Chapter Twenty
Several months after Katie and Josephine were born, Addie and I were both pregnant again.
The two of us couldn’t sit in a room together without someone commenting on who looked more tired, or who seemed fuller in
the face, both polite ways of asking which one of us might be expecting.
It wouldn’t be the last time. Over the years to come, her babies would arrive just after mine, or mine just after hers. There
were times when it felt like a competition, a race to see who could be next to swell with child. A race we didn’t know we’d
agreed to run but neither dared to quit.
Our husbands had made it clear what they wanted—a large family, a community, a line of descent. And Addie and I wanted . . .
what? To please them, I suppose. To prove that we could, to deny the naysayers. Each new child was a testament to our fertility,
our resilience, our ability to create a thriving family against all odds.
It was a crisp morning in early March when Papa’s wagon rattled up the drive.
I heard the slow rumble of the wheels through the parlor window, where I sat in a rocking chair, watching one-year-old Katie
arrange a row of buttons and pebbles at my feet. Addie sat across from me, Josephine asleep in her lap, her belly rising beneath
her dress. Eng and Chang were out preparing the fields for planting.
“Well, what do you know,” I said.
The wagon halted before the porch.
Addie and I had made the trip to Mulberry Farm several times in the past year without our husbands or babies. Our parents
never said they weren’t welcome; we simply understood that to be the case. During those stiff afternoon visits, we spoke often
of our families, almost defiantly invoking our daughters’ names as if to stake a claim to the life we’d chosen.
Papa had never visited us in our home and had yet to meet his granddaughters.
No letter had preceded him, no warning of his arrival.
Addie and I watched him climb down from the wagon, one arm cradling a cloth-covered basket.
“No sign of Mama,” she said.
“Of course not.”
Katie, clutching a button in her hand, toddled to the window. “Dat?”
“Your grandpapa,” I said.
She blinked at the word. I wasn’t sure she understood it. “My papa,” I said.
“Mine too,” Addie said.
He walked slowly toward the house, as if approaching unfamiliar territory, the silver in his beard catching the sun.
I stood and smoothed my apron with nervous fingers.
At the front door, I gave him a tentative smile. The air carried the scent of damp earth and the faint promise of spring.
“What a welcome surprise.”
He leaned in and kissed my cheek, his beard scratchy against my skin. “Thought I’d come see the young ones for myself.”
“You gave us no notice, Papa,” Addie called from the parlor.
“I know, and I’m sorry,” he said. “I was passing through the area, and . . . well, I didn’t want any more time to go by.”
He glanced around. “Are your husbands home?”
“They’re off in the fields. Come, join us.”
I ushered him into the parlor. His eyes swept the room—the cradle by the hearth, toys beneath the settee, Addie and me watching
him like wary sentries—and settled on the children: first Josie, blinking up sleepily from Addie’s lap, then Katie, gripping
the edge of my chair. I could see him taking stock of the girls’ dark eyes, their fine black hair, their light brown skin.
“Something to drink?” I asked.
“That would be nice.”
I rang the bell.
Grace entered the room, stopping short at the sight of him. “Mr. Yates,” she said.
“Black tea, Grace.”
“With sugar. I remember.”
He gave her a curt nod.
She returned it without expression, then turned briskly and disappeared down the hall.
“Grandpapa?”
He looked down. Katie stood before him, holding out the mother-of-pearl button.
He took it gently. “Are you giving this to me?”
“Yes,” she said shyly.
“Thank you, little one. Your grandmama will be happy to see this.”
“Papa, this is Katherine. Katie,” I said.
His hand hovered above her head for a moment before he touched her silky hair. “You have your grandmama’s nose, Katie,” he
said.
That small observation—an acknowledgment of shared blood—felt like an offering.
Katie looked up at me. “Mama?” she said.
“She wants to know where Grandmama is,” I told him.
“Ah. Well, she’s at the farm. She’s feeling a little poorly today.”
Her face clouded.
“Don’t worry, she’ll be better soon.” Lifting the basket, he said, “I brought some honeycomb from our hives. Did you know your mama used to sneak into the pantry and lick it off the comb like it was candy?”
“Candy!” Katie laughed with delight.
Addie rose now, moving Josie to her shoulder. “Mama is unwell?”
“No worse than usual, really.” His gaze drifted again toward the girls. “She worries, you know. She wonders if . . .”
Addie finished his sentence. “If they’re normal?”
“It’s a fair enough question, I suppose,” I said.
“So that’s why you’ve come.” Her voice had an edge. “To report back.”
“Partly,” he admitted. “But also because I’m their grandfather, Adelaide. I want to know them.” He stroked his beard. “And
I wanted to see how you’re getting on. How you’re managing.”
“Tell her we’re as happy as can be,” Addie said.
Papa’s eyes met mine. “Both of you?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Then that’s what I’ll tell her. That you seem well. That the farm prospers.” His gaze lingered on my swollen belly, then
Addie’s. “And that there will be more grandchildren soon.”
Grace brought the tea tray, and Addie poured the tea, passing a cup to Papa, then to me. We added sugar and stirred, chatting
about the orchard, the weather, the state of the roads—benign words and rituals that gave us something to do with our hands
and our voices.
When Papa stood to leave, I followed him to the door.
“Maybe next time we can bring the girls for a visit,” I said. “Katie and Josie would love to meet their grandmother.”
He paused, one hand on the doorframe. “That would be nice,” he said. “But it’s probably best to wait awhile. Your mother—you
know how she is. We wouldn’t want to upset her.”
I nodded slowly. “Best not to test her constitution, I suppose.”
He made a small noise, something between a grunt and a sigh. “Best not.”
When he climbed into the wagon, Katie and Josie stood at the window, pressing their small faces to the glass. We watched as
he lifted his hand in a brief wave, then flicked the reins and set off down the drive, wagon wheels rasping as he crested
the hill.
Papa loved Addie and me; I never doubted that. But his love came with judgment. Even when he showed affection, he seemed to
hold something back, as if love were a finite resource he was afraid to deplete. He believed Addie was a manipulator who would
do anything to get her way. He thought I was naive and gullible, too eager to please, living in her shadow and craving her
approval.
He probably wasn’t entirely wrong about either of us.
Though he had hosted our wedding, he never truly accepted Eng and Chang as worthy husbands for his daughters. It was clear
in the careful way he gave his blessing. “All cats are gray in the dark” was not an endorsement but a weary calculation, a
reluctant acknowledgment that he would not stand in our way.
In the months and years that followed, I watched him struggle. He was polite and fair in business dealings, but beneath these
courtesies lay an unbridgeable distance. When neighbors whispered, he defended our choice with fierce family loyalty. But
when he spoke to Eng and Chang, he fixed his gaze slightly to the side, as if the band that connected them was both impossible
to look at and impossible to ignore. He viewed them as curiosities, not equals—remarkable specimens who had risen admirably
above their station, but who would never truly belong in what he considered the civilized world. And he never quite forgave
Adelaide and me for our choice. “You say you love them,” he said to us once. “But I cannot pretend to understand why.”