The Marriage Bed (33 page)

"I thought you were gonna get married at Christmas," Philip said.

Henry seemed to be cleaning his teeth with his tongue. Finally, his eyes avoiding everyone's, he said, "We can't wait."

"Oh, my God, not again," Aunt Bess whispered. "Like father, like son."

Aunt Livvy's eyes got bigger than Neil had ever seen them get as she stared at Aunt Bess and Uncle Remy and her plate clattered to the ground, peas and potatoes flying everywhere, spots of them clinging to her bare feet.

"Can't wait?" Uncle Remy said, slapping his son with enough force to stagger him. Henry's eyes watered but he stood there, and Neil thought that he looked quite the grown man.

Aunt Livvy tried to say something, but no words came out and she pushed her way past everyone and looked to be going toward the barn.

"Go after her," Uncle Remy said to Aunt Bess, rubbing his reddened palm on his pants and trying to pretend that it didn't hurt.

"Liv?" Aunt Bess called, unsure what to do.

Aunt Livvy shook her head and put up her hand. "Just let me be," she said, barely loud enough for them to hear. Then she walked into the barn and closed the door.

"When does the miracle happen?" Josie asked when everyone just stood there staring at Henry's cheek and watching it turn redder and redder.

"Go back inside," Aunt Bess said softly, nudging the baby and Louisa and Thom-Tom through the door. "There isn't going to be any miracle tonight."

Spencer lay back on the grass in the meadow, chewing on a long stalk of hay and every now and then glancing at the setting sun as, little by little, the moon took a bite out of it. Mostly he kept his eye on the path between his place and Sacotte Farm, imagining Livvy getting the children all settled and then sneaking off to meet him.

In some ways he wished he could join them all, but he and Liv needed this time alone. Every time he got within ten feet of her, his desire raised a flag in his pants. Even thinking about her had an effect on him.

He closed his eyes to blot out the sun and thought about what a good day it had been. Not just good. Great. Wonderful. He yawned widely and felt himself drifting closer to sleep. Just wonderful?

No
, he thought, smiling and enjoying the last strains of the sun as they played on his face,
miraculous
.

Chapter Twenty-four

Olivia had no idea how long she'd cried before she'd finally fallen asleep in the barn. She only knew that at some point someone had come in and thrown a blanket over her, and that now it was time to get up and get on with her life. There were children to get off to school, pies to be baked, belongings to be packed—Sacotte Farm would soon live just in her memory—and there was no time for shedding tears or drying them.

Pulling hay from her hair as she made her way to the house, she thrust back her shoulders and tried to find the bright face she made it her business to present to the world. In some ways, she told herself, it was all for the best. In all likelihood she could never have forgiven Spencer for what he'd done to her in their bed, even if it was true that she did love him—always did, and, she supposed, shaking her head at the notion, always would.

No, she forced herself to counter. Love grew side by side with trust, like two vines intertwined. And deception and indifference had grown like weeds among them, choking out anything good that could have grown between the two of them. Just as well to be done with it altogether.

Maybe there was something wrong with her that everyone she knew lied to her. Bess and Remy had needed to get married and she'd never known. Of course, she'd been ten at the time, but in all the intervening years someone might have seen fit to tell her, not leave her to be as shocked as the children at Bess's admission. Maybe she should consider Julian's offer one more time. He wasn't any more dishonest than every other adult she knew. Water under the bridge, all of it. Time to start fresh with Louisa and Neil and Josie and put the rest of it aside.

She saw to her needs and washed up and at the pump, still searching for her illusive smile. By the time she got to the house, she'd abandoned hope for a smile and would have settled for anything short of a grimace complete with gritted teeth.

"Up," she said to Neil, wiggling the boy's toes beneath the light sheet that covered him. It was bad enough that he had to sleep on someone's sofa in the parlor. Come Tuesday night, where in the world would he be sleeping? The deal for Zephin's was done. Remy had signed all the papers the day before. And Livvy supposed there would be no room above the store for four extra human beings, even if one was only three feet tall.

All she knew, with a certainty so final that her very bones rang with the truth of it, was that those three children were not going to be torn from her by her husband, by their father, or by the threat of poverty looming over her head.

Neil rubbed his eyes and blinked at her. "They wouldn't let me see you last night," he said. "Uncle Remy stood in front of the door like some big she-wolf was after his chickens."

"Well, I'm here now," she said, checking the clock on the wall and realizing that it was getting late. "And all's right with the world. So rise, young man, and shine." She forced a smile. It wasn't so hard after all when she looked at the sweet face studying her own. "We'll be just fine," she reassured him.

"What about Uncle Spence?" Neil asked, sitting up now and getting his bearings.

