The Fallen Fruit, page 32
Just like you, she couldn’t help but think as she wrapped fresh cloth around his arm.
“Thank you, Miss Freeman.”
Day after day, for the next two weeks, as the heat rose to intolerable levels, he waited next to that evergreen. On her way out of the house one morning, Emily caught Tabitha saying, “What’s that man doing?”
“You know very well what he’s doing,” Phoebe said, a mischievous gleam to her hazel eyes. “He’s come calling on Emily.”
“He needs to do better,” Tabitha said dryly. “It’s about time for him to take her out into the woods and stop dawdling.”
Emily escaped the house to Phoebe’s laughter. She couldn’t tell them such talk wasn’t proper. They simply didn’t care. Later that night, Tabitha even added, “You know where babies come from, don’t you, girl? Women need affection sometimes. Why should we ignore our needs?”
The midwife had a point. Em had come to learn that plenty of women eligible for marriage got pregnant before their nuptials. All the lessons she’d learned about chaste colonial families had said little about real relationships between lovers.
A couple of days later, Emily woke up with a question poking her like a stone left in her boot. What was she doing with Matthew?
And if she did give in to how she felt, what would happen next? The man planned to leave town for good someday. She had to leave for Charlottesville in a few years too. While growing up on the farm, she’d imagined she’d marry a man she loved. They’d have children and make a life for themselves. She couldn’t hold this feeling close and let it grow into something not meant to be.
She’d never marry Matthew.
The very thought made her linger at the front door. She was supposed to run an errand for the midwife, but Em didn’t want to see his face, knowing they could never be more than friends.
When Emily finally headed outside, she noticed Matthew snoozing with his backside to the tree. She considered sneaking past, but she couldn’t resist leaning down in front of him. It was nice watching his relaxed expression, the slow rise and fall of his chest. She wondered what he dreamt about.
She waited a bit before tapping his boot. “I considered letting you sleep, but the mosquitos have had breakfast, lunch, and dinner on your arms.”
He took a deep breath and stretched his arms wide. She wanted to fall into them. “I don’t mind.”
“Mrs. Oyo is sending me to the shipyards on an errand. Want to come with me before you go to work?”
He got up and the sunrise’s glow touched the top of his head, burning his tight curls with a reddish tinge. Emily turned away to face the forest. Matthew Abramson was far too handsome.
“Of course,” he said. “Let’s go.”
He joined her march toward town.
A gap separated them, yet with only a slight tilt of her arm, his hand could brush against hers. As they followed the path toward the shipyards, she tried to think of an offhand topic. How the harvest wouldn’t be as good this year due to the rising temperatures. Or perhaps she should bring up how cholera had become a problem in town.
Boring. Everything she thought of was boring. Her cousin Rosie had always thought of something witty.
“Have you ever worked on a plantation before?” he asked.
“Never. You?”
“I think I’ve done everything. Corn. Barley. Before I learned the trapping trade, I was a farmer.”
“What haven’t you done?”
“Not everything, apparently.” He inched closer until her shoulder brushed against his side. “Does Mrs. Oyo need another apprentice?”
“Goodness no.” The very thought of waking up next to Matthew on the dirt floor brought heat to her cheeks.
He laughed, and she couldn’t resist joining in. Matthew made any conversation easy. She didn’t have to fawn over him like her cousin Etta would do or brag about her uncle’s wealth like Rosie. They could just be. That had to be enough for now.
The pair made their way down to the shipyard, where Emily fetched the parcel the midwife had been waiting for.
She expected him to drift away—maybe even come up with an excuse to go about his business—but he waited next to her.
“I’m returning home,” she finally said. “Will I see you again tomorrow morning?”
“Why do you ask? Are you tired of me yet?”
The question took her aback. All these weeks he’d never asked.
“No, I’m not,” she admitted. Saying those words out loud felt good.
“Then you’ll see me again, Miss Freeman.”
