Chapter 7
Mid-morning light filtered through the parsonage windows as Grace let herself in through the kitchen door, her basket over one arm and her shoulders set with determination.
Eleanor looked up from the table where she sat shelling peas.
Nearby, Nora played on the floor, pulling wooden pegs from a small basket Eleanor had given her.
The child’s soft babbling mingled with the clatter of the pegs.
“Morning, Louisa,” Grace said, hanging her shawl on the hook by the door. “I hope I’m not coming at a bad time.”
“Not at all.” Eleanor rose and poured tea from the pot on the stove into two cups.
She set one before Grace, then returned to her seat.
The older woman’s presence filled the kitchen with a comforting steadiness, yet Eleanor sensed this was no casual visit.
Eleanor clenched her jaw, bracing herself.
Had Grace somehow discovered her secret?
Grace did not beat around the bush. She took a sip of tea and met Eleanor’s gaze. “I’d like to talk to you about what you learned from your mother.”
Eleanor’s cup paused halfway to her mouth.
Her pulse quickened. She set it down carefully, buying a moment to steady herself.
“My mother explained everything thoroughly while she worked, both for my benefit and the benefit of the patient. I made certain to pay attention.” She took a small sip and carefully set her cup down again.
“From the time I was old enough to stand on a stool beside her, I have watched and listened.”
Grace leaned forward, her voice low and earnest. “Hector is the only doctor in this valley, and he is certainly a good one, but he is stretched thin. What’s more, he is not a midwife, and he knows it.
” She paused, then reached across the table to take Eleanor’s hands, squeezing them as she continued.
“Sarah Hartwell is three weeks from her time, and as you heard, the baby still hasn’t turned.
She’s been losing sleep over it, poor girl.
Agnes, too, though she tries not to show it. This would be her first grandchild.”
Eleanor glanced at Nora on the floor. The child had lined up several pegs in a crooked row, her small brow furrowed in concentration.
The innocence of the scene warred with the weight of expectation pressing down on Eleanor’s chest, making it harder to breathe.
“My mother delivered over two hundred babies in Philadelphia,” she said quietly.
“I was in the room for most of them. And by the time I was fourteen, I was timing contractions, preparing tinctures, and holding mothers as they pushed.” She swallowed, then finally looked at the older woman, her expression apologetic. “But I never delivered a baby alone.”
Grace studied her for a long moment. “Could you?”
Eleanor was quiet for a long time. The only sounds in the kitchen were the soft clack of Nora’s pegs and the distant call of a meadowlark outside. The question hung between them like smoke.
Could she?
The memories of her mother’s calm voice in their cramped tenement room came rushing back.
Her mind reeled with images of blood and sweat.
Her ears rang with the cries of effort, then of pure joy.
Her mother’s guiding hand had always been there, ensuring that she would never misstep.
Without her, what would happen if she made a mistake?
What if she failed to have the knowledge to save someone? To save a new life?
“I don’t know,” she said at last, answering honestly.
Grace squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to decide that today. Just know that we see your capabilities, Louisa, and this town needs someone like you.”
Nora chose that moment to triumphantly pull a peg from the basket and hold it up to Grace with a proud “Ah!” Immediately, the tension broke, and Eleanor pulled her hands away from Grace’s grasp.
Grace laughed softly and accepted the offering, turning it over in her fingers as if it were a precious gift.
The moment passed, but under the table, Eleanor’s hands shook.
She pressed them flat against her knees, willing the tremor to stop.
Later that afternoon, the kitchen filled with the savory aroma of venison stew as Levi came through the front door.
He had spent the morning at the vestry, and weariness showed in the set of his shoulders.
Eleanor set his plate before him, steam rising from the hearty meal.
Nora sat in her chair beside the table, happily pulling apart a piece of bread and scattering crumbs.
They ate in the now-familiar rhythm that had begun to settle over their days.
Levi took a bite, then cleared his throat and spoke. “I’ve been trying to write a new sermon,” he said. “But the words are coming more slowly than they should.”
Eleanor looked up. “What is it about?”
“Forgiveness.”
She set her spoon down carefully. The word felt heavy in the quiet kitchen. “Whom are you forgiving?”
Levi stared into his bowl for a moment before he met her gaze with raw honesty.
His voice carried none of the measured cadence he used at the pulpit.
Instead, it was plain and stripped bare.
“Myself. For not being able to save Ruth. For the way I prayed that night like a man who believed God would answer, only to watch her slip away as I held her hand. For not being able to pray since then, the way I once did. For asking a stranger to travel across the country to raise my daughter because I could not do it alone.”
The confession hung between them. Eleanor felt her throat tighten. She saw the depth of his pain as he bared his wounds for her to see. “You are not the only person at this table who needs to forgive themselves,” she said softly.
Levi looked at her, his blue eyes searching her face for the story she was not yet ready to tell. She did not elaborate, even when he waited expectantly for her to show the same kind of vulnerability he had shown her. Instead, the silence stretched.
Just then, Nora dropped her bread on the floor and reached for Eleanor’s hand with a little, demanding sound.
Eleanor gave it back willingly. Instead of taking the bread, the girl wrapped her tiny fingers around Eleanor’s thumb, holding on with surprising strength.
The simple trust and adoration in that grip brought a sting to Eleanor’s eyes.
Levi watched his daughter cling to his wife, a tender, conflicted look crossing his features. “Whatever you are carrying, Louisa,” he said quietly, “you do not have to carry it alone while you’re under this roof.”
She nodded, afraid to trust her own voice. The kindness in his words threatened to unravel her. She rose and began clearing plates, focusing on the mechanical motions of scraping off the remnants.
Seeing that the conversation would progress no further, Levi lifted Nora from her chair and carried her down the hall to bed.
Through the thin walls, Eleanor heard him begin to sing. His voice was low and off-key, yet unbearably tender as he crooned an old hymn to his daughter. The words drifted effortlessly into the kitchen, wrapping around Eleanor like a familiar shawl.
Eleanor stood at the counter, hands flat against the wood, eyes closed. Tears slipped silently down her cheeks as the weight of her deception, the warmth of this home, and the growing pull she felt toward Levi and Nora pressed down on her at once, like an anvil threatening to crush her chest.
She had come here, running from blood and betrayal, wearing a borrowed name.
She had thought only of saving herself. The thought that her decision to deceive might betray a good man had not crossed her mind.
She bit her bottom lip, terrified that her decision would cause her to lose everything she had come to love.
She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes and breathed deeply.
Forgiveness, that was what Levi had said.
Perhaps one day she might find the courage to tell him the truth, praying that his forgiveness would extend to her, too.
For now, she would hold fast to the fragile foundation they were building, one meal, lullaby, and quiet moment at a time.