Journey to Victory, page 39
“Yes, Father, we saw the baby get borned.”
“Have you seen that before?” John stooped to be at eye level.
“Every year, but I like seeing it every year.” The boy grinned.
“I know what you mean.” John squeezed the boy’s shoulder.
Christiane marveled again at their ease at being together. Somehow her son in his innocence had already drawn closer to John than she had been able to. How could she bridge the gap? The ache over her heart twinged.
“Ma’am,” John said, rising, “some Friends delivered a chicken. It hangs by the side door. It is gutted, but needs plucking and cooking.” He looked at her meaningfully. Earlier, amid her morning chores, she had forgotten to prepare dinner, so they had lunched on porridge and biscuits.
Her pulse raced at his intent gaze. Had he grown more handsome or was it only her longing? “I used to know how to make a delicious chicken stew with dumplings.”
“Dumplings?” He looked intrigued.
“Yes, I learned how in Rumsveld, an old friend taught me. It was one of her specialties.” The thought of leaving the quiet farm clawed her suddenly. Her future lay in the hands of her husband now, something that was never far from her mind. She turned away, stricken.
“Well, your biscuits passed muster,” he conceded.
“Thank you, sir, I hope you will find my dumplings satisfactory also,” she returned lightly, hiding how low her spirits had dropped. “Jean Claude, are you coming with me?”
“No, Mother, I want to stay with the men.”
Christiane looked up at her husband. Why don’t you ever speak of the future, our future? Even if you spoke of England, that would give me some idea of your plans.
“Good. We can use his help,” he answered.
“I think there are two more sheep,” Jean Claude said. “We need to check on them, too.”
Smiling as much as she could, she patted her son’s shoulder. “Supper will be ready at dark, John.” Her use of his first name was coming easier, no doubt due to the Quaker dislike of titles. Would John soften toward her, begin using her name once more?
“Very good, ma’am.”
She stepped away and retrieved the chicken. Inside, Sarah Anne sat dozing in the rocking chair by the low fire. Christiane quietly found a basket to hold the feathers and settled herself near a window for enough light so she would not miss any of the small pinfeathers. Carefully she worked, glancing out the window occasionally.
She realized then how unexpectedly content she was sitting here plucking a chicken. Her family had come together. Her son accepted her and John. Sarah Renee had her own father and would never suffer the stigma of illegitimacy. Now one last matter to be resolved lay between the two of them. John had married her to be with his child—true. But he showed himself willing to cooperate in unusual circumstances. She would be agreeable and patient and perhaps in time… Dear Lord, I am grateful for this reunion. But what will happen next?
“Mama!” Sarah Renee called from the steps.
“Hush,” Christiane cautioned. “Come down quietly. Sarah Anne and Josiah are napping still.”
The child hopped down the steps, humming.
“You may play with the toys in the box, but try not to knock over the blocks.”
“Yes, Mama.” The little girl went cheerfully over to the large box. Soon she had built a house of blocks and was playing with clothespin people while Christiane prepared the stew and set it to simmer.
Finally the late-winter sunlight dimmed to the point where Christiane rose and lit two tapers, one on the mantel and one on the table. Once more she leaned over her fragrant stew, bubbling on a hook on the hearth.
The kitchen door opened. The two men and boy came hustling in. “It is beginning to drizzle again,” John said. He carried an armload of wood, as did the other two. Deftly they piled it against the wall. “Will this hold us till morning, Sarah Anne?” he asked.
“Yes, looks enough.”
Jean Claude went over to the cot and sat on the side opposite his grandmother. “Grandpa,” he said softly to Josiah, “Mother and I found the first lamb this spring. It is all white.” He turned to his grandmother. “I wish he could have been there.”
“Yes, thy grandfather always has loved little ones of any kind.” She smiled down at her husband. Jean Claude leaned over and rested his head on Josiah’s chest for just a moment. Seeing this small act of love nearly carried Christiane into tears. She quickly turned and stirred the fire with the poker.
“Brother, will you play with me?” Sarah Renee asked.
“After supper.”
“Ma’am, that certainly smells delicious,” Alfred murmured admiringly.
“Thank you, Alfred.”
“May I assist you in any way?”
“No, thank you. Come to the table, everyone. Dinner is ready.” They all took their places. Sarah Anne looked to John. “John, would thee give thanks for us?”
Surprising Christiane, he nodded and they all joined hands. “Heavenly Father, thank you for the meal we are about to eat and the hands that prepared it. Amen.”
Christiane was somewhat anxious about her stew, but a few bites assured her that she had remembered the recipe well. Compliments were murmured and she could not help but smile. Sarah Anne joined in the companionship of the meal and then carried a bowl of stew to feed Josiah.
“I’m so glad thee made dumplings, Christiane. It has always been one of Josiah’s favorites.” Then she turned to her husband. “Josiah, thy dinner is cool enough now and I know thee will enjoy it.” Without waiting for any response, since one was impossible, she gently raised his head with pillows and carefully spooned the rich stew into his mouth. As Christiane watched this, a desire for the same closeness with her husband moved her. The firelight and candles lent a snug feeling to the dark room. Spring rain pattered down softly on the window panes.
