Chapter 11
The following morning, Eleanor stood at the kitchen table, sleeves rolled high, kneading bread dough with steady motions.
The yeasty scent filled the warm room. Nearby on the floor, Nora sat banging a wooden spoon against an upturned tin cup, her small face bright with the simple joy.
The child was more inclined to play these days, as if her confidence had grown in Eleanor’s presence.
Eleanor smiled down at her, speaking encouraging words that got the little girl to babble. They had a nonsensical conversation as Eleanor divided the dough into loaves, the domestic rhythm a welcome anchor after the previous day's emotions.
The back door opened, and Levi stepped in from the porch, wiping sawdust from his hands.
He had started fixing up the pantry that morning, saying he wanted to give Eleanor more shelf space for various ingredients.
The gesture of it had made her blush. She had not thought he had actually been listening when she mentioned one of the wobbly shelves or how cramped it had become now that she was cooking regularly for the family.
“Do you need anything from the store?” he asked.
“Flour,” Eleanor replied without pausing in her work. “We are running low.”
Levi nodded but did not leave. He remained in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the frame, blue eyes fixed on her hands as they pressed and folded the second batch of dough. The intensity of his gaze made her cheeks warm.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, looking up from her work. Immediately, she was caught in the depths of his eyes. Heat crept up her cheeks, coloring the tips of her ears and making her want to hide, lest he mistake her for a ripening tomato.
“Nothing is wrong,” he said quietly, his gaze finally breaking to take in the entirety of the scene before him. He smiled fondly. “I am just admiring the way you fit into our family, and I think you truly do belong here, Louisa.”
The words settled over her like a warm blanket and a weight at once. She swallowed and shifted from one foot to the other. Finally, Levi had accepted her into the fold, but he had done so believing she was someone else – believing her name was Louisa.
A long silence stretched between them, thick with everything left unsaid.
Eleanor’s hands slowed on the dough. She met his gaze, seeing the quiet certainty there.
Her heart ached with the sweetness of it, knowing that once the truth was revealed, it would vanish and rightly so.
She had deceived this man. She continued to deceive him every day, and there would come a time when he would discover the extent of her sin and cast her out of the garden.
Levi cleared his throat. “Well then, I’m off. I’ll see you later.” He crossed to Nora, bent low, and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head. The little girl reached up with flour-dusted hands, babbling happily. Then he was gone, the front door closing softly behind him.
Eleanor let out a slow breath and returned to the bread, pushing the moment down deep inside of her where it would not overwhelm her. Her moment of reckoning would come, but for now she could pretend.
Late-afternoon sunlight slanted across the yard as Eleanor stood at the washbasin outside the kitchen door, scrubbing Nora’s garments.
The cool water soothed her hands, easing the pain of a few unintentional burns dealt by the oven, but it did nothing to calm her wandering mind.
She kept recalling the memory of Levi’s kiss and his words.
He was opening himself up. He was allowing her into his heart.
Yet she lied, allowing the shadow of her deception to loom ever darker.
The sound of hurried footsteps made her look up.
Grace came up the path, breathing hard, her face flushed with urgency.
“Louisa!” Grace barely paused to catch her breath.
“Sarah has started her labor, but she is three weeks too early. Hector is at the Donnelly homestead and won’t return until tomorrow.
I’ve sent a messenger to try and fetch him, but there’s no telling if he will come back in time.
We need you, Louisa. You are Sarah’s only hope. She cannot do this alone.”
Eleanor’s hands stilled in the soapy water.
For a heartbeat, she stood frozen, the weight of responsibility pressing down.
Then she straightened, drying her hands on her apron.
“Give me just a moment.” She hurried off to fetch her mother’s medical notebook.
Then she lifted Nora and carried the child next door to Cora’s house, praying Cora might take the girl for the afternoon until her father returned.
“Eleanor? Grace?” Cora answered the door, immediately noticing the urgency on their faces. “Has something happened?”
“Cora, please. Can you stay with Nora?” she asked, already handing over the child. “Sarah is in labor, and Hector is not in town. I must go and help tend to her, and a labor room is no place for someone so young.”
“Of course. Go on, dear. We will be fine here. And may God bless the birth and guide your hands this evening. I shall pray for you and the mother-to-be.”
Eleanor nodded, then walked swiftly beside Grace toward the Hartwell house, her heart pounding. Agnes met them at the door, her sharp features drawn tight with worry, her hands wringing her apron.
“Thank God you’ve come,” Agnes whispered. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Where is she?” Eleanor asked.
“She’s in the back room. I’ve done my best to keep her comfortable, but the pain seems to be worsening. I do not know whether it is normal or if there is something wrong with the baby.”
As they moved down the hall, Eleanor could hear Sarah’s soft, frightened cries. She stepped into the room. The air hung heavy with the metallic scent of fear and sweat. Sarah lay on the bed, pale and drawn, her face pinched with pain.
Grace moved quickly to sit by her side, taking the young woman’s hand. “We’re here, Sarah. Louisa is here. She will take good care of you and make sure you make it through this. It won’t be long now until you meet your little one. Just focus on that thought, okay? Don’t think about the pain.”
Eleanor’s earlier anxieties faded in the face of her task. She crossed to the bed and placed her hand gently but firmly on Sarah’s belly, feeling for the baby’s position. The child had not turned. It sat high, breech. Eleanor kept her expression steady, concealing her concern from the mother.
“Sarah,” she said, her voice low and as steady as stone. “Look at me.”
Sarah’s tear-filled eyes met hers, wide with terror. She gripped Grace’s hand and winced through a contraction.
“I am going to help you,” Eleanor continued. “We are going to do this together. You are not alone. For now, I need you to breathe with me. Slow and deep, just like this.” She demonstrated, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly, guiding Sarah to match her rhythm.
The young woman nodded shakily, breathing as best she could.
“Grace,” Eleanor said, still focused on Sarah, “bring hot water and plenty of clean cloths, as hot as you can manage.”
Grace rose at once and hurried from the room to start boiling water.
Eleanor stayed behind, one hand on Sarah’s belly, feeling for movement, while the other stroked damp hair back from the girl’s forehead.
Memories of her mother’s calm voice steadied her, bringing her back to those Philadelphia tenements where they had successfully brought life into the world so many times.
Clinging onto these thoughts, she began to work.
First, she checked Sarah’s pulse, then she timed the contractions rippling across Sarah’s belly, speaking gentle encouragement to the mother-to-be between each wave of pain.
As she did so, she prayed silently, her words a desperate litany. “Lord, be with us. Guide my hands tonight. Do Your good work and save Sarah and this child. Do not let my presence here harm them. Let my experiences be enough to heal them.”