The Storm (16 page)

It'd be a blessing when Patrick got big enough to do that chore all by himself.

She'd never been a stranger to hard work. Her pa never could afford any slaves, and since he didn't have anything but girls, she grew up on the end of a hoe. She could chop a row of cotton faster and cleaner than anybody in the county, including her husband Calvin, though he didn't practice as much as she did.

Her back was as strong as a man's, but it sure got sore once in a while. She was getting a little old
.
Yes, sir, it'd be good to have a big strapping boy to haul the water out of the well instead of having to depend on Molly and mostly do it herself when James was out in the fields. She was getting weary of working like a man.

*

“How are you this morning, Patrick? Are you enjoying your summer vacation? Why aren't you outside helping your mother and your grandmother?”

“Mama said she'd call me later. She lets me help her get the clothes dry. I like to spread them all over the bushes. It's fun, like a game.”

Jaq sat in a chair in the guest room. Molly had tiptoed in as soon as she woke up and said she'd slept on filthy sheets long enough. It was washday, and she and Mrs. Russell had already built a fire, she said. They had the wash pot ready to go. And her sheets did feel dirty. She'd spent a lot of time between them.

Patrick plopped down on the bare feather mattress and stared at her like she was an exotic animal in a circus parade.

“Can I stay in here with you and talk about the War? Were you really over there where they're fighting?”

“Yes, Patrick. This time last year I was in Belgium, close to France. Be glad you're not old enough to be there. The boys on the front lines have to sleep in the mud a lot of nights. And do you know what they have to eat?”

“No, ma'am. What?”

“Well, if they're lucky enough to find an empty house, they cram themselves into a big room. Then they build a campfire and brew coffee and toast bread over it.”

“Golly, that sounds like fun.”

“It may sound like it, Patrick, but it's not. The boys don't ever have any chocolate pie or buttermilk with cornbread, like you do. One of the worst things is the poison gas the Boches use. They shoot it at our boys in big shells. And if it gets on them it makes nasty yellow sores and hurts their lungs so they can't breathe very well.”

Patrick frowned and changed the subject. “Why do you call them Boches, Miss Jacqueline?”

“It's an ugly word for the Germans. Some people say it means cabbage head. I'm not sure how it got started, but a lot of the soldiers in Europe use it, so I picked up the same habit. It really means we don't like the German soldiers and wish they'd go home and leave us alone.”

Patrick looked like he was interested, but he didn't seem to believe everything she told him.

“Oops, I hear Mama calling me. I'll be back as soon as I can.”

She enjoyed Patrick's company. He seemed bright and caring, like his mother. Mature for his age, but she'd heard that was common for an only child. He was already showing signs of growing up to be as large as his father. Lately, he'd started visiting her every chance he got. He liked to talk about life beyond the farm, especially everything his father had told him about the Trojan War.

Mr. James glamorized war, and she hated to disillusion Patrick. But a lot of the young men—and women like Helen—were in Europe because of that same type of lie. Damn it. She refused to help send Patrick off to another war to be slaughtered. She believed in the suffragists' nonviolent tactic of turning President Wilson's words against him.

Poor Helen had been a diehard patriot, though, so excited about her experience in the conflict. She'd kept talking about all the war stories she'd share with her family and friends when she got home. Nothing seemed to disillusion her, even when she was shivering in the cold and the rain. She thought about Helen for quite a while after Patrick left.

The Russells were good people too. Molly had been an angel. And what Mr. James said to Eric the other night made Jaq feel a lot safer about going back. Mrs. Russell was a cross to bear, most of the time, but she'd done a really fine job tending to her forehead. Jaq hoped her new scar looked better than the one she'd had to live with since last year. Every time she looked at it, she was ashamed of what she'd done to Henry.

*

Molly spread clean white sheets onto Jacqueline's bed. “Is this old feather mattress comfortable enough?”

“It's like lying on a cloud. I've felt like royalty the past few days, with you and Patrick waiting on me.”

“You deserve every minute of it, after what happened. I just wish you could live with us forever.”

