The Spoils of Sin (33 page)

Miriam gave her a look that was growing horribly familiar. ‘Have you no little brothers and sisters? Have you never seen a woman caring for her child? Can a girl your age have no idea at all what to do?'

Fanny scowled. ‘I never noticed. Why would I?'

Miriam heaved a dramatic sigh. ‘There is a great deal to be done here. Have the undertaker men done their business here?'

Fanny shook her head. ‘The doctor is meant to be arranging that, I believe.'

‘So she's lying dead and cold upstairs?' The woman shuddered. ‘Has she been laid out prettily, at least?' Her expression turned wistful. ‘I laid Marybelle out like a queen, though I say it myself.'

‘You can do it?' Hope flickered in Fanny's breast. ‘And take care of the child? Can you find it a new home? It cannot stay here. You can see for yourself that I make a useless mother.'

Miriam took a deep breath. ‘Even a useless mother can keep a baby warm. There must be clothes waiting ready for her, somewhere about. Find them, and small towels for use as diapers. I shall see what can be done for your friend.' The final word was uttered with heavy meaning, that was not lost on Fanny.

‘My friend is gone, never to return. That thing upstairs is not my friend any longer.'

‘True enough. But there are decencies to be observed, nevertheless.'

The rush of tears took Fanny by surprise. She felt weak and helpless, and at the same time ashamed of herself. The world had turned against her, leaving her alone and afraid in a sea of ignorance. ‘I did not know what to do,' she pleaded. ‘How could I know?'

‘Take the child upstairs with you, wrap her in warm clothing and lie down for a spell. I will do the rest,' came the infinitely reassuring words. Even Hugo seemed to experience some relief. He returned to his scullery and settled to gnawing a dry bone that was all the sustenance he had found that day.

When the coffin men failed to appear, Miriam Myers went out in search of them, returning within the half hour, swiping her hands together as after a job well done. ‘They will be here by noon,' she announced, waking Fanny from another uneasy doze. ‘Now, we must obtain a supply of milk for the child. She will be hungry in the coming days, and you must tend to her carefully.'

‘Must I?' whined Fanny, muzzily. ‘How long until we can find her a foster mother?'

‘
You
are her foster mother, my dear. Your friend would surely expect that of you? You will abandon your shameful work and devote yourself to a decent life. This is a sign to you to mend your ways.'

Here was yet another side of the woman. The soft doting of an hour before had given way to a prim tyrant with the standards of a missionary spinster.

‘I cannot,' Fanny said. Tears choked the back of her throat. ‘You cannot force me.'

‘It is not a matter of forcing. There is a need, and you can do no other than to meet it. You have had a great shock, and I am here to help you through the first stages of recovery. We must find the good in the situation. That is what a Christian does.'

‘You are telling me that God killed Carola so I might change my ways?'

‘I am telling you no such thing. We cannot read the mind of God. But we must have faith and trust that there is a greater purpose. I have seen so many instances where such trust was more than justified. There is a reward, my dear, in simply doing what's right. And in this particular case, the way is perfectly clear.'

‘Not to me.' Fanny pouted like a mulish child. ‘I detest that child. I cannot feed myself or it if I do not work.'

Miriam gave her a probing look from under her thick brows. ‘Now that is not true, is it? Remember that I had a woman in the same line of work under my care for some time. She revealed much of what the work entails – and what the rewards can be. I have no doubt that you have substantial savings on which you might live a considerable time.'

Fanny remembered the wad of banknotes that Philip Scott had thrust at her the night before. Where had she put it? She had not changed her clothes since that time, throwing a cloak over the stained wrapper she had worn as Carola died, when she went out to the store. The money was surely tucked into a fold somewhere. But when she patted herself in a search for it, nothing was evident. Had it fallen out in the street, to be picked up by some lucky passer by?

Miriam was watching her. ‘Have you lost something?'

‘Money a man gave me. I believe it was a large sum. Now it has gone.'

