Chapter 16
Torin sat with Hank in the rockers on the porch, mugs in their hands, the bitter scent of coffee combining with the smell of the lake borne on the breeze. The water shimmered below, and somewhere in the trees, a woodpecker drummed its staccato rhythm against a trunk.
Inside the house, he could hear the ladies chattering in the kitchen, while in the parlor, Brian read a new book he’d brought for Jewel. His friend would stop at a word and help his daughter sound out the letters. Then she’d triumphantly shout the word.
Hank stretched his legs and crossed his ankles. For a while, they sat in companionable silence. Then he turned his head, his expression shifting from lazy contentment to something more pointed. “So… You going to tell me, or do I have to guess?”
Torin kept his gaze on the lake, his expression impassive, so as not to give away any hint of possible feelings. “Tell you what?”
“Don't play dumb, brother. Doesn't suit you.” Hank rocked back his chair and folded his arms. “The governess.”
“What about her?”
“She's pretty.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
Hank let the chair rock forward with a thump. “You hadn’t noticed. Not like you to lie to me. To yourself, yes. But not to us.”
He stiffened. “She’s my employee.”
“Uh-huh.” Hank's grin was wide and knowing, the grin of a man who'd wrestled his own slow-burn courtship to the ground and pinned his gal—albeit with a long timeline—to a wedding date.
A denial rose in Torin's throat and died there. As he’d just proven, Hank wasn’t a man you could lie to—not because he was perceptive in the scholarly sense, but because he’d survived loneliness the same way Torin had, and he recognized its symptoms. But he also worked hard with a goal to ameliorate his isolation, find a wife, and, in the future, start a family.
“It doesn’t matter what I feel.” The words came out harsher than Torin intended. “Ivy came here for Jewel. She’s here to teach my daughter, not to…” He stopped.
“Not to what?”
Not to save me. Not to make me feel things I swore I’d never feel again. Not to sit in my parlor every evening with her mending, or reading, or her music and her quiet, steady presence banishing the silence that used to crush me. And I wasn’t even aware of how much. “It’s complicated.”
“Love usually is.”
The word love hit like a hurled stone. He threw up a hand as if to block. “Don’t.”
Hank held up his hands in surrender. “All right, all right. I’ll leave it. But I’ll say just one thing.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his brown eyes serious. “I hate to see you denying yourself happiness.”
Torin forced a smile. If he admitted the truth—that he wasn’t good enough for Ivy, didn’t trust he could ultimately make her happy—Hank would spout off another lecture. So he remained silent, listening to the woodpecker drumming on.
The surrey was loaded, the last goodbyes and final instructions drawn out as long as time permitted, and then a little longer. Torin couldn’t help but think how loud the silence would resound when they left.
Cora hugged Ivy four separate times, both of them tearing up.
Hank ruffled Jewel's hair and told her he expected her to spell his name by the next visit. Elsie clasped Ivy’s hands and made her promise to send measurements. As a gift, she
wanted to sew a dress from the fabric brought from New York.
Brian, in his way, said the most with the least—a firm handshake for Torin, a look that conveyed I’m proud of you, brother, and a murmured, “Take care of our girls.”
Then they were all gone.
Ivy stood on the porch, arms wrapped around herself, watching the surrey until the road bend and the trees obscured the view. The dust from the wheels hung in the golden afternoon light like a slowly settling curtain.
Jewel cried at the parting—great, hiccupping sobs that required Torin to scoop her up and carry her inside, murmuring reassurances into her hair.
The sound of the child’s grief, raw and uncomprehending, still echoed in Ivy’s chest. They’ll be back, she tried to reassure herself. Unlike Jewel, you have an adult’s understanding of why they left and trust in their return.
This is our life. My life. She gripped the porch rail and stared down the empty road. Bright moments of connection separated by long stretches of solitude. Brief, beautiful gatherings that make the silence afterward feel louder.
“Enough of this melancholy!” she scolded. I have much to be thankful for here. Really, except for some loneliness, I’m quite content.
Except, she would miss the easy chatter with Cora and socializing with her new friends, of the feeling of being part of a community.
She thought of Cora going back to a life filled with people and purpose and the joy of a new baby.
Of Elsie, who would return to her sewing room and her friends and the bustling life of a small town where everyone knew everyone, and nobody had to pretend they didn't exist. Even Brian, for all his curmudgeonly past, had built a life that extended beyond the boundaries of Three Bend Lake—a life of books and conversations and correspondence with interesting people.
The back door opened and closed. Torin’s footsteps, slower than usual, came down the hallway.
She turned toward the house.
He appeared in the front doorway, looking as weary as she felt, the lines around his eyes deeper than they'd been this morning.
“She’s asleep,” he said. “Cried herself out. Not sure if she’ll wake up for supper.
” He leaned against the doorframe with the loose-limbed exhaustion of a introspective man who'd spent the afternoon being social and then coped with a distressed child.
“Thank you for today. The food. The flowers. Making everyone feel welcome. You have a gift for that.”
She forced a smile. “It was a lovely day. Your friends are wonderful people.”
Torin raised an eyebrow. “As is Cora.” With an arm, he made a circling motion. “I’m blessed that Hank and Brian chose women who not only fit them but fit us as a group.” He paused, his expression darkening. “I know our necessary solitude is difficult for you.”
Wanting to reassure him, Ivy placed a hand on his arm. “We’ll be just fine.”
As if grateful, he gave her a smile that didn’t match the sadness lurking in his eyes.
