“You must think me weak and cowardly. I—I couldna help cryin’ out.”
There was shame in her voice.
He turned to face her. “No, Bethie. You were very brave.”
She started to say something else, but he could take no more.
“I’ll be outside if you need me.” With that, he turned and strode out into the darkness.
Chapter 7
Bethie stirred shavings of lye soap into the steaming cauldron, careful to keep the hems of her skirts away from the fire. The sun was shining brightly today, not a cloud in the April sky, and with the warm spring breeze the laundry would dry in no time.
In the month since little Belle’s birth, laundry had become an almost daily chore. There were Belle’s many diaper cloths. There were also the linen cloths Bethie used to staunch her flow. There were bed linens stained with blood and milk and Bethie’s shifts, which, too, were stained.
Nicholas had cleaned and rehung the heavy iron cauldron, which was suspended over a fire pit dug midway between the cabin and barn. Now Bethie was able to boil a large amount of laundry at once. There was only so much she could do over the hearth fire, and it took time away from cooking.
She reached down, picked up the pile of bloodstained linens, dropped them in the cauldron, glad Nicholas was off in the forest setting his traps and not here to see them. She felt somehow uncomfortable that he should see something so private. And yet hadn’t he seen everything?
Aye, he had. He had even put his fingers inside her.
Heat rushed into Bethie’s face, and her stomach turned. She fought the nausea, fought the clammy sense of dread that threatened to close over her. Nicholas was nothing like her stepbrother. He was nothing like Richard Sorley. He’d done what he’d done for her sake and that of her baby, not to slake his own lust.
She stirred the contents of the cauldron, forced her mind along different paths.
Nicholas was unlike any man she had known. He was a big man and strong, like her stepfather, but, although he smiled but rarely and was not a man of many words, he did not use his strength in fits of violence. Though he was more thoughtful than Andrew, he was also stronger and more virile, a man for whom hard work offered no challenge. And though he was but a trapper, he spoke in surprisingly cultured tones.
How unexpected that he, a rough stranger from the wild, had been her lifeline during her travail, his encouraging words and the soothing tone of his voice her only comfort. For so gruff and cold a man, he’d been surprisingly gentle and caring, and she remembered him calling her “love” more than once.
“Bethie, love,” he’d said.
She knew he hadn’t meant it, that he’d simply been trying to console her in her desperation. But the sound of those words on his lips filled her memory.
In the days following the birth he’d become withdrawn again, distant and pensive. That didn’t mean he’d been rude to her. Far from it. He’d taken over the man’s chores about the farm, chopping and hauling wood, seeing to the bigger animals, repairing the leaky barn roof. He’d fixed the window he had ruined and built a shutter inside the cabin to prevent anyone else from doing what he had done. He’d even brought down a yearling buck, the first venison Bethie had tasted in many months.
She was grateful for all of this, but other things he’d done had touched her even more. The day after the birth, he’d cleaned the old wooden washtub, carried it into the cabin, filled it with hot water so that she could soak her pain away. How had he known that sitting and using the chamber pot were excruciating for her or that hot water would help her feel better? Now bathing was a pleasure she enjoyed almost every evening.
When her milk had come in and her breasts had grown hard and painful, he’d given her heated cloths to press against them though she’d not complained. And when her nipples had become chapped and sore from nursing, he’d shared a special ointment with her, one that magically relieved the pain and quickly healed them.
He had shown her every kindness a woman could hope for from a husband, and yet he was not her husband. Nor was he Belle’s father, though clearly he was besotted with the baby. He had taken an old wooden chest, strengthened it, built legs for it, turning it into a little cradle, which he’d lined with soft rabbit fur. And just last night he’d presented Bethie with two pairs of moccasins that he’d made from the salvaged leather of his ruined breeches—one lined with gray rabbit fur that fit her and another pair so tiny that the sight of them had made her laugh. They, too, were lined with soft fur, and though they were the smallest pair of shoes Bethie had ever seen, they were still too large for her newborn daughter.
“Room to grow,” he’d said, before turning and heading silently back outside.
Still, Nicholas was a man, and she could not deny the sense of danger, the darkness that seemed to surround him like a shadow, despite his kindness. At times, she felt him watching her, felt his gaze upon her. And once in a while he would brush against her by accident, or his hand would touch hers by mistake, leaving her unsettled. She didn’t exactly fear him, and she knew he would not deliberately hurt her. But she didn’t feel at ease around him, either.
Bethie set her stirring stick aside, smoothed her skirts, walked back toward the cabin to check on Belle, the soft feel of fur against her feet. She’d never had moccasins before. Her stepfather would have considered them sinful, as they came from the heathen Indian. And Andrew had no skill to make such things. For most of her life, her shoes had been nothing more than smooth blocks of wood with a leather shell nailed on top. Moccasins were much warmer, much more agreeable to her feet.
Inside the cabin, Bethie found Belle peacefully asleep in her cradle, her wee fists pressed to her chubby cheeks. Bethie’s heart swelled with love. Though she had known she would feel affection for her child, she hadn’t expected to love her so fiercely that it stole her breath and made her heart ache. From her tiny eyelashes to her wee toes, Belle was perfect. And she was Bethie’s to love and to care for, someone who needed Bethie and would grow to love her in return.
It was strange to think that Isabelle was also Andrew’s baby. Belle’s skin was fairest cream, her hair soft gold, while Andrew’s complexion had been ruddy, his hair sandy brown. With a shock, Bethie found herself struggling to remember his face.
Silently, she chided herself, ashamed. Andrew had been a kind husband. He had rescued her from a life of misery and shame. He had forgiven her unspeakable taint. He had never hurt her or raised his voice at her. And only rarely had he taken his pleasure with her.
“I must have sons, Bethie, lass,” he would say by way of apology. Then he would reach for her in the dark, lift her gown, climb upon her, finish silently and quickly.
Bethie had not enjoyed it, but then she couldn’t imagine any woman did. Hadn’t her mother said as much? “’Tis a Christian wife’s duty, though it often seems a curse,” she’d said on the day Bethie had left to become Andrew’s wife. And so Bethie had never complained, had never refused him. It was his due as her husband, and her feelings about it mattered little.
Bethie said a silent prayer for Andrew’s soul, added more wood to the fire. Then she picked up a large wooden bowl, checked on Belle one last time, and started toward the river. She needed more moss to line the baby’s diaper cloths. If she was lucky, she might even find milkweed pods from last fall. Once the seeds were removed, the silk would make an even softer lining than moss.
