The Taker (15 page)

Sometimes the worst tidings come as an absence. A friend who does not visit at the usual time, and who quickly thereafter withdraws from the friendship. An awaited letter that does not arrive, followed at some distance by news of an untimely death. And, in my case that winter, the cessation of my monthly flowers. First, one month. Then a second.

I prayed there might be another cause. I cursed Sophia’s spirit, sure that she was paying me back. Once bidden, however, Sophia’s spirit was not so easy to contain.

Sophia began visiting me in my dreams. In some, her face would merely appear in a crowd, jarring and accusatory, then disappear. In one recurring dream, I would be with Jonathan only to have him leave me abruptly, turning from me as though by silent command, ignoring my pleas that he stay. He’d then reappear with Sophia, the two walking hand in hand in the distance, Jonathan without even a thought for me. I’d always wake from these dreams feeling hurt and abandoned.

The worst dream would throw me out of sleep like a bucking horse and I’d have to stifle my cries or risk waking my sisters. The other dreams might have been my guilty mind playing tricks, but this dream could be nothing else but a message from the dead girl herself. In this dream, I walk through an empty village, the wind rippling at my back as I travel down the main carriage trail. There’s not another person to be seen, no voice or sound of life, no chopping of wood or clanging of the blacksmith’s anvil. Soon, I’m in the woods, white with snow, following the half-frozen Allagash. I stop at a narrows in the river and see Sophia standing on the opposite shore. She is the Sophia who committed suicide, blue, her hair frozen in clumps, heavy wet clothing weighing on her. She is the forgotten lover, moldering in the grave, at whose expense I have made my happiness. Her dead eyes settle on me and then she points to the water. No words are spoken but I know
what she is telling me: jump into the river and end your life and the life of your child.

I dared not speak to anyone in my family about my condition, not even my sisters, with whom I was normally close. My mother commented once or twice that I seemed moody and preoccupied, though she jested that I must be suffering greatly from the monthly curse, to judge by my behavior. If only I could have spoken to her about my situation, but alas, my loyalties were to Jonathan; I could not reveal our relationship to my parents without consulting him first.

I waited to meet with Jonathan at Sunday services, while again nature intervened. Several weeks elapsed before the trails into town were passable again. By then, I felt the press of time upon me: if I were forced to wait much longer, I would not be able to keep my secret to myself. I prayed during every waking moment for God to give me the opportunity to speak to Jonathan, soon.

The Lord must have heard my prayers, for at last the winter sun came out in its fullness for several days running, melting a goodly portion of the last snowfall. Finally, that Sunday we were able to hitch up the horse, bundle ourselves in cloaks, scarves, gloves, and blankets, and pack ourselves together, tightly, in the back of the wagon for our trip into town.

In the congregation hall, I felt conspicuous. God knew of my condition, of course, but I fancied everyone else in town did, too. I feared that my abdomen had begun to swell and all eyes were upon the unsightly bulge under my skirt—though surely it was too soon for that, and in any case it was doubtful that anyone could find anything amiss, given the layers of winter clothing. I pressed near my father and cowered behind a post throughout the service, wishing to be invisible, waiting for the opportunity to speak to Jonathan afterward.

As soon as Pastor Gilbert dismissed us for the day, I hurried down the stairs, not waiting for my father. I stood on the last step, searching for Jonathan. He emerged, soon enough, and made his
way through the crowd toward me. Without a word, I took his hand firmly and drew him behind the staircase where we’d have more privacy.

The bold move made him nervous, and he glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone had taken notice that we’d stolen away. “Good God, Lanny, if you are thinking I should kiss you here—”

“Listen to me. I am with child,” I blurted out.

He dropped my hand, and his handsome face shifted through a series of expressions: shock, a flush of surprise, a creeping realization that brought on pallor. Although I hadn’t expected Jonathan to be happy with my news, his silence frightened me.

“Jonathan, speak to me. I do not know what to do.” I tugged at his arm.

He took a sidelong glance at me, then cleared his throat. “Dear Lanny, I am at a loss to know what to say—”

“That is not what a girl wants to hear at a time like this!” Tears strained at my eyes. “Tell me I am not alone, tell me you will not desert me. Tell me that you will help me figure out what to do next.”