Little Sarah went to stand by the bed and watch the proceedings. “Is he very sick?” she asked solemnly.
“In a way. I don’t think that he is in great pain, but he cannot speak to us or move much. Does thee know what he would say if he could?”
“What?” the little girl asked.
“He would tell thee how happy he is to meet thee. He has wanted thy mother to bring thee home for a long time.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Sarah Renee watched the grandmother a bit longer and then she joined her brother on the floor by the fire’s glow. Her simple block house became more elaborate with her brother’s help. He claimed two of the clothespin people and a story soon progressed, involving both children, using different voices for different characters. After Josiah was fed, Sarah Anne sat in her rocker and began knitting. Alfred sat on the settle in the shadows and Christiane and John relaxed at the table, observing the children. The room quieted then except for the crackling flames and the children’s voices.
Pushing away concern about her marriage, Christiane drifted into a dreamlike state; no doubt her fatigue contributed to this.
“Christiane, I have prayed for this for years,” Sarah Anne murmured. “We are all together at last. ‘Commit thy way unto the LORD; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass.’”
Christiane heard the words. Had this good woman’s prayers made the difference, brought this coming together? Glancing at her husband, Christiane found him looking at her. Without thinking, she smiled shyly. He looked directly at her and then nodded. What did that nod mean? She couldn’t find the strength, the courage to ask. Should she just let the matters flow? Or should she ask the question about the future that festered inside her? She couldn’t decide.
Soon it was time for bed. Drowsily Christiane roused herself to shepherd the children upstairs. At the foot of the steps, she looked back and found John’s gaze on her again. What was he thinking, this husband of hers?
***
A week passed and the weather improved and so did their life at Meadow Farm. John hired a laundress and day maid to lighten his wife’s load. Content to cook and mind her children, Christiane welcomed the hired help and the easing of her work. Also, Sarah Anne let John take over the details of renting out the farm land for the year. A stable boy was added and he helped out with the many outside chores. They all had settled into a homey pattern together. But every night, Christiane still lay on her side of the featherbed and John kept to the other side.
Today the time for planting the kitchen garden had arrived. They stood together by the recently plowed plot. At the idea of someone else planting her own garden, Sarah Anne had been shocked, so they had decided to please her and do it themselves. The children, of course, were excited. And Sarah Renee had been excused from her daily nap to join in the planting.
“Children,” Christiane instructed, recalling her own days of planting corn with Jakob, “come here. You two will take care of planting the corn hills. Here is the measuring stick. Use it to space your hills. Remember, three kernels to a hill.” The two scrambled off to their section of rows. Sarah Anne, are you sure you want to plant the potatoes?”
“Oh, aye, if I do not share in the planting, how can I share in the joy of the harvest? Besides, the potatoes are perfect for me. I make the holes with this old broom handle, drop the eye in, and move the dirt with my toe and step on it. I have done it this way many years now.”
“Very well. You know best,” Christiane said. “I will do the peas. Alfred, will you see to the pumpkins?”
“Very good, ma’am,” he said grimly. He accepted the sack of seeds from her.
“And what do I get to plant?” her husband inquired.
“Do you really want to?”
“Of course, shall I lounge around while the rest of you labor?”
She shook her head but smiled a bit. “Here are the turnips then, sir,” she said lightly. “Will that suit you?”
“Perfectly.”
Christiane bent to the task of dropping peas in at intervals down the row nearest the fence. The vines would climb and blossoms would decorate it. The smell and feel of the earth cast her thoughts back to Rumsveld and Jakob.
Then the sound of her children’s angry voices snapped her back to the present. She looked up just in time to see Jean Claude push Sarah Renee down onto the black earth. “Jean Claude!”
John strode over the furrows to the quarrelers, Christiane in his wake. “Now what is the problem, young man?” he demanded in a military tone.
Not intimidated, Jean Claude looked up defiantly, his hands on his hips. “She won’t do it right! She keeps putting too many kernels in.”
“I am not!” the girl yelled back. She jumped up and charged her brother. He stepped out of the way and she fell forward onto her stomach. This caused more screams of frustration.
“Now stop this,” Christiane ordered. She picked up the struggling child and shook her firmly. “Someone needs a nap.”
“No, I don’t!” Sarah Renee shrilled and began to cry.
“Baby,” Jean Claude spat out.
Without a word John reached over and picked up his daughter and carried her, still fussing, toward the house.
Christiane turned to Jean Claude. “I do not ever want to see you push your sister down again. Do you hear me?”
“But, Mother, she—”
“Don’t ‘but mother me!’ If she is doing wrong, come and tell me or your father. We will take care of it.”
He looked disgruntled but nodded grudgingly in agreement.
“Now go back to your planting.”
She stood for a moment then. Should she follow John in? No, it would be best to wait and see if he appealed for help. She went back to her row of peas. Mechanically, she began dropping peas again, but her frown deepened. The children had seemed to get along so well.
At last her husband appeared by her side. “She was really overtired,” he said softly. “It took me a while to get her settled down.”
“Do you think that was the cause?” Christiane asked.
