Annie's Song (5 page)

Alex could think of nothing to say. Absolutely nothing except, “I’m sorry, Judge. I’m so very sorry.”

The older man sighed again, the sound incredibly weary. “Yes, I know you are. But sorry doesn’t undo what happened today.” As if he suddenly realized how harsh that sounded, he added, “Don’t take it so personally, Alex. It’s a sad fact, but true. A man can choose his friends, but not his relatives.”

“No.” Alex looked helplessly around the room, searching his mind for something, anything he might do to set things right. There was nothing. He had said what he had come to say. ‘“If there is anything I can do, anything at all...”

The judge shook his head. “I wish to God there were, son. As it is, we can only pray her dimwittedness gives her quick release from the memories.”

Recalling the way Annie had clawed her way through the bushes to escape him a few minutes ago, Alex
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had reason to wonder if terror wasn’t more reflexive than anything else, an instinctive emotion inherent in morons and geniuses alike. He wished she might forget quickly, but somehow he doubted she would.

His throat felt parchment-dry. The faint scent of wood smoke coming from the hearth blended with the acrid smell of the cigar. “If there should be complications, please feel free—”

“God forbid!”

Alex didn’t blame the man for rejecting all thought of a pregnancy, but that being a natural consequence of what Douglas had done, it was a possibility neither of them could completely eliminate. “All the same, please contact me if problems of that nature should arise. I’ll happily lend assistance in any way I can.”

The judge gave a disheartened nod. Coming abreast of Alex, he reached up to pat his shoulder, his expression reflecting his utter dejection. “I appreciate your coming over. It took guts.”

More than he could know. Alex felt heat crawl up his neck. It wasn’t in him to hang his head, but he wanted to. “You know how to reach me.”

“Rest assured I’ll be in touch if it should prove necessary.”

There seemed nothing more to say. Alex exited the house, his mind swimming. Incredible though it seemed, Douglas had once again gotten off scot-free. Alex knew he should feel relieved. But he didn’t. It wasn’t fair that Annie should be the only one to pay for the wrongs that had been committed this day.

Not fair at all.

August 16, 1890

Saturday. Pressing her forehead against her knees so her mother could scrub her back, Annie mouthed the word exactly as she had seen her mother say it and tried to think how it might sound. Some words were easy because she could remember hearing and saying them when she was a small girl. But Saturday was more difficult. In her recollection, she’d never heard the word spoken. Not that it mattered if she imagined the sounds wrong. Her mama slapped her mouth whenever she tried to talk. Annie wasn’t sure why and had long since ceased to wonder. The rules were different for her than for other people, and she had come to accept there were lots of things she wasn’t allowed to do.

She didn’t really care. Not anymore. When she went up to her secret place in the attic to play, she could do anything she wanted. Except for her pet mice, no one was up there to see and tattle on her. In the attic, she could dress up like a lady in old clothes from the trunks. She could have tea parties just like her mama did and pretend she could talk. Sometimes she even danced. And when she grew bored with doing all of that, she could sketch with the pads and pencils she’d sneaked from Papa’s study. The attic
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was a lot of fun, and being able to do forbidden things there made up for not being able to do them the rest of the time.

Saturday. Annie mouthed the word against her knee again and promised herself that the very next time she went to the attic, she’d practice saying it in front of her mirror. In her younger years, before she had completely mastered lipreading, she had believed the word Saturday meant “bath” because her mother always said it with great emphasis as she shoved her into the tub. Now Annie realized Saturday was the day preceding church day, and in preparation, everybody in the family had to bathe.

Since Annie hadn’t been allowed to attend church in a very long while, she didn’t think it was fair that she had to take a bath right along with everyone else. In the morning, she wouldn’t be allowed to put on a pretty dress like her mama and three sisters always did, and when it came time for everyone to leave for services, she would be left behind with the servants. Who was going to notice if her ears were clean, let alone care? Certainly not her.

