They were bad. I didn’t blame them. They’d been bad since Adam’s murder.
Mama set down her latest project, an emerald-green baby’s blanket, on her lap. “Dear, are you feeling well? Perhaps you should stay in and miss this evening meeting. You set it quite late.”
That was the only time Papa’s groom, Jonesy, could go with me. He was a sweet, ruddy boy whose weakness, a cleft in his lip, was on the outside. He saw my hidden weakness, my nerves, and helped me in those hard times I had to leave the house. “It’s not too, too late, Mama.”
Knit one. Purl one.
“Ruth, it will be dark by the time you get back. You don’t see so well in the dark.”
Shots fired.
Mama shot a cannon ball at me. I must be reminded that I became frightened stepping out of the house. It had been at least seven months since I’d last tried.
“Ruth, you do look pale. I think you should miss this meeting.”
Mama’s voice sounded calm, but the tigress fooled no one. She sought to control her reformed wild child. This meeting was for my boy. When it came to Chris, I would be steel—strong and unbreakable.
Knit one, purl one.
Chin lifting, I smiled big. “No, Mama. I won’t miss my appointment. I’m looking forward to it.”
That was said with the appropriate amount of bravado. Bravado. Adam’s word. I laughed this time, maybe out loud.
In my head, I pictured Mama frowning, a full one, as if she’d bitten into the tartest lemon.
Didn’t she know? Mother and daughter were the same—stubborn, determined, fast knitters.
“Then wear your glasses, dear. You’ll need them.”
“Yes, Mama.”
A headache was worth not being barred from leaving. I had a theory that a blurry world would keep my nerves away. Now I was going to have to be completely brave.
Knit one, purl one.
Fingering the watch on the simple silver chain I’d pinned to my shoulder, I felt the limbs had moved, but not by much. The glass had been taken off so I could guess the time without looking. Leaving by carriage was still twenty, twenty-five minutes away. That’s when Jonesy would be back with Papa.
A watched pot was slow to boil.
The same could be said of me.
Every decision, every word out of my mouth was scrutinized. This critical light made me slow and deliberate. For the past six months, I had stewed upon offers of marriage I’d received from a newspaper advertisement. A silly gambit my sister and her friends had convinced me to do. It had given the knitters something new to discuss. That was a blessing.
Yet, I didn’t want a husband or anyone to tend to in bed. I’d rather have cold sheets and accidentally spill Bay Rum on them.
But I had a son, and his needs outweighed everything, even my nightmares. I had answered Barrister John Marks, a busy, humble man who had taken a liking to my son.
And Chris liked him. Another reason to accept Marks’s offer in the upcoming week. He had made his intentions known at Mama’s dinner party two weeks ago. A proposal was in the offing.
“Did you read about the strange suicide? The boat captain, near the docks?”
That squeaky voice had to be Mrs. Daly’s. A small, fashionable woman close in age to Mama. Mrs. Daly loved the newsprint gossip as much as my mother.
“Nacknel was his name,” Mrs. Daly continued. “Did he do business with your husband, Mrs. Johnson?”
Mrs. Millicent Johnson was the blue-eyed wife of the head of a shipping company. Her husband serviced Papa’s business partners upon occasion. She was of Spanish descent with striking olive-shaped eyes. The new-mother-to-be sat close to me and was always helpful, almost acting as if we knew each other.
“I’m not sure,” Mrs. Johnson said and sipped her tea, “but the suicide is the talk at my husband’s offices.”
