Weeping Angel (13 page)

Amelia knew. She felt her own tears gather, and that same nurturing need Narcissa was speaking of wrapped itself around her heart, and the emptiness inside hurt. There would be no scenes like this for her because she'd had her chance at marriage, and that chance had run off. No one had asked since. And in all probability, no one would ask again.

Narcissa's expression beamed. “You know what a natural instinct it is to yearn for offspring. We've both had the desire, but after so many years . . . we gave up hope. I gave up hope.” Narcissa stood and took Cincinatus with her, her hands clasping his. “All that is beautiful and lovely in a woman finds its climax in motherhood. For what earthly being do we love so devotedly as our mother?”

“Narcissa . . . are you going to be a mother?”

She nodded. It took a few seconds for the words to sink in, and then he crushed her to him. But just as abruptly, he put some distance between them and handled her with a kid-glove touch. “My Lord, that means . . . that means . . . I'm . . . I'm . . . I'm . . . I'm going to be a . . . father.”

“That's right, dear. In about seven months, you'll be able to hold your child.”

“But . . . but . . . but . . . I'm fifty-two.” He tottered. “I never thought . . . never figured . . . after all these years . . . I just never . . . we never . . . I'm fifty-two.”

“Yes, my dear.” Narcissa smiled. “And I'm forty-two. The Lord has decided to bless us with a miracle.”

“I'm fifty-two,” Cincinatus Dodge repeated. Then the town's aspiring orator was at a loss for anything else inspiring to say.

He passed out cold.

B
efore Amelia reached Narcissa's house, she heard the joyful screams of children running through the well-kept yard. Not five hours after Narcissa had seen the doctor, the illustrious ladies of Weeping Angel had apparently closed in on her, children in tow, to see what needed to be done in the household.

Amelia kept the handle of her basket in the crook of her arm as she stopped at the gate and put one hand on the latch. She wondered if Narcissa could see what was happening on her property; surely, she could hear the chaos. The Reed twins, Walter and Warren, ran through the oleander bushes; a group of girls played tea party under the shade of an elm; and boys shot marbles on the walkway. It galled Amelia a little that the women would be so careless.

Narcissa took great pride in her home. The Dodge residence was the first to have been built in Weeping Angel and, by far, was the most opulent. The Queen Anne style house was painted terra-cotta with bronze green trim and shutters. The gables were old gold and
the sashes black, and the latticework grills beneath the porch were flesh.

Fingering the latch, Amelia let herself in. She skirted the youngsters, all of whom she was generally fond of. In most cases, it wasn't their fault they weren't trained in courtesies. Some of their mothers put blind tolerance before firm discipline.

Daniel Beamguard looked up, a wedge of rusty hair dusting his eyebrows. “Hi ya, Miss Marshall,” he called, then shot his glass marble through the ring, knocking out Jakey Spivey's blood agate.

She curtly nodded, ever the teacher that commanded respect, keeping her stride brisk over the flagstones.

“Hello, Miss Marshall!” cried Altana Applegate's beribboned girls, Bessie Lovey and Mable Dovey, as they dangled their fine bisque dolls over the exuberant balustrade which made the front of the house grand.

“Girls,” she replied primly, lifted her skirt hem a few inches, and took the wide steps.

“Our mother is inside with all the other ladies,” Bessie Lovey said in a proper voice.

Mable Dovey's springy blond curls bounced as she walked to Amelia. “We're playing house. I'm the mother and Bessie Lovey is the aunt.”

“That's very nice,” Amelia remarked, then twisted the knob on the bell.

“What did you bring Mrs. Dodge?” Bessie Lovey asked, her tiny nose twitching as she tried to sniff what Amelia had in her cloth-covered basket. “Mother brought cold ham.”

Amelia didn't answer, wondering instead which one of the ladies would be in charge of receiving callers.

The neatly painted portal swung wide. “My dear!” Luella Spivey clucked upon seeing Amelia. “Come in! We've all gathered to see our poor Narcissa.” Mrs. Spivey practically snagged Amelia's sleeve and reeled
her in through the front door before slamming it closed.

Once inside the spacious foyer, Amelia was bustled into the sitting room through the lavish French-striped portieres that swagged either side of the double-door opening.

“Our Amelia is here,” Luella announced.

Amelia looked around the room decorated in grayish blue with sage accents and Nottingham lace curtains covering the windows. She took in all those who were in attendance: Mrs. Dorothea Beamguard, Mrs. Esther Parks, Mrs. Viola Reed, and Mrs. Altana Applegate.