As if guessing her thoughts, her mama grabbed her ear-lobe and gave it a hard pull. Like a turtle, Annie drew her head down close to her shoulders and squeezed her eyes closed. She hated this part. Hated it, hated it. To scrub her ears, her mother always wrapped a cloth around her fingertip then shoved the lot into her ear hole. Even when the ministrations didn’t hurt, which was rarely, they were highly irritating.

Annie wished she were allowed to scrub her ears by herself, but for some reason, her mother didn’t believe her capable of doing a thorough job. Annie had learned long ago not to resist. It only earned her a cuffing, and in the end, her mother shoved the washcloth in her ear, regardless.

Thump, thump. The sharp rap of her mother’s knuckles on the top of her head brought Annie’s eyes open. Knowing what was expected of her, she raised her face and suffered through the suffocating experience of having it washed. Then, obeying the motion of her mother’s hand, she rose, streaming water, so her torso and legs could be scrubbed. Annie knew the ritual by heart and turned this way and that.

Suddenly her mama stopped scrubbing. Annie peered through the wet strands of her dark hair, wondering what was the matter. Her mother’s blue eyes were bugging, and her mouth hung open as if someone had knocked the breath out of her. Annie looked down at herself, half expecting to see something horrible. But as far as she could tell, there was nothing wrong. She turned her gaze back on her mother, silently questioning.

As if in answer, her mother’s lips formed the words, “Oh, dear God, you’re increasing.”

Increasing? It was a word Annie was unfamiliar with. As she struggled to sound it out inside her head and determine its possible meaning, she saw that her mama was staring at her stomach. Embarrassed, Annie tried to suck in the slight bulge. She had noticed the thickening of her waist a lot lately and had determined only that afternoon that she should cut back on her eating. Spending so much time wandering in the woods, she had oft observed the wild animals as they prepared for their winter sleep and had figured out by herself that too much food made creatures fat. Annie could only suppose that she’d been snitching too many cookies and sweetbreads from the kitchen.

Her bulging stomach seemed a small problem to Annie, one that she could easily cure. But her mother seemed to think the problem was much more serious. After staring at her for a moment, she dropped the wet washcloth to the floor and covered her face with her hands. By the jerk of her shoulders, Annie knew she was sobbing. She didn’t know what to do, and before she could think of anything, her papa stormed into her room, the tails of his nightshirt flapping around his bare, hairy ankles.

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Annie crossed her hands over the juncture of her thighs and sank back into the water. Her papa never entered her bedchamber while she was bathing.

“What the blazes is the matter?” he asked.

Annie fixed her gaze on her mother, hoping to watch her reply so she could learn the answer to that question herself. But her mother’s hands still covered her face. Whatever she said to Papa made him grow pale. He turned aching blue eyes on Annie.

“Dear God, no.”

He moved slowly toward the tub. Grasping Annie’s arm, he drew her to her feet. Annie couldn’t recall the last time her father had seen her without clothes, and an awful hot feeling washed over her. She bent forward at the waist and splayed her hands over her private place again. In response. Papa gave her a hard shake. She glanced up just in time to see him say, “Stop that! Stand up, girl, so I can look at you.”

Annie didn’t want him to look, but look he did. She was thankful that the humiliation lasted only for a moment. Then he released her arm and, cupping a hand over his eyes, wheeled away. Growing alarmed at their behavior, Annie clamped both palms over her stomach. She’d seldom seen her parents so upset.

Surely she wasn’t as fat as all that.

Saying something over his shoulder that Annie couldn’t catch, her father left the room. Her mother wiped at her cheeks with shaky hands, then lifted the towel, beckoning Annie from the tub. Shivering, she stepped into the warm folds of flannel and drew the cloth around her body. Her mother gestured at the fresh nightgown she had laid out for her on the bed. Then, clearly expecting Annie to dry-off and dress by herself, she scurried from the bedroom. After tugging on her gown, Annie crept to the door and cracked it open. She felt the vibration of her father’s footsteps in the floor before she saw him coming down the hall. To her surprise, he had thrown his clothes back on and was hastily buttoning his shirt. His shoelaces flopped as he walked, but he didn’t seem aware that he had forgotten to tie them. She watched as he descended the stairs. A moment later, she felt the walls tremble as he slammed the front door on the way out.

