Beyond the Valley, page 2
She closed her eyes, spoke a prayer for his soul, and moved on. Once she reached the crossroads, she headed south along the coastal road and tried not to think of how hungry she was. Her last full meal was on the night Jamie left to plunder the shipwreck. She thought about how he had gulped down the humble potato stew, grabbed his hat, and rushed out the door at the urging of his mates.
The bag slipped in Sarah’s arms. She pulled it up, held it tighter, and glanced back. Leaving the village and the blue cove caused a wave of sadness to ripple through her. She wished some of her long-time neighbors, besides Mercy, had followed, begged her to stay, urged her not to go, and gave her all the reasons why, offered her work, some kind of position to keep her from starving. Then she hoped to see a wagon or coach heading in her direction. But the road remained lonely and windswept.
Her homespun dress opened at the front, and her beige striped petticoat fluttered about her slim legs. The hem was a bit tattered and soiled from wear. Her straw hat lay between her shoulder blades. The blue ribbon, faded gray, looped around her throat. No point wearing it upon her head, for the wind would blow it off or worsen the wear on the brim.
Six miles later, she set the sack down on the roadside and gathered her hair in her hands and twisted it into a braid. Her dress felt tight against her waist. She loosened the stays before going on.
A half-mile further, misty sunbeams shot through the clouds and plunged toward earth and sea. Sarah gazed with awe at the heaven-like spears and the distant patches of blue. For a moment, the sight soothed her soul and eased the pain that lingered in her heart.
She watched sparrows dart across the sky and land afar off. Then she moved on down the sandy road. This time she strove to walk with ladylike grace. But as it had so many times before, it proved to be a task too difficult and wearisome to do.
2
Lem Locke’s house stood on a green plain of ground above the rugged cliffs of Hell’s Mouth in St. Ives Bay. Far below, the sea thundered against sheer cliffs. Gulls screeched and flew in circles against the sky. Gray peppered stones made the old dwelling cold, and the windows were dark and uninviting. The door, also gray due to weathering and in need of paint, had a wrought iron handle and a rope knocker that dangled from a rusty hook, its end a ball of jute. Sarah could not help but wonder if the dreary house reflected the people within it.
Drawing in a deep breath, she trudged up the path and approached the door. She hoped Mary would see her from the window and rush out to greet her. But it wasn’t until she raised the knocker and let it fall that her sister-in-law appeared. The same height as Sarah, Mary stood beneath the lintel, slim as a reed. She looked older than when Sarah had last seen her. Her hair, partially tucked up beneath a white cap, hung straight around her ears and temples. Her mouth, lined by a hard life, looked drawn with worry.
A look of surprise sprang over Mary’s face. “Sarah? What are you doing here?” She looked down the road. “Where is my brother?”
“Hello, Mary. May I come inside? I must speak with you.”
Mary stepped back and waved her in. “Oh, please tell me he did not leave you and you have come to us for help. I will be very put out if he did.”
A lump swelled in Sarah’s throat. “Yes, he has left me. But not in the way you think.”
Mary shut the door and walked ahead of Sarah. A parlor faced the front of the house, and when Mary sat down in the rocking chair in front of the fireplace, she extended a hand to Sarah to sit across from her. At once, Sarah felt crestfallen at Mary’s reaction, the way her mouth pressed firm and her eyes narrowed when she mentioned Jamie. They had never been close, only connected by blood, and Sarah had no idea how much she could depend on the compassion of her husband’s sister and brother-in-law—if they had any at all. Mercy’s words came back to her.
She lowered herself into the chair and gripped the bag on her lap. It hid what was behind it. “You are looking well, Mary. How is Lem?”
“So, what wrong has Jamie done?” Mary ignored Sarah’s words and folded her hands in her lap. “I have not seen him in a long time.”
Sarah lowered her eyes and drew in a breath. “He has done nothing wrong.”
“Then why has he left you? Did you do something to chase him away? Goodness, Sarah. A wife must do all she can to keep her husband in these trying times. What living can you earn to sustain you if you do not have a husband?”
