Miss Rose called out from the door, “Welcome, sir. Happy Thanksgiving.”
Jackson returned the greeting.
She hollered again, “I’m happy you’ve arrived safely, and I’ll telephone Effie the news, but the doctor has ordered bed rest for your wife. Now, get her back inside ’fore she births that baby out in the snow.” She huffed. “Foolish young people gonna catch your death of cold and mark that unborn an orphan!”
Jackson dropped his gaze to me, his eyes bright. “I’ll make sure she stays warm, ma’am,” he told her, then pulled me into a shameless, fiery kiss.
Forty-Eight
After supper, Rose retired early to her room. Jackson poured himself a cup of coffee and we sat at the kitchen table, where I pressed him for more news from home.Honey.
“Honey’s healthy and growing up fast,” he said. “Too fast, as a matter of fact. Going steady with a boy named Francis. Wears his ring, even. I had a mind to light your old courting candle when he came a’callin’ one night too many.”
I pictured Jackson adjusting the taper to burn for the shortest time to signal the beau’s early departure and raised a disapproving brow. “My dear daughter,” I whispered, relieved there was no mention of an engagement but alarmed at the thought of reviving Pa’s ol’ timekeeping ritual.
I’d suffered misery at the hands of Pa using it to screen his only daughter’s potential suitors. Pa’d lit dozens of candles. A taper raised tall to burn meant a lengthy visit with a beau and the father’s approval, but if the candle was tamped down, it would signal a shorter one was in order. Desperate to see me wed, growing sicker from the black lung, he’d eventually cranked up the ol’ courting candle to burn for alarming lengths of time to lure a marriage proposal.
Many times, I’d sneak and reset the taper for a quick burn, or toss the spiral wrought-iron courting candle out into the yard after Pa left for the mine.
I rebelled at the idea that a mere candle could hold so muchpower over me, determine one’s lifelong misery or joy. But growing increasingly worried for my safety, Pa lit it for what he thought was one last time for ol’ squire Frazier, then immediately handed me over to the devil man, convinced he would protect me when Pa no longer could.
Jackson reached for my hand. “Junia was beside herself. The old apostle girl was fit to be tied when she saw me. Whimpering, hanging her head over my shoulder, carrying on something awful. Knocking that stubborn jaw against my back, sniffing my pockets like I was hiding something from her. Though I suspect the behavior was because I hadn’t brought you.” His solemn face opened with a wistful grin.
“Does Honey have everything she needs? Is Junia well?”
“Honey and Junia are thriving in the old Carter homestead. You’d be proud. They’re taking care of each other just fine, so don’t you fret another minute. Junia protects her young book mistress just like she did you. Honey’s doing right nice by her new mule, Willa, as well.”
We walked to our room, and Jackson spoke softly. “Now, about that courting candle: I needn’t light it.” A mischievous grin twitched on his lips. “Old Junia ran the pestering boy off for me.”
I couldn’t help but smile, thinking about Honey’s letters of Junia’s obstinance toward Francis, the mule taking over the duty of timekeeper. Protector.
***
For days, Jackson busied himself, tending to Rose’s chores that had long been neglected. He replaced several busted window sashes and repaired the broken lock on the basement door. Making several trips, he limped out to the woodshed to fetch wood for the small fireplaces in the guest rooms. Then he went to town and purchased Miss Rose’s supplies, hauling in bags fullof toiletries, cleaning disinfectants, and food.
She was grateful for the needed repairs and extra help in the icy throes of winter. When Miss Rose tried to pay him, he balked and said our lodging was payment enough.
In between the work, Jackson worried for news of any labor pains I might be having. And as the birth neared, my own worrisome thoughts plagued me during most of my waking hours and into the late nights.Would the child be healthy?
The fear had taken on a life of its own. Just yesterday, I stored the feather pillow inside Miss Rose’s closet that I’d been using. Instead, I set about taking clean rags to stuff a bed pillow for my own.
When Jackson looked at me puzzled, I didn’t tell him about the angel crown left on our porch in Thousandsticks, just busied myself righting the new pillow on my side of the bed.
I couldn’t take any chances.
On the eleventh of December, I felt the first spasms of labor strike at dusk. At once, Rose called the doctor, but the wires were silent. A raging snowstorm had gripped the town, knocking down telephone lines. Still, she tried to get hold of the switchboard operator to help connect her to the town midwife, and then again to the doctor when my pains grew unbearable. But it was useless.
Several hours later, Rose slammed the bulky receiver down in the cradle, then picked it up again and listened once more for a ringtone. Growing more frustrated, she gave up.
In bed, I gripped the mattress and moaned into the cotton sheets as the pains roiled over me.
Jackson put his hand over mine.
Miss Rose rounded the bed to my other side. “I’ve assisted our midwife here several times. And Mama with my two brothers and a sister before that. That’d be my sweet Effie.” Her wise ol’ eyes ballooned as she soothed me. “Don’t you worry. Just four years ago, I delivered a healthy baby girl to a couple who took lodging for the night.” She smacked her hands. “I’ll justhave to do.”
The woman fretted a moment, then moved about the room barking orders to Jackson. “Get water and towels. Fill that washstand over there. More bedding is down the hall. In the green closet.” She fluffed my homemade pillow. “And get her one of my nice feather pillows from a guest room.”
“No,” I said sharply, stopping her in her tracks. “No pillow, Miss Rose.”