Even as Ivy spoke the words, she wondered. Can I be fine when I love a man so broken?
That night, Torin sat alone in the parlor with a glass of cider. He hadn’t lit the lamps, and the silence of the house settled around him. At an odd hour, Jewel had woken up hungry and ate, her manner subdued.
After he’d drained himself with the drawn-out comforting of his inconsolable daughter, Ivy had taken over Jewel’s bedtime preparations. He’d never been so grateful for her presence. He needed to relax and claim a little time for himself, assured his daughter was in good hands.
He could hear the murmur of Ivy’s voice from down the hall, reading the nightly story. Tonight it was the tale of the ugly duckling, Jewel's favorite, because the duckling became a swan. “Like our swans!” she always exclaimed, pointing toward the lake.
He set down the glass of cider, slouched in his chair until his head rested on the back, and closed his eyes.
For the first time in years, he allowed himself to think about Mary Beth in a different way.
Not in anger. Not in pain. Not the betrayal.
Just the memory of her—slim and dark-haired and elegant, with a laugh like crystal and a horror of anything coarse or common.
He remembered how she recoiled from the babe in the nurse's arms when the doctor spoke the word Mongoloid. How the color had drained from her face. How she'd turned her head away from their sweet baby, their daughter, and, in a tone he would never forget, ordered them to “take the creature away.”
Creature. Not her. Not Jewel. Creature.
Picturing the memory, as he so often did lately, he recalled holding his newborn daughter against his chest, a tiny Mongoloid infant with her tilted eyes and her tiny fists waving in the gaslight.
His love, instead of dying like Mary Beth’s, had burst forth, so immediate and savage the immensity had nearly knocked him to his knees.
In that moment, he'd known. Whatever sacrifice demanded of him—his wife, his family, his wealth, his future—he would choose this child.
And he had. And his decision had cost him everything.
Yet I gained so much more.
The comparison was unmistakable in the two women’s stark differences.
Mary Beth had looked at their daughter and seen a mistake.
Upon their first meeting, Ivy had dropped to her knees on the parlor floor and introduced Jewel to a kitten named Brave, and then spent her days coaxing letters and numbers from a child the world had written off.
Mary Beth, who had broken him.
Ivy, who was putting him back together.
You were wrong before, the old wound whispered. You could be wrong again.
Torin pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. The fire crackled. From Jewel's room came a final murmur, the closing words of the story, and then the quiet click of the door. He lowered his arms and opened his eyes.
Ivy's footsteps tapped on the hall floor. She entered, bringing the faint smell of roses and kerosene from the lamp she was carrying. The soft glow lit the darkness of the room.
Setting the lamp on the end table, with a soft rustle of her skirt, she sat on the couch. She’d taken the pins from her hair, and a thick braid dropped over her shoulder. For once, her hands were empty—no mending, book, or harp. “Jewel's asleep. She had a very full day.”
“She did.” He looked at her. “So did I.”
Her small smile, private and unguarded, undid him more than any grand gesture could have.
“So did I,” she echoed. Clasping her hands together, she straightened, her expression turning serious. “Cora told Elsie and me something important today.”
Torin braced himself, wondering what was coming. Has Cora decided Three Bend Lake wasn’t good for Ivy? Did she try to coax her friend to live in Sweetwater Springs? His gut tightened.
“She didn’t tell you directly because Jewel was around and might overhear… Dr. Angus had a discussion with her about Jewel. He’s carefully observed her for these past months, has done more research, and has come to a conclusion.”
Jewel? His thoughts swiveled from Ivy to Jewel. New fear arose.
“He believes the lifespan estimates for Mongoloid children are incorrect. Well, they are correct, but likely only for those Mongoloid children who are institutionalized or who are otherwise not brought up in supportive circumstances.”
Ivy leaned forward. “Think about it, Torin. Even in the best of those places, the staff won’t have the time, and perhaps the inclination, to spend taking care of a child that’s not right.
” She made finger quotation marks around the words, perhaps because she knew and agreed with Cora’s demand they stop using that term for Jewel.
He studied her face, not daring to breathe, waiting for her conclusion.
“And most foundling homes or other institutions are horrible places. I think even the children residing there who were born healthy have high mortality rates. If we could take one hundred Mongoloid children and raise them with their loving families, Cora and Dr. Angus believe the average age at death would go up considerably. And I agree.”
Torin almost couldn’t absorb the concepts.
He’d had such a constricted belief about Jewel’s lifespan for so long.
He took a shuddering breath. “From the instant of her diagnosis, I knew she was my purpose in life. I was born to be her father. I don’t know what it’s like to dream of a future for my child.
To dream of seeing her married, of having grandchildren.
Every night before I go to sleep, I pray for one more day with her. And that’s my focus.”
“You never take her for granted,” Ivy said, her tone and expression tender.
“We’ve had more years together than the doctor predicted, and I’ve always considered that’s a blessing. I’ve taken pride that my daughter has lived to this age, and I try not to dwell in terror every day.”
She reached to touch his arm. “All children are vulnerable. You know that. I know few families that haven’t lost one or more.
Dr. Angus isn’t sure if Jewel will have the normal lifespan for a woman.
But he believes that with the continued care you give her, and barring serious illnesses or accidents, she might have another ten or even fifteen years. ”
The idea made his chest squeeze. Can this really be true? He tried to imagine Jewel as a grown young lady, but his mind couldn’t quite encompass the picture, didn’t dare try. Maybe, gradually, the idea will sink in.
And the man who had spent twelve years building a fortress against hope felt the first stones beginning to shift.