Fairer than Morning (43 page)

“Will.” Someone touched his shoulder. Tom hung his head. “I hope you can forgive—”

“There is nothing to forgive.” Now a lump hurt Will's throat. “You just saved my life at risk of your own.” He and Tom pounded each other's backs, cleared their throats, and turned to stand side by side in an appropriately manly way, though Tom sniffed once.

“I should remind you,” Tom said, gazing at the chaotic courtroom while the judge pounded for order and eventually threw up his hands and took a recess. “Someone is waiting and will be glad to hear your good news.”

Emmie
. His buoyant heart deflated.

“You have kept her informed of the news?”

“As well as I could.”

“Thank you.” He shook Tom's hand, wishing the other young man could eradicate that last trace of guilt from his countenance. Time would heal the wound, he hoped.

“I think you should go tell her yourself,” Tom said.

“I suppose so.” Will tried to sound enthusiastic. “I'm surprised she isn't here. She came to see me in jail, you know.” His sinking sensation redoubled at the memory of her acceptance of his proposal.

“Perhaps she was too nervous.” Tom looked unsure of himself, in this role as go-between. “Would you like me to come with you to see her?”

“Yes, if you are willing.”

“Of course.”

Will beckoned Tom to follow and found Mr. Miller. “Sir, I must fulfill an obligation. Will you wait half an hour for my return?”

The saddler looked curious but agreed.

Will set off ahead of Tom, hurrying down the courthouse steps. He must act now, before he could weaken from his duty.

It was maddening that she could not seem to stop her tears. Just when Ann thought they had run their course, a piercing thought would force out another. This unhinged state of joy and sorrow would drive her to an asylum should it continue much longer. Ann dabbed at the corners of her eyes before the moisture could become apparent. Louisa pretended not to notice, bending her head to the knitting in her lap.

Ann's father had sent them ahead to return to the Burbridges' while he waited for Will, who had gone on an errand.

After the judge's decision, the words that sent joy flooding through her like sunlight, Ann could think of only one kind of errand that would be so important as to take Will away immediately.

He has gone to see her
.

She dabbed at one eye again, letting the moisture seep into a dry part of the handkerchief. She needed a common handkerchief, not this dainty, lace-edged piece of frippery. It was half-sodden already.

She was glad Allan was away from home, having gone on business out of town. If he saw her in this state, with his keen faculty of observation, he was sure to make some trenchant comment to her about Will.

And she could not bear to admit he had been right. Somehow, despite her conviction that she would marry Eli, she had lost her heart to the former pig-keeper, the runaway apprentice.

And now she knew why they called it losing one's heart. Inside her drifted a painful absence, where something of her had gone away. It was the same part of her that went out to Will as they stood together on the deck of the boat—the same pulse of living sympathy that had pulled her close to the bars of his jail cell. Never had she felt such complete oneness and peace of mind and heart with a man. She realized now that Allan and even Eli had always been to her exciting foreign forces that blew into her vicinity and then blew back out again, having stirred things up but leaving her unchanged by their departure.

The clock ticked in the hush of the parlor. She tried to read her Bible, but her eyes glanced over the page without taking it in.

Why had God brought about the circumstances that led to Eli's second proposal: his remaining in Rushville, his renewal of his courtship? It had all seemed to be a heavenly response to her prayers.

Maybe it was. Perhaps the Lord did want her to marry Eli, and it had been her own foolishness that led her to speak so intimately with another young man.

A chill sent her past the point of tears as she gazed sightlessly at the open pages, white in her lap against the red of her dress. She would have to marry Eli, if she wished to marry at all, because Will did not love her. He was to marry someone else.

At that blunt thought, a flicker of anger heated her cheeks. She snapped shut the Bible, causing Louisa to look up in her direction with wide, gray eyes. Ashamed, Ann opened it again, as if it had been a fumble.

Why had Will spoken to her so tenderly, so confidentially, if he had made promises to another? She admired his compassion, his resolve to help others. The cruel circumstances of his past had not crushed or altered a character that, beneath the dirt and pain, was loving and selfless. Had he not realized that his actions might mislead her? Was he deliberately fickle—no, she could not believe that of him. He had not toyed with her affections. It had been an unfortunate accident of timing and proximity that she had come to know him well enough to discover his nature, the goodness that stole into her consciousness so quietly, and with results now so devastating.

A sting at her eyes again brought her kerchief up to hide them. He might bring the girl home with him. He might even be marrying her now. So the naïve fancies that refused to completely dissipate were only a torment to her—the realization that Will would live on the farm—that had she married him, she could have stayed with her sisters and also found a deep happiness of the sort she could not envision with Eli.

But now she would have to marry Eli, because she would not be able to stay on the farm if Will brought another young woman there as his wife.

It all struck her as a merciless jest of the kind that did not come from heaven. She had been tempted, all-unknowing, to long for what could never be hers. And in the fierceness of the longing, she begged silently for relief.

Thirty-Nine

T
HE BOARDING HOUSE STANK OF URINE
. T
HE ROTTING
timbers of its stairwell were damp and sprouted white lichen. Will mounted the stairs, guided only by the cracks of daylight that filtered through the decaying walls. At Emmie's door he paused to wait for Tom, who had to climb slowly in his poor state of health. When his friend stood behind him, Will knocked.