Instead of turning around to depart, he backed away, and their gazes tangled. The warmth in her chest spread until she reached Pocahontas Island and heard the blacksmith call out in greeting to an approaching man.
“Mr. Bridge!” the blacksmith said. “Never thought you’d arrive before the summer ended.”
Her joyous smile died. Anyone could have that last name, but she hadn’t met a single Bridge since her arrival. She twisted around the corner to watch a Negro gentleman wearing a weathered green waistcoat and brown breeches shake hands with the blacksmith.
“How was your journey?” the blacksmith asked.
“Long, as to be expected,” the man replied, “but I was grateful you were willing to let me work for what I need.”
“My father always trusted you. Said I’d never find a man as hardworking as Zachariah Bridge.”
“Can you say that to my wife? Gertie says I never do enough.”
The world wavered and dimmed at the sound of her distant ancestors’ names. Why was her future father-in-law here of all places? She collapsed against the cabin’s wall. Nearly one hundred miles separated her from the Bridges. She’d meet them soon enough—but right now, just for a little while, she’d wanted to taste freedom before she bent to fate’s will.
She stumbled until she ran back to the house, checking behind every corner for someone else. With her luck, maybe John was in town too. Now that she knew what Zachariah looked like, John might have similar features. According to family legends, Emily met John Bridge around Charlottesville and settled down on the farm before Luke was born in 1761.
She’d be forced to choose, and in the end, she had to marry John.
By the time she reached the midwife’s home, she couldn’t shake the fear of uncertainty. No one could drive her away from Matthew. Not fate or twisted up timelines. And yet when she closed the door and rested her head against it, she couldn’t help but picture the Bridge family orchard, a vivid and breathtakingly beautiful sight.
Chapter 40
Emily Bridge
July 1758
One late-summer morning, Emily left the house to darkened skies. She had much on her mind—especially after seeing Zachariah Bridge arrive in town. Those thoughts vanished as the screaming wind snatched at her skirts, forcing her to scurry to the wood lean-to. With her arms full, her gaze swept over the countryside. The squalls picked up and dragged branches over the hills. In their garden, the crops withering under the excessive heat were carried away.
A storm was coming—a big one. She felt it in her bones.
Not far from the midwife’s house, Matthew’s sod house stood like an unwavering stone, but she’d seen photos in the newspapers with leveled homes and cars hurled about.
A light flickered through the cracks in the door. Thank goodness, he was home. A good storm would fill that house to the brim. The rising panic in Em pushed her. She dumped the wood and sprinted over to his house. Emily tried to enter, but he’d barricaded himself inside.
“Matthew!” The wind swallowed her screams. She hit the door with her fists.
Moments later, she caught him stirring and the door wrenched open. He pulled her in.
From the outside, Matthew’s home had few amenities like a rain barrel and woodpile. On the inside he had only a pallet and a stone pit for a fire.
“What are you doing? It’s not safe out there.” He was shirtless, with his breeches unbuttoned to below his belly button.
She stared a bit before she caught herself and turned her head away. “You can’t stay here. It’s not safe.”
“I’ll be fine.” He fastened his breeches.
“No, you won’t.” Emily searched the dirt floor and found a linen shirt. “Put this on—oh no, use this one. You’re coming with me.”
He donned the shirt and boots as she escaped the house to a downpour. In seconds, the hard rain pelted her face, soaking through her cotton cap. Matthew enveloped her in his arms, resting his forehead against the crown of hers. She clung to him until they were safe in the midwife’s house.
Phoebe was at the window, peering outside. “How bad is it out there?” she asked.
“It’s not good.” Emily reluctantly let go of Matthew.
“What’s going on?” Tabitha murmured from the bed.
“There’s a bad storm brewing,” he said. “Let me secure the house.”
While he shut the shutters and brought in the wood Emily had abandoned, she got the inside of the house ready. They had plenty of food from late-spring crops and the means for light.
When Matthew returned, wet and shivering, Emily handed him a blanket.
“Thanks,” he murmured.
