepted them with as much love as she would if they were strong and straight. In truth, she loved him more because of his infirmities, for he needed her as no fit child ever could.

When she'd finished tying, buttoning, and hooking him into his garments, she stuffed the bundle of birthday gifts beneath her arm and then swung him into her embrace. With him tucked securely in her arms, she marched around the tiny one-room cabin singing a rousing chorus of “For He's a Jolly Good Fellow!”

After several turns, she waltzed him to the table where Minerva sat and, leaning sideways, let the bundle drop from beneath her arm to the tabletop. Ducking her head forward to cover her son's smiling face with kisses, she murmured, “Would you like to see your presents now, darling?”

He gurgled in sunny response.

Settling in the rickety chair opposite Minerva, with Tommy propped comfortably against her body, she began to unwrap his gifts. As she launched into another round of “For He's a Jolly Good Fellow!” Minerva put down her knife and joined in. With her monotone alto sounding much the worse in contrast to Penelope's well-trained soprano, she wiped her hands on a ragged bit of toweling and came around the table to share in the fun.

The first thing to fall under Penelope's hand was the plush rabbit. Holding the toy of the scruff of its neck, she pulled it from the burlap bundle just enough so that its head and floppy ears were visible. Wagging its head back and forth, she said in what she hoped was a bunnylike voice, “Happy birthday, Tommy!” Then she made it leap the rest of the way from its wrappings and pretend-hop across the table toward the fascinated baby.

“Will you look at the pretty bunny, Tomkins!” Minerva crowed as Penelope gently butted the toy's cross-stitched nose against her son's button one in a bunny kiss. “Why, it looks just like the furry little darlings we see on our walks.” Meeting the younger woman's gaze, she explained, “Our Tomkins seems to have a special fondness for rabbits. Every time we see one in the woods, he giggles and follows it with his eyes until it's out of sight.”

As if to validate the woman's words, Tommy laughed and batted at the toy with one tiny fist.

Tucking the velvety rabbit into his arms, Penelope promised, “Later I'll tell you a story about a wise bunny who outwitted a greedy fox set on having rabbit stew for supper. But first, I have something else for you. A special gift for my special boy.”

“Two presents in one day!” cried Minerva in mock amazement. “Aren't we a spoiled boy!”

If Penelope had had her way, he'd have had a hundred gifts instead of just two. But, of course, the rabbit and the rattle were the best she could afford with her limited funds.

Firmly pushing aside her monetary woes, she drew the rattle from the bundle and presented it with a clattering flourish. Both Tommy and Minerva gasped aloud.

Kneeling next to the chair to put herself at eye level with the baby, Minerva crooned, “Isn't that just the fanciest rattle you've ever seen? I swear it's fine enough for a prince.”

Tommy stared wide-eyed at the shiny toy, as if mesmerized.

Lifting the silver jester to her lips, Penelope lightly blew into his whistle-hat, tooting out a series of shrill notes.

The baby's mouth opened and closed several times in rapid succession before he let out a hiccuping squeak.

“And see here, Tomkins!” Minerva ran her index finger across the gold bells, which twinkled softly beneath her touch. “A rattle, a whistle, and
bells
. Why, you can be a one-man band!”

Smiling as the older woman chattered on about a one-man band she'd once seen in Boston, Penelope drew a length of royal blue ribbon from the now almost flat bundle and began to tie the toy to Tommy's wrist. When the handle was secured, she gently wiggled his arm to demonstrate the sound-producing motion. After several such demonstrations, he gave a tentative jerk on his own. Laughing with pleasure at the discordant results, he repeated the action. And then again. Within the space of a minute, he was shaking the rattle in earnest.

“There goes the peace and quiet,” Minerva said, chuckling.

Penelope shot the woman an apologetic look. “How terribly thoughtless of me. I didn't stop to consider the noise when I got the idea to tie the rattle to his arm.” Glancing wistfully down at her son's rapturous face, she admitted, “All I wanted was for Tommy to be able to enjoy his new toy.”

“Which he's doing,” Minerva observed as she rose to her feet. Giving the younger woman's shoulder a warm squeeze, she reassured her, “Now, don't you go bothering yourself any about the racket. It does my heart good to hear it. You know how it worries me the way our Tomkins is so quiet all the time.”

It worried Penelope, too. Chronically ill since birth, her son had spent most of his short life lying listlessly on his blanket, his frail body often wracked by terrifying seizures. While most two-year-olds ran rather than walked and echoed every word they heard like precocious parrots, Tommy never so much as lifted his head or uttered a sound other than the most rudimentary expressions of pleasure or distress.

Sighing at her troubling thoughts, Penelope lifted a corner of her son's blue woolen shawl, and wiped a trail of drool from his chin. Then she glanced back up at Minerva, who was dropping the chopped vegetables into a pot cooking over the hearth fire.

“Where's Sam?” she asked.

“Last time I looked out the window, I saw him and Miles headed up into the woods. Sam had his gun, so I'd guess they've gone hunting.”

“Sam's become quite a hunter in the last year and a half,” Penelope commented, remembering Minerva's hilarious accounts of the man's first few rather comical attempts at procuring game.

