The Vow (26 page)
A letter in Samuel’s sprawling handwriting, addressed not to Hannah or Reiver, but to Benjamin.
Clever of them, Reiver thought.
He opened and read it. Satisfied that the contents were innocent enough, he said, “When Benjamin comes home from school, he can read this to his mama.
Perhaps it will help her to get well.”
Several hours later Reiver gave Benjamin his letter and told him what he must do.
“Mama?” Benjamin said when he and his father went up to Hannah’s room and gathered around her rocking chair.
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“Uncle Samuel sent me a letter. Would you like me to read it to you?”
No response.
Reiver knelt by her side, stroked her limp hands, and stared into her blank, unseeing eyes. “It’s a letter from Samuel, Hannah. Samuel. You remember him, don’t you?”
A flicker of awareness shone deep in her eyes, but it disappeared before Reiver could dare hope.
He rose. “Benjamin, read the letter.”
Benjamin sat cross-legged at his mother’s feet and began reading, his young face bright and hopeful, his voice confident.
Dear Ben,
I hope this letter finds you and the family in good health. Except for a bit of
seasickness at the beginning of the voyage on the
Orion
, I am now as fit as ever.
He glanced up to see if his words moved this silent wraith that had once been his mother, and when he saw that they didn’t, he continued reading about a storm at sea and the antics of the cook’s pet monkey.
When Benjamin read the closing, Reiver watched Hannah carefully.
“‘Give my love to everyone,’” Benjamin said, “‘especially your father and mother.’” He placed the letter in Hannah’s lap. “And look, Mama. Uncle Samuel drew a little picture of the cook’s monkey. Isn’t he a funny fellow?” His face shone expectantly.
Blink, look at the boy, do something! was Reiver’s silent plea.
Benjamin tapped his mother’s hand. “Isn’t he?”
Reiver watched and waited, then placed comforting hands on his son’s slumping shoulders. “Come, Ben. We’ve done all we can for her today.”
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Benjamin rose, his lower lip trembling with a manly effort to keep from crying in front of his father. They turned and left the room, neither of them seeing Hannah’s face light up like the sun suddenly breaking through roiling dark clouds. But the determined clouds devoured the sun, relegating her once again to the oblivion of swirling snow.
The snow was going away.
Hannah tried to gather the drifts around her again, but to no avail. Bright pictures of people and scenes flashed through her mind, slowly at first, then faster and faster. A man with dark, curly hair…another man with sorrow in his eyes…a little boy seated at her feet, mouthing words she couldn’t hear.
Then she could hear quite distinctly, “Uncle Samuel drew a little picture of the cook’s monkey. Isn’t he a funny fellow? Isn’t he?”
The man who drew the funny monkey… Uncle Samuel…her Samuel. His features came into sharper focus, and Hannah saw dark, curly hair and ghostly pale eyes brimming with love and laughter. He had loved her once. He still loved her. Now Hannah remembered.
Then she heard the scream.
Something snapped. The snow disappeared. Hannah awoke to find herself shivering in her own bed, a softly burning oil lamp illuminating her own bedroom, with another scream shattering the night silence.
“Benjamin!”
Hannah tumbled out of bed, grabbed the lamp, and ran down the hall barefoot toward the boys’ bedroom, unmindful of a door opening behind her and a man’s voice obliterated by another scream.
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She flung open the bedroom door at the far end of the hall. “Benjamin, what is it? Are you having a bad dream?”
By lamplight, she saw her two sons sitting up in bed and staring at her with wide, incredulous eyes, as if she were a stranger. She set down the lamp and went to the eldest, enfolding him in her arms.
“It’s all right,” she crooned, hugging his trembling body.
But Benjamin pulled away and studied her face, his nightmare forgotten.
“Mama?”
When Davey flung himself out of bed and into Hannah’s arms, she hugged him and nodded at Benjamin through her tears. “Yes, I’m your mama.”
“Hannah?”
