Chapter 9 #2
His knuckles brushed the frame as he moved to the doorway, uncertain what to do, worried his very presence might shatter what was left of Amanda’s time.
He stood, looking at his beautiful young wife, whose eyes were closed in peaceful sleep. Opium had smoothed the lines of suffering from her face, but she was still dying. This loyal companion and paragon of motherhood had been struck down decades too soon.
The tears burning the backs of Jackson’s eyes suddenly dried.
The urge to cry was quashed by the urge to scream and rail at life’s unfairness—to rail at God.
If this was heaven’s retribution for his broken promise or his many sins of war, he’d accept the sentence.
But Amanda didn’t deserve it, and neither did the children.
A door opened downstairs.
“Missa Maguire,” Celia called out.
Jackson locked his emotions away and went down to greet her. “I’m here.”
Celia’s entire face curved in sympathy the moment she saw him. “I was so very, very sorry to hear ‘bout your missus. I passed the doctor on the way, and he gave me the news.”
“Thank you. And thank you for coming.”
“I wouldn’t be anywhere else, and you know it. I adore your precious Amanda almos’ as much as you do. Them chilluns, too.”
The children had been left to their own devices for too long. “I’d best check on them. I sent them out back after breakfast to play with a young litter of kittens I’d hoped would hold their interest.”
Celia set aside the bundle she carried and adjusted the colorful cloth tied about her head. “I’ll see to them,” she said, waving him off. “I’ll see to the meals, as well.”
“I haven’t told them anything except that their mother is resting.”
His remark stopped her in her tracks, and her ebony eyes studied him to the point he wanted to squirm under their scrutiny.
Celia rarely told a white man how to handle his affairs—even him—but she wasn’t shy about staring a person down when she disagreed.
Despite being only five years his senior, she carried herself like an elder, which could be a comfort or a scold, depending on her mood.
“I won’t tell them any different, though I reckon they already know somethin’s amiss.”
Noah certainly did.
But Jackson wasn’t ready to endure the pain of telling them what the doctor had said. And what if he upset them for nothing? He’d seen many a battlefield prognosis proven wrong. Amanda was young and hale. For all he knew, she might defy the odds.
“I’ve got work that needs doing, but I’ll stay within shouting distance of the house. Do you want your horse stabled or turned out into the paddock?”
“Paddock, if you please. Maybe toss him some hay, if it’s not an imposition.”
“Not at all.”
Jackson donned his jacket and hat then tackled his chores with dedication, but they proved useless as a distraction. His thoughts kept straying to Amanda.
At lunch, Celia pulled him aside. “Both Noah and Jewel has been askin’ for their mother.”
He couldn’t put them off forever. “I’ll take them in to visit before they go to bed tonight.”
Celia nodded and finished setting the food on the table.
Her talent in the kitchen surpassed Amanda’s, but Jackson didn’t have the will to eat. He stared at his plate, barely conscious of his surroundings.
“Papa... Papa?” Noah was speaking to him.
“Hm?”
“Miss Celia says Mr. Green has a litter of puppies that are almost growed enough to give away. May I have one?”
Jackson’s first reaction was to take Celia to task for getting the boy’s hopes up or—worse—engaging in outright meddling.
But she could just as well have brought it up to keep him off the topic of his mother.
On a regular day, Noah’s questions could exhaust a library’s worth of topics in a single afternoon. “What kind of puppies are they?”
Noah opened his mouth then closed it and looked to Celia, who was picking chicken off the bone and handing pieces to Jewel.
“They’s nothin’ special... mongrel farm hounds.”
Jackson sighed. He didn’t want to make decisions about pets at a time like this.
“Do they have to be special?” Noah asked him when he didn’t respond.
“No. Mongrels are fine dogs to have around. The problem is they add another mouth to feed.”
“You let the kittens stay.”
“Cats are different. They hunt and catch their own food. Some dogs do, too, but not as much. If we got a dog, we’d have to feed it from our cellar.”
“Oh.” Noah ducked his head.
“I’m not saying no, son. I just want some time to think about it.”
Noah’s head popped back up. “All right.” He bent a cautious look at Jackson. “But can you finish your thinkin’ before Mr. Green gives away the last puppy?”
Jackson bent a look of his own at Celia.
Her lips were pressed tightly together and turned up at the edges.
Celia settled Jewel in Amanda’s stuffed chair for her nap and busied Noah with the job of refilling the wood bin.
Before Jackson could make it to the door, she brought a tray that held a bowl of steaming liquid and held it out to him.
