My mother is awake when I arrive, a candle at her bedside as she darns a sock. I close the door behind me, setting the sack on the table.
“What do you have?” my mother asks.
I let out a soft breath. “Food,” I tell her, pulling the items free. My stomach nearly drops to my feet when I see the jar half-full of what must be butter.Oh, Jasper.
“Abraham,” my mother says, fear in her voice. “Did you steal it?”
“No, Mama,” I answer quickly, setting down a loaf of bread and finding a salted meat of some kind. Pork, I believe. “It was a gift. From a friend.”
She looks unconvinced, but she doesn’t press for more information. Perhaps she doesn’t believe me and wishes not to know.
I set to work cutting one end of the bread into pieces. Atop two, I spread a fine layer of butter. It clumps, cool as it is, but I don’t concern myself with warming it. My mother won’t mind, and neither will I. Atop that, I add small hunks of the dried meat. On the other two pieces of bread, I lather the fruit spread. Orange, perhaps? Apricot?
“Here,” I tell my mother, passing her a plate as I take a seat at the edge of her mat. “An extra meal will do us good.”
She doesn’t object. Not after two days of eating only cornbread and our last ration of beef. We’re quiet as we chew, but I have no doubt my mother is savoring the experience as I am.
“Your friend,” she says slowly once done. “Did he steal this?”
I laugh softly, my spirits high with my stomach so pleasantly sated. “No, he did not.”
“He is wealthy, then.”
“Yes. Here. Let me take your plate.”
She hands it to me, empty of even crumbs, and I stand, wiping each with a cloth before storing the rest of the food. I set the sack near the door to return to Jasper.
“Do you need to use the pot?” I ask.
My mother nods, and I go to her side, helping maneuver her so she can relieve herself before bed. After emptying the pot and taking care of my own needs, I return indoors. The candle continues to flicker, although I know my mother will extinguish the flame soon enough.
“Abraham,” she says gently.
I pause, standing in front of my own bed mat, my shirt set aside for tomorrow. My mother seems to weigh her words, her exhaustion evident on her face, even in the limited light. I can’t help my worry that, despite my best efforts, this life is pressing down on her more forcefully than I can counteract.
“I feel that I am nothing but a burden to you,” she finally says.
“Mama.”
“Please,” she goes on, her hair spread darkly across her pillow as she looks my way. “This isn’t what I wanted for you. I can scarcely help. Scarcely contribute—”
“Hush,” I say more forcefully, returning to her side and kneeling beside her. “You do the best you can. And I wouldn’t ever ask more of you. Who raised me, hm?”
She lets out a soft sigh.
“You’ve worked hard your whole life,” I remind her. “Now it’s my turn. Let me carry the weight. I am strong enough to do so thanks to you.”
She nods, tears in her eyes. After making sure her legs are in a comfortable position, I blow out the candle and return to bed.
The morning brings with it sunshine, a soft breeze, and a contented stomach as I rake horse stalls. Victor does his own tasks within the stables, checking on me rarely. I take pride in his trust, and, like always, I work hard to ensure I keep it.
Jasper is on my mind near constantly. His voice. His lips. The prospect of seeing him again. My stomach flips at the mere thought, a smile on my face as I lug a wheelbarrow full of manure out back.
As I’m feeding the horses their morning grain, I sense him. He’s standing outside the doorway to the stables, his waistcoat and breeches a light tan, his coat dark green. He lingers only for a moment, but the sight of him has me wishing for Victor’s absence once more so that we might steal the day away in one another’s company. As is, we’re only afforded a quick, shared smile.
It’s enough. Even when my night passes without a single sighting of Jasper.
The following day is much the same. A morning meal of bread, meat, and butter. Clearing the stables and preparing the horses for labor. A brief glimpse of Jasper as he slows on his way to the printer.