‘It will be found. You are in a wretched state indeed.' It was as if the woman had just noticed this. ‘There is blood on your skirt, and an odour around you that is not pleasing. I suggest a thorough wash and complete change of clothing. Then we will conduct a search for the money. But, dear, you are forgetting Marybelle's legacy. It will come to the child, and as her foster mother, you will have control over it. I imagine, besides, that you received a half share of it, in any case.'

‘I did not. Carola invested the bulk of it, and kept back a little for expenses. We were unable to agree as to where I might stand in the matter. Carola wished to leave Chemeketa and live as a widow with her child, in Astoria or someplace like that.'

Miriam took a moment to absorb this. As she sought for words, a knock announced the coffin men, and all turned into a kind of dignified bustle. Fanny tried to keep away from them, but she heard the sounds of disapproval coming from Carola's room, and mutterings about the awkward position of the body. It had gone stiff, it seemed, and was difficult to handle. The baby wriggled and flailed in Fanny's arms, as if aware of the permanent removal of its mother. Then it began to emit loud wails that tore at Fanny's nerves. There was nowhere to set it down, other than the crib which was upstairs.

It was like being on a hellish carousel, with no means of climbing off. Round and round, one crisis following another, endlessly dragging her into despair and helplessness. The child was wet, hungry, cold. Its needs were piling up, with no prospect of a moment when they would all be satisfied at once. She jiggled it feebly, with no real expectation that this would help. Miriam had gone with the men. Nothing had been resolved. There was no milk left in the house. The child's garments were in a drawer alongside the crib. Warm water would be required for washing both Fanny and the infant. Other matters flitted through her mind. There would be papers, she assumed. Carola's death would require official record. And
money
. Where was that wad? How could she lay her hands on Carola's investments? And work. She could not abandon her work completely. Somewhere deep down, she suspected that she had no wish to give it up. There were other considerations than financial ones. She would miss the company, the satisfaction that so often came from her encounters with the men, the laughter and music and stories.

She sat there, letting her mind wander wherever it wished. It diverted her from the horrible sounds and implications that were taking place on the staircase. Carola, who had been warm and real less than twenty-four hours before, was disappearing forever. It would happen, whatever Fanny thought or felt about it. She chose to permit it, without resistance. It was nothing to worry about, unlike all other matters. Worry was dominant just then. Sadness could wait.

The men offered information and advice about the need to register the details of the death. Miriam nodded briskly, making it clear that she already knew the procedure. The coffin was loaded onto a cart outside and driven away. There would be a burial later that day. The room should be thoroughly cleaned and all the soiled bedding burned.

‘But she died of no disease,' Fanny blurted.

‘Regulations,' said one of the men. ‘Best be on the safe side.'

Miriam put a hand on her arm. ‘Before you came here, there was cholera,' she said. ‘Many people died. Since then, there has been a requirement to ensure no risk of infection. I myself was instrumental in pressing for it. It has had unforeseen benefits. There is a cleansing that runs deeper than the eradication of sickness. Without it, people might cling to soiled garments and bedclothes for reasons of sentiment. Or they simply fail to deal with them in any way, leaving them to fester and stink. Burning is best, believe me.'

Fanny did not much care. Carola was gone. The words repeated regularly in her head, the fact lodging more securely with every repetition.

Miriam evidently felt the same. ‘Now, then – the child,' she said, pushing back her sleeves. ‘I shall go now and find a goat. I think it best if you have one of your own here. Then you can be sure of a good supply, without the need to go seeking it every day. While I am gone, you're to shift the crib into your own room and make it warm and soft for the little one. Set her down in it while you give yourself a thorough washing. I shall be back before you know it.'

And she was gone. Stumblingly, resentfully, Fanny did as she had been ordered. The child fell asleep in the cosy crib and the washing Fanny gave herself was another instance of the cleansing that Miriam had spoken of. She sponged warm suds all over herself, standing naked in her room. With every squeeze of the sponge in the bowl, she felt another shred of horror and confusion fall away. When she had finished, many worries remained, but her own sense of taint had faded. She had done nothing to earn reproach. She was a good clean girl, who had come through something terrible and was still standing.

