Longings of the Heart (12 page)

“Mmm. Smells good.” John helped Hannah with her wrap and then took off his hat and coat and hung them on a post. “I’m starving.”

Hannah set the milk on the counter and poured it through a cloth to strain out impurities.

“I’ll take that down to the springhouse after dinner,” John said, settling into a chair at the table. “But I’d quite like some fresh milk with my meal.”

Using a dipper, Hannah filled two glasses with milk. “There’s a lot of cream.” She set the tumblers on the table.

“I like the cream.” And as if to prove his point, John downed half the glass of warm milk. Wearing a satisfied smile, he set down the beverage.

Hannah sat across from him.

“Shall we give a word of thanks, then?” He reached for Hannah’s hands and held them as he said, “Lord above, we thank you for these blessings. May we use them in a way that will be pleasing to you. Amen.”

“Amen.” Hannah released John’s hands. As much as she knew she ought to feel blessed, she felt despair—over the joey’s death and her barrenness.

She lifted the lid off the pot and dipped stew into John’s bowl. He grabbed a piece of bread and spread butter over it. Taking a bite, he chewed thoughtfully. “How are you, luv? Feeling any better?”

“I am.” Hannah dished out her stew and set it in front of her. She stared at it, though, unable to eat. She kept seeing the helpless joey and its dead mother.
You’re being foolish. Stop it.

Hannah buttered a piece of bread. Biting into it, she set her spoon in the stew but didn’t ladle any out. Instead she stared at it, a lump in her throat. Taking a drink of milk, she forced down the bread. Finally, picking up her spoon, she filled it with stew, but she was unable to carry it to her mouth.
It was only a
kangaroo. Good, honest food.
She took a bite and chewed.

John rested his arms on the table and leaned forward. “Delicious. Good bread. Good stew.” He smiled and took another bite of bread. “You’re a blessing to me, Hannah.”

She barely nodded, tormented by guilt.

“You’re quiet. Are you still troubled over what happened yesterday?”

Hannah couldn’t look at John. She set her spoon in the bowl. “I’m fine,” she said, but she wasn’t—she needed to speak the truth.

“You’re not. Why is this upsetting you so? I’ve never known you to be distressed without good cause.”

“It was an innocent. The poor thing shouldn’t have died.”

John sat back in his chair, resting his hands on the table on either side of his bowl. “It was a kangaroo. And there was nothing could be done about it. I didn’t mean for a joey to die. I didn’t know it was there. And you did all you could to save it.”

“I know. I’m being foolish. I’m sorry.” Hannah made another attempt at eating.

John reached across the table and took one of her hands. “I’m truly sorry, luv. It’s my responsibility to make sure there’s food in our home, and I couldn’t pass by such a grand kangaroo. It will go a long way toward feeding us. It’s my duty to take care of you and one day our children too.”

He gently squeezed Hannah’s hand. “You’ve got to put this behind you.”

“I know.”

“There will be worse things to come, we can count on that. I wish I could protect you from all the disappointments and harshness, but it’s not possible.”

John’s expression of devotion drove away Hannah’s depression and anger. She loved him. “I’m sorry for behaving so wretchedly. I don’t know what’s come over me.”

“It’s all right. I say we enjoy our meal and each other.”

Hannah took a bite of stew. John was a fine husband and honorable. He deserved to know the truth about her past. She should have told him before he’d married her.

How could I have withheld something so important? He deserves
better.
Tears pressed against the back of her eyes, and she fought to suppress them. She broke off a piece of bread.
I
lied to him. He had a right to know and I was dishonest.

Now it was worse than before. Clearly God was not going to bless them with children. It was her fault and John should be told.

She set her bread on the table and pushed aside her bowl. Did she have the courage to speak the truth? Her throat was dry and her stomach tumbled with apprehension. In a voice barely more than a whisper, she said, “There is something I must tell you.”

Her heart beat so fast, Hannah could barely catch her breath. She tightly clasped trembling hands on the table in front of her. “I didn’t tell you everything about myself . . . about my past.” She glanced at John, then back down at her hands. “I intended to tell you before we were married, but you wouldn’t let me.” Hannah knew she was shifting the blame to him. “No. That’s not quite true. I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid.” She looked into his hazel eyes. “When you shushed me the night I went to your cottage, it was easier to say nothing.”

John looked puzzled and concerned. “What didn’t you tell me? What’s happened?” He knit his brows. “Tell me, luv. I want to help.”

Hannah took a steadying breath. “John . . . there will be no children . . . not for us. And it’s my fault.”

“You can’t know that. It’s God’s will to determine.”

“Yes. That’s true. And . . . and once he did bless me with a child.” Hannah’s nerves were so tightly strung that she felt that the muscles throughout her body might actually burst.

“When I lived in London after my mum died . . . I worked for a magistrate . . . a Mr. Walker. One night . . . he came to my room and he . . . he forced himself upon me.”

John’s expression became a mix of horror and confusion. He pushed against the table and straightened his arms. “What are you saying?”

“He raped me.” The scene played through Hannah’s mind. “I tried to fight him off. But I wasn’t strong enough.” She pressed a hand to her mouth. “I ran away. And for a while I lived on the streets. I looked for work, but no one would hire me. Finally I was so hungry that one day I stole a loaf of bread.”

Hannah pressed her hands, palm down on the table. “I was arrested. And the man who raped me, Mr. Walker, was also the judge who sat over my hearing. He lied about it all, even said I’d stolen a silver chalice from his home. He sentenced me to transportation.” Hannah tried to wet her lips, but there was no moisture in her mouth. “And then . . . then there was a child.”

John’s eyes had turned hot and hard.

Oh, Lord, please help him to forgive me and to still love me.
Hannah knew she could lose him, but now that she’d begun, she must tell him all of it.