“Yes, he has,” Minerva agreed, her voice touched with pride. “In fact, he killed a deer yesterday morning, so we've got fresh venison for supper.” She stabbed at the contents of the pot with the blunt end of a wooden spoon. “Unfortunately, fresh is the best I can say for this meat. It's as tough as cheap shoe leather. Between you and me, I suspect that the animal was ready to keel over of old age when it was shot.” Grimacing, she placed a lid on the pot and turned from the fire. “Oh, well. I guess the Lord wanted us to be thankful for our teeth this Sabbath.”

“Speaking of food …” Minerva's discourse reminded Penelope of her final surprise for Tommy. “I brought the baby some baked custard as a special birthday treat. It's soft, so he shouldn't have trouble swallowing it.” She crossed her fingers. Like everything else in his difficult life, eating was a trial for her son, and he more often choked on his food than swallowed it.

The older woman nodded her approval at the muslin-wrapped parcel Penelope had pulled from the now flat bundle. “You'll be happy to hear that he's been doing much better with his eating of late. Why, he only choked on his pap twice this morning.”

“You've done a wonderful job with him,” Penelope commended sincerely. “Perhaps when this is all over, I can find some way to repay you for your kindness.”

Minerva shook her head as she crossed the room and sat in the chair at Penelope's left. “Like you, I'm just doing what I must to protect my own son from Adele. Besides, Tommy is a joy.”

“He is sweet, isn't he?” Penelope acknowledged, smiling down at her baby with maternal pride. “And what about your son? Have you heard anything from him?”

“One of his letters caught up with us a couple of weeks ago. He's doing well in the town council and says that his fellow council members are prompting him to run for mayor.” She rubbed her temples wearily. “He also wants to know when Sam and I are going to stop traipsing around the West and come home to Boston to see our new granddaughter.”

“A granddaughter,” Penelope echoed softly. “How lovely. Congratulations.”

Minerva heaved a frustrated sigh. “I hate not having been there when she was born. She's my first grandchild, you know. What I wouldn't give to hold her.”

“You might get your chance soon,” Penelope said, crossing her fingers that her plan to regain Tommy would succeed.

The other woman snorted. “If you believe that, then you've got a lot to learn about Adele du Charme. The woman is a vampire. She doesn't release anyone—man, woman, or child—until she's sucked every last bit of usefulness out of them.”

“Well, in that case, I guess we're about sucked dry,” Penelope declared. “According to Miles, Adele plans to quit the West within the next few months and settle in Boston. Apparently she's scheming to catch a rich husband … you know, one of those Beacon Hill types whose wives become instant social aristocracy the second they say ‘I do.' With those ambitions, I doubt she'll want to be associated with a third-rate theatrical company.”

“Perhaps she'll no longer need the company, but I can't see her dismissing me and Sam. Not while our son is a member of the town council and a possible mayoral candidate.” Minerva shook her head, her expression troubled. “If she starts demanding favors from the council, well, then I'll have no choice but to tell Alex the truth.”

The truth was that the Skolfields' son, Alexander, was not only a bastard, but one-eighth black as well. And Adele had the papers to prove it. By way of explanation for her and Sam's participation in Tommy's kidnapping, Minerva had told Penelope the whole story.

Like her mother before her, Minerva, the quadroon offspring of a wealthy Creole planter and his mulatto mistress, had been groomed from birth to be
placée
with the right rich man. With that goal in mind, she'd been presented at the Quadroon Balls held at the infamous Salle d'Orléans in New Orleans.

It was there that she met handsome Samuel Skolfield. By his father's decree, he had recently wed the ill-tempered daughter of one of New Orleans's finest families. As a way of reparation for forcing his son into an unhappy marriage, the elder Mr. Skolfield had offered to set him up with the mistress of his choice.

And Sam had selected Minerva. As protector and placée, they had expected to be fond of each other, but neither anticipated falling in love. But fall in love they did, passionately so, and the result of that love was their son, Alexander.

All too aware of the stigma of being colored, and unable to bear the idea of his blue-eyed son being denied opportunity and social position because of the hue of his great-grandmother's skin, Sam persuaded Minerva to flee north with him. Abandoning everything, including Sam's shrewish wife and the sizable yearly stipend he received from his father, they migrated to Boston, where they passed themselves off as man and wife.

As the years went by, they prospered, with Sam fighting his way up from the lowly position of clerk to that of full partner at the respected accounting firm of Grossman and Shepard. The only shadow over their otherwise bright life was Sam's estranged wife's refusal to grant him a divorce.

As disturbing as living in adultery was to Sam and Minerva, their real problems didn't start until fifteen years after leaving New Orleans. That trouble came in the form of a maid named Dorcas Grace Butler.

At first she was everything they could wish in an employee: reliable, even-tempered, and hardworking. But all that changed with the flick of a feather duster. While cleaning the study one day, or so she claimed, she came across and stole the correspondence between Sam and his wife's lawyer. Those papers gave Dorcas Butler, now Adele du Charme, the leverage she needed to blackmail the Skolfields. For not only did they damn Sam and Minerva as adulterers, they branded Alexander a bastard of color.