She brushed her hair. She found fresh garments and pulled them on. She straightened her bed, and pushed the one that had been Carola's into a corner, leaving a better space for the crib. Minute flickerings of possibility began to dawn.

The goat was a brown and white individual, with the knowing gaze of her species. Her udder was tight. Without ceremony, Miriam led her to the backyard, watched in amazement by Hugo, and deftly acquired a bowlful of frothing milk. ‘You owe me three dollars,' she told Fanny.

The baby's bottles were filled, enough to last the day and night to come. ‘Warm them on the stove in a pan of water,' Miriam instructed.

The child was finally cleaned and clothed, the diapers bulky around its lower body. The black hair was gently washed. ‘She must have a name,' said Miriam.

Fanny had yet again slumped wearily into the chair. The day was crawling by, and she craved sleep. But there were many hours and events yet to come. The burial; the burning of Carola's bedclothes; the transactions with the church minister who would conduct the burial, and also expect to baptise the baby. This last was now uppermost in Miriam's mind. ‘I will take you to speak to him,' she offered. ‘I hope to smooth any awkwardness.'

For the past hour or more, Fanny had forgotten her place in Chemeketa society. She was a whore, she now recollected. She and Carola had not attended church, laughing at the scene that would ensue if they tried. Now she was in need of its ministrations, testing the tolerance of the minister to a high degree. ‘Thank you,' she said simply.

‘The name?' Miriam prompted.

‘Susanna.' It came as if from on high, announced by a voice unheard. She said it again. ‘She is to be named Susanna.'

Miriam pursed her lips. ‘A story only acknowledged by Romans,' she objected. ‘You know it?'

Fanny nodded. ‘I am a Roman myself,' she said. ‘My father took particular pleasure in the story. He would warn us against men such as the elders, who were not as they seemed.'

Miriam flushed. ‘Not a tale to be told to young girls, to my way of thinking.'

Fanny smiled and looked at the child's face. ‘It is a name that should remind us all that justice will be done, even in an unequal struggle. The story did much to form my character, I believe.'

The older woman said nothing, plainly biting back a remark as to the quality of Fanny's character. Another thought came to her lips. ‘You are a Roman Catholic? And your friend? There could be a difficulty with the church, if she was also of that faith.'

‘She was. It will not disqualify her for burial, I hope?'

Miriam grimaced. ‘By rights, we should seek out a priest of your own persuasion. It surprises me that you should not already have done so. Do you have no fellow Romans of your acquaintance here? The rituals are so wxrewmwly different from any that a Methodist or even Episcopalian might offer you.'

‘It does not matter,' said Fanny dully.

The woman gave her a probing look. ‘You are not yourself, if you can say that. Faith is not so easily relinquished. The fate of your friend's immortal soul is at stake. It matters more than mere mortals can comprehend.'

She meant well, Fanny supposed. The creed in which she and Carola had both been raised was crystal clear on the subject of the soul's progression after death. But Carola had made no last confession. She had not been shriven. The prayers and pomp surrounding the disposal of her body might well come too late. ‘I know of no priest,' she said.

‘I will speak to the minister at the Mission,' said Miriam Myles. ‘Under these very unusual circumstances, I dare say he will have something to offer you.'

The circumstances were not, of course, so very unusual. Women regularly died in childbed. But very few of them, in Chemeketa anyway, were whores.

Miriam seemed almost light-hearted throughout this exchange, which seemed extraordinary to Fanny. But it served to raise her own spirits, if slightly. Every impediment and anxiety was confronted and removed by this woman's capable actions. Her certainty as to the right behaviour was both reassuring and irritating. She brooked no arguments and thereby caused Fanny to forget some of her own instinctive resistance. The baby meekly took half a bottle of goat's milk, before settling quietly in the crib. A copper kettle was set to boil for the first of what Miriam warned would be an everlasting mountain of washing. The small garments that Carola had stitched were collected and put to air in front of the stove.