“Mary, please.” Tears struggled in Sarah’s eyes and she forced them back. “Let me explain.”
Mary shook her head. “Dear me. You look as though you are about to cry.”
The tears slipped out. Sarah wiped them away with the back of her hand. Then she covered her eyes, bent forward, and wept.
Mary hurried out of the chair. “Oh. Something awful has happened, I fear.” A little hesitant, she put her arm around Sarah. “There, there, do not cry.”
Sarah felt a bit relieved that Mary showed some sign of sympathy, some glimmer of compassion.
“I cannot help it. Forgive me.” Sarah sniffed and straightened up.
“Can I get you anything? A glass of water?”
“No, thank you. Just let me speak.”
“Of course. Go on. I am listening.”
“There was a shipwreck in Bassetts Cove.”
“That is not unusual. The waters there are treacherous.”
“Jamie went with the others down to the beach, to take whatever washed ashore.”
Mary went back to her seat and held up her hand. “Do not mention it to Lem. He will be envious and no doubt want to pay Jamie a visit. We are down to meager finances and I do not want him going there. He will spend our last coin on any good rum Jamie may have acquired.”
Sarah’s fists balled and she clenched her teeth. “Mary, you must let me finish. Can you not understand a terrible thing has happened? Jamie went out into the surf and drowned.”
Mary’s hand flew to her throat. “What? He drowned? Poor Jamie. This is sad news indeed.”
Sarah looked toward the door that led to the hallway. “Is Lem at home?”
“No, but I expect him soon. You must realize, Sarah, as hard as it may be, you have to make all the arrangements. Lem will not agree to help.”
“You needn’t worry. I have done what any good wife would.”
She wondered how Mary controlled her emotions so well. She should have cried, but there were no tears. Sarah looked down at her worn shoes as her belly twisted with hunger. By the appearance of the cottage, the fine furniture and rugs, the tapers in brass candlesticks, the bucket of coal and kindling by the fireplace, they were much better off than most. On the table under the window sat a plate of ginger fairings, a pot of tea, bone china cups and saucers.
She set the bag on the floor. Anguish and hunger trembled through her. “I am quite ravenous, Mary. Could you spare something? A little tea perhaps?”
“One must be strong in these kinds of situations,” Mary said. “Certainly you are welcome to some fairings and tea. It will make you feel better.”
The aroma of ginger beckoned, and Sarah moved to the table. She thought Mary noticed the change in her figure, but she was silent on the subject. She set a fairing on a plate, poured tea, and sat beneath the window. Sunlight flowed through it and alighted on her shoulders to warm her. Beyond the window, she could see the pale blue sky above the darker azure of the sea, hear the gulls and the soft swell of the waves. She would rather sit upon the cliff top in the grass and gaze out at the vast expanse, have the wind whip through her hair and listen to God’s voice in it, than to be in this stuffy cottage with a sister-in-law who had not shed a tear over the death of her only brother.
She looked over at Mary and wound a loose thread from her dress around her finger and yanked it free. Sarah had to tell her the rest of her news, unsure what kind of reaction it would bring.
“I am with child.”
Mary jerked her gaze back at Sarah and her mouth fell open. “What? Are you sure?”
“There is no doubt. I would not lie to you.”
For a moment, Mary said nothing. She stood, paced a little and then paused. “I thought you looked, well, different. How can you take care of a baby when you cannot take care of yourself? At the same time, you cannot expect Lem and me to provide for you and your child. We have so little to begin with.”
Sarah set her jaw. So little? Mary’s clothes were new and pretty. Costly pearls dangled from her earlobes and a gold pendant from her throat. Sarah understood perfectly what Mary implied. “I will not burden you, Mary. I will find work and care for my baby on my own.”
Mary raised her chin. “We would never have been able to care properly for a child. It costs money to feed and clothe them, you know. And then, the expense of an education would have been out of the question. Lem likes my figure the way it is, and children would have ruined me. You should think of the hardships this will cause you, Sarah.”
“It is Jamie’s child. There is no hardship.”
“You think that now. In your situation, you should consider getting rid of it. I did, and it saved me a world of grief.”
