going to start turning up the soil for next year.” Was this silly conversation real?
“This ain’t gonna be much of a garden,” the boy said, looking at the trees surrounding them. “And everything looks burned up, dry.”
“True.” Brennan cradled his aching wrist close to his chest, holding in his agitation. “Let’s pace out the boundaries and get started.”
The boy stood, leaning on the shovel handle. “What did you do to your hand?”
“I sprained my wrist.” He stared at the boy, his curiosity sparking. “What’s your whole name?”
“Jacque Louis Charpentier.”
Charpentier had been Lorena’s maiden name. “Who was your mother?”
“You heard who my ma was.”
“Do you remember her?”
“No.”
“When’d she die?”
“During the war.”
“So what year were you born?”
The boy gave him a sarcastic look. “Fall of ’61, the year the war started.”
Brennan stared at him, searching for something of himself in the boy’s face.
“Do ya’ll want me to dig this or not?” the boy demanded.
“Dig.” Brennan experienced a sudden weakness that had more to do with shock over this new revelation than anything else. He moved into the shade of a nearby oak and settled onto the rough, wild grass. That Lorena had taken back her maiden name didn’t surprise him. And perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised that she’d borne him a son and never tried to let him know.
But if they hadn’t wanted the boy when Brennan returned after the war, why wait till now? Had Jean Pierre brought him someone else’s child who didn’t remember his mother as a final kick in the gut, a final insult?
What did Miss Rachel think of this? And why did that matter so much to him?
* * *
Rachel had smoothed out the heavy cotton fabric for Jacque’s new clothing on her table and was calmly fashioning a pattern from brown wrapping paper. Inwardly she roiled, trying to come up with an explanation for what had happened in town. Was Jacque really Brennan’s son? Why did she keep asking herself that question?
“Hello the house!” said a feminine voice that sounded familiar as she voiced the usual frontier greeting.
Rachel rose and peered out the open door and saw Posey, the new girl in town, had come again to call. “Oh, hello,” she said, trying to hide her lack of welcome.
“A letter came for you today so I told Cousin Ned I’d be happy to bring it.” Posey held up the letter as she approached.
The joy of receiving a letter zinged through Rachel. She beamed. “Come in, Posey.”
The young woman did so and handed her the letter.
“Please be seated.” Rachel didn’t apologize, just slit open the letter with a kitchen knife and read it.
July 1871
Dear Daughter,
We were relieved thee reached Cousin Noah’s family in Pepin safely. Thy stepmother and I are in good health as are thy sisters. We are going to be blessed again near the end of the year with another child, God willing. Here are notes from thy younger sisters.
Then she read the notes written in childish printing:
Our dog misses thee. The cats looked all over for thee.
Love,
Hannah
I cried for two days when thee left.
Love,
Elizabeth
I MISS THEE AND SO DOES SARA.
LOVE,
MARTHA
Then her father’s script resumed.
Your obedient servant,
Jeremiah Woolsey
A pang of homesickness tangled around Rachel’s lungs. I miss thee, too. “It’s from my family. I have four younger stepsisters.” And perhaps another on the way. Her father sounded as if he missed her, too.
“A letter from home is always good. What are your sisters’ names?”
“They are Hannah, Elizabeth, Martha and baby Sara.” Each name pinched her heart. I do love them, Father. Keep them safe.
“Those are pretty names.”
Wanting to get some distance from this emotional topic, she said, “Posey is a pretty name. Who chose it?”
“When I was born, my pa said I was as pretty as a posey.” The young woman grinned shyly.
“Very true.” Smiling
“This ain’t gonna be much of a garden,” the boy said, looking at the trees surrounding them. “And everything looks burned up, dry.”
“True.” Brennan cradled his aching wrist close to his chest, holding in his agitation. “Let’s pace out the boundaries and get started.”
The boy stood, leaning on the shovel handle. “What did you do to your hand?”
“I sprained my wrist.” He stared at the boy, his curiosity sparking. “What’s your whole name?”
“Jacque Louis Charpentier.”
Charpentier had been Lorena’s maiden name. “Who was your mother?”
“You heard who my ma was.”
“Do you remember her?”
“No.”
“When’d she die?”
“During the war.”
“So what year were you born?”
The boy gave him a sarcastic look. “Fall of ’61, the year the war started.”
Brennan stared at him, searching for something of himself in the boy’s face.
“Do ya’ll want me to dig this or not?” the boy demanded.
“Dig.” Brennan experienced a sudden weakness that had more to do with shock over this new revelation than anything else. He moved into the shade of a nearby oak and settled onto the rough, wild grass. That Lorena had taken back her maiden name didn’t surprise him. And perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised that she’d borne him a son and never tried to let him know.
But if they hadn’t wanted the boy when Brennan returned after the war, why wait till now? Had Jean Pierre brought him someone else’s child who didn’t remember his mother as a final kick in the gut, a final insult?
What did Miss Rachel think of this? And why did that matter so much to him?
* * *
Rachel had smoothed out the heavy cotton fabric for Jacque’s new clothing on her table and was calmly fashioning a pattern from brown wrapping paper. Inwardly she roiled, trying to come up with an explanation for what had happened in town. Was Jacque really Brennan’s son? Why did she keep asking herself that question?
“Hello the house!” said a feminine voice that sounded familiar as she voiced the usual frontier greeting.
Rachel rose and peered out the open door and saw Posey, the new girl in town, had come again to call. “Oh, hello,” she said, trying to hide her lack of welcome.
“A letter came for you today so I told Cousin Ned I’d be happy to bring it.” Posey held up the letter as she approached.
The joy of receiving a letter zinged through Rachel. She beamed. “Come in, Posey.”
The young woman did so and handed her the letter.
“Please be seated.” Rachel didn’t apologize, just slit open the letter with a kitchen knife and read it.
July 1871
Dear Daughter,
We were relieved thee reached Cousin Noah’s family in Pepin safely. Thy stepmother and I are in good health as are thy sisters. We are going to be blessed again near the end of the year with another child, God willing. Here are notes from thy younger sisters.
Then she read the notes written in childish printing:
Our dog misses thee. The cats looked all over for thee.
Love,
Hannah
I cried for two days when thee left.
Love,
Elizabeth
I MISS THEE AND SO DOES SARA.
LOVE,
MARTHA
Then her father’s script resumed.
Your obedient servant,
Jeremiah Woolsey
A pang of homesickness tangled around Rachel’s lungs. I miss thee, too. “It’s from my family. I have four younger stepsisters.” And perhaps another on the way. Her father sounded as if he missed her, too.
“A letter from home is always good. What are your sisters’ names?”
“They are Hannah, Elizabeth, Martha and baby Sara.” Each name pinched her heart. I do love them, Father. Keep them safe.
“Those are pretty names.”
Wanting to get some distance from this emotional topic, she said, “Posey is a pretty name. Who chose it?”
“When I was born, my pa said I was as pretty as a posey.” The young woman grinned shyly.
“Very true.” Smiling
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