“While I was on the ship I learned about the child. I couldn’t have a baby in that wretched place. I couldn’t face the disgrace. I asked God to take it from me.”

John stood and knocked his chair over backward. “Enough. I won’t hear any more.” He crossed his arms over his chest and turned his back to her.

Hannah knew she should stop. John had heard enough. But now that she’d started, she needed to finish—to be rid of it. “Please, John. Please hear me out.” She was crying now. She stood and moved toward him.

He stepped away.

Hannah continued. “I knew it was wrong, but I prayed the baby would die. And it did. It was born too early. Lydia helped me, but she couldn’t save the baby.” Feeling the horror, tears ran in rivulets down Hannah’s cheeks. “She took the baby out in a chamber pot.”

John whirled around and faced Hannah. The amber in his eyes had gone cold.

Hannah could barely speak, but she continued. “I’m sorry. I know now the child was God’s blessing and I refused it. He’s punishing me. We won’t have children. There’ll never be any.”

John glared at her, his eyes hot with revulsion and anger. “You lied to me. Why? How could you?”

“I was afraid. I just couldn’t tell you.”

He shoved his fingers through his hair. “Was it really a rape? Or did you entice this Mr. Walker?”

John might as well have plunged a knife into Hannah’s heart, the pain was so agonizing. Suffocating pressure squeezed her chest. She struggled to breathe. “No. I never did. I pleaded with him to stop, but he wouldn’t. I never tempted him. Never.”

Desperate, Hannah moved to John and grasped his hands. “Please believe me. Please forgive me. I never wanted to deceive you.”

“But you did.” John ripped his hands out of hers. “How can I ever trust you again? You’re my wife, the one I should believe in more than any other. But now . . . how can I . . . how can I believe anything you say?”

Hannah dropped her arms to her sides. “This is why I didn’t tell you. I was afraid you’d hate me, that I would lose you.”

John grabbed his hat and coat. He pressed the hat onto his head and pushed his arms into the coat sleeves. “And now you have.” He opened the door and stood staring at Hannah as if she were some sort of apparition. Tears glistened and he shook his head. “How could you wish for the death of a child? Any child? You’re not the person I thought you were.” He stepped outside and slammed the door behind him.

Hot anger and hurt drove reason from John as he stormed toward the barn. Rage blinded him and blood pumped through his veins with a ferocity he’d never known. He saddled his horse, swung up onto its back, and charged into the darkness.

I thought you were special—above reproach.
His first wife’s laughing face flashed through his mind. This wasn’t the first time a woman had betrayed him.

When he reached the road, he glanced back at the house. He could see Hannah silhouetted in the window. He knew she was remorseful and frightened, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t speak to her or even stay in the house with her. She’d lain with another man, her employer, and then had seen an innocent child as nothing more than an inconvenience.

Without care for his own safety, John urged his horse into a full gallop. He rode hard and didn’t stop until the horse was in a lather and laboring to breathe. Finally he slowed and stopped. The moon was only a slice of light in a dark sky and cast its narrow beam across the glossy river. John dismounted and moved to the water’s edge. He gazed into the dark depths, seeing only inky blackness and shadows.

How could she have deceived him? And what should he do now? How could he live with this? He considered casting himself into the river and allowing the water to sweep him and his sorrow away.

Finally, he moved to a tree that reached out over the river. He tied his horse and then sat with his back pressed against the trunk. For a very long while, he sat in the dim light of the moon, staring at nothing, his mind empty of everything except feelings of betrayal.

Gradually the blackness lifted and his mind carried him back to the scene with Hannah. What should he do now? Should he divorce her? And what then, if he did? The thought of living without her seemed unbearable. A life that did not include her seemed unimaginable. But some evils could not be undone. Things could never be the same between them.

He closed his eyes, seeing only a long, dark tunnel of gloom stretching out before him. If he returned, there would be no trust and no children. He’d always envisioned himself as a father. The idea of never fathering a child was beyond comprehension.

Hours passed with no sense of time. Gradually Hannah’s face crept into John’s consciousness, and he remembered
her
rather than her sin, her betrayal. She’d never want to hurt him. She was a gentle soul, toward everyone. And he’d never witnessed any haughtiness or coarseness in her.

John realized the truth.
The magistrate must have assaulted
her. She’d never entice such behavior.
Shame over how he’d treated Hannah and the way he’d spoken to her pressed down on him.

He remembered how it had been when he’d courted Hannah and how she’d tried to avoid his advances. He’d been the one who sought after her. Even when she’d told him she couldn’t love him, he’d pursued her.

Remorse filled him.
This is my fault too. She wanted to tell
me. I wouldn’t listen.

His thoughts carried him to what had happened to Hannah, and how another man had defiled her, had laid his hands on her. He tightened his jaw and balled his hands into fists. On their wedding night he’d gone to Hannah believing she was pure.

He squeezed his eyes closed. “God, what am I to do? Tell me what to do.”

His mind returned to the ship and the horrible conditions. No woman would want to bring a child into the world in such a place.
But it was more than that. She said something about her
honor. When she’d wished for the death of the child, it hadn’t been
only about the baby; Hannah was afraid of dishonoring herself.

John remained at the river until morning light touched the sky, and then he climbed back onto his horse and rode toward Sydney Town. It had been too long since he’d had a pint. He needed one now.

9

Hannah swept dirt into a dustpan, being careful not to miss even the tiniest speck. If she concentrated on her work, she wouldn’t have to think. Carrying the pan to the yard, she tossed its contents and watched as a breeze carried away the dirt. If only it were that easy to cast away transgressions.

With a heavy breath, she turned and looked toward the road. She saw no one. Where had John gone? Would he return? Pain pierced her heart; she might never see him again.
How
will I manage if he never comes back? And if he does, what will
I say?