blank.
Richard said, “She's lost more weight.”
Jemima shrugged. “She eats as good as I do.”
For a moment Hannah thought the doctor might rouse himself into one of his old tempers, but then the tension in his face seeped away.
“I'm going to examine her now,” he said wearily. “And then I'll relieve her.” For the last week the Widow had been unable to let down her own urine; once a day someone had to help her with it by means of a probe as thin as a reed. Sooner or later an infection would set in and finish off the old woman, and it would be a blessing. In spite of the nastiness and ill will the Widow had spewed over the years, Hannah thought she had suffered enough; her rest would be well earned.
“I suppose you're going to be coming in his place,” Jemima said to Hannah. The corner of her mouth jerked as if the idea of such an arrangement amused her.
“When necessary,” Hannah said.
“Unless you want to do this yourself.” Richard looked up from the instruments he was laying out.
“Oh no, I wouldn't rob anyone of the pleasure,” Jemima said, laughing. “Especially not her.” There was some satisfaction in her voice, a mealy pleasure that made Hannah's stomach lurch. Such a quiet hate was far more frightening than any threats screamed in passion.
All through the examination, while Richard palpated the slack abdomen and put his ear to the dirty camisole and counted respirations, Jemima watched. The Widow offered no resistance, but her eyes, filmy with cataracts, flicked from side to side like a deer under the gun.
“She's nervous,” Jemima said. “She probably thinks you're here to poison her.” She said this as if she might have offered tea or asked about the weather. “She still thinks you killed her Isaiah.”
Hannah met Jemima's expression. “And what do you think?”
Jemima's mouth contorted. “Your sins are many, Hannah Bonner, but that is one death you are not responsible for.”
Richard was swabbing an open sore on the Widow's shoulder, but he raised his head to look Jemima directly in the eye.
“If there's any poisoning to be done here, I'll keep that pleasure for myself,” he said. “I should poison her and put her out of the misery you've made of her sorry life.”
The woman in the bed made a whining sound, like air let out of a bladder.
Jemima's face blanched of all color. “She's laughing at you. You made her laugh.”
“Is she?” Richard said softly. “Is it me she's laughing at?”
Hannah left the sickroom before Richard, made her way through the dark hallway and the kitchen to find young Martha in the dooryard. She was scrubbing out a cooking pot with sand, singing softly to herself. She had a clear, true voice and in that moment Hannah remembered how much Jemima had loved to sing as a girl.
She had her mother's voice, yes. But in the bright summer morning the girl's skin was as translucent as parchment and her hair alive with light. Not Isaiah Kuick's daughter but Liam Kirby's, without a doubt; anyone who had known the two men could see that truth no matter what lies Jemima told.
Most probably Martha didn't know that Isaiah Kuick wasn't her father; Isaiah had died when Jemima was pregnant, and Liam Kirby had never laid eyes on this daughter he could not claim. How Jemima had managed to get Isaiah to marry her because she was pregnant by Kirby was a question that would probably never be answered.
No doubt the Widow Kuick knew, and she would have taken delight in disowning the child to her face, had she not lost the power of speech and the ability to hold a quill. A strange blessing on the girl, but it was not the only one. Along with the color of his hair, Liam had given his daughter a sweet temperament and a forgiving spirit.
Hannah did not know where Liam Kirby was or if he was even alive.
The girl caught sight of Hannah's shadow and looked up, the long plait moving like a quicksilver snake over the thin back. Her expression was
Richard said, “She's lost more weight.”
Jemima shrugged. “She eats as good as I do.”
For a moment Hannah thought the doctor might rouse himself into one of his old tempers, but then the tension in his face seeped away.
“I'm going to examine her now,” he said wearily. “And then I'll relieve her.” For the last week the Widow had been unable to let down her own urine; once a day someone had to help her with it by means of a probe as thin as a reed. Sooner or later an infection would set in and finish off the old woman, and it would be a blessing. In spite of the nastiness and ill will the Widow had spewed over the years, Hannah thought she had suffered enough; her rest would be well earned.
“I suppose you're going to be coming in his place,” Jemima said to Hannah. The corner of her mouth jerked as if the idea of such an arrangement amused her.
“When necessary,” Hannah said.
“Unless you want to do this yourself.” Richard looked up from the instruments he was laying out.
“Oh no, I wouldn't rob anyone of the pleasure,” Jemima said, laughing. “Especially not her.” There was some satisfaction in her voice, a mealy pleasure that made Hannah's stomach lurch. Such a quiet hate was far more frightening than any threats screamed in passion.
All through the examination, while Richard palpated the slack abdomen and put his ear to the dirty camisole and counted respirations, Jemima watched. The Widow offered no resistance, but her eyes, filmy with cataracts, flicked from side to side like a deer under the gun.
“She's nervous,” Jemima said. “She probably thinks you're here to poison her.” She said this as if she might have offered tea or asked about the weather. “She still thinks you killed her Isaiah.”
Hannah met Jemima's expression. “And what do you think?”
Jemima's mouth contorted. “Your sins are many, Hannah Bonner, but that is one death you are not responsible for.”
Richard was swabbing an open sore on the Widow's shoulder, but he raised his head to look Jemima directly in the eye.
“If there's any poisoning to be done here, I'll keep that pleasure for myself,” he said. “I should poison her and put her out of the misery you've made of her sorry life.”
The woman in the bed made a whining sound, like air let out of a bladder.
Jemima's face blanched of all color. “She's laughing at you. You made her laugh.”
“Is she?” Richard said softly. “Is it me she's laughing at?”
Hannah left the sickroom before Richard, made her way through the dark hallway and the kitchen to find young Martha in the dooryard. She was scrubbing out a cooking pot with sand, singing softly to herself. She had a clear, true voice and in that moment Hannah remembered how much Jemima had loved to sing as a girl.
She had her mother's voice, yes. But in the bright summer morning the girl's skin was as translucent as parchment and her hair alive with light. Not Isaiah Kuick's daughter but Liam Kirby's, without a doubt; anyone who had known the two men could see that truth no matter what lies Jemima told.
Most probably Martha didn't know that Isaiah Kuick wasn't her father; Isaiah had died when Jemima was pregnant, and Liam Kirby had never laid eyes on this daughter he could not claim. How Jemima had managed to get Isaiah to marry her because she was pregnant by Kirby was a question that would probably never be answered.
No doubt the Widow Kuick knew, and she would have taken delight in disowning the child to her face, had she not lost the power of speech and the ability to hold a quill. A strange blessing on the girl, but it was not the only one. Along with the color of his hair, Liam had given his daughter a sweet temperament and a forgiving spirit.
Hannah did not know where Liam Kirby was or if he was even alive.
The girl caught sight of Hannah's shadow and looked up, the long plait moving like a quicksilver snake over the thin back. Her expression was
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