The plank door opened and Emmie peeped out, her narrow face suspicious at first.

“Oh!” She smiled, her crooked teeth marring an otherwise beautiful effect. “Come in.”

She opened the door wide and backed up, one hand clutching at her skirt as if she did not know quite what to say or do.

“It's all right, Emmie.” Will pretended lightness that did not match his leaden mood. He was grateful that the Lord had spared him today, but coming face-to-face with Emmie leached the color from his future. He had imagined too often his conversations with Ann, her intelligence, her gentleness, the two of them sharing a life in which faith was natural and life-giving. By comparison, Emmie's placid simplicity would leave him alone in their marriage, her world defined completely by food and clothing.

But he would never let Emmie know. He would do his best to be a loving husband, letting duty serve where commonality could not.

“You're free from him?” she asked.

“Yes, he has gone to prison for at least four years.”

“Oh, la! That's music to my ears.” Her smile was genuine, but her arm circled around Will's neck with the stiffness of a marionette in a play as she held her body away from his. He understood. It felt awkward to him as well.

“Both of you, free! Just imagine, after all he's done.” She touched Tom's arm as if to share his relief too. That was Emmie, all quickness, body, and animal instinct.

He did her injustice. He must not begin this way. He would respect her and honor what she brought to the marriage. It was volition that made a marriage, and honoring one's promises.

“I would like you to come with me to the farm where I live now.” He took her hand, making up for his mental criticism.

“Well, I see as how that would be nice.” She kept her hand in his, not meeting his eyes. Perhaps she sensed his reluctance. He would be kinder, as kind as necessary.

“You will be happy there, I know it. The air is fresh, and the Millers are good people. You would not be as tired as you have been here.” She had confided to him at the jail that her hours at the factory were so long that she had little time for anything else but sleep.

“Are there lots of flowers? And cheese, and milk, and chickens?” She gave him a tiny smile, her yellow hair framing her face and spilling out under her bonnet as it always had. He squeezed her hand. She was just like a little girl, in some ways.

“A chicken every Sunday.”

Her smile widened, though it was still a little tremulous. It was only to be expected. For a girl who had seen nothing but tenement dwellings and the inside of a poorhouse, any change would be frightening.

“And, Emmie, Will can teach you to read.” Tom stood by the door, shifting from one foot to another as if uncertain whether to stay or go. Will was just as happy that Tom remained. His presence delayed the necessity of more physical demonstrations of affection.

“You know how you told me you wanted to learn to read.” Tom cracked his knuckles and looked at the floor. “I can't read, save my own name, but Will can read as good as any schoolteacher.”

“I'll be pleased to teach you, if that's what you wish.”

She withdrew her hand from his and crossed her arms, rubbing her dress sleeves. “Shall I pack up my things, then?”

Would he really have to introduce her to the Millers—to Ann—now? He steeled himself. Might as well do it sooner than later, for he would need to cherish her and learn to think of her as his wife without hesitation.

“I don't know if you will come stay with us this very day,” he said, “because we are ourselves guests. But I would like you to meet the Millers.” He managed to say it with complete sincerity. His heart would learn, if his manners preceded it. “Would you like to meet them now?”

“I suppose I would. You don't think they'll mind me coming back to their place with you?”

He pitied the self-consciousness that made her pick at her bodice.

“No. They will think you charming and kind.”

Tom shuffled some more and fidgeted. “I guess I'd better be going.”

For the first time, Tom's situation dawned on Will. “But where will you go, Tom?” No wonder Tom had come with him. What else could he do? Mistress Good would surely be devastated by the loss of her income represented by Master Good's imprisonment. And she would not even know her husband's whereabouts until Tom told her. Master Good had not even brought her to court, so certain was he of his victory.

“I suppose I'll go back and tell Mistress Good,” Tom said, echoing Will's thoughts.

“No, you cannot do that.” Will would have to think of some other solution. His conscience pained him—in a way, he had been the cause of Mistress Good's temporary widowhood. And, though he would not say it aloud, it might very well be her permanent widowhood, with the way disease and hard labor cut swaths through a prison population.

Will rubbed his forehead and sighed. “Come with us back to the courthouse, and we will ride to the Burbridges' house with Mr. Miller. I think Dr. Loftin will be there too, and we can seek his counsel about Mistress Good.”

Tom agreed with noticeable relief. Will gave Emmie his arm, and they all went down the reeking stairs together.

“Mr. Miller, this is my bride-to-be, Emmie Flynn.” Emmie made a little bob of a curtsy to the saddler, while retaining her tight grip on Will's arm.

Mr. Miller froze in the act of touching his hat brim, one foot still on the courthouse steps where he had come down to meet them. Slowly, he continued the gesture of courtesy with a nod of the head. “Miss Flynn. Happy news, indeed.” His tone was wooden. Will cringed. He should have told Mr. Miller in private.

But the saddler was nothing if not a courteous man. “Will had not told us of the news. You will be coming to live with us, I hope?”