“I can't remember when I've been happier. I enjoyed visiting my aunts in Washington and New York, and living with my sister in London, but she's so fascinated with high society, just like Mother. She was always fretting about what to wear and why she didn't get invited to this party or that one. I told her she'd just recovered from having her second baby and didn't need to be out running around, but did she listen to me? You seem so devoted to Patrick. It's good to see someone who truly enjoys being a mother.”

Molly flinched. She
did
love Patrick and would do anything for him. She'd agreed to this life, and she meant to make the most of it. But if she had it to do over again, she'd choose a much different road, perhaps one with somebody as special as Jacqueline. The very thought made her grab hold of the sheet she was spreading so tight she bunched it into a wad. She had to loosen her grip and press out the wrinkles with her hand. That's what life with Jacqueline would be like, she mused—nice and smooth, instead of the twisted-up mess hers was now on the farm.

But it was so hard for two women to support themselves. Men monopolized almost all the paying jobs and denigrated women's work. Her favorite music teachers at Bowdon seemed to have managed financially, though supposedly a wealthy uncle had left one of them a substantial inheritance.

She'd heard that some women dressed up like men, even lived their entire lives pretending to be men and never got caught, just so they could make enough money to survive on their own. But she wouldn't like that. She liked being a woman, and she enjoyed being around someone who seemed to feel the same way—such as Jacqueline.

“Mother Russell asked me to change your bandage today. Do you mind?” She hoped she could do it right.

“Of course not. But don't you have better things to do, with all your chores?”

I can't think of anywhere I'd rather be.
She patted the bed. “It'll only take a few minutes. I've watched Mother Russell, so maybe I'll do a decent job.”

Jacqueline's expression encouraged her. “Of course you will. And I'd much rather have you close to me than her.”

Then Jacqueline blushed, like she'd said something she didn't mean to.

As they both sat on the edge of the bed and she scooted close enough to take off the old bandage, she smelled the homemade soap they all used here at home. Then, instead of the odor of lard sweetened with rose water, she inhaled a hint of perspiration, as if Jacqueline was nervous. But why would she be?

Molly gently brushed Jacqueline's bangs back and eased the soiled bandage off, barely touching Jacqueline's face, though even that tiny contact made her fingers vibrate. The wound seemed to be healing. She could see the tiny holes the stitches had left after Mother Russell cut the thread out. As she carefully ran a clean, wet cloth over the gash to clear away the flecks of calendula petals that still clung to it, Jacqueline grasped her shoulders, as if she'd startled her.

“Does it still hurt?” she asked.

“Not much. But it's a little tender.”

Jacqueline didn't move her hands, and she didn't budge. In fact, she inched a tad closer. They sat unmoving for a while, gazing at each other. Something flowed between them, as strong and sweet as taffy. Molly didn't want to breathe and risk disturbing the connection.

“Do I look too horrible?” Jacqueline seemed embarrassed to ask the question.

Nothing about you could ever look horrible
, she wanted to say, but she simply rubbed the back of her hand over Jacqueline's cheek, which was as smooth and firm as an almost-ripe plum. “Not at all,” she whispered. “I doubt anyone will even notice your scar after a few months.”

Without warning, Jacqueline wrapped her arms around her in a long hug and murmured, “Thank you.” She just had to hug her back, and for a wonderful few minutes they sat there with their breasts touching and the smell of clean, sun-dried sheets wafting around them. She didn't remember ever feeling so content yet so on edge.

When they finally pulled apart, Molly was full of an energy she'd never experienced. She wanted to run, to shout that everything in the world was wonderful, especially Jacqueline.

But she couldn't do that. She couldn't slip between the soft sheets beside Jacqueline either, or smooth her fingers over her forehead and heal it completely. If she could work that kind of miracle, she'd turn herself into an unmarried woman.

Sadly she wasn't able to work magic, so she gently applied a new bandage and touched Jacqueline's cheek again. “You're supposed to keep it as clean and dry as you can.” Then she left the room while she still could.