“It’s ‘bout time for another dose of Dr. Babcock’s tincture.
Maybe you can feed your missus some broth before it knocks her out. ”
Jackson looked at her with a puzzled expression that was largely feigned. The truth was he didn’t think he could bear going back upstairs.
“I know you, Missa Maguire,” she said in a firm, quiet voice, her eyes warm with wisdom and sympathy. “You’s a good man, a man who cares enough to be burdened by his regrets. Don’t let this be one of ‘em.”
Jackson carried the tray up the stairs, each step sapping his strength as if his boots were filled with lead, then he stood outside the bedroom door.
He’d bravely charged toward enemy lines in battle, yet he couldn’t make his feet cross the threshold of his room where the only thing at risk was his composure.
A noise came from his wife’s direction, faint but unmistakable. Amanda was making the same sounds she had when Dr. Babcock touched her belly.
Jackson hurried in and set the tray aside, chiding himself for being such a coward.
Amanda didn’t rouse at the intrusion, but pain was etched into her face and plainly evident in every whimper. Silver trails ran from the corners of her eyes toward her pillow. At some point she’d cried, but the tears had dried and left behind salty crystals.
A lump rose in Jackson’s throat, nigh cutting off his air. He should have checked on her sooner. He should have never left her side.
Quickly he read the note Dr. Babcock had left about the opium, then pulled a chair close to the side of the bed. “Amanda... Amanda, if you can hear me, open your eyes.”
He got no response at first. Then she opened them slowly, blinking several times. The brown and gold flecks that used to glow in her hazel eyes had clouded, like river water after a storm. But she trained a focused gaze on him and seemed to be clear of mind.
Jackson found a smile for her. “It’s time for your medicine.” He lifted her shoulders and adjusted her pillow, then picked up the spoon and measured out a dose.
Amanda’s dry lips parted only slightly, but she didn’t resist as he slipped the spoon between them, save for a grimace at the taste. After a long moment, she swallowed the blessed drug.
“I brought you some broth. Do you think you can take some?”
She gave a slight shake of her head and mouthed the word ‘water.’
“All right.” Celia had sent a cup, too.
Jackson fed her the clear, cool liquid one spoonful at a time until she shook her head in refusal of more. She’d only drunk half, so he switched to the bowl. “I wish you’d take some broth.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. Even as sick as she was, she hadn’t lost her stubborn streak.
“Just a little,” he coaxed, lifting the spoon. “You need fortification to heal.”
Amanda drank it, but slower this time, and she turned her face away after only a few sips.
Jackson ceased his coaxing and returned the bowl and spoon to the tray.
“Ch,” Amanda croaked. She cleared her throat. “Children?”
“Jewel is asleep in your chair, and Noah is helping Celia with chores.”
Amanda nodded faintly, her face placid and her eyelids drooping. Minutes later, she was sound asleep.
Jackson pulled the chair closer. He took her hand in his and sat motionless, hoping she’d recover, hoping the doctor was wrong.
“Missa Maguire,” Celia said softly from just outside the door, “I brought the children.”
A jolt of awareness shook him. Night had fallen. He’d been sitting there for hours. “Just a moment.”
Jackson squeezed Amanda’s hand. Her features had begun tightening in look of discomfort again, so maybe he could wake her. “Amanda, can you open your eyes?”
She did as he asked, but her gaze wandered, as if trying to make sense of her surroundings.
“Mandy, look at me,” he said, causing her to turn her head and focus. “The children are here to tell you goodnight.”
The tension left her face, and the corners of her mouth lifted.
“It’s all right,” he called to Celia. “You can bring them in.”
Jackson squatted down when Noah and Jewel peeked in the doorway and motioned for them to come. “Your mother’s belly hurts, and she’s very, very tired. Be gentle with her.”
“Yes, Papa,” they answered.
Jackson lifted Jewel onto the quilt next to Amanda then guided Noah to come stand in front of him, at the side of the bed.
“I wanted to come see you at lunch and supper, too,” Noah said, “but Miss Celia said we had to wait.”
“It’s all right,” Amanda replied in a weak voice.
He stood a little taller. “I helped Miss Celia do the chores.”
“I–” Amanda swallowed and moistened her lips. “I’m proud of you.”
Jackson’s throat locked up when Jewel scooted down and laid her head on her mother’s shoulder. Amanda had to get well. For the children’s sake, at least.
“Jewel miss Mama.”
Amanda pressed a kiss to her daughter’s forehead. “Mama misses Jewel.”