He continued to behold me with great reluctance but said, stiffly, “You are not alone.”

“You cannot imagine how frightened I’ve been, confined with this secret at home, unable to speak of it with anyone. I knew I had to tell you first, Jonathan. I owed you that.”
Speak, speak
, I willed him;
tell me that you will confess your part in my downfall to our parents and that you will do right by me. Tell me that you still love me. That you will marry me
. I held my breath, tears rolling down my cheeks, almost faint with wishing to hear him speak those words.

But Jonathan could look at me no longer. His gaze fell to the floor. “Lanny, I have something I must tell you, but believe me when I say I would rather die than have to share this news with you right now.”

I felt light-headed and a chill of fear broke over me like sweat. “What could be more important than what I have just told you—”

“I’ve been engaged. It was settled this week. My father is in the
hall making the announcement now, but I had to find you and tell you myself. I didn’t want you to hear from anyone else …” His words trailed off as he realized how little his courtesy meant to me now.

As we were growing up, we’d sometimes made light of the fact that Jonathan had not been betrothed. This business of betrothal was difficult in a village as small as St. Andrew. The best prospective brides and husbands were snapped up early, marriages arranged for children as young as six, so if your family hadn’t acted promptly, there might not be a good choice to be had. One would think a boy of Jonathan’s means and social stature would be an attractive candidate for any of the families in town with daughters. And he was, but a match had never been made, nor for his sisters, either. Jonathan said it was due to his mother’s social aspirations: she didn’t think any family in town would be advantageous enough for her children. They would surely do better among his father’s business associates or through her own family’s network in Boston. There had been flurries of inquiries over the years, some looking more solid than others, but they all seemed to peter out and Jonathan had approached his twentieth birthday with no bride in sight.

I felt as though my stomach had been opened with a butcher’s knife. “To whom?”

He shook his head. “Now is not the time to speak of these things. It is your condition we should be talking about—”

“Who is it? I demand to know,” I cried.

There was hesitation in his eyes. “It’s one of the McDougal girls. Evangeline.”

Even though my sisters were close to the McDougal girls, I struggled to recall which of them was Evangeline, because there was no shortage of them. The McDougals had seven daughters in all, a gaggle, all very pretty in a hardy Scots way, tall and sturdy, with ginger hair in coarse curls, and skin that freckled like copper trout in the summer. I could picture Mrs. McDougal, too, practical and good-natured, with her shrewd eye, perhaps more capable than her husband, who made a
passing living as a farmer, but everyone knew it was Mrs. McDougal who made the farm turn a nice profit and had raised their standing in the town. I tried to see Jonathan with a woman like Mrs. McDougal at his side, and it made me want to fall in a heap at his feet.

“And you intend to proceed with the engagement?” I demanded.

“Lanny, I don’t know what to say … I don’t know that I
cannot …
” He took my hand and drew me back farther into a dusty corner. “The contract with the McDougals has been signed, the announcements made. I don’t know what my parents will make of our—situation.”

I could argue with him but knew that it would be futile. Marriage was a business arrangement, meant to enhance the prosperity of both families. An opportunity such as allegiance to a family like the St. Andrews would not just be given away, not for something as common as a pregnancy out of wedlock.

“It pains me to say this, but there would be objections to our marriage,” Jonathan said as kindly as possible. I shook my head wearily; he did not have to tell me. My father may have been respected by his neighbors for his quiet good judgment, but we McIlvraes did not have much to recommend us to prospective spouses, being poor and half the family practicing Catholics.

After a while, I asked hoarsely, “And Evangeline—is she the one after Maureen?”

“She’s the youngest,” Jonathan replied. Then, after hesitating, he added, “She is fourteen.”

The youngest—I could only picture the toddler brought by her sisters when they came to visit our house and work with Maeve and Glynnis on cross-stitch samplers. She had been a small pink-white thing, a pretty doll with gossamer gold tendrils and an unfortunate tendency to cry.

