The Loom (28 page)

With the damp blanket still wrapped around her, she climbed the back steps of the manor and entered from the rear. Still going through back doors, even as a White.

In the hallway, she heard a door creak but saw no one. Like she had heard the footsteps of Dr. Kelly that night, she waited, but this time no one came.

When she was safely in her room, she wiped the dried blood from the scratch on her face likely from the fall outside Lou’s cabin. She wondered how she would explain it, wondered how she would have the courage to face Jackson again at all.

She shoved the blanket under her bed and sat in front of the mirror, a mess. Her hair was in disarray, her eyes bloodshot; the scratch, though, looked better than it felt. Could easily be covered with powder.

It would be several hours before night, before Jackson’s return, she thought, but she was alarmed when her door swung open two hours later. She was just finishing her hair.

“Where were you?”

Lydia’s brush paused in midair. She could see Jackson’s long legs behind her in the mirror. She wiggled upright in her seat.

“Pardon me?”

“Where were you this morning? I heard you were gone.”

That Annie!

She continued brushing her hair. Her hand moved slowly over the waves, but everything internal raced. He winced. She could see his hand shoot up toward his face. “How’s the tooth?”

“Don’t ask. Caroline, answer me.”

She laid the brush down on the cedar stand, her fingers still loosely wrapped around the handle, and twisted toward him.

“Rode in one of my wagons, did you?”

“I needed to talk to Lizzy.”

“Is that right? You’re on friendly terms with her again?”

“Of course. Always. We’ll always be friends. Just because her father—”

“What did you speak to her about?”

“I talked to her—”

“About what?”

“Womanly things, Jackson. Don’t tell me you want to know the particulars.”

“Well, did you?”

“Did I?”

“Talk to her?”

“Of course I did.”

“It’s so easy for me to confirm this, Caroline. You know that, don’t you?”

Lydia could feel fear trying to escape through widening eyes or a dropped jaw, but she reined it in, harnessed it deep, until he whacked the back of the chair. She held tight, but a measure of terror rushed through her blood and a single vein in her hand jolted.

She gripped the brush tighter.

“Talk to me, Caroline!”

She stood up and turned to him, running her fingers over the buttons of his white shirt and a throbbing heart. “There is something I’ve been keeping from you.”

“What is it?” He gripped her shoulders and pressed her back. “What is it? Tell me.”

“It was to be a surprise.” Think, Lydia, think! “I was planning our wedding.”

He stared at her. Through her.

“Is that right?”

“Yes. When you said you were going to Henry’s I knew it was the perfect time to get the plans underway.”

Lydia brushed past him and sat on the bed. Leaning back, she dangled her legs off the edge, playfully. Auburn locks cascaded around her.

“Why now? You haven’t mentioned a thing about it since that night on the porch. I was starting to question if you even wanted to get married. Most women would’ve jumped at the chance.”

“I’m not most women.” She waited for the arrogance to slip from his cocked brow. “Regardless, isn’t it what you want?”

He searched her.

“Should I proceed?” She watched him watching her, hoped she had said enough, done enough, to convince him.

He nodded. One small bead of pressure released down the back of her neck.

“Is that a ‘yes?’ You would like me to continue planning our wedding?”

“I suppose.”

“Well, fine.” She clapped, clasped her hands together, and grinned.

“When are you trying to do this?”

“I’m not sure yet. Soon. In a month.”

“In a week.”

“In a week? Jackson—”

“In a week, Caroline.” His head was bent toward hers, his eyes narrow. There was no convincing him otherwise.

“In a week.” She nodded. “After Christmas, then. Just something very small. Intimate.” She thought of the Kellys. “No Michael Kelly. Only family. Yours, of course.”

“Of course. That’s fine. So, did Elizabeth have any words of wisdom? You did speak with her, didn’t you?”

“I did.” She leaned forward on the bed and grinned. “Never mind all the details, Jackson.” She smiled until the rigid edges of his face softened, melted. She could see he wanted to believe her.

Kneeling in front of her, Jackson leaned in close—she breathed his breath—but before his mouth touched hers, his head fell back. He squeezed his eyes shut and bit his bottom lip blazing red. Mumbling curses hissed low through a cupped hand.

Lydia stood up, moved away much too quickly for a woman in love. “What are you going to do about that thing?” she asked to distract him.

“I don’t know.” He gripped his jaw, rubbed fiercely before pulling himself up. “It’s killing me.” When he grabbed the doorknob, he stopped. “You’re sure there’s nothing else I need to know?”

“No.”

“You’re not hiding anything, are you, Caroline?”

“No. Why?”

