Chapter 6
The frigid Nebraska wind howled outside the farmhouse, rattling the windows and pushing its way through the cracks, as Jackson sat in the kitchen, his hands gripping a cup of half-drunk coffee long cold.
He stared at the slanted shadows the flickering lamplight cast across the worn floorboards, but his mind was occupied with thoughts of his wife.
From the bedroom above came another clutch of muffled groans followed by soothing murmurs from the local midwife, Hester Reeves. “Almost there, Amanda,” she coaxed. “Push.”
Jackson’s hands clenched into fists at his wife’s anguished growl. Moments later, she let out a sharp cry of agony, and his breath caught in his throat. It whooshed out at the lusty wail of an infant.
Please let them both be well.
Jackson climbed the stairs and paced up and down the hall, not sure what to do with himself.
“Mr. Maguire,” Hester called an eternal half-hour later, “you can come in now.”
He opened the door and entered the room. Amanda lay exhausted on the bed, her face pale and damp with sweat, but her eyes shining as she cradled a small bundle.
Hester stood nearby, wearing a satisfied smile, her wrinkled face framed by wavy gray locks of hair that had fallen loose. “Congratulations. You have a healthy son.”
“What about my wife? Is she all right?”
“She’s well, too.” Hester lifted a hand gnarled by age and dexterous work, and beckoned him. “Come. See for yourself.”
Jackson approached the bed, his emotions a tumultuous mix of joy, apprehension, and a twinge of sorrow he couldn't quite shake.
Amanda looked up at him, her smile tired and uncertain. “Would you like to hold him?”
Nodding mutely, Jackson carefully took the infant into his arms. As he gazed down at the tiny face that bore traits of his brother, a surge of love filled his heart, unexpected and intense.
“He's perfect,” Jackson whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He hadn’t been able to let himself see past his anger to imagine this moment. The child was here, and they hadn’t yet chosen a name. “What shall we call him?”
“How do you feel about the name Noah?” Amanda asked, relief plain in her voice, and moisture glazing her eyes.
Jackson swallowed hard, pushing away thoughts of Ross and focusing on the child in his arms. “Noah,” he repeated. “I like it.” He gently stroked the baby's cheek. “Welcome to the world. I promise to love and protect you always.”
As he said the words, the weight of his commitment settled upon his shoulders—and, strangely, he welcomed it. This child wasn’t his by blood, but Noah was his son in his heart.
May 1866
Three months later
Caroline met Walsh at the gate and strolled with him to the tables that had been placed in the yard for a casual Saturday luncheon. Sweet white violets scented the air, and the sun warmed the space, dappling everything with light filtered through maple branches.
Greetings rang out as the two of them approached.
Walsh inclined his head. “Mr. and Mrs. Bennet... Miss Teague. It’s good to see you again.” He glanced around. “Where are The Brothers?” –his affectionate term for Simon, Landon, and Knox, collectively.
“They mounted up early this morning and went fishing,” Caroline replied.
“I can’t blame them. It’s a perfect day for that.”
Her father waggled his eyebrows and grinned. “I almost joined them.”
“The food looks delicious,” Walsh remarked, gazing at the generous spread of thick-sliced bread, cold ham, pickled vegetables, cherry tarts, and a pitcher of lemonade sweating in the spring air.
Her father paused with an empty plate in one hand and a slice of ham dangling from the serving fork in the other. “That’s why I didn’t go.” He nodded at the food. “Fix a plate and join us.”
Walsh waited patiently for Caroline to serve herself first, then carried their plates to the second table and took a seat beside her.
“How is your aunt,” her mother asked Walsh as she filled everyone’s glass.
“She’s well, thank you. I’ll tell her you asked after her.” He turned his attention to Malvinia. “And how about you, Miss Teague? How fares your family?”
“They are well, also.”
“Splendid. I’m glad our paths crossed today. I’m curious to know if you’ve had a chance to read the book on conchology?”
“I have—twice through! Thank you for lending it.” Malvinia’s hand flew to her reddening cheek. “I meant to bring it with me today, but I forgot.”
“No hurry,” Walsh said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Keep it as long as you like.”
“What is conchology?” Caroline’s mother asked.
“It’s the study of a particular type of sea snail and its shell,” Walsh replied. “Miss Teague expressed interest during one of our conversations, so I loaned her my copy of The Conchologist’s First Book by Edgar Allan Poe.”
“Oh.”
“The book itself has a rather interesting history,” Walsh went on.