Shocked at this, Sarah sat forward. “You think so? I hear no children pattering about the house. I see no son here to care for you when you are old, or a daughter when you are sick, or to give you joy. Do not make a suggestion like that to me again.”
“I do not need children. I have Lem.”
“Children are a blessing from God.”
“You will change your mind about those pious words after you have borne this one—if you survive childbirth. Consider what I am telling you. Would it not be wrong to bring a child into this world only to have it live in poverty? And would it not be right to sacrifice it if it meant you would live?”
“I fear God more than poverty. He will take care of us.” She stood and picked up her bag. “I am sorry I came here.”
Then the front door slammed. “Mary!”
Lem Locke’s shadow fell over the floor as he strode into the room. His steps were deliberate and firm. He stopped short in front of them, dragged off his hat, and threw it onto the settee. He wore his hair tied back in a queue. Pockmarks marred his cheeks. Sarah considered what Mercy had told her. Perhaps her brother-in-law was a smuggler, mean and self-serving.
“I am starved,” he bellowed. “Have you got my supper ready?”
He turned and when he saw Sarah he stood stock-still. “Who may this be?”
“You remember I told you about Jamie’s wife. Well, this is she.” Mary picked up his hat and set it on a hook by the door. “She’s walked all the way from Bassetts Cove. Jamie was careless and drowned.”
Lem’s glassy eyes widened as Mary spoke. “Drowned, you say? Was he scavenging, girl?”
His voice, gruff and hollow, caused Sarah to fear him. “He was. But does it matter? I have lost my husband.”
A corner of Lem’s mouth turned downward. “I suppose not. He didn’t get anything if he drowned. You buried him?”
Sarah nodded.
“Any debt from it?”
“No. Our minister is a good man and took pity.”
“You owe money to anyone?”
“I owe no one. Why do you ask me such questions?”
“Because, I didn’t intend to help if you had. Pour me some brandy, Mary. I’m chilled to the bone.” He plopped down across from Sarah and stared at her. Sarah felt uneasy. Mary took a bottle from a corner cabinet and removed the cork. Her hand trembled when she handed the glass to Lem. In one swallow, he gulped the brandy down and then he held the glass out for more.
“Not too much, Lem,” Mary said, pouring carefully. “You know how it makes you feel fevered.”
He laughed. “Fevered indeed, Mary. And you know what kind, don’t ye?” He jerked her hand to his lips and kissed it. Then he set the glass on the table and kept his hand around it. He stared again at Sarah.
“Well, you’re young, Sarah. Got a pretty face, pretty hair. And lads like fiery hair like yours. Says you got spirit. Someone will marry you. Do it quick though.”
As if it were in her power to gain a proposal of marriage.
“No man wants a crippled widow, Lem,” Mary said. “Even if she does have a pretty face. They’d have to be desperate, needy for companionship or someone to cook and clean for them and warm their beds. Sarah has a limp. No man likes that.”
Sarah cringed inwardly at Mary’s prejudice. “I am not thinking of marriage at the moment. Jamie told me to come to you if I was in need. I haven’t any money, or a place to live, and I am carrying a child.”
Lem slammed his fist on the table. The china rattled and his brandy splashed onto the tablecloth. “You think we should help you, give you a roof over your head, food in your belly and in your brat’s belly, for nothing?”
Sarah stood and quickly gathered her bundle. “I will walk on and find work on one of the estates.” She looked into Lem’s stern eyes. They were a pair of dark brown stones, smooth as the sea-swept pebbles on the beach, cold as the coal ash in the hearth.
Mary set her hand on Lem’s arm. “Jamie was my brother, Lem. We cannot turn our backs on Sarah. What would people say?” Mary looped her arm through Sarah’s. The change in Mary’s demeanor confused her, the soft way in which she spoke to Lem.
Lem leaned on the table. “She can stay a few days to sort things out. But that’s all. I’ll not have a squalling baby keep me from my sleep. There may be work in Haley for her, Mary. I’ll ask ’round at the tavern.”
“Do that, Lem. Ask some of the gentry, if indeed any go there.”
