Under Water, page 24
Iris was surprised. How long had Charlotte believed this—or known this—to be true? “Why’s that?”
“William Penn, the great Quaker, who for sure never owned slaves, had a son with an unusual first name. Guess what it was?”
A flash of annoyance shot through Iris. And then she laughed. Even knowing how important this was, making a tease was the kind of thing a grown child would do to her mother. “Spit it out.”
“Sprigett. Sprigett Penn. And the Sprigett family down the road had a son named William.”
Thomas
1864
Lying against him, Aoife’s laughter made Thomas ever more aware of the nipples lifting the thin fabric of her gown, the softness of her breasts, and lack of stiff corseting confining them. Her body was open to him, as a wife’s body would be to her husband.
His penis stiffened, pushing against her, but neither of them drew apart. Instead, she gasped and pressed her body closer. Helpless to stop himself, he took her breast in his hand and, as he did, her movements grew desperate.
She kissed his neck and brought her head up so that her lips met his, tightly closed and then opening, her tongue thrusting in.
The heat of her body, the rich smell of hot blood on the floor, made him heedless of the muck beneath them, heedless of protecting her from it, arousing him as it aroused her. The world seemed to have sped in its rotation in the universe, dizzying him, spinning them together as if nothing else existed. They were alone, gloriously alone in a sweet haze of fatigue and relief. They’d worked as one, yoked together in endless toil, and now they moved as one.
Her blood-smeared long hair came undone from its braid, caught against his face, and tangled in his hands. He rolled onto his back and lifted her onto him, holding her hips until her knees bent beneath her body and she knelt atop him. With wild gasping urgency, hands fighting over the buttons, they opened his pants and worked her nightgown up above her sex, and he entered her.
She called out, “Thomas!” and, with his hands clutching her thighs, her body moved in frenzied abandon, rising up until they nearly came apart, but then dropping back down on him.
There was a timeless span of fierce and breathless motion and then, suddenly, they both cried out with a choking sound, and she collapsed against him.
They lay together for a while without speaking, waiting until their hoarse, rough breathing calmed. At last, he had the wind to say, “I could not control myself.” I’ve been so lonely, so longing for a woman’s willing touch, and you are so beautiful. “Forgive me, Aoife.”
“I will not, Thomas, for there is nothing to forgive. I am as guilty as you. And as lonely.” She rolled off him and sat, pushing back her wild, disordered hair. She pointed to the cow, lying peacefully chewing, her baby beside her. “Look, the calf there! A fine fathach bull worth a fortune. We saved him and Adele, too. Together, we did that. And this was our reward.”
Aoife
1864
Aoife felt as if she’d never need sleep again. She didn’t deserve rest. Our reward and our mistake.
Beside her, Thomas lay looking up toward the rafters. “Look,” he said. “The owl is hunting.”
In the light of the now-sputtering lantern, she could just make out the ghostly white form of outstretched wings and clever little heart-shaped face. “An evening’s amusement for you now, were we, Mistress Owl?”
She stood and moved her weary limbs, sighed. “We best return to the house and our duties. Be again who we are.”
She wobbled on stiff legs walking to the stall door. Thomas rose, similarly unsteady. He took the now guttered lantern to the end of the aisle and left its feeble flame to die. They went out into the crystalline moonlight. The steam rising from their over-heated bodies joined in the misty air. To her, Thomas appeared like some strange mystical creature, a haunter of dreams. When that mist swirled about him, his skin gleamed.
Despite the damp of the congealing blood on her shift, Aoife was not bothered by the freezing air.
“Go into your house,” Thomas said, “and I’ll bring wash water for you to heat.”
She shook her head. “We share the work as we share the blame. I’ll carry water myself.” She stood by as he drew the water, the light squeaking of the pump echoing. But aside from that, the farm was still, the moon reflecting in the puddles and on the surface of the stock pond down past the field. While he was bent over, his back to her, a great shame came upon her. The cow’s blood that had seeped through her gown stuck to her breasts and her sex. She shivered.
