Lyn Cote (5 page)

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.”

Chapter Five

T
he next morning, Kurt waited, hunched forward on the last bench at the rear of the schoolroom where Sunday services were also held. When would Miss Thurston appear with the baby? He sat between a surly Gunther and an eager Johann, hoping neither his inner turmoil nor his eagerness to see her were evident.

A warm morning meant that the doors and windows had been opened wide, letting in a few lazy flies. Men, women and children, seated with their families, filled the benches. Ostensibly Kurt had come to worship with the rest of the good people of Pepin. But he knew he and his brother and his nephew did not look or feel like a family in the way that the rest of those gathered today did. Their family had been fractured by his father’s awful choices. Gloom settled on Kurt; he pushed it down, shied from it.

Wearing a black suit, Noah Whitmore, the preacher, stood by the teacher’s desk at the front. But Kurt knew that more than worship would take place here today. The foundling child would not be taken lightly. His stomach quivered, nearly making him nauseated, and he couldn’t stop turning his hat brim in his hands. He was nervous—for her.

He’d had no luck making the schoolteacher see sense last night. He didn’t want to see the fine woman defeated, but to his way of thinking, she didn’t have a hope. What would everyone say when they saw the baby? When they heard Miss Thurston declare she intended to keep him?

As if she’d heard his questions, the schoolteacher stepped from her quarters through the inner door, entering the crowded, buzzing schoolroom. With a polite smile, she called, “Good morning!” And then she paused near Noah, facing everyone with the baby in her arms, back straight, almost defiant.

As if hooked by the same fishing line, every face swung to gaze at her and then downward to the small baby, wrapped in the tattered blanket in her arms. Gasps, followed by stunned silence, met her greeting. Kurt had to give the lady her due. She had courage. Her eyes flashed with challenge, and Kurt could not help but notice that she looked beautiful in her very fine dress of deep brown.

She cleared her throat. “Something quite unusual happened last night. This baby was left on my doorstep.”

In spite of his unsettled stomach, Kurt hid a spontaneous smile. Her tone was dignified, and when a wildfire of chatter whipped through the room, she did not flinch. Kurt could not turn his gaze from her elegant face. She blushed now, no doubt because of the attention she drew.

Recovering first from surprise, Noah cleared his throat. “Was a note left with the child?”

Everyone quieted and fixed their stares on Ellen again.

“No, the child came without any identification.”

“Is it a boy or a girl?” a man Kurt didn’t know asked.

“How old is he?” Martin Steward asked. His wife, Ophelia, started to rise, but Martin gently urged her to remain seated. Would Miss Thurston’s family support her in her desire to keep the child?

“The infant is around a month old, Mrs. Ashford thought,” the schoolteacher said. “He is a boy, and I’ve named him William.” At that moment, William yawned very loudly. A few chuckled at the sound.

Mr. and Mrs. Ashford, in their Sunday best, hurried inside with Amanda between them. “We’re sorry to be late,” Mr. Ashford said, taking off his hat.

“But we lost so much sleep helping Miss Thurston with the foundling last night,” Mrs. Ashford announced, proclaiming herself as an important player in this mystery. “We overslept.”

Kurt watched them squeeze onto the bench in front of him, though plenty of space remained open beside Johann. The simple act scraped his tattered pride. When he noted their daughter steal a quick glance at Gunther, his tension tightened another turn. The Ashfords would never let Gunther court their daughter. That was as ridiculous as if he decided to pursue Miss Thurston himself.

This realization choked him and he tried to dismiss it.

Ellen nodded toward the rear of the room. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Ashford. I’ll need more of that Horlick’s infant powder today. So far he seems to be tolerating it well.”

Mrs. Ashford perched on the bench, her chin lifted knowingly.

“Well, what are we going to do about this, Noah?” a tall, young deacon named Gordy Osbourne asked, rising. Many nodded their agreement with the inquiry.

Kurt braced himself. Now unrelenting reality regarding her station in life would beat against Miss Thurston.

Noah looked troubled. “Is the child healthy, Miss Thurston?”

Before Ellen could respond, Mrs. Ashford piped up, “He appears healthy, but is disfigured by a birthmark on his head.”

