Lady in the Mist - Laurie Alice Eakes [120]
“Understandable. If you can’t take the baby with you, you could make a mess of your gown.” Tabitha dropped the key. “Oops.”
She sank to her hands and knees. Under the guise of retrieving the key, she looked under the bed. Nothing, not even dust motes.
“So how recently did the baby die that your milk is still coming up?” Tabitha rose and walked to the chest to sit. “You don’t seem sad about the loss of your child.”
“I’m not.” Sally stuck out her lower lip. “He’s a nuisance. That’s what Momma says.”
“And what do you say? How do you feel about the baby?” Tabitha examined the chest. It was so full of quilts, the lid wouldn’t close properly. If the baby lay in there, he was indeed departed from the world—and recently. He couldn’t possibly breathe.
Two enormous tears pearled on Sally’s lashes. “I love him. He doesn’t look a bit like his . . . like him, and he doesn’t—” She clamped her hand over her mouth.
Tabitha narrowed her eyes. Sally sat on a chair twice her size. Despite the warm day, a blanket was draped halfway across her lap.
Of course.
“I’m pleased to hear you love him.” Tabitha sprang, whipped back the blanket, and exposed a tiny form nestled on the chair beside Sally, his eyes closed, his face scrunched up, his lips working at a cloth teat. “He looks quite alive to me, Sally.”
“I’m so glad. I’m always afraid.” Sally began to sob into her hands. “Momma says I have to keep him quiet when people come to call. But the only way I can is to soak a cloth in sugar water with a drop or two of brandy on it.”
“Oh my.” Tabitha scooped up the infant. He weighed no more than a pumpkin, but his limbs were rounded and smooth, signs he was eating well enough. Still, Tabitha removed the sugar teat and examined every inch of him. And she sniffed. Perhaps the brandy was the familiar scent she’d caught. But it wasn’t. The cloth needed to be changed, and the baby should have begun to cry in a stranger’s arms. No harm should have been done with only a drop or two of spirits.
“No more brandy.” Tabitha glanced around. “Where are clean cloths? He needs a fresh one.”
“In that chest under the quilt.” Sally rose and retrieved a square of fine muslin. “I’ll take him. The mess doesn’t bother me at all. He smells so sweet even like that.” Tears continued to fall down the girl’s cheeks. “I don’t want to give him up, but Momma says I must because his daddy won’t marry me.”
“Yes, the daddy.” Tabitha carried the child across the room to where Sally had spread the cloth on the floor. “Has he come by to tell you he won’t marry you?”
“I-haven’t-seen-him.” The words emerged in a breathless rush, all running together.
Tabitha frowned. “Are you sure about that?”
“I’ll take Charles now.” Sally held up her arms.
Tabitha gazed at the sleeping infant—the perfection of round cheeks, peach fuzz on his head, miniscule ears. She touched the bottom of a tiny foot, and the toes curled. She knew Sally watched her, waited with arms extended, to take her child, but Tabitha couldn’t let go. Her arms wouldn’t open, her hands wouldn’t release the precious bundle of life.
“He’ll ruin your gown, miss,” Sally prompted.
“Of course.” Tears misting her eyes, Tabitha forced herself to give Sally’s son back to her. “When did you see Harlan Wilkins last, Sally?”
“I said I haven’t.” Sally kept her head bent over the baby.
Charles opened his eyes and blew a spit bubble.
“Isn’t he wonderful?” Sally’s voice held awe. “He hardly ever cries, but he knows me more than anyone.”
“I can see that.” Tabitha looked away, her heart a mass of pain in her chest. “I want you to look at me, Sally, and tell me you haven’t seen your baby’s father.”
“I haven’t.” The girl took a long, shuddering breath. “And it’s not Harlan Wilkins. I lied about that.”
“You lied in extremis of labor?” Tabitha swung toward her, staring. “Then who is the father if it’s not Harlan Wilkins?”
“It’s”—Sally leaned forward and kissed Charles’s cheek—“Thomas Kendall.”
“Mayor Kendall?” Tabitha felt like the floorboards had been yanked out from under her. “No,