“How is it out there?” She almost reached up to wipe his face.
“If the storm doesn’t pass soon, the river might flood.”
“We’ve seen rain like this before, Mr. Abramson,” the midwife said calmly. “It will pass soon and we’ll be well by the morn.”
As the outside world rattled the single window in the house and howled through the cracks in the walls, Matthew sat on a chair before the fire. Emily took the opposite seat and settled in for a long day. Tabitha rested in the bed while Phoebe kept trying to look outside. The midwife frowned at the behavior but kept quiet for now.
Em’s sigh filled the house. She glanced at Matthew, only to see him staring at the fire. She considered reading and grabbed her book. It was at times like these, when Emily remembered all the niceties of the modern age, that she longed for the dim light from a kerosene lamp to read. God knew she’d race down to Petersburg, storm and all, to fetch some Kotex pads from the pharmacy compared to the filthy rags she had to use.
She drew closer to the fire and squinted at the worn pages of her book. At least she’d managed to buy another one from a peddler in Pocahontas. It wasn’t much better than The Divine Comedy. Professor Mayberry was probably laughing at her right now.
“What are you smiling about?” Matthew asked.
Emily burned to speak the truth. “I’m thinking about people back home. The ones I’ll never see again.”
The midwife ambled across the room, appearing wistful as the storm battered the roof. “Everything’s always better back home. But, then again, even if home doesn’t have good memories, it’s the first place you thought you were safe.”
“Where did you learn the healing arts?” Emily asked, looking to fill the time.
“My master was a physician educated in England. The warts on his backside had more value than him. He saw me as nothing more than a fetch mule, a bed warmer when his wife couldn’t tolerate his grumbling. That man had no intention of teaching me anything other than the difference between a forceps and tweezers.” She reached down to motion for the cat to come to her. The calico obliged her for a good scratch.
She stroked under the animal’s chin in lazy circles and continued. “In Annapolis, we had fewer doctors trained in England back then so well-to-do men learned under him. Their ears and eyes were open—just like mine.” She snorted. “None of them had an ounce of sense. He once had an apprentice who repeated everything he said. That fellow couldn’t tell one end of a patient’s arse from another.”
“Fools, all of them,” Phoebe agreed.
“Did you live in the same house?” Emily asked Phoebe.
“At first, we did,” Phoebe replied. “We were bought around the same time, Tab and me. That was such a long time ago, but she even remembers what my Nanticoke mother looked like. Sadly, I don’t.” Phoebe’s voice briefly trailed off, but then it returned, louder. “Once our master fell on hard times, he sold me to another household.”
“Damn bastard.” Tabitha spat on the floor, then cursed in her mother tongue.
Matthew chuckled. Em would have to ask him later what she’d said.
“Your master or the new man who bought her?” Emily asked.
“Both,” the midwife said firmly. “Other than Phoebe, only the master’s wife treated me with decency. That poor woman died in childbirth not long after I gave birth to a stillborn.”
They sat like that in the dark while the storm rampaged outside. Bits of the roof surrendered until the rain seeped through. Puddles formed on the dirt floor, on the tables, all over the herbs hanging from the storage shelf above the bed.
Emily and Matthew gathered some pots to catch the dripping water. The quiet left her uneasy. “How long were you a slave?” she asked the midwife.
The question made Tabitha pause, the scar on her upper cheek flexing. Even Phoebe turned to her friend. Matthew’s face grew pensive.
“I was born one,” Tabitha replied, “and if Master’d had his way, I would’ve died in bondage.”
And yet she was here, and not in Annapolis. Emily wondered if Tabitha had won her freedom or escaped.
Before Em could open her mouth to speak, a foot-long section of the roof came crashing down onto the bed. Everyone scrambled, with Tabitha cursing and Phoebe squealing. They grabbed any boxes or blankets, getting further soaked in the process. It would be a long night until the storm passed.
By the next day, the storm had escaped to the east, leaving the countryside drenched and forlorn.
