EIGHT #2
“It’s not my story to tell. For now, I’m grateful for your and Levi’s hospitality. How did the summer crop turn out?”
When she knew the conversation wouldn’t include her any further, she crept back into bed and burrowed under the quilt. With a full belly and a warm, safe place to sleep, no nightmares would plague her tonight.
The sun was high in the sky by the time Maggie came down from the loft the next day, and she was alone in the kitchen. It seemed that she’d nearly slept through the entire day.
On the table sat her limited possessions. Henry must’ve brought them in. Next to her pitiful number of worldly belongings was a pile of folded clothes. An empty tub sat in front of the fireplace.
A bit embarrassed at sleeping so long, Maggie was just about to look for someone when Abigail approached, knocking the dirt from her shoes before she entered.
“Hello, Margaret. Did thee eat yet? I left a plate for thee on the stove.”
“No, not yet. Thank you. I’m sorry I overslept.”
Pouring the water from the bucket into a pot on the stove, Abigail spoke over her shoulder. “Nonsense. Thee needed to rest. Have some lunch while the water heats.”
Still feeling slightly guilty watching Abigail as she toted several buckets in, Maggie tucked into her lunch. Trying not to drool, she wolfed down several eggs and biscuits, spreading homemade jam onto them. It was incredible to have food on a table again.
“My mother always said a body needed three things to truly feel better: sleep, food, and a clean bath. The tub is ready and the menfolk are all outside with strict instructions to stay far away from the house until I give the all-clear. Does thee need anything else?”
Seeing the tub and realizing Abigail went to all that work for her, Maggie felt tears fill her eyes. Blinking rapidly, she shook her head, unable to speak.
Abigail gave an understanding smile. “I’ll be just in the other room—I’ve a few things to mend. There is a towel for thee on the table and extra clothes. Take all the time thee wants.” Walking into the living area, she closed the door behind her.
Maggie rose and dipped her hand in. It was the perfect temperature.
She untied her shredded skirt and let it fall to the ground.
Bodice, shift, and undergarments followed.
Stepping out of the heap of dirty clothing, she sank blissfully into the water.
A sigh escaped her lips. It’d been months since she’d had this luxury.
Back before Mama became ill. That was one thing the war hadn’t changed— Mama still maintained their habit of a weekly bath on Saturday evening.
A rush of emotion overtook her and tears fell silently into the water, covering her mouth to keep quiet as she wept. She cried for Mama. For Hugh. Joel. And even foolish Papa. But mostly for herself.
Timidly, she lifted her other hand and touched her chest. There was no mirror in the loft or kitchen. And she was too afraid to look down. But she trailed her finger along the puffy scar where Henry had sewn her up from James’ violence.
The gold cross hung from its chain halfway up. Its smooth surface was so unlike her own skin now. If she’d been considered plain before, what would she be thought of now? The sparrow had had its wings cut, leaving a mark to forever be reminded.
When she’d spent all her tears, she soaped off the layers of grim and dirt. The warm water soothed her aching, blistered feet. Bits of leaf and debris floated on the top of the water after she rinsed her hair. The once-clear water was now cloudy, but she was clean.
The water grew cold and she stepped out to dry off in front of the fire.
The pile of folded clothes Abigail had left included a clean brown dress, shift, stockings, unmentionables, and even an older pair of shoes.
She must’ve guessed Maggie’s shoe size, and surprisingly, they weren’t a bad fit.
Her damp hair was still in tangled knots.
Her hairbrush was missing—it must’ve fallen out along the way—that would have to be dealt with later. But at least she was clean.
The last thing Maggie did was tuck her necklace inside her blouse before she opened the door.
Abigail put down the sock she’d been mending and came to stand in front of Maggie. “Feeling any better?” Her hand tucked a piece of hair behind Maggie’s ear. It was something her mother had done to her as a child.
Maggie cleared her throat. “Yes. Thank you.”
Abigail looked her over. “The clothes work well on thee. Thee is a bit taller than I, but we are about the same size otherwise. Would thee sit here? I have one more thing.” Heading through the door that must be her bedroom, Abigail disappeared.
Maggie’s eyes scanned the room. It was sparse except for one small basket on the mantle.
It was intricately woven with the strands of grass different shades of yellow and green.
She’d never seen anything like it. Before she could get a closer look, Abigail returned holding a brush.
“May I help thee? Although I have no daughter to vouch for me, the horses seem content enough for me to brush them.”
Maggie felt the tangled knots and was ashamed. When she’d first been injured, she hadn’t been able to raise her hands above her head without a sharp sting, pulling her wound. The days on the road hadn’t provided much time for grooming either. “I would appreciate that.” Her voice was small.
Abigail came to stand behind the chair and went to work on Maggie’s hair. Although she had been jesting about the horses, Maggie agreed that she had a gentle touch. Not once did she pull at her scalp.
As she worked, Abigail spoke casually, steering clear of any personal questions. Maggie enjoyed listening to her talk about the farm and their Quaker way of life. Her voice was soothing, and it was easy to like Abigail.
Time passed quickly and Abigail finished before Maggie realized it. The tangles and knots were all gone, leaving her hair hanging in a smooth sheet. “It’s not even frizzy. How did you work such a miracle?”
Abigail laughed. “Thee is just lucky the humidity is gone for the season. My own hair usually resembles a frizzy wool.”
Taking in Abigail’s neat bun, Maggie doubted it but thanked her, nonetheless.
“My pleasure. Now, the men will be hungry soon. Why doesn’t thee walk out and find them while I tidy the kitchen and start preparing dinner?”
Curious to see how the Quakers lived, Maggie didn’t argue.