She did not have the right to heat the water and so get comfort.
Thomas put a full bucket in front of Aoife and stepped aside. She took it into the kitchen, but didn’t shut the door, though the cold air filled the room with mist. At the pump, Thomas stripped off his shirt and poured water over his head and down his back.
She sighed, cupped her hands, and brought up enough cold water to pour on her chest. It ran down, soaking the skirt of her nightgown.
Thomas came to the door with the second bucket, filled to the brim. Aoife moved away, deeper inside her house. “One more bucket, and the night is over. Such will never happen again. Nor shall we ever speak of this night, except to mention the birth of a bull calf.”
When he left, she dropped her gown in the bucket to soak and swept the spilled, bloodstained water out the door.
She stuck to her word. The only way she alluded to that night was to look at Thomas when they were alone with the beasts and say, “I love my husband as you love your Lettie.”
Chapter 29
“So, the Sprigetts had a son named William.” Iris said to Charlotte as she turned on the living room lights. It had clouded over suddenly.
“But there’s no record William had kids. His older brother apparently died young, before him. He had sisters, but of course their children wouldn’t be Sprigetts. The local Sprigett line died with William as far as I can find.”
“Any chance William Sprigett married someone with first name A ?”
“I have to admit I didn’t check the marriage records yet. Other duties got in the way. Sorry.”
“Well, it was great to go exploring with you. Thanks so much for taking me.”
“Iris, it’s your property.” Charlotte took up her mug of tea.
“I held you back. You’re so much younger, bounding along like a little goat.” Iris sipped her tea. She looked over the rim at Charlotte and put the cup down. “Why, I’m old enough to be your mother.”
“I wish you were.”
Hmm… “Oh, dear! I do hope you’re not estranged from your mom.” Jesus, I sound like a sweet old biddy in some 1930s film.
“No, she’s just not adventurous. Big city girl. She’d never take off her heels and hike around the woods. Might break a nail or something.”
“She must be very proud, you getting a doctorate.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Charlotte nodded.
Just then, Benny called out from the mud room, “Don’t worry, I wiped him off.”
Freddy bounded into the room, panting, dripping from his belly, followed by Benny. “Raining out.” He did a double take on seeing Charlotte. “Sorry. I didn’t know you had company.”
Iris’s back stiffened. Is he going to be unwelcoming?
“Why don’t I bring in a plate of those cookies from the Italian grocery? It’ll only take a minute.” Benny whirled about and left. Freddy followed.
Charlotte laughed. “A dog goes where the food is.”
“Do you have a dog?” Iris leaned forward, wiping one of the paw prints with her foot.
Benny shouted from the kitchen, “A dog? You’d be welcome to bring it here. Freddy’s great with other dogs.” He returned with a plate loaded with biscuits still in their cellophane wrappers. After putting them on the coffee table, he bounced down next to Iris on the couch. “I hear you’re writing a scholarly paper on our little water baby.”
Charlotte nodded.
Iris’s heart froze in her chest. What’s he going to say next?
“That’s great.” Benny leaned back, one knee up with his hands wrapped around it. “The more we know about him, the better.”
He didn’t ask about her school, though he definitely wants to. He really is trying. Iris felt a surge of love. She hid a smile behind her teacup.
“I’m going to do my best to find out everything. I know it means a lot to Iris but it’s real important to me, too. Not just the article, which I hope will get people interested in my work.”
Iris swallowed. “What else? You said, ‘Not just the article.’” Benny squeezed her hand. “I’m… we’re curious.”
Charlotte hesitated for a moment. “It’s this area, I love it. Have for a long, long time. It’s why I chose it to study…”
Which school?
“I love this house. I feel so welcome here. Like I belong.”