Molly missed Jacqueline so much she ached, like someone had kicked her heart. Patrick looked sad after she went home, while Mr. James seemed the same as ever, and Mother Russell acted positively gleeful.

As she stripped the bed, she spotted a few stray black hairs when she balled up the sheets, and she chided herself. Jacqueline just lived a mile or so down the road, and Molly could telephone her any time. But it wasn't the same as her living under the same roof and being only a few steps away, depending on her for practically everything.

Jacqueline had been even more withdrawn than usual during the first two days she'd spent with them and spoke with Patrick more than anyone during her convalescence. He stayed by her bed for hours and chattered but sat quietly while she slept or rested. At times, Jacqueline had gazed out at the rose garden, though she squinted when it was sunny and said the roses had lost most of their fragrance.

What a strange statement, because the flowers smelled as wonderful as ever. And Jacqueline flinched when anyone spoke in a loud voice. Her dark eyes had looked as muddy as the pond after a rainstorm. She'd gradually improved, though she apologized for being too tired to help much around the house.

Hopefully, she wouldn't push herself waiting on those two men, and Eric would remember that Mr. James was watching him to make sure he quit drinking so much.

Molly needed to keep her eyes open too, or she'd fret herself to death wondering what was happening at the McCades'.

*

“How about some scrambled eggs for breakfast?” Eric asked when Jaq came downstairs the morning after she got home from Molly's. “I've learned to make a few dishes while you were gone. Sit down and let me show you.”

She studied him as he scurried around the kitchen. He wasn't limping quite so bad. What a pair the two of them were.

“Here you go. Eggs, biscuits, and gravy. Pop and I've already eaten.” He set a steaming plate in front of her and seemed so proud of himself, she had to give him a small smile.

“Thank you, Eric. I could get used to this.”

“Sure thing. I bet I can learn a lot more about cooking.” He acted as eager to please as Patrick did.

She ate in silence. Though the food smelled and looked good, it didn't have much taste. But neither had anything at Molly's.

“Jaq.” Eric waited until she looked up from her plate. “I can't say how sorry I am. I've never hit a woman and I never will again. Something in me just snapped, and the whiskey didn't help. I'm on the wagon now and feel a lot better. My sight's a little blurry, but I can tolerate the light indoors. Direct sunlight still bothers me.”

She didn't know what to say. Should she trust him or should she make him suffer for what he'd done? She knew what it was like to lose control and regret her actions. Boy, did she ever. She thought about poor Henry every day, but that couldn't bring him back. If Eric felt that way for hitting her, he was being punished enough.

“I can't say that I'll forget what you did, Eric, and I'll probably be careful around you until I'm sure I can trust you. But sometimes we all do things we regret. Just be good to yourself and get well as soon as you can. And find your father some help so we can leave here. That's all I ask.”

Eric looked like a load had dropped off his shoulders. “I understand. You're a doll. I'll show you I'm not a total dud. Thanks for the chance.” He scooped up her dishes and carried them to the sink.

“Not so fast,” she said as she rose. “I'm not an invalid either. I can do my own dishes, and thanks again for breakfast. You better go help Angus.”

*

“It's great to see you, Molly,” Jaq said. “These cookies are the best I could manage. A glass of milk might make my cooking edible, if you don't mind pulling up a cold tin of it from the well.”

“You shouldn't have bothered. I didn't come for the refreshments. Seeing you refreshes me enough.”

Molly flushed, and Jaq agreed that their Wednesday visits were the highlight of her week. When Molly wasn't there, she usually sank into a funk. She couldn't think of anything but Molly's soft hands and her musical voice. She didn't want to waste a second. She needed to get enough of Molly to last till Sunday, when she could see her at the church.

She'd told Molly a little about her school days in New Orleans, but today she'd promised to describe some of her adventures after she left there. She hadn't said a word about Sister Mary Therese and Willie because that might shock Molly and scare her away. She enjoyed Molly's company and knew nothing would ever grow beyond friendship, but she wanted to spend as much time with her as she could before she left New Hope. Maybe she'd like to hear about her Aunt Françoise and her Aunt Anna, and her visit with them before she sailed to London.