Emily woke up, her back groaning from her sleeping upright on the chair, but she wasn’t alone. Matthew sat on the chair right next to her, and her head rested on his shoulder. Someone had covered them with a blanket. She shifted to get up, but didn’t want to. Matthew was there, his body warm and firm against her cheek. She turned to his face. He was close enough for her to count the two moles along his collarbone. With a smile, she imagined tracing her fingers from one spot to the next. Would he like it if she touched him there?
“You’re awake,” he mumbled with his eyes closed.
She got up before he could see her embarrassment. “Yeah, we should get up. Looks like there’s work to do.”
Light shined through a hole in the ceiling and revealed the muddy ruins within the house.
“That’s not good,” Emily said.
“No, it isn’t,” Tabitha said. The midwife and Phoebe huddled together on top of the chest in the corner.
“I should go take a look outside,” Matthew suggested.
Minutes later, everyone left the house into the damp heat. The sight stole Em’s breath away. The Appomattox had spilled over and raked the countryside, leaving a wet mess of despair and dripping clotheslines of torn garments. The blacksmith’s and the stone mason’s homes had collapsed nearby.
She hoped the elder Bridge had survived the storm unscathed.
Even worse, poor Matthew’s house resembled a wet mound of mud and debris. Her heart sank at the sight. He had nothing left but his life. Thank God he hadn’t stayed there.
Emily had seen winter storms bury half of Charlottesville in snowdrifts. Her uncle Bertie had even mentioned that once the flooded Rivanna River had turned the town into a swamp, but she’d never seen or imagined anything like this.
“This is . . . devastating,” Tabitha whispered.
“I’ve only seen tornadoes do this,” Phoebe said.
“Maybe that’s what it was,” Tabitha replied.
As Emily took in the destruction, she recalled the photos and gossip after a great storm struck the Gulf of Mexico in 1919. She supposed a tornado or hurricane-force winds would’ve done such damage.
Matthew returned. His expression was somber. “I found Lucy wandering outside,” he said to Tabitha. “She’s a bit skittish, but I tied her up to the post in front of what’s left of the smithy.”
Soon enough, Emily would see for herself if Zachariah had fared well. If God were merciful, the man had returned home to his family.
“Thank you, Mr. Abramson,” the midwife said. “Have you heard anything from the constable? Does anyone need my help?”
“I don’t know yet,” he admitted, but the weary look on his face said much.
“We have work to do, Emily,” the midwife announced.
Emily thought she’d have to remain at the house to clean up with Phoebe, but the midwife gave orders as she stuffed what little dry cloth and tools they had into an apron.
“I’ll go across the bridge into town,” she said, her voice weaker than usual. Her breath appeared too shallow. “You must visit each house on this side of the river. Help the injured.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Tabitha motioned toward a chest in the room. “There’re old shirts in there. Use those for bindings and wound care.” She walked to the doorway and rested against the frame.
In the middle of ripping up one of the garments, Emily peered harder at the woman. Something was wrong. “Are you sure I shouldn’t go with you?”
“No.” The woman disappeared out the door.
The midwife wouldn’t slip past her that easily. After dealing with her mama’s antics growing up, Emily wouldn’t let Tabitha just ignore her. Emily hurried out the door to find Matthew hauling debris into a pile. Tabitha strode up to him, murmured words Emily couldn’t hear, then she left.
“Are you going to let her leave like that?” Emily asked him. “She looks tired.”
“Do you think anyone tells Mrs. Oyo what to do?” The fatigue in his eyes faded for a moment. She wished she could comfort him.
“Not really.”
“Where are you heading?”
“Might as well check the closest houses first,” she said.
“You’ll need help to get inside George Mills’s house.” He tossed a branch into the pile, then wiped his hands off on his breeches. “Give me a moment.”
Not long after, their slow-going trek across Pocahontas began. As far as Emily could see, families, many of them bleary-eyed and weary, stood outside or did what they could to unearth their homes.