Annie couldn’t imagine where he might be going. On Saturday evenings, he always retired early and read in bed until he fell asleep. In her memory, he had never gone out after retiring unless something bad had happened.

Afraid her mother might catch her spying, she eased the door closed. Pressing her back against the wood, she hugged her waist and went back over all that had happened. Her parents couldn’t be this upset because her waist was thickening.

Unable to make sense of things, she turned down the lamps then hurried into bed by the dying glow of the wicks. Even though the summer night was warm, the sheets were cool, and she shivered, snuggling deeply under the quilt. As darkness settled, she closed her eyes, determined to go to sleep. Whatever her father was so upset about, it didn’t concern her. Surely not. Lots of people were far fatter than she, and no one got into such a dither about it.

Alex took a slow sip of brandy, savoring its taste as it flowed over his tongue. This was his favorite time of evening, his workday finished, supper over, the quiet hours before bedtime stretching before him. The fire popped cheerily, its amber flames and most of the heat rushing upward to the open chimney vent.

Winter or summer, Alex always liked to build a fire at night, for warmth during the cold months, for mood when the temperatures grew sultry. Very little heat radiated from the flames, but the friendly glow
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flickered into the farthest corners of his study.

After doing a little paperwork, he hoped to catch up on his reading. A week’s worth of newspapers from Portland were stacked beside his chair, none of them so much as unfolded. At both the horse farm and the rock quarry, spring and summer were his busiest times of year, beginning with the foaling season and not ending until harvest time in September. In between stretched week after week of backbreaking toil, filling orders for crushed rock, attending mares in labor, caring for foals, tilling the fields, then planting and irrigating. The chores seemed endless, the leisure hours few. On those rare occasions when he found spare time, he usually spent it at the rock quarry conferring with his foreman.

Stretching out his long legs, Alex crossed his ankles, Basking in the glow of the fire, he felt as lazy as a cat, Drowsiness slipped over him like a downy comforter, and he allowed his eyes to close, his snifter cupped loosely in one hand and perched on his chest.

“Sir?”

At the sound of his butler’s voice, Alex jerked erect. Brandy sloshed over the front of his shirt, and he swore under his breath.

“I am sorry to disturb you, Master Alex, but James Trimble is in the foyer, and he insists he must see you about a matter of great urgency.”

Alex set the snifter on the marble table beside his chair and rubbed his hand over his face. Trimble? He glanced at the mantel clock and saw that it was only ten after seven. Giving himself a shake to wake up, he pushed to his feet and began tucking in his shirt. “Show him in, Frederick.”

Black coattails floating behind him, the butler pivoted and exited the study. A moment later, the gleaming mahogany door swung back open and Trimble stepped inside. With one glance, Alex knew something was wrong. The judge’s left shoelace was untied, and his right stocking lay in folds around his ankle, his pant leg riding above it. His shirt was buttoned straight, but only one tail had found its way into his trousers.

“Dear God, Judge, what’s happened?”

The older man made a beeline for the sideboard, never breaking stride until his hand curled around the brandy decanter. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he sloshed a generous measure of liquor into a glass and downed it in one gulp. Given the fact that the judge had called at his home only one other time, that being the evening of his daughter’s rape, Alex found his behavior rather odd, to say the least. He watched with a raised eyebrow as the man poured himself more brandy.

After taking another belt, he finally turned toward Alex. “She’s pregnant.”

The words took Alex completely off-guard. Four months had passed with nary a word from the Trimbles, and he’d thought the possibility of a pregnancy long past. His knees buckled, and he barely guided himself into his chair. Eyes burning, his throat frozen with shock, he could only stare at the older man. After several endlessly long seconds, he finally said, “You’re just now discovering it?”