“I’ll leave you,” Robertson said. “If you hear anything, let me know.”
Arran nodded and then showed the man out of the house. After closing the door behind him, Arran put another log on the fire and removed the steaming teakettle.
Miriam’s cries punctured the air.
Relief filled Arran at the sound. If the baby had enough energy to cry, then perhaps she was gaining strength again.
He could only hope.
Eleanor had slept in fits and starts since Miriam had become ill. Every move or sound the baby made had Eleanor on her feet to check on the tiny child.
Evening had set on the eighth day and Eleanor had insisted that Nicolette get some sleep. The older woman had worked just as diligently as Eleanor to care for the baby and had spent the day washing the household laundry on top of her other chores. When Nicolette refused to sleep, Eleanor had said she would stay awake to see to Miriam’s needs.
Darkness was descending much faster on the prairie as the winter grew long. Inside the governor’s house, Eleanor was thankful for the crackle of the fire and the warm rubbaboo bubbling in the kettle hanging from the metal crane. Arran had not yet returned from the barn where he’d gone to care for Tiberius, and William had been absent the entire day, though she did not know where he kept himself.
She set the table for the three of them, her muscles sore and her eyes burning from lack of sleep. With one ear to her bedroom door and the other to the front door, she set a plate of fresh biscuits on the table. Nicolette had agreed to go to sleep, only if she could prepare the meal in advance. Eleanor was thankful for her forethought, since she had little experience cooking. Nicolette had taught her a few basic skills since her arrival in the colony, but Eleanor had a long way to go if she wanted to be self-sufficient.
The front door creaked open, and Eleanor’s heart pounded a little harder, thinking it was Arran who would enter. But it was William who walked into the house.
He glanced up at Eleanor from under the brim of his hat, and when his eyes met hers, there was so much grief in them, she had to look away. Her own grief mingled with the resentment she’d started to feel toward him. She didn’t mind caring for Miriam—quite the opposite. She could not imagine being anywhere else when the baby needed her most. But she had grown angry at his lack of interest or involvement where the child was concerned.
Too little sleep, and a great abundance of fear, boiled to overflowing at the sight of him. With a clenched jaw, she set the tin plate on the table with more force than necessary.
William flinched as he set down his Bible. Without speaking, he took off his hat and coat and set them on the hooks near the door.
Eleanor did not speak, either, afraid of what she might say. Tears threatened to spill, yet she didn’t want to cry. The time had come to confront William, and she needed her wits about herself to do it with grace.
For a moment, William simply stood on the other side of the table. He opened his mouth as if he was going to speak, but then he closed it again.
Eleanor let out a long, low breath, hoping to steady her chaotic emotions. “Miriam has shown some improvement today.”
“Thank God for that.”
The fire popped, sending a spark of embers toward the chimney. Eleanor watched the flames for a moment, gathering her thoughts, and then looked back at William, the one question that had plagued her for months finding its way to her lips. “Why have you not held her?”
William was a strong man—a capable man. He was scholarly, but he was not frail. So, when he crumpled to the chair, dropping his face into his hands while he wept, Eleanor could do nothing but stare.
“I’m a coward. She’s all I have left of Anne, and I cannot bring myself to even touch her.”
All the resolve in Eleanor’s spine melted and she went to William, her heart aching for his. “You are not a coward.” She pulled a chair up beside him and put her hand on his arm.
He looked at her then, his blue eyes awash in tears. “After losing Anne, I thought I might also lose my mind. It was by sheer willpower and the divine grace of God that I did not.”
She did not speak but simply listened.
“Each time I start to feel again, I am plagued by guilt. How can I go on living when Anne could not? How can I love and laugh and be happy again when she is not here? How can I make memories and enjoy my daughter when those things were stolen from Anne?”
Eleanor did not try to answer him.
“But that is not the worst of it.” His voice broke and he shook his head. “I’m petrified to love my daughter.” He pressed his fists to his mouth as he looked away from Eleanor. It couldn’t be easy for this man to admit his weaknesses to her, and she admired him for doing it. “If I let myself love her, and then I lose her,” he said, “or anyone else I love, I fear it will be the end of me.” Hesearched Eleanor’s face, panic emanating from his eyes. “I know this makes me a coward, but I do not know how to fight this fear. I’m the minister. I’m supposed to have all the answers, yet this thing has gripped me in chains. It’s shaking the very foundation of my faith.”
She took one of his hands in both of hers and pressed it gently. “I wish I could offer you reassurance, but I cannot guarantee you will never lose someone you love again.” She had lost her mother and father, though neither had died, and she knew what it was to be adrift in fear and uncertainty. “What I can promise is that God understands your pain. He made your emotions and feels them with you. You are not a coward. You are human, and, perhaps, you will use this experience to relate to others.” She took a deep breath. “But if you do not make the sacrifice to love Miriam now and selflessly give of your heart, regardless of the cost, it will be to her great detriment. She is a gift that God has bestowed upon you, and it is not up to you whether you accept that gift.”
He nodded and wiped his cheeks. “I know what you speak is true, but when I try, the fear overwhelms me.”
“She could very well live to be an old lady,” Eleanor said a bit more gently. “And what greater love could she have than that of her father?”
The room was dark except for the faint light from the fireplace, and it offered a warm glow in William’s eyes as he studied Eleanor’s face. “She is blessed to have you.” He placed his free hand over hers. “Iam blessed to have you. I do not know what I would have done if you had not stepped in to care for Miriam.”
