Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [19]
But this was not the case with Dora, who throughout my childhood was pregnant more often than she was not. Indeed I cannot remember her as anything but great-bellied, though in truth her figure altered little regardless of her condition. She was truly built for childbearing, with magnificent wide hips that rolled with grace when she walked, and a frame that was broad and square. Her belly, though indeed great, was never out of proportion to the rest of her, and her neck was long and surprisingly delicate given the size of her frame. Her eyes were large and luminous, and like a spring sky, changed color with the sun. Even in death her appearance had been striking, as if God had claimed her just as she was.
Despite this, her births were dogged by misfortune. Most of her children died during labor, though one or two survived a short time before illness claimed them. With the exception of Long Boy, who was born when I was nine, I cannot recall any living beyond a few days. She buried them all behind her cottage, and asked God for his blessing, even if as bastard children they were not entitled to a proper Christian burial. She had not conceived a child in recent years, however, and I, like many others, believed that she was past the time of childbearing.
But Long Boy is right: fear was not in her nature. She regarded her pregnancies as both right and natural, and believed that God would not spurn either her or her children in the end. It seems clear to me from his response that Long Boy did not know of her condition, nor of her reasons for alarm. And while I am disappointed I am not surprised, for like any good mother she took steps to shelter him from the outside world and its dangers. If I am to unravel the questions surrounding her death, I shall have to seek my answers elsewhere, for I sense that there is little more to be learned from him directly.
My mother returns at dusk, appearing some degree refreshed. The boy seems relieved when she enters, and she goes to him directly, spanning his forehead with her hand to check for fever.
“He is fine,” I say. “I gave him the tonic.” They both ignore me, she concentrating on the feel of his brow. After a moment she releases him and nods.
“I am grateful for your help,” she says a little tersely. “You can return now to the Great House.” I hesitate a moment, watch her move to the fire, give the pot a stir. She cannot stay here indefinitely, but she is not likely to leave him thus. What will she do when he is recovered, I wonder? She lights a candle and places it on the table, then seats herself by the fire and takes out a ball of newspun wool and her knitting needles. My mother’s hands are never idle, and they fly about the needles like two swallows worrying a nest. The boy lies peacefully in the corner, and I hear him sigh as I put on my coat and slip out the door, leaving the two of them to their silence.
In the scullery of the Great House Cook is scolding Little George, the roasting boy, for allowing a joint to burn. When I enter, she leaves him cowering and comes toward me, wiping her hands on her bloodstained apron.
“You were overlong away,” she says.
“My mistress?” I ask.
“I had to keep her from your room,” she scolds me. “I told her you were deep in sleep.”
“I am grateful,” I reply.
“Aye,” she says with a grimace, waving me away. I dash up the rear stairs and hasten to my room. Once inside I remove my kirtle and lay it on the bed, then I take the glass vial out of its pouch to examine it once more. Just as I do, I hear a soft knock on the door. Quickly I lie