“So, the betrothal is set but the wedding date, if she is fourteen, that must be far off …”

Jonathan shook his head. “Old Charles wants us to wed this fall, if possible. By the end of the year, without fail.”

I gave voice to the obvious. “He is desperate for you to continue the family name.”

Jonathan wrapped his arm around my shoulders, holding me up, and I wished to cling to his strength and warmth forever. “Tell me, Lanny, what would you have us do? Tell me and I will do my best to make it so. Do you want me to tell my parents and ask them to release me from the marriage contract?”

A cold sadness washed over me. He said what I wanted to hear but I could tell that he was afraid of my answer. Although he had no desire to wed Evangeline, now that the inevitable had been arranged, he had reconciled himself to it. He didn’t want me to take him up on his offer. And in all likelihood it would be unsuccessful anyway: I was unacceptable. His father may have wanted an heir, but his mother would insist on an heir who had been conceived in wedlock, a boy born free of scandal. Jonathan’s parents would insist he go ahead with the marriage to Evangeline McDougal, and once word of my pregnancy got out, I would be ruined.

There was another way. Hadn’t I said as much to Sophia, those few months ago?

I squeezed Jonathan’s hand. “I could go to the midwife.”

A look of gratitude lit up his face. “If that is what you want.”

“I will—find a way to visit her as soon as possible.”

“I can help with the expense,” he said, fumbling at his pocket. He pressed a large coin into my hand. I was sickened, and resisted the urge to slap him, but I knew it was only out of anger. After staring at the coin for a second, I slipped it inside my glove.

“I am sorry,” he whispered, kissing me on the forehead.

They were calling for Jonathan, his name echoing from the cavernous congregation hall. He left to answer the summons before we were discovered together, and I crept back up the stairs to the loft so I could see what was going on.

Jonathan’s family stood in the aisle outside their box, the one closest to the pulpit as the place of honor. Charles St. Andrew was at the
top of the aisle, arms raised as he made an announcement, but he looked more piqued than usual. He had been this way since the autumn, said it was exhaustion or too much wine (if anything, it would be a combination of too much wine and too much dallying with the servant girls). But it had been as though one day he suddenly turned older, grayer, and sagging of flesh. He tired easily, falling asleep in congregation as soon as Pastor Gilbert opened the Bible. He soon couldn’t be bothered to attend the town council meetings and sent Jonathan in his place. None of us guessed at the time that he could be dying. He had forged the town with his own hands; he was indestructible, the courageous frontiersman, the prescient businessman. Looking back, that was probably why he’d pressed Jonathan to marry and start producing heirs: Charles St. Andrew sensed his time was running out.

The McDougals rushed down the aisle to join him in the formal announcement, Mr. and Mrs. McDougal like a pair of harried ducks followed by their ducklings, in a row, more or less descending in age. Seven girls, some properly tied and bowed, others windblown and tousled, with a hem or lace peeking from their garments.

And, at the very end, the baby of the family, Evangeline. A lump formed in my throat at the sight of her, she was that beautiful. No sturdy farm girl, Evangeline was just beginning to cross from child to woman. She was graceful and willowy, with modestly budding breasts and hips, and a cherub’s lips. Her hair was golden still, and fell down her back in long ringlets. It was evident why Jonathan’s mother had picked Evangeline: she was an angel sent to earth, a heavenly figure worthy of her eldest son’s attentions.

I could have wept, there in the church. Instead, I bit my lip and watched as she brushed by Jonathan, giving him the faintest nod, stealing a glance up at him from under her bonnet. And he, pale-faced, nodded back. The entire congregation followed this minute exchange and understood what had transpired between the two young people in the fluttering of an eye.

“It’s about time they found a wife for ’im,” someone behind me muttered. “Now mebbe he’ll quit chasin’ after the girls like a dog in heat.”

“A scandal, I say! The girl is but a child—”

“Hush now, the difference ’tween their years is but six, and a good many husbands are older than their women by more’n that …”

“True, in a few years’ time it will make no difference, when the girl is eighteen or twenty. But fourteen! Think of our own daughter, Sara-beth; would you wish to see her married off to the St. Andrew boy?”