She turned her head to see Reiver in his nightshirt, standing in the doorway, disbelief written on his face. She sighed heavily and nodded, then hugged her clinging children once more before gently disengaging herself and turning to their father.
“What happened to me?” She clasped her arms and shivered. “I feel as though I’ve been asleep for a long time.”
“You’ve been sick.” He gently brushed a lock of hair away from her face.
“I still feel so tired.”
He took her arm. “Then why don’t you go back to bed, and we’ll talk in the morning?” He looked over her shoulder at his sons, wide-awake now and bursting with questions. “You boys go back to sleep.”
“But, Papa—”
“I said, go back to sleep. I have to tend to your mama now, so whatever you want to say will have to wait until the morning.”
Hannah kissed them both and wished them pleasant dreams.
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Both boys went to bed and pulled the covers up to their chins, but their eyes remained riveted on their mother as she left with their father.
Once back in Hannah’s room, Reiver helped her into bed, then smiled and turned.
“Reiver, please don’t go.”
He turned back and hesitated, remembering all too well her vituperative accusations before she withdrew into her mind. But judging by the pleading in her eyes, she didn’t remember. “I’ll stay with you for as long as you like.” He blew out the lamp, climbed into bed beside her, and drew her into his arms to comfort himself as well.
She fell asleep with her head pillowed against his shoulder.
Hours later, in the gray light of dawn, Reiver awoke to the sound of muffled sobbing and Hannah no longer in his arms.
He felt the bed shudder. “Hannah, what’s wrong?”
“I remember now…what you told me the doctor said.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know that now. I’ve been so selfish. All I could think of was myself and my own pain, but now I see that it must have hurt you deeply as well.”
He knew he should say that he was sorry she had lost the baby, but he couldn’t. Not yet.
Hannah rolled over on her side to face him, and even in the weak light he could see her tears had stopped, though her cheeks were wet.
“But even if I can’t have another child, at least we have Benjamin and Davey.”
Reiver squeezed his eyes shut and uttered a silent prayer of thanks. “Yes, at least we have the boys.”
Hannah paused. “I frightened them, didn’t I?”
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“You frightened us all very badly.”
“But I’m better now.”
Reiver prayed she would stay that way.
Hannah awoke the following morning feeling as though she had awakened from a long, soul-deep sleep. She was alone and glad of it. She needed solitude to come to terms with what had happened to her.
Shivering, she sat up, hugged her knees beneath the thick covers, and looked around her bedchamber, savoring the reassuring familiarity of the chest at the foot of her bed, the washstand with its plain white pitcher and bowl, and the rocking chair keeping vigil by the frosty window.
Hannah took a deep shuddering breath. “This is the day the Lord hath made,” she said aloud, in humble thanks that her sanity had been restored.
The bedchamber door opened slowly and Mrs. Hardy peered in. “You’re awake.”
Hannah smiled. “In more ways than one.”
The housekeeper bustled in with a breakfast tray and set it on the bureau so she could lean over and hug Hannah. “Reiver told us what happened last night,”
she said gruffly, trying not to cry. “It’s about time.”
Hannah fought back tears of her own. “Thank you for taking such good care of me, Mrs. Hardy.”
“And it’s a lot of trouble you were, I’ll have you know.” She walked around the room opening curtains to let in the daylight, then set the breakfast tray on the bed. “Now you eat this while I get a fire going. I swear it’s warmer outside than it is in here.”
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“What time is it?” Hannah asked, pouring herself a cup of hot chocolate to warm her shivering insides.
“Almost eleven o’clock,” Mrs. Hardy replied from the fireplace, ignoring Hannah’s gasp of shock. “The boys wanted to see you before they left for school, but Reiver told them you needed your rest and weren’t to be disturbed.”
She wished they had come to see her. She felt an overwhelming need to hold her precious children in her arms again and let them see for themselves that their mother was well.
The fire lit, Mrs. Hardy turned and walked back to the bed. She reached into her apron pocket and removed a piece of paper. “Benjamin wanted me to give you this. He said he didn’t think you heard him when he read it to you.”