“Poe’s edition was based on Manual of Conchology by Thomas Wyatt, which was priced out of reach of most people, even advanced conchology students.
So, Poe—who was an experienced editor but too deep in financial difficulties to publish it himself—allowed his name to be used to popularize an affordable edition.
Some accused him of plagiarism, but I think they were jealous of his success. ”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. Poe’s contributions were brilliant.
In addition to writing the preface and introduction, he made significant changes, including translating foreign portions into English and thoroughly organizing the book.
Schools adopted the new edition, and it sold out almost immediately.
In fact, it was the only one of Poe’s books to be reprinted in his lifetime, which is why it’s unfortunate that he didn’t receive any royalties. ”
Caroline’s father harrumphed and shook his head. “Innovators going uncompensated... Happens more than you think.”
Her mother gave Malvinia an assessing look. “A textbook on sea creatures is an unusual choice for a woman. Most young ladies lean toward books on etiquette, or those with moral or domestic themes.”
“I’ve read those until my eyes crossed,” Malvinia blurted then appeared to regret such a blunt, revealing admission. “When Mr. Duffy mentioned the book, it intrigued me. The illustrations are beautiful.”
“They are,” Walsh agreed, “but what drew me was the conch’s mathematical properties.
The shells exhibit logarithmic spirals, a type of spiral where the distance between successive turns remains constant.
The nautilus, on the other hand–” He looked around the table at the tolerant expressions and pressed his lips into a thin, self-deprecating line.
“Forgive me. I have a tendency to prattle.”
Caroline’s mother turned a polite smile his way. “You’re knowledgeable on the subject and sharing your fondness for it. There’s nothing to forgive.” She pointed to the pitcher. “More lemonade?”
“Yes, please,” Walsh replied, seeming glad for the change of subject.
Her father held out his glass. “I’ll have some, too.
” He brought the refilled beverage to his lips and dribbled some onto his beard.
“Pardon my clumsiness,” he said as he dabbed his mouth with his napkin.
“Did Caroline tell you we got a letter from Jackson and Amanda?” he asked Walsh, who cast her a cautious glance.
“No, she didn’t.” Ever since the incident at the party, Walsh tiptoed around her sensitivities where Jackson was concerned.
“Amanda gave birth to a boy,” her father went on. “Named him Noah, they did.”
“Congratulations. Mother and son are well, I hope.”
“They are.”
Caroline’s mother practically levitated from excitement where she sat.
“I’ve talked Mr. Bennet into paying them a visit.
We’ll be taking the train to Omaha in a few weeks.
” Her joy dimmed some. “I wish Caroline would agree to come along. Perhaps one of you can persuade her. Her father and I have given up.”
Caroline buried her pain—a feat at which she’d become too adept—and aimed for calm practicality. “Someone needs to stay behind and manage the household, lest my brothers run amok. Besides, Amanda has her hands full enough without a crowd underfoot.”
Annoyance gave her mother’s forbearing expression a credible challenge. “Three people is not a crowd.”
“If I go, you’ll be forced to bring the boys, and six is a crowd.” Caroline shook her head. “I’ll remain here.”
“And they say males are stubborn,” her mother muttered. “Stay behind if you wish, but I fear you’ll regret it.”
She probably would, but she couldn’t bear to see her sister holding Jackson’s child and living the life she should have had.
Her father, who’d been watching the interchange with an indistinct expression, laid his napkin beside his plate and sat back in his chair. “How are things at the mill, Mr. Duffy?”
“Humming along at an incredible pace. So many orders are pouring in, I’ve been forced to stay late most evenings, just to keep up.
“Oh.”–Walsh held up a finger and reached into his jacket pocket–“I’m glad you brought up the mill.
” He withdrew a folded scrap of paper and handed it over.
“A bladesmith who purchases his metal from us plans to add a line of custom leather sheaths and needs a supplier. I mentioned you as a possible source, and he expressed interest. I hope you don’t mind that I offered to pass along his information. ”
“Not at all,” her father said, opening the note.
He held it close, narrowing his eyes, then extended his arm, blinking and squinting.
“Perhaps it’s me who needs a referral—to your optician,” he added with a chuckle as he tucked the note away.
“Thank you for recommending me. I’ll stop by his shop first thing Monday morning. ”
“I assure you it was no quid pro quo. After hearing the local cobbler sing praises about the quality of your leather and experiencing it for myself, how could I not?”
Malvinia snickered then promptly clamped a hand to her mouth.