Aoife
1864
The bull calf throve in the weeks after his birth, growing rapidly on Adele’s rich milk. Several local farmers, knowing of the quality of their stock, came with an eye to purchasing him, but Aoife was loath to let him go at any price. Every day, she watched him gambol by his mother’s side, a reminder of their work saving the farm.
She wove him a necklace of spring beauty and laid it on his brown hide. He quickly shook it to bits, bounding about the muddy pasture, but no matter. He meant so much more to her than the other beasts.
“I would you see him, William. As you wished, we have named him Hercules and inscribed a plaque for his stall door. He will be the pride of the county at the fair. Let Thomas bring you down.” Beside the bed, Aoife waited for a reply, but William was silent.
At last, he said, “My love, can I not just see him from the window?”
Aoife sighed and studied him. His face was thinner and his expression fretful, querulous. The face of an invalid, a beautiful sufferer. It seemed as if the bones of his face were visible beneath his too pale skin. An ache swelled deep beneath her breastbone. If only he’d come back whole or never gone.
But she couldn’t think that. He was a man and she, his wife. Her duty was to honor his wishes. To comfort him and help him heal.
William was living in her world less and less, despite her efforts, despite her attempts at lovemaking, at wooing him into closeness. His nightmares still plagued their sleep, and the most she could draw from him was a gentle smile.
Only Lettie seemed to bring him to laughter, to divert him during the day, but Aoife put that thought aside. The girl was still abed.
She opened the curtains. “Mayhap Thomas can aide you to stand and I’ll parade Hercules back and forth below. I can handle him myself.”
“Can you now?” William muttered in her very lilt. The imitation of her speech stung. If only she could take back her words! How it must shame him to know that she’d so surpassed him in strength and ability.
Aoife left to return to the kitchen, where the weekly bread was nearly done rising and a joint of pork, seasoned with sage, was browning above the fire, the rich and savoy grease dripping into a pan of onions. She bent slightly to touch the crisp crackling, and had to step back rapidly, bile bubbling up into her mouth, nausea cresting like a wave from her stomach. Spinning around, she vomited into the wash basin.
Her head swirled. She clung to the tabletop to keep from falling and dropped herself onto a chair, face hidden in her apron.
No, no!
She rocked back and forth, thinking back on the past weeks, and realizing the truth. Her monthly course had failed to come, and she’d been wrong to believe that due to exhaustion.
Her mam had told her the peril maids faced from the men of the family they served. How lucky she’d been in not falling with child then. How lucky that William had been different, that she’d found love. And now…
Aoife looked up suddenly.
Lettie stood in the doorway of the kitchen, her demeanor haughty, her expression unreadable. “I seen you two in the yard. You thought I was safe abed.”
Aoife dropped her apron’s skirt and, mouth open in horror, looked at Thomas’s Lettie. “You played the spy?”
Lettie tossed her head and looked Aoife in the eyes. “I woke on and off to the cow’s bellows. Then came the sounds of other beasts, such as heard in the quarters when the men visited their wives. Outside my bed was cold and treacherous, ice all about. I stood just in the open door and watched as you two came from the barn, shameless. A faithless wife with her faithless servant.”
“Lettie,” Aoife began to rise but lacked the will.
“Some of the women were low, just like you, wild when with a man, shameless. But I will never tell him and destroy what little peace he has.”
“Never tell your own man, Thomas?”
Lettie’s mouth turned down with scorn. “Never tell William he has a faithless wife. ’Tis enough for him to know I’d never betray him.”
Thomas
1864
Thomas stood, back against the barn wall, looking away from Aoife.
She tore a piece of straw with nervous fingers. “We must act as always, Thomas.”
“But you say Lettie knows…”
Aoife stood across from him, her eyes cast down, her voice flat and dull. “She swears she’ll say nothing.”
“Aoife…” I do not trust Lettie’s word. Her mind is too oft disordered.
“What we did was wrong, but ’twas the heat of the moment, the triumph of saving the calf and his mother, and our sadness and longing.”
