after her display of sadness. “You could say that, I suppose. Yes, I’m ill, Abigail. I’m ill with child. I’m to be a mother again.”
I don’t know why I didn’t figure it out earlier, except for the fact that it was believed by everyone that Mama couldn’t get pregnant again, after a near fatal complication following Charlie’s birth six years ago.
“Have you confirmed this with Doc Newman yet? Are you very sure?”
“I think I know my own symptoms. If you recall, I am somewhat of an expert on the matter.”
If I had the count correct, Mama had been pregnant nine times before. She had given birth to five babies, but only Charlie, Martha, and I had survived past infancy. Little Ned and Lucy, both born between me and Martha, had died within two months of their births.
Four of Mama’s pregnancies had resulted in frightening early and midterm miscarriages. Mama suffered pitifully following two of the miscarriages, and after the birth of Charlie, she stayed in bed for nearly two years recovering from searing abdominal pain and debilitating weakness. Doc Newman believed flat-out that Mama would never become pregnant again, due to the trauma her insides had endured during her childbearing years. And for six years, he had been right.
I forced myself to smile. “Why are you sad, Mama? It’s a miracle that you’ve conceived again!”
She turned to me with blank eyes. “Oh, it’s quite a miracle, divinely ordered. God wants me dead, and I’m afraid He’ll get his wish this time. I can’t endure another pregnancy, and I certainly can’t endure another birth. This baby will kill me.”
“You don’t know that, Mama. You’re strong. You could pull through it like you did with all the other pregnancies. And then you’ll have another little child!”
Mama’s face appeared to age ten years before my eyes. Moisture dampened her vocal cords, making them creak like tired wagon wheels. “I don’t want another child, don’t you understand that? I never wanted children. I wish to God that I had been born a man.”
“But you have a family! We aren’t so bad, are we?” I grabbed for her cold hand. My voice squeaked when I said, “You do love us, don’t you?”
She sighed deeply. “But I never wanted you, Abigail. Nor Charlie, Martha, Ned, or Lucy. Not really. God is punishing me for my lack of motherly love.”
And she dropped my hand, got up from the chair, and walked back into the house. The screen door slammed shut behind her, its harsh bang like a blow to my back.
CHAPTER SIX
Abigail Sinclair
July 10, 1868
One day about noon, going towards my boat, I was exceedingly surprised with the print of a man’s naked foot on the shore, which was very plain to be seen in the sand
.
—R OBINSON C RUSOE
T HE CARVED WALNUT MIRROR THAT HUNG ON THE RAW WOOD OF THE BEDROOM threw off so much light from the nearby windows that it hurt my eyes to look into it.
But I could guess what I looked like. I imagined that my red hair glowed and my freckles popped appealingly next to the sage silk of my dress, just like Mama and the dressmaker had planned.
Mama had stayed in her bedroom for the entire day, but a supper with Hector was not to be missed. With Winnie’s help, Mama was washed and dressed before Hannah had even tied my corset.
When I finally made my way out to the porch in my ballooning skirts, Mama’s pale face creased itself into a starched smile, and Daddy whistled.
Mama declared, “Hector won’t be able to resist you. As long as you don’t start running down the boardwalk, a marriage proposal is inevitable.”
Her midsection was tightly corseted. Mama was thinner than ever now.
The little red horse pulled us through the sand with just about as much difficulty as Mungo had, but I knew it wasn’t the unfamiliarity of the sand that vexed her. Justus had been hitching the cart to her every day for practice, but she still hadn’t taken to it. With a sense of dread, I watched her hindquarters
I don’t know why I didn’t figure it out earlier, except for the fact that it was believed by everyone that Mama couldn’t get pregnant again, after a near fatal complication following Charlie’s birth six years ago.
“Have you confirmed this with Doc Newman yet? Are you very sure?”
“I think I know my own symptoms. If you recall, I am somewhat of an expert on the matter.”
If I had the count correct, Mama had been pregnant nine times before. She had given birth to five babies, but only Charlie, Martha, and I had survived past infancy. Little Ned and Lucy, both born between me and Martha, had died within two months of their births.
Four of Mama’s pregnancies had resulted in frightening early and midterm miscarriages. Mama suffered pitifully following two of the miscarriages, and after the birth of Charlie, she stayed in bed for nearly two years recovering from searing abdominal pain and debilitating weakness. Doc Newman believed flat-out that Mama would never become pregnant again, due to the trauma her insides had endured during her childbearing years. And for six years, he had been right.
I forced myself to smile. “Why are you sad, Mama? It’s a miracle that you’ve conceived again!”
She turned to me with blank eyes. “Oh, it’s quite a miracle, divinely ordered. God wants me dead, and I’m afraid He’ll get his wish this time. I can’t endure another pregnancy, and I certainly can’t endure another birth. This baby will kill me.”
“You don’t know that, Mama. You’re strong. You could pull through it like you did with all the other pregnancies. And then you’ll have another little child!”
Mama’s face appeared to age ten years before my eyes. Moisture dampened her vocal cords, making them creak like tired wagon wheels. “I don’t want another child, don’t you understand that? I never wanted children. I wish to God that I had been born a man.”
“But you have a family! We aren’t so bad, are we?” I grabbed for her cold hand. My voice squeaked when I said, “You do love us, don’t you?”
She sighed deeply. “But I never wanted you, Abigail. Nor Charlie, Martha, Ned, or Lucy. Not really. God is punishing me for my lack of motherly love.”
And she dropped my hand, got up from the chair, and walked back into the house. The screen door slammed shut behind her, its harsh bang like a blow to my back.
CHAPTER SIX
Abigail Sinclair
July 10, 1868
One day about noon, going towards my boat, I was exceedingly surprised with the print of a man’s naked foot on the shore, which was very plain to be seen in the sand
.
—R OBINSON C RUSOE
T HE CARVED WALNUT MIRROR THAT HUNG ON THE RAW WOOD OF THE BEDROOM threw off so much light from the nearby windows that it hurt my eyes to look into it.
But I could guess what I looked like. I imagined that my red hair glowed and my freckles popped appealingly next to the sage silk of my dress, just like Mama and the dressmaker had planned.
Mama had stayed in her bedroom for the entire day, but a supper with Hector was not to be missed. With Winnie’s help, Mama was washed and dressed before Hannah had even tied my corset.
When I finally made my way out to the porch in my ballooning skirts, Mama’s pale face creased itself into a starched smile, and Daddy whistled.
Mama declared, “Hector won’t be able to resist you. As long as you don’t start running down the boardwalk, a marriage proposal is inevitable.”
Her midsection was tightly corseted. Mama was thinner than ever now.
The little red horse pulled us through the sand with just about as much difficulty as Mungo had, but I knew it wasn’t the unfamiliarity of the sand that vexed her. Justus had been hitching the cart to her every day for practice, but she still hadn’t taken to it. With a sense of dread, I watched her hindquarters
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