“Some do.”
“A position at a manor would be perfect, but may not be so easy if you tell them she’s going to have a child. Say nothing of that.”
“I’ll not. And neither should you, Sarah. You keep quiet about that.”
Mary looked at Sarah with a tilt of her head. “Lem is right. It would be wise to stay quiet. They will take pity on you once they find out.”
Unwanted by her husband’s family, Sarah pulled away and stepped over to the door. She would have walked out but for the churning in her stomach and the sound of the wind outside. A few days—endure it or go hungry. She could not bear the thought of being on the road on cold dark nights. Where would she sleep? Would anyone take pity on her?
“Come back inside, Sarah,” Mary said firmly. “Sit down and eat. We have enough, so do not feel bad wondering whether you are taking food out of our mouths tonight.”
Sarah felt her brows press into a tight line. Slowly, she sat and waited with her eyes lowered until Mary returned with three meat pasties. She shut her eyes a second, grateful for the savory meal before her. The aroma of beef, onion, and potato filled the room.
They ate in silence. Lem slopped a slice of bread through the gravy left in his bowl, stuffed the bread into his mouth, and then leaned back in his chair. From his pocket he drew out a coin and flipped it between his fingers. “Look here. A guinea, Mary, for all my troubles today—one guinea.”
“ ’Tis better than nothing at all, Lem.”
“I suppose you’ll want to feed this girl with it.” His eyes drifted over to Sarah and narrowed. She looked away and saw Mary stare at the coin. Lem held it out to Mary, and then dropped it into her hand. She closed her fist over it and tucked it into her bodice.
“Buy something nice with it, Mary, instead of extra food,” Lem said. “Sarah will have to do with what we give her. Right, Sarah, my girl?”
She was not his girl, and resented him saying so. “I am very grateful, Lem,” Sarah told him. “Mary’s stew is delicious. I would be thankful for even a bit of bread.”
“Good.” He cupped his chin in his hand and seemed to study her. Again Sarah felt uneasy. As if he were sizing her up like a piece of merchandise, his eyes roved over her face and down her body. She strove to ignore him.
She set the bowl aside and reached for her bag. “I have something to give you.”
His eyes widened. “Oh? What is it?”
“It is all I have of Jamie’s. I will keep his Bible. But he would want you to have his pipe and these clothes.” She drew them out and handed them to Lem.
Lem looked disappointed. He fingered the clothes, and set the pipe between his teeth. “This pipe is a fine one. Carved ivory. The clothes are good enough—for a net maker.”
Ungrateful brute. “Perhaps you could give them to someone in need, if you do not want them, Lem.” She then stepped away when Mary motioned to her to follow her out of the room.
Sarah sat at the window in the smallest bedroom in Lem Locke’s house. For a long while she gazed at the plain of grass and sand that lead to the precipices above the sea. She heard the gulls crying below her, and the air was filled with the scent of gorse. She missed Jamie and their little cottage. She did not want to be with the Lockes. They had not treated her as she had hoped. But for now, she had to endure living with them until she found a position. She thought of returning to Mercy, but could not bring herself to burden her friend. She had enough mouths to feed and lived in a small house.
In the course of one day, she had become widowed and homeless. Distressed, she turned away from the window and wept. “I must stop this,” she said aloud. “I can be stronger.”
Without knocking, Mary stepped through the door. “Open the window wider, Sarah, and let the room air out. Nothing is worse for a body than stale air in a room.”
Sarah pushed the window open as far as it would go. The wind on her face seemed a caress from the Almighty, soothing her, assuring her all would be made right.
With one movement, Mary swept off the quilt that lay over the bed and handed it to Sarah. “Shake it out over the window. It’s dusty.”
“This is a fine quilt, Mary. Did you make it?”
“Me? No. I do not like pricking my fingers with needles. Lem bought it for me.”
“For a man to purchase a quilt seems unusual.” Sarah shook it out the window. A soft veil of dust blew away from it. Then she folded it over her arm, spread it back over the bed, and smoothed it out with her palm. “This is very fine needlework and the color is so rich.”
