84. Jacob
Jacob
Borb. Cluck. Tuck-tuck. Cluck. Chickens scratched at the dirt outside my window. My dreams were filled with screams. Smoke. The tortured faces of those I couldn’t save. I lay frozen, tensed for the sound of screaming metal. But the sound was soft. Ordinary. Impossible.
Chickens.
I remembered where I was. My chest hurt. I sat propped up in bed, linen binding my torso. I struggled for a breath—too deep. White pain flared beneath the binding. Four broken ribs, she’d said. Maybe more. How long ago was that? Lucky to be breathing at all.
A lean, leathery woman carried in a tray with a large bowl, towels, and a bar of soap. Her white hair was twisted into a practical bun. She moved with the quiet efficiency of someone with no patience for self-pity. Her wrinkled hands were already at work when she murmured, “Good morning.”
She unwrapped the binding. I drew in a breath and immediately fell into a fit of coughing. My vision shimmered with stabbing, grinding pain along my right flank as the jagged edges of bone rubbed together.
“Your fever broke last night. Time for your vibrations.” She leaned me forward, planted the bowl of steaming herb-scented water on my lap, and tented a towel over my head.
I worked to keep from tensing my muscles. Tensing made it worse—I remembered that much.
She struck me then, using the blades of her hands, rapidly alternating—one hand and then the other—moving from low to high on my back.
Her hands moved with the same firm gentleness she might use on a stubborn mule.
Probably appropriate. I submitted to the practiced certainty of her ministrations.
No sense whining. She vibrated the mucus upward and instructed me to cough and spit.
When she reached my broken ribs, she switched to the flats of her palms. She was not completely heartless.
Her helper, Little Tom, had said I was lucky, that the good Lord must have been watching over me.
Of all the people in the county to collapse in front of, I’d landed at the feet of the only woman who could bully pneumonia into retreat.
He said even the local doctor deferred to her expertise in these situations.
The legendary woman dipped the second towel in the steaming water and bathed me until she was satisfied.
Little Tom came to help me outside for exercise and fresh air.
He was twice my size and performed any tasks that required muscle, although Mrs. Harrison was no slouch.
They had heard the train crash while driving home.
Saw me jump. Pulled me from the ground and loaded me into their wagon.
Taken me back to their remote farm. That was how long ago now?
“What day is today, Little Tom?” I asked.
“Never can keep it straight. I’ll check the calendar.
” The accident had been on Wednesday and everything since was a blur.
I circled the farmyard, coughing if I breathed too deeply, working to gain back enough strength for Mrs. Harrison to discharge me from her care.
I poked my head into the kitchen and offered to help.
I needed something to do. She put me to work peeling potatoes for stew.
Her knife beat out a steady chop as she sliced carrots, onions, garlic, and potatoes on a wooden board beside me.
I said, “If I can’t board a train soon, I need to send word.
Don’t want my family to worry.” I said a silent prayer for the families who would be expecting loved ones who would never return.
I did my best, but it didn’t feel like enough.
“Then I’m off to Chicago. The paper I work for, The Chicago Star, is having a grand holiday banquet.
Saturday the thirteenth. I’m invited to sit at the owner’s table with the woman?—”
Mrs. Harrison thumped her knife on the board and stared at me. “What day were you supposed to be home?”
“December sixth.”
“Today is the tenth.”
Her words shifted the world sideways.
“No.” I grabbed the edge of the counter as the room tilted.
Pain sparked through my ribs. “How?” But I couldn’t wait for an answer.
I needed to move. I brushed my hands off on a towel and rushed across the room as if I could run back in time.
But a fit of coughing forced me to stop and lean on the table.
“Settle down, child. There is naught to be done this instant.”
I slumped in a chair by the table, no breath left to argue. Four days late already. They would be worried sick. Viola. How would I possibly make it to Chicago in time?
“What happened?” I asked.
She turned back to her chopping. “Pneumonia set in the day after the accident. You spent the next five days trying to ruin my record, incoherent with fever.” The steady rhythm of her knife contrasted with my frantic pulse. “You started to improve only yesterday.”
I cradled my head in my hands, elbows propped on the table, and looked closely at my caregiver. Dark shadows under her eyes and a slump to her shoulders told of the long days she’d spent fighting for my life. A swell of gratitude rose in me. “How can I ever thank you?” I asked. “You saved my life.”
She continued to chop vegetables for the stew and said, “I was where I needed to be at the right moment to help someone who needed helping. Providence guided me and worked through me, and that is all I need.”
Maybe someone had been watching over me. The idea humbled me. If there’s a reason I’m still here… it’s Viola. I took a deep breath and managed not to cough. “Please, I need to go.”
“What you need is stew and another day of rest before you even think about boarding a train.” She appraised me for a long moment. “If, and only if, you continue to improve, I will have Little Tom take you the ten miles to the station over in Milton tomorrow.”
I gathered every shred of resolve and focused on my goal.
Viola. I’m coming.
Lake Michigan loomed behind me, a cold, black expanse except for a shimmer of moonlight.
I paused before the VanMartins’ mansion.
Viola’s home glowed like a lantern swallowed by deep fog.