“I’ve got a feeling you’re not telling me everything.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean there are some things you’re keeping to yourself. Secret.”

“No.”

“Not one? Not one secret?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking—”

“Your story, Caroline. Your family story. Everything’s not adding up.”

“I lose my father and you doubt me? I don’t believe you, Jackson.”

“Funny.” He stared at her. “I don’t believe you.” He jerked the door open, but his hand lingered on the knob and his fingers tapped. Tapping. She was suddenly on the porch with Dr. Kelly.

“Caroline, I just hope you’re not lying to me. About anything. I hate to think I’m marrying a liar.” He paused. “Or something worse.” The door slammed behind him.

Lydia stood frozen until she heard his footsteps fade. When her heart settled, she moved back to the chair and looked in the mirror. She could see, in the right-hand corner behind her, a strip of red and purple.

She turned around and saw the blanket under her bed. She needed to hide it well. But before she rose, she glanced at her reflection and startled. A withered soul stared back at her.

The reaping had begun.

Everybody deserved to see what was coming.

Lydia peeked through the window of the Whitfield Loom Room. Three women snuggled together quilting in a corner, and a man sat on a wobbly wooden stool winding strips of fabric around a peg. She walked around, fascinated by the beauty of her roots and the window in which to see them.

“Nice,” she whispered more to herself than to them.

She spotted Annie near a corner in front of a floor loom. “How are you?”

Annie tugged her head rag over the top flap of her ear and looked up at Lydia with surprise. Lydia smiled at the memory. How she hated those scarves.

“I’m doing fine, ma’am.”

“You mind?” Lydia sat beside her and started wrapping pieces of yellow yarn around wooden pegs. “What are you making?”

“Umm…a rug.” She could see Annie in the corner of her eye, staring at her. “Just something for my room. To keep my feet warm. Is that all right?”

“I think that’s great. It’s going to be beautiful.”

Lydia hadn’t realized how much she had missed the string, the yarn, the fabric between her fingers.

“You do good work, Miss Caroline,” Annie said, but the look on her face unsettled Lydia, causing her to scramble quickly to her feet.

“You carry on now. Let me know if there’s anything else you need in here. I can ask Mr. Whitfield for you like you did for me when I first arrived.”

The girl kept her hands and eyes on the loom. Finally she looked up and nodded. “I got everything I need.”

Empathy rippled through Lydia’s flesh.

Not everything.

It was dark, late, or as early as morning could get.

Abram sat up in the middle of the night, coughing, staring at the back wall where Lou had lain only two days before.

He cupped his hand on the wrinkled forehead of his wife. She wasn’t warm, though he knew each day, each hour, they both crept closer to their last breath. His thumb quivered over eyes shut tight, like she was trying to block something out even in her sleep.

She stirred under his touch and turned to her side, nestled her head against his thigh. He stroked the wiry gray hairs of her head and smiled. He had fallen so easily for her.

A young, innocent girl with hope, a pureness. That’s what he had loved about her. The beauty of wonder in her eyes and an easy smile still present after the other girls her age had hardened under life’s toil. Not his Dessa. She kept right on grinning and laughing. He chuckled. A laugh so light, so sweet. Silver bells. It was the best part of her. He hadn’t heard it in years, many years, not since she witnessed the torture in the shed. It was a faint memory now. Like the many things that had passed on. What did they really have left?

Why?

Abram shook his head, tried to shake the word free from his mind, but its beckoning sank him into a sea of unrest.

He hated the word. Hated it more than the beatings, more than the deaths. It was useless, a cruel, dirty word that made him question his life. He shut his eyes. It was more than that. It made him question his God.

Abram coughed and slid down beside his wife under the wool blanket he pulled up beneath his chin. He needed to stay warm, rid himself for good of the cold that near killed him. He was glad he had made it for Odessa’s sake. When he had awakened and seen the look in her eyes, the flow of grief that never ended, he was glad he hadn’t left her alone. She was so shattered. Nothing left to break. One more tragedy, and she would die. Death was all that was left for both of them.

It still bothered him, bothered him all these years when he had the power to lay hands on and heal children, that he could never heal grown folk. Not even from a sore throat, an ache, or a pain. Not even from a tear. Nothing. He had tried countless times with Odessa, had thought she was innocent enough, that if anyone of age could be healed, it was her. But no. Not even Dessa.

Abram turned on his side behind her, slid his arms over her waist, over the body that hadn’t changed much in size, just in weariness. It had been the inside that changed, that had seeped like poison through the pores of her face.

It made him sad to look at her. She was too fragile for this life. Her mind, her heart, had cracked under the cruelty. Witnessing