“A little,” Sarah Anne interrupted. She had come close to them. They turned to look at her. “The two of thee look overly concerned.”
“But, Sarah, he pushed her down,” Christiane countered.
“I know. It is a common thing for a lad to do to his sister,” the older woman said with a wry smile. “I had six brothers so I should know. Brothers stand on no ceremony with sisters and vice versa”
The couple digested this in silence.
Suddenly John smiled. “Ah,” he said, “I see what you mean.”
“Well, I do not,” Christiane said quietly, not wanting her son to hear.
”Oh, Christiane, it is a simple matter,” Sarah Anne said. “Today Sarah Renee and Jean Claude became brother and sister indeed.”
“By quarreling?” she asked. This exchange was unexpectedly pinching her, digging in deeply to her emotions. Why?
“One doesn’t argue with a guest, does one?” John pointed out.
Christiane absorbed this like a blow to her midsection. When would she and John put away their painful polite civility? When would they stop behaving as if they were new acquaintances at a party?
“Aye, Christiane, rejoice. They trust one another enough now to show their true feelings.” Sarah Anne chuckled and then turned back to her potato rows.
Christiane mulled this over, trying to keep her marked reaction hidden. The planting resumed in a weighty silence.
The rest of the day flowed by Christiane. She went through the motions of planting, cooking supper, bathing her daughter, and putting her children to bed. All the while her mind chewed on the experience of the afternoon.
Finally she sat in her nightdress on her side of their bed. Staring out the moonlit window across from her, she stroked her hair with her ivory-handled brush. Over and over again Sarah Anne’s words went through her mind, intensifying Christiane’s agitation, the tension she guarded from view.
Her husband came in and quietly closed the door. “Jean Claude is really doing well with his reading,” he commented as he sat down with his back to her to take off his shoes.
Christiane made an interested noise and surreptitiously massaged the worsening ache over her heart.
He continued to talk idly about the evening’s reading lesson while she continued to brush her hair, dealing with her confusion. At last the candle was snuffed and the bed dipped as he lay down. “Good night, ma’am,” he bid her civilly.
Something in his tone sliced her in two. Unexpectedly, tears threatened. She popped up and stepped to the window, trying to conceal her distress. Why was she crying? Why would a child’s quarrel upset her so?
“Is there something the matter?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head.
There followed a deceptive calm. Christiane stood in the moonlight, which pooled by the window. She clutched the sill, her tears refusing to be denied. She struggled to remain silent. Since she could not behave normally, she was at a loss as to what to do. She could not go to bed. Her trembling would give her away. She could not go downstairs and disturb Sarah Anne, so she stood, gripping the sill, swallowing tears.
“Something is wrong.” John had come up behind her and his voice startled her. “You are trembling. What is it?”
“I don’t know,” she gasped miserably, “I can’t seem to stop crying.”
Gingerly from behind, he put his hands on her arms.
Christiane looked up at him over her shoulder. Tears obscured her vision, but his look of concern melted her resistance. She knew why she was crying. She wanted him to love her again as he had in Philadelphia. “It’s all my fault,” she blurted out and then wept harder, more hopelessly.
He tightened his grip on her arms and pulled her back against him. He could feel her soft hair against his chin. How he had missed her softness against him. “What do you mean?”
“I spoiled everything. You loved me and I spoiled it.” She was too upset to care what she said.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t want to be treated like a guest. I want to be a real wife.” Then she gasped and her tears abruptly ended .
John held her arms still and felt her lean back against him. Her distress made him bold. “And what prevents you from being a real wife?”
“You don’t want me,” she said plaintively.
“Who told you that? You are the one who said you hated me.”
“I know. It was awful of me. I have regretted saying those words a thousand times.” She wiped her tears with her trembling fingertips.
“You have?”
“Yes,” she said miserably, rubbing the ache over her heart.
John had kept his distance as well as he could. He’d wondered in the weeks since their marriage if her heart had softened. He’d told himself that he would be content with peace and harmony with his wife, a quiet home for him and their child. But was that really true or had he just made himself believe it? She was his wife, his legal wife. He’d wanted more, but had hesitated.
Hope bobbing up within, he squeezed her arms gently and let his face dip into her luxuriant hair. Deeply he inhaled the natural scent of her with that hint of lavender. With satisfaction he felt his body tighten with desire. He felt again the wonder of being near her. Of course he wanted to make love to her. Whispering her name, he placed small kisses down the side of her neck, pushing back her hair with his lips. His arms went around her possessively. This is my wife.
She rotated within his embrace and pressed herself against him, encircling him with her arms. “Oh,” she breathed.
Their lips met in a kiss of reunion, gentle at first but then they pitched headlong into passion. He pulled her more tightly to him. How had he waited this long to hold her? The desire to make love to her was pushing him to the point of no return. “Christiane, please.” The words were wrenched from him.
“Don’t—”
A sharp intake of air nearly choked him.
“Stop,” she finished.
He swung her into his arms onto their bed, exultant. She smiled up at him. He pushed her back against the large feather pillows. She threw her arms around him, tugging him down to her. The urgency of wanting her—completely—overwhelmed him. I love you, Christiane. He bent his head to her soft skin….