“You did nothing wrong. The fault be all mine, a woman, married in law before God. You are a man wed only in the common way, declaring yourself a husband and your woman a wife. And she has spurned you in your bed.” She sighed. “I repented of our deeds but not with confession. With no penance done, so I am punished. I am with child, Thomas. Your child.”
He slid down the wall to sit on his heels and hid his face in his hands. “Whatever shall we do?”
“There is no choice but to see it through and trust in the Lord. Keep it from William until we no longer can, hoping he grows strong enough to forgive. I love him, Thomas, and would not have him hurt. Not for all the world. And yet he will be.”
“I love you, Aoife.”
“And I love thee, Thomas, but not as I love him, not as husband. Not as you love Lettie. You have sacrificed greatly for her.”
He rose from his crouch. “You must stop working the farm.”
“Phsst!” She laughed. “I remember my mam telling how she worked the croft until the moment she bent over in pain to have me! Why, sure, she crawled to the cottage for the birth, attended only by my gran. All the while, my father was off drinking the day away. No, Thomas, I am of stronger stuff than you think.”
“Still…”
“Winter’s return delayed the field tasks, and you have things well in hand. Turn the soil for me and I’ll start the alfalfa. The great sack will hide my belly and I’ll walk the fields until I can no longer, though my apron might rise high and my back ache. But should anyone come, I will play the lady, indisposed, as Mother Sprigett always was when someone inferior stopped to visit. Sure and ’tis a good thing she’ll not visit again.” Her smile was forced, a grimace. “Your meals will be simple ’til my sick time passes.”
Her Irishness comes out more in her speech when she is afraid. Thomas smiled up at her, disguising how afraid he was, himself. How will I tend the farm without even her to help? And the worst, how to handle Lettie. At least she had kept no friends in the town, no gossips.
He said nothing more. It was the closeness, the partnership with Aoife that was precious and that he could not lose. His thoughts refused to stray to the child she was carrying. His child.
He no longer wished to tear away a bit of the farm for him and for Lettie. There were too many reasons to remain.
Chapter 30
Benny pushed himself from his overstuffed chair. “Why don’t I get dinner started for us? It was Indian tonight, right, Iris?”
When she nodded, he went to cut the cauliflower in small florets. Iris sat, open-mouthed with wonder. Is he really leaving us alone to chat? Or did he think that keeping Charlotte here would give him a whole evening to weasel info out of her?
“I love Indian food but have no idea how to cook it.” Charlotte was leaning forward, trying to peer into the kitchen.
“Just making something simple tonight along with a salad. Want to come in and help?”
“Sure.”
As they walked into the kitchen, Iris admitted, “I don’t have a recipe. Just wing it with cauliflower, potatoes, and a whole lot of spices. It won’t be anywhere near as good as a restaurant.”
“Oh, pshaw! Stop being so modest.” Benny had finished cutting the vegetables and was rooting about in the spice cabinet, setting the containers Iris needed on the counter. He sat in the nook when everything was out.
With Charlotte watching, Iris heated oil in a large, flat frying pan. She set in the cauliflower and potato bits to soften and brown.
Outside, the rain came down with increasing force, but the house felt snug and secure and the glass in the new windows didn’t move at all. The newly renovated kitchen was properly set up at last. “A chef’s kitchen,” the designer had said to Benny’s great amusement.
Just as Iris was adding the spices, lightning in the distance lit the treetops, followed by thunder that seemed to roll across the sky like giant oil drums passing overhead. The lights flickered and went out. “Dammit!” Iris exclaimed. She turned the flame down so nothing would burn until she could see.
“Not used to the good old East Coast thunderstorms yet,” Benny said. “Didn’t have many in California.”
“Good thing you bought a generator.” Iris knew he was proud that he’d thought ahead back last May.
The room was dark except for the intermittent flash from the jagged lightning, and a faint odor of ozone came from the yet-to-be-replaced mudroom door. The generator kicked in and they resumed making dinner.
The food was on the table fifteen minutes later.
