Chapter 11 #3
He scooped two of the kittens up and handed a calico to her. “The orange one is my favorite,” he said, cradling a squirming ball of fiery fluff.
“They’re so soft,” Caroline said, lifting her cat up and brushing her cheek against its fur.
“They are,” he agreed.
She and Noah sat on the steps, holding their respective kittens, while Jewel ran around, giggling and playing with the others.
Caroline debated bringing up Amanda. She decided she would, but only to Noah. “Your mother was very fond of baby animals,” she said in a voice soft enough so only he could hear, “especially kittens.”
His face fell some. “I know.”
“Which one of these was her favorite?”
“This one, the orange.” He was staring at the ground with a sad expression, but his mouth was scrunched into a tight wad. “When I kissed Mama goodnight, I promised I would bring him to visit in the morning, to help her feel better. But when I took him to see her, she was cold.”
Oh, Noah…
“Where was your father?”
Noah’s entire face screwed into a furious knot. “He was sitting beside her bed, doing nothing. He hadn’t even fed the fire. I tried to add some logs and get it going again, but he wouldn’t let me.
“Mama was sick, and Papa didn’t take good care of her. She would be alive if he hadn’t let the fire go out.”
Caroline was grateful for the revelation—a simple wrong assumption was apparently at the root of Noah’s anger—but whether she could do anything about it remained to be seen.
“When something bad happens to us,” she began, choosing a side path in lieu of direct confrontation, “it’s human nature to look for something or someone to blame. Sometimes what happened is someone’s fault, but many times, it’s not.”
Noah lifted his head and met her gaze, his expression losing some of its fire.
“It’s possible that things happened the other way around…” she went on, “that your mother passed away before your father let the fire go out.”
“It is?”
Caroline nodded. “When someone dies, they’re not bothered by the temperature of the room anymore. Your mother wouldn’t have wanted him to waste the wood.”
He looked away again, this time frowning at some random point in the distance, pondering.
“I’ve known your father a long time, Noah, and I can tell you one thing for certain: If there was anything he could have done to make your mother well, he would have done it.”
The assurance Caroline had given Noah banked her anger, too. It was the truth, and it reminded her that, in spite of his mistakes, Jackson was a decent man.
Noah behaved better at supper, and Jackson took notice. He didn’t comment on the change, but he joined in some of the conversation, and his face wasn’t as bleak and deeply lined.
“Time for bed,” he said when the children had finished eating. “Wash your faces and put your nightclothes on.”
Caroline wished Jackson would send her, too. The exhaustion of the day had caught up to her all at once. But then she recalled Noah’s remark, ‘All he does is work.’
“Do you read to them at night?” she asked Jackson once Noah and Jewel had disappeared up the stairs.
“Amanda used to,” he said in a quiet voice.
“Go, then. I’ll clean up in here.”
“Are you sure? You look as if you’re ready to drop.”
“We both look that way, so go. Read to your children. They long for time with you, especially Noah.”
Jackson looked as if he wanted to say more—not argue, precisely, but explore what she had said—then he stood and went upstairs.
He returned about a half an hour later.
Caroline looked up at him from Amanda’s stuffed chair, fighting sleep.
Jackson wore the most peaceful expression he had since she arrived, calm and humble with a slight sheen to his eyes. “You were right about Noah. I don’t know what you said to him to take away the anger, but thank you.”
“I just corrected a misunderstanding.”
He held out his hand to her, and after a moment of hesitation, she took it and let him help her up. “Come with me. I’ll show you where I put your trunk.”
Caroline followed Jackson up the stairs and down a short hallway that had two doors.
“I put fresh water in the basin,” he said as he led her to the second one, “and there’s a chamber pot behind the screen.” A lamp on the bedside table cast the room in soft light, and a fire had already been built up in the hearth.
Caroline took in the furniture and decorations.
The edges of the curtains had been embroidered with red columbine, her sister’s favorite flower, and Caroline’s trunk sat at the foot of a bed that was covered with a quilt her sister had made for her trousseau.
This had been Jackson and Amanda’s room when she was alive, and now it was Jackson’s.
“I wish I had a spare room to offer,” he said, glancing around. “We were planning to add one this spring, but…” His eyes widened when he turned back and saw the scandalized look on her face. “You’ll have it all to yourself, of course.”
“I won’t take your room from you, Jackson.”
“You’re not. I don’t sleep here.”
“Where do you sleep?” She doubted he’d come right out and say Celia’s.
He shrugged. “A chair, the loft.”
Maybe he was lying, maybe not. Regardless– “That’s not conducive to good rest. I don’t see how you have the energy to run a farm.”
“I manage.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “If there’s nothing more you need...”
Caroline almost turned tail and opted for the fluffy chair downstairs. She didn’t want to sleep in Jackson’s bed any more than he did. “There’s not. Goodnight.”
He looked at her with an unreadable expression then left and closed the door.
With her last tinge of energy, Caroline washed her face and laid her dress across the drying rack to air. She didn’t bother changing into nightclothes, just took down her hair and crawled under the covers, wearing her chemise.
Tears leaked between her lashes and dripped onto the pillow as she gave herself over to the blessed oblivion of sleep.