Samuel’s letter.
The toast turned to sawdust on Hannah’s tongue, but she took the letter in trembling fingers and tucked it beneath the rim of her chocolate cup’s saucer.
“I’ll read it after I finish breakfast.”
Mrs. Hardy nodded her silver head. “I’ll have Millicent bring up hot water so you can wash.”
When the door closed behind Mrs. Hardy, Hannah ignored her cooling oatmeal and opened Samuel’s letter with trembling hands. She read part of it through her tears, then set the rest aside unread. The Samuel she knew had not written this impersonal account of shipboard life and a storm at sea. The letter contained none of his passion, none of his humor. It was written by a stranger.
Hannah swallowed hard over the lump in her throat. What did she expect?
Samuel couldn’t tell her that he still loved her and missed her in a letter that was sure to be seen and scrutinized by everyone in the family, especially Reiver. Still, she wished he had said something to keep her hope alive that he would return one day.
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She thought of the child that she had lost—the one she knew was Samuel’s—
and felt a chill down to the marrow of her bones. Samuel had left for California without even knowing about it. She remembered how solicitous he had been when she had miscarried those other times, and she knew no man alive could have stopped him from returning to her side, if only he had known of the hell she had been enduring.
She had lost so much and had never felt more empty.
Hannah downed the remainder of her cooling chocolate, then rose and dressed quickly. There was much she had to do if she wanted to keep the snows of madness from ever returning.
The moment she walked into the noisy mill, everyone stopped working and stared.
“Good morning,” Hannah said with a bright smile. “Or should I say afternoon?”
She saw surprise registered on the workers’ faces, followed by relief mixed with happiness that their employer’s wife had finally recovered.
Hannah smiled and exchanged greetings with Constance and Mary, making her way back to the machine shop where she knew she’d find James and Reiver.
The moment she walked through the door, Reiver raised his head and looked at her in surprise.
“Shouldn’t you be resting?” he asked.
“I’m feeling much stronger this morning,” she replied. “And I wanted to show the workers that I’ve recovered.”
Reiver nodded. “A day didn’t pass that someone didn’t ask about you.”
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James, who had been bending over a collection of mysterious belts and gears, looked up and started to say something, but obviously couldn’t find the right words. Finally he came over and kissed her cheek. “Good to see you up and around.”
Touched, Hannah smiled. Then she turned to Reiver. “May I speak to you for a moment?”
His blue eyes turned wary, as if he expected her madness to return. “Will my office be private enough?”
She nodded and followed him out of the machine shop, down a long corridor, and into his office.
He closed the door behind them and turned to face her, frowning. “You still don’t look well, Hannah. You should be home resting.”
“I’m fine, and I’m sick unto death of resting.” She knotted her fingers together for the courage to continue. “Reiver, I’d like to help you run the mill.”
His eyes widened in surprise. “But you already do so much.”
“Yes, I buy books for the library and visit the sick, but it’s not enough.”
Astonished, Reiver took a step back and stared at her as if she had gone truly mad. “You have my home to keep and my children to raise. Surely that should be sufficient.”
She shook her head. “But it’s not.”
He ran his hand over his long, wide jaw in consternation. “You’re a woman.
Women don’t run silk mills.”
“I merely want to help. Surely there’s something I could do.”
“You do a great deal as it is by concerning yourself with our workers’
welfare.”
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“But it’s not enough.” She read only exasperation and frustration in his face, not real understanding. Hannah swallowed hard and said quietly, “I’ve lost so much.”
His eyes darkened with shared pain. “What would you like to do?”
“Perhaps I could keep the accounts. I used to keep them for my father—his patient accounts, that is, not his gambling debts. I could also do your commercial correspondence. That would allow you more time to devote to other aspects of Shaw Silks. I could even accompany you to the New York sales office now and then.”
Something flickered deep in Reiver’s eyes when she mentioned New York, but it passed so quickly Hannah thought she had imagined it.