“He has what’s called a port-wine stain on his forehead,” Miss Thurston corrected, “but his hair will cover it as he grows.” The lady sent a stern glance at the storekeeper’s wife and held the child closer.

Why didn’t she see that he’d been right? No one was going to let her keep this child. He realized he’d been mangling his hat brim and eased his grip.

“Unless the mark grows, too, and spreads,” Mrs. Ashford said, sounding dour.

“I don’t think that has anything to do with the baby’s health,” Noah commented. “A birthmark will not hurt the child.”

“Maybe that’s why somebody abandoned him at the teacher’s door,” Osbourne’s wife, Nan, spoke up. “Some people don’t want a child with that kind of mark.”

“Unfortunately you may be right,” Noah said. “But the real question is, does anyone here know of any woman in this area who was expecting a child in the past month?”

Kurt admired Noah’s ability to lead the gathering. Was it because he was the preacher, or had he done something in the past to gain this position? In Europe, leadership would have to do with family standing and connections, but here, that didn’t seem to matter. No town mayor or lord would make this decision. Noah Whitmore had thrown the question open for discussion—even women had spoken. This way of doing things felt odd but good to Kurt.

Noah’s wife, Sunny, rose. “I think I can say that no woman
I know
in this whole area was expecting a baby last month.”

“Perhaps someone from a boat left him at the schoolhouse,” Miss Thurston said, “because it is the only public building in Pepin, and a little away from town. They would have been less likely to be observed leaving the child.”

The congregation appeared to chew on this. Kurt stared at Miss Thurston, remembering her initial hesitation to pick up the child and her mention of a baby brother who’d died. She had known loss, too. Wealth and position could not prevent mortality and mourning. He forced his tight lungs to draw in air.

“Well, we will need a temporary home for the child—” Noah began.

“I will keep the child,” Miss Thurston said, and then walked toward the benches as if the matter were settled.

Her announcement met with an instant explosion of disapproval, just as Kurt had predicted.

One woman rose. “You can’t keep a baby. You’re not married.” Her tone was horrified.

Ellen halted. “I don’t know what that has to do with my ability to care for a child. I’ve cared for children in the past.”

“But you’re the schoolmarm!” one man exclaimed. General and loud agreement followed.

Kurt didn’t listen much to the crowd, but watched for the reactions of the young pastor. And Miss Thurston, who’d paused near the front row, half-turned toward the preacher, too.

The pastor’s wife silenced the uproar merely by rising. “There is an orphanage in Illinois run by a daughter of our friends, the Gabriels. We might send the child there.”

Murmurs of agreement began.

Miss Thurston swung to face everyone again. “I think that is a precipitate suggestion. What if the child’s mother changes her mind? I don’t think it’s uncommon for a woman to become low in spirits soon after a birth.”

A few women nodded in agreement.

“What if this woman suffered this low mood and was in unfortunate circumstances? After realizing what she’s done, she might return to reclaim the child. I think it’s best we wait upon events.”

A man in the rear snorted and muttered loud enough for all to hear, “It’s probably somebody’s unwanted, baseborn child.”

Noah stiffened. “I think we need to remember why we are gathered here.”

That shut everyone up, suiting Kurt’s idea of propriety. A child’s life was not a subject for derision.

Noah gazed out at the unhappy congregation. “Miss Thurston is right, I think. A child’s future depends on our making the right decision. This is something we need to pray about so we do what God wants. One thing is certain—no woman gives up her child lightly. Someone has trusted us with their own blood and we must not act rashly.”

His words eased some of the tension from the room, another sign of Noah’s leadership. Again, Kurt wondered about the preacher’s past and how he’d come to be so respected here. Kurt’s family had been respected in their village, but had lost that over his father’s many sins.

“But who’s going to take care of the foundling in the meantime?” Mrs. Ashford asked.

“I will,” Ellen declared. “He was left on
my
doorstep.”

The storekeeper’s wife started, “But you’ll be teaching—”

“I’m sure we can find someone who will care for the child while Miss Thurston carries out her teaching duties,” Noah said, taking charge of the room. “That’s something else we will pray about.”

Noah raised his hands and bowed his head and began praying, effectively ending the discussion. Kurt lowered his head, too, praying that Miss Thurston wouldn’t be hurt too badly when the child was taken from her. Because he was certain that that was exactly what was going to happen, one way or the other.