Any man who could resist such hero worship, such unselfish devotion, didn't deserve a boy like Neil in his life, and Livvy was glad—yes, glad—that Spencer wouldn't get to share this child's life. Why, Spencer wasn't worthy of walking behind the same plow, hoeing the same row, mucking the same stall.

"Get ready for school now," she told him gently. "I've got to get your sisters up."

"Aunt Liv?" Neil called after her plaintively. "There's something I have to tell you."

She turned, her foot on the bottom step, and looked at him encouragingly. Something in his voice made her expect that he would admit that he loved her, and she waited patiently while he swallowed and bit at his lip. Boys and men—the word love just seemed to stick in their throats.
Need
and
want
came out loud and clear, but
love
? "Yes?" she prompted.

"If you do something you think will go one way—that is, if you do something that you mean to be good . . . to turn out good, and then, well, it might not . . . Do you think that God, or anyone, knows that if you didn't mean for it to . . ."

Livvy glanced again at the clock. It was too late for theoretical discussions. "Haven't you ever heard that the road to hell is paved with good intentions?" she asked. "Best to stay out of other people's business, young man. You've quite enough on your plate just handling your own. Does that answer your questions?"

He seemed to be considering her advice, so she headed up the stairs to wake up Louisa and Josie. The baby lay there with long lashes resting lightly on chubby cheeks, the picture of innocence. To Livvy's surprise, Louisa's bed was already made. Well, this was a first. Louisa up and ready without their usual argument over whether she belonged in school or not.

"Up and at 'em, sweetie," she said, placing a light kiss on josie's forehead. "Go take care of your business and then come find me in the kitchen."

Groggily Josie reached up and put her arms around Livvy's neck, giving her a squeeze. The little girl's body was sweaty with sleep and smelled like yeast and soap and heat. Livyy breathed in deeply and rubbed the child's back through her muslin gown.

"Whose girl are you?" she asked, reveling in the moment.

Josie backed away slightly, then pointed a small stubby finger at Livvy's chest. "Yours," she said simply, as if the question were a foolish one.

Livvy blinked back tears that fought to loose themselves from watery eyes. "Mine," she said, her voice hoarse and uneven. "All mine."

Josie squirmed and Livvy let go of her, rose and gave the little girl a hand up.

"Off you go," she said, wiping at her cheek with the corner of her dress. "And if you run into your sister, tell her I'm very proud of her for getting herself up and out."

Josie bobbed her head and then scampered from the room without looking back. Livvy followed her and passed Philip in the hall. "Louisa in there?" he asked angrily.

She sighed. "What now?"

"She has something that's mine," he said, then shouted over her shoulder in the direction of the girl's room. "And I want them back. Now!"

"She's not there," Livvy said, one hand on Philip's chest. "Get ready for school. You can threaten her at breakfast if you like."

Philip went off in a huff and Livvy hurried down to the kitchen, anxious to see to breakfast before Bess managed to get everything done without her. If they were going to live to together awhile longer—and Lord knew, it appeared that somehow they would have to—she was going to have to carry her own weight, and that of the children.

Naturally, Bess was already at the stove. "Morning, lovey," Bess said without turning around. "You all right this morning?"

"Just perfect," Livvy said, rolling her eyes behind Bess's back. "Everything is just peachy keen." It felt odd to take her place next to the woman she thought she knew so well and find she didn't really know her at all.

"You don't look so good," Bess said as if nothing between them had changed.

What? Did she have eyes in the back of her head, like her children claimed?

"Okay," Liv admitted with a shrug. "Not so peachy keen." She didn't have any desire to discuss it with this stranger in Bess's clothing. "You seen Louisa?"

"Note on the table," Bess said. "That girl is a strange little one."

Livvy pulled the bacon from the icebox and sliced it, put it in the pan one piece at a time, turned the fire up slightly, and then wiped her hands. "A note, huh? Where could she be off to so early? It's not like her to get to school before Mr. Langfofd is ringing his bell." She looked over at the table expecting to find a scribbled note, but instead there was a fine blue envelope with the words
Aunt Liv
written in Louisa's neatest script.

She didn't like the looks of it at all.

"You see her before she left?" Livvy asked.

"Uh-uh," Bess said. "You gonna see to this bacon?"

"In a minute," Livvy said, and flipped over the envelope without picking it up. "It's sealed."

"The bacon, Liv?"

Livvy touched the envelope as if she could divine the message without opening it. A note like that couldn't be good news. A note like that didn't say
see you later
.

She was being ridiculous.

"Where is she?" Philip demanded, bursting through the swinging door.

"She
loves
us," Thom-Tom said, coming in behind his brother and nearly drooling the word
love
. "Says so in that journal of hers."

"Bacon's burning," Bess said matter-of-factly.