A dream made real. My breath clouded in the frigid air, and my toes burned inside too-thin socks.
It was past nine o’clock on December twelfth when I crunched up the snowy walk to the door.
The banquet was tomorrow. I was late, but not too late.
The icy air scraped my lungs, and two barking coughs echoed back from the proud facade, as if the house itself were startled by my arrival.
I hesitated. Would it be rude to show up on their doorstep at this hour half-frozen, coughing, and unexpected?
Maybe they weren’t even at home. The door opened at my knock, warm light spilling out. I smiled at the familiar butler.
But he didn’t smile back. His face went pale, and he sucked in a breath as if I had struck him. For a moment, I wondered if I’d made a mistake—but no—this was definitely the right house. A grating pain along my ribs stole the smile from my lips.
He stood frozen in the doorway, saying nothing. The look on his face sent a cold prickle along my spine. Was he surprised by my disheveled state, or lateness, or…? Finally, he squeaked out, “Mister Jacob?”
“Yes, I was invited to?—”
He reached forward with trembling fingers and tapped my shoulder, as if half expecting his hand to pass straight through me.
Then he grasped my arm and dragged me along as he hustled into the house and toward the library.
I’d never seen him move at anything other than a dignified walk.
Now he was close to running. Without even stopping to knock, he opened the door and burst into the library. He pulled me in behind him.
Victor and George looked up as we rushed in.
The butler stepped aside and pushed me forward.
Victor’s jaw went slack. His chair creaked as he slumped heavily backward.
George jumped to his feet, and his mouth formed a perfect “o.” He dashed toward me, stumbled on the rug, and would have fallen if I hadn’t reached out to grab his arm.
A sharp pain stabbed at my ribs with the motion.
“Jacob?” George asked, clamping a hand on each of my shoulders. “I… I can’t believe it.”
“I made it,” I said. “Sorry, I’m late. I had a bit of trou?—”
My feet left the carpet as George squeezed me in a vise-like hug.
“Oof.” My broken ribs screamed, but I couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiastic greeting.
Victor found his voice, and he bellowed, “Jacob!”
Then he said, “Viola.”
George repeated, “Viola!” and dropped me to the floor as he raced from the room.
Viola? Why were they acting this way? “Is Viola well?” I asked.
Victor gazed at me, and his face regained its usual healthy color. He said, “Oh, my boy.” He pushed to standing and crossed the room to embrace me. He patted me several times soundly on the back—thankfully on the left side. “We feared you were dead.”
My muscles clenched. The room flashed white.
Steps pounded in the hall. I spun too fast. The room blurred, then steadied around the figure in the doorway—Viola—frozen with her hand clutching the frame.
Her hair was unkempt, a wild bramble around her face and shoulders.
A white nightgown billowed loose around her thin frame. Had she lost weight?
Her terrible state was because of me.
Frantic green eyes rimmed with red stared at me.
For the length of a breath, we faced each other, both shaken by what we saw. A stone landed in my gut at what she had endured.
She’d thought I was dead.
We moved simultaneously and crashed into each other’s arms.
The impact rattled my ribs, but the pain was nothing compared to the relief washing through me.
Viola was shaking, sobbing, laughing, hysterical in my arms. Her hot breath hitched against my throat.
Despite my angry ribs, I scooped her up.
My pain dulled and faded as she pressed warm and trembling against me.
I hobbled to the couch and settled her across me, where she leaned onto my chest and tucked her head on my shoulder.
I nuzzled my cheek into her messy hair and breathed in her scent. My first steady breath since the crash.
The door to the library thumped closed. We were alone.
The world narrowed to the warmth of her body pressed to mine.
I pulled a blanket around us and held her to my chest until she quieted.
Tears blurred my vision as I gently cupped her face.
She pressed her smooth cheek into my hand, sighed, and relaxed farther into me until it was impossible to tell where I ended and she began.
“I must be dreaming,” she said. “You cannot be real.”
Heat surged through me as I finally found myself exactly where I wanted to be.
“Does this feel real?” I brushed my lips against hers.
Her lower lip trembled, and she shook her head.
“How about this?” My mouth pressed to hers and something in my chest loosened. I poured all that was beyond words into the kiss, every long mile I’d endured to return to her.
“Mmm-hmm,” she said, and the sound buzzed between us.
“And this?” I traced hot kisses all along her jaw to her neck and tasted her salty tears.
Viola laughed, and the rich velvet sound rolled down my spine. With that deep rumble, a reservoir of feeling broke free.
Viola turned to face me, her hands in my hair, her lips insistent on mine. I winced at the grating fire in my ribs and my breath hitched. She pulled back a fraction. “Jacob?—”
“It’s nothing.” My heart and body soared away from the pain, swept up in the moment. In time, we settled back into holding and being held.
A soft knock sounded at the door, and Greta slid into the room with a thick robe. She wrapped it around Viola’s shoulders and beamed at me.
“We have probably ignored propriety as much as we dare,” I said.
Viola said, “Greta, please ask Father and George to rejoin us.” Her fingers tightened around mine. “We have some catching up to do.”