* * *

Ellen’s face ached with the smile she’d kept in place all morning during the church service. She wished everyone would just go home and leave her alone. But the congregation lingered around the schoolhouse, around her.

Everyone wanted a good look at William and an opportunity to express their opinion of wicked people who abandoned babies. They also lauded her desire to care for the child—even if she were a schoolmarm, a woman was a woman, after all. Most voiced sympathetic-sounding, nonetheless irritating comments about William’s birthmark. Noah and Sunny had helped her but underneath all the general sentiment still held that she shouldn’t, wouldn’t, be allowed to keep William. Ellen was nearing the end of her frayed rope.

Then Martin came to her rescue. “Cousin Ellen, you’re coming home with us for Sunday dinner as planned.” He smiled at everyone as he piloted her toward their wagon. When Martin helped her up onto the bench, she noted Mr. Lang and his family, who had ridden to church with the Stewards, sat in the wagon bed at the rear. This man had predicted how the community would react all too accurately. But he didn’t look triumphant in the slightest, and for that, she was grateful. He nodded to her and gave her a slight smile that seemed to have some message she couldn’t quite read.

As the wagon rocked along the track into the shelter of the forest, Ellen breathed out a long, pent-up sigh. She glanced at her cousin sitting beside her. “Ophelia...” She fell silent; she simply didn’t have the words to go on.

Ophelia leaned against Ellen’s shoulder as if in comfort. “I can’t believe this happened.”

Ellen rested her head against the top of Ophelia’s white bonnet, murmuring, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“The Whitmores are coming over after dinner so we can discuss this,” Martin said. “We need to decide what to do with this child.”

Ellen snapped up straight. “It has already been decided. William will stay with me.”

“You can’t mean you really want to keep this baby?” Ophelia said, sounding shocked. “I don’t know how I’d take care of our little one alone.”

Her cousin’s stunned tone wounded Ellen, stopping her from responding.

“
Ja
—yes, she does,” Mr. Lang said as the wagon navigated a deep rut. “I told her last night that they will not let her.”

Mr. Lang’s words wounded more than all the rest. He’d been there last night, he’d experienced discovering this child with her. Why wouldn’t he take her side in this matter?

She brushed the opposition aside. It didn’t matter why he wouldn’t support her—it didn’t matter why any of them wouldn’t support her. She wasn’t like other women. She had goals, and now she’d added one more. If she were a weak woman, she wouldn’t be here to begin with—she would be living at home under her sister-in-law’s snide thumb. But she had struck out to make a life of her own, and that was exactly what she planned to do.

Those who opposed her would not win. All she had to do was come up with a convincing argument to keep this child—and her job. And frankly, she reminded herself, Mr. Kurt Lang’s opinion in this matter—in all matters—was irrelevant to her.

* * *

Later, in the early dusk, Kurt walked into the Steward’s clearing for the second time that day. Ever since the Stewards had dropped them off after church, he’d been worrying—about William, about Gunther, about Miss Thurston.

“Kurt, what brings you here?” called Martin, who was hitching the pony to his two-wheeled cart.

“Is Miss Thurston here still?” The fact he couldn’t easily pronounce the “Th” at the beginning of her name caused him to flush with embarrassment. He tried to cast his feelings aside. He had come to talk with Miss Thurston face-to-face over Gunther’s schooling. Altogether, the issue had left a sour taste in his mouth. But a decision must be made—Gunther’s playing hooky had forced his hand.

“She’s about done feeding the baby and then I’m taking her home,” Martin said as he finished the hitching.

“I have come to offer to escort the lady home.”

Martin turned to Kurt. “Oh?”

The embarrassment he’d just pushed away returned. Kurt tried to ignore his burning face. Did Martin think he was interested in Miss Thurston? “I wish to speak to her about my brother, Gunther, before school starts again tomorrow.”

At that moment, the lady herself stepped out of the cabin with William in her arms. She noticed him and stopped. “Mr. Lang.”

Sweeping off his hat, Kurt felt that by now his flaming face must be as red as a beetroot. “I come to take you home, Miss Thurston. And perhaps we talk about Gunther?”