"What journal?" Livvy asked.

"Oh," Thom-Tom said with great authority. "She writes everything in this little book. You should see . . ."

He stopped when he caught the glare his mother was giving him.

"It fell open," he swore, his eyes wide with feigned innocence. "I just saw a few words. Said she loved Aunt Liv and Uncle Spencer and some stuff about missing them."

With a dread that knotted her stomach, Livvy opened the pale-blue envelope and pulled out the letter.

Dear Aunt Liv—I thought that you loved me. I was wrong, I guess, but I know that you do love Josie, so I'm begging you, with my last words, that you don't send her back to our father. I will miss you but I'll be waiting for you on the other side where I won't be lonely anymore. Love, Louisa.

"The other side?" Livvy whispered. "Oh, Lord in heaven, no!"

"What is it?" Bess asked, grabbing the note from Livvy's hand and reading it aloud.

Philip fell into a chair. "She took the bullets," he said, putting his hand to his head. Then, seeing his mother's horror-stricken face, he added quickly, "I hid them in my top drawer. I didn't think anybody was going to . . ."

The gun was gone. Livvy stood on her tiptoes and felt for it in the cabinet where Bess had put it for safekeeping. Finding nothing, she dragged over a chair and stood on it. Still nothing.

"Oh, no," she said, shaking her head and nearly leaping from the chair. "No, no, no. This can't happen," she shouted, running for the door.

The screen door stopped halfway, smacking into something hard.

"Whoa," Spencer said, holding his head and reeling slightly from the blow. "You're a little late. I waited the whole damn night in the field."

"She's gone," Livvy said, choking on her tears. "Louisa—she's gone and she took the gun." She was running down the path, but when she got to the fork, she stopped, not knowing which way to turn.

Spencer ran after her, spinning her around and demanding to know what in the hell she was talking, about.

As quickly as she could, between sobs and gulps and false starts in one direction and checking the barn, she related the note, the missing bullets, ending with Thom-Tom's revelations from Louisa's diary.

"This way," he said, running toward his farm and then cutting across the field to the small pond. "Secret spot," he shouted over his shoulder. "Book. That day." All his words were interrupted by gulps for air as he ran, putting more and more distance between them with his long legs. Philip passed her. Neil, as well.

Her side ached with each step and she clutched it as she ran, ignoring the burning in her throat and chest. Pebbles cut at her bare feet, branches lay in wait stubbing more than one toe. None of it mattered. If anything,
anything
, happened to Louisa, Livvy would never forgive herself. Children were a sacred trust, and somehow she had failed. She had let something threaten her child.

Her child
.

Maybe she hadn't given birth to them, but those children were ensconced in her heart and her womb as surely as if they had begun there.

And if something happened to one of them, it wouldn't just rip a piece out of that heart but tear it asunder, never to be whole again.

A shot rang out, setting the echoes ringing and drowning out the sounds of their feet hitting the ground, their lungs sucking the air, their hearts beating against their breastbones.

It took a moment for them to stop, for the stillness to envelop them and leave them in silence as if not a one of them was breathing, not a heart was beating.

"You wait here," Spencer ordered, turning and fixing all of them with his stare.

Livvy didn't bother to argue, didn't shake her head, didn't push him out of her way. She just went around him and continued through the undergrowth, letting some distant memory from her youth guide her toward the pond. How fitting that this daughter of her heart should have sought out the same hiding place to heal her hurts.

"There!" Spencer said, his voice just above a whisper, his arm outstretched over her shoulder and pointing toward Louisa, who stood crying silently by the small pond, her hand pressed against her mouth.

Livvy crossed herself and shut her eyes, mumbling a quick thank you to the Lord, before running into the tiny clearing and stopping awkwardly just a few feet from Louisa.

"You scared us"—Livvy said, her voice a mere hush on the wind—"half to death."

"Where's the gun?" Spencer didn't hesitate to go straight to the girl, put his hand on her shoulder, turn her into him, and hug her to his chest as if there had never been anything but love between them,

"I dropped it," Louisa said between sobs. "And it went off. I was never so scared in my life."

"Then you didn't . . . ?" Spencer said, leaning back and tipping up the girl's chin.

She shook her head. "I couldn't." She stiffened and pulled away from Spencer, glaring at him. "But I won't go back. You can't make me. I'll run away."

Livvy stepped forward, petting Louisa's soft silky hair. "I would never let you go back, don't you know that?''

"But Uncle Spencer . . . the telegram . . ." she started, her words muffled against his chest.

"Uncle Spencer be damned," Livvy said, prying the girl out of his arms while he stood there with a shocked look on his face. "I said you aren't going back, and you will not, no matter what Uncle Spencer wants."