Harrigan's Bride. Cheryl Reavis
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gave a resigned sigh. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything. Everything.”
“I don’t know ‘everything.’ The Winthrops aren’t like the Calders. There’s no openness, no…”
“What?” she asked, when he didn’t go on.
“I was going to say affection. But I supposed there is some. We’re just very careful to keep it hidden—as if caring for someone was some kind of weakness in our character. The judge does care for my mother—at least I think he does, in his way, or he wouldn’t have let her come back home.”
“But he doesn’t care for you?”
“No. Never for me.”
“Why not?”
“I did the unforgivable.”
“And what was that?” she asked, determined to get whatever information from him she could.
“I was born. I am my father’s son. That alone is sin enough.”
She looked at him, and she made no token protests. It would be presumptuous of her to try to talk him out of his conclusions about the judge. Thomas understood the situation far better than she did. She had only to look into his sad eyes to know that. She wondered if he ever heard from the father who had abandoned him—but she didn’t ask about that, either.
“What is the house like? The one in Maryland,” she asked instead, turning to at least some of the things she’d always wanted to know.
“Big. Ostentatious, actually. Very much in keeping with the judge’s idea of his status in society. It’s always full of luminaries of one kind or another. The judge is very fond of holding salons. Everyone who is anyone strives to be invited, I believe—which is understandable. He is much more agreeable to the strangers who come to his house than he is to his family.” Thomas was looking away from her when he said it, seeing again, she thought, that big—and lonely—house in Maryland.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He looked at her. “Don’t be. My family is what made me appreciate yours so. Miss Emma and Guire. I will miss them all the rest of my life.” He suddenly reached out and took her hand. “Go to sleep,” he said pointedly. “I can see how tired you are.”
“I’m not,” she insisted. “Truly…”
But she must have been. When she opened her eyes again, the room was dark except for the glow from the embers in the fireplace. The chair where Thomas had been sitting was empty. The room had grown cold. There was no smell of burning wax. The candle had been out for a long time.
She struggled to sit up in bed, trying hard not to cry. She had wanted to be awake when Thomas left. She had wanted to tell him…
No. Perhaps it was better this way. No awkward goodbyes. No…anything.
She was still wearing the shawl he had given her, and she hugged it closer to her and lay back against the pillows. What if she never saw him again? What if—
She turned her head sharply at a sound on the other side of the door—a heavy thump, as if something or someone had fallen against it. She raised up on her elbow, listening intently, and just when she was about to lie down again, she heard a voice.
“Please!”
A woman’s voice. Gertie’s voice.
There were more scuffling noises—and a man speaking in muffled and angry tones. Abiah could hear him, but she couldn’t understand the words.
“Gertie?” she called, growing more alarmed now.
She jumped at another loud thump against the door. The doorknob rattled.
“Gertie!” Abiah yelled. She shoved back the heavy quilt and slid her legs over the edge of the bed. The room swam around her. She had to sit there until the dizziness subsided.
And all the while the struggle outside the door continued.
Abiah slid to the floor and went directly for the cedar chest, flinging it open and tearing through the starched linens and dresser scarves inside.
“Where is it?” she whispered, throwing piece after piece onto the floor. “Where is it!”
If it was gone, she’d take Guire’s saber—if she could lift it. She’d have to.
Abiah abruptly stopped looking. Gertie was crying. She could hear her plainly.
Dear God, what’s happening!
Abiah was frantic now, running her hands among the remaining sheets. Her fingers finally touched cold metal. She dragged Guire’s Colt revolver out, carrying it with both hands to the fireplace—the only source of light—so she could see. She had hated the thing, hated when Guire insisted that she learn to shoot it because he was away at school and she and their mother were isolated and alone.
She felt so weak suddenly, and she went down on both knees on the hearth, breathing heavily. The revolver slid out of her hands. She stayed where she was, her head bent low until she could pick up the gun again. Then took a deep breath and held it closer to the firelight, where she could see. It was still loaded.
She forced herself to her feet again, holding on to the furniture and then to the wall to get to the door. She didn’t hesitate—she could hear Gertie sobbing still. Abiah opened the door wide and stepped unsteadily into the hall. The too-long sleeve of her nightgown kept sliding down and covering the Colt.
There was no one in the hallway now.
She heard Gertie give a muffled cry somewhere to her left. Something fell and broke. Abiah went in that direction, holding the revolver with one hand and leaning heavily against the wall with the other. She had to keep stopping to rest, but she was determined to go on.
The man had Gertie down on the kitchen floor, and he was so intent on what he was doing that he didn’t hear Abiah. She brought the revolver up and pulled back the hammer. It was that noise that got his attention. He abruptly looked around. Only one lamp had been lit, and she couldn’t see his face distinctly.
“Move away from him, Gertie,” Abiah said, stepping closer to the end of the kitchen table so she could lean against it.
Gertie tried to stop crying, tried to cover herself. She made an attempt to scramble aside, but the man caught her wrist and struck her hard.
“Stop it!” Abiah cried.
He didn’t stop. Gertie was struggling, he hit her again.
“Stop it! I mean it!”
When he raised his hand the third time, Abiah pulled the trigger. The revolver misfired. She gave a soft cry of alarm and fumbled to pull back the hammer. Her sleeves were in the way. Her hands were shaking, but she held on.
The revolver misfired again.
“I never knew whores stuck together,” the man said, still holding Gertie down.
But then he was getting slowly to his feet. Abiah didn’t dare take her eyes off him.
“What are you going to do now, whore?”
“I’ve got…four more chances…to send you to hell,” Abiah said. Her entire body trembled from the physical strain. “If you don’t get out of here, I intend to use them…all.”
“She owes me, damn you!” the man said. “Come to think of it, so do you.” He lunged suddenly in Abiah’s direction, taking her completely by surprise, but not before she pulled the trigger again. There was a loud roar this time, and the man reeled away from her and fell heavily on the floor. Gertie screamed, and Abiah collapsed against the rough kitchen table and slid to her knees. The heavy revolver tumbled out of her hand. She had to cling to the edge of the table to keep from falling on her face.
“Oh, Miss Abiah! What have you done?”