Mrs. Parks sat on the ottoman, her ample bosom straining the bodice fabric of her dress. She balanced a teacup and saucer on her lap while she discreetly adjusted the front of her brown puff-bang wig. The most nosy and interfering of the group, she spoke first. “My dear Amelia, we're so glad you could come and see Narcissa. We've all been beside ourselves with worry. She won't tell us a thing.”

“It's awful not knowing,” chimed Mrs. Reed. She chose a cucumber sandwich from a plate on the side table. “But you did know she was in poor health. You were with her at the doctor's office.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Parks said, resuming her tea. “Do tell. What is the matter with Narcissa? She's being so vague.”

The plump Mrs. Beamguard helped herself to a chocolate cream arranged on a candy dish. “Narcissa is upstairs and won't say what's wrong. Simply put, she insists she's merely tired. I don't believe her. I say it's her gall bladder.”

“My guess is gout,” Mrs. Spivey put in, strolling into the sitting room. She plopped her wide bottom onto an overstuffed chair and pursed her pink lips—a jarring contrast to her frizzy orange hair. “I think
Narcissa has too much free time on her hands. That's the problem. She doesn't exercise enough. You know what Dr. Pierce says in
The People's Common Sense Medical Advisor.
Exercise sends sluggish blood through the veins and arteries to keep one fit.”

“I disagree with your diagnosis.” Mrs. Reed nibbled on the crustless edge of her bread. “If she had gout, we'd all know it. But I do agree she doesn't take in as much fresh air as she ought. I'm not talking about garden or home exercise, either. Our children put the bloom of color on our faces. In order to keep after them, we must take in air. She doesn't have children like the rest of us, so she—”

Mrs. Parks was waving her hand to silence the woman, her wig shifting. “My dear,” the ticket agent's wife whispered, “aren't you forgetting our Amelia doesn't have children either?” Then added on a flip note, “Or a husband, for that matter.”

Viola Reed glanced at Amelia who stood in the doorway, hat in place, gloves on, and still clutching her parasol. Amelia didn't feel the sting of the gossip because she knew the women for who they were. Mostly well intended, but with little care as to the other's feelings when curiosity abounded. The lot of them—except, perhaps, Altana, who generally remained neutral and quiet—had come to feast on Narcissa's ailment and make of it what they would. And should they not be able to guess the extent of what was making Narcissa ill, they would invent something just to fuel their conversation.

“Don't worry about me,” Amelia said at length. “It's no secret I'm not married, and it's certainly out of the question that I would have a child.” She didn't bother to enter the room entirely. “But I think you would all do well to remember our Narcissa isn't feeling well, and any comments made in haste would upset her.” Glancing around at the faces, Amelia couldn't help adding, “I'm glad Narcissa isn't
amongst you to hear your prattle. I'm going up to see her.”

The women stood in unison, eagerness in their expressions. “We'll go with you,” the five of them replied together.

“By myself, if you please,” Amelia stated, and turned on her heels to take the stairs. Lightly touching the railing, she ascended to the second floor. She went past several doors, then came to the third on her left. It was ajar, but Amelia raised her hand and knocked.

“Who is it?” Narcissa asked, her voice sounding weak.

“It's Amelia.”

“Come in.”

Amelia went inside the light and airy bedchamber and found Narcissa at her writing desk, having changed into a white sateen wrapper. Her hair was unplaited and fell loosely about her hips.

“Thank goodness it's you.” Narcissa set her pen in the inkwell. “I was afraid one of them had come back to see if I'd eaten the tray they left. Why is it when women come together, they have to bring food?”

“Because,” Amelia replied, setting her basket down on the desk, “we want you to keep your strength.”

“Not you, too?”

“Yes, me, too.” Amelia lifted the red gingham cloth. “I brought you biscuits and honey. I heard the doctor say you must keep up your meals to regain your strength.”

“Biscuits and honey are one of my favorites.”

“I knew that.”

Narcissa rubbed her temple. “Dr. White said it would be another month before the sickness comes to pass. I feel . . . well, not at all what I thought I would feel like to be carrying a child. I thought I would be full of energy and full of life. I'd heard stories of sickness, and here I am suffering from an upset stomach. But you know, it's not at all bothersome. I'm
just so glad . . .” Tears welled in her eyes. “So glad I have the chance to throw up. Do you know what I mean?”

Amelia wished she could offer a counter opinion, a different point of view on the subject. But she could not. Unfortunately, the ladies downstairs were far more experienced with pregnancy than Amelia ever would be.

“You'll be feeling better soon, I'm sure,” was all Amelia could advise.

“Dr. White says in another month I should feel more like myself.” Narcissa sipped a glass of water, then stood. “I was writing down words of inspiration for Cincinatus. He hovered over and pampered me after seeing me home. I couldn't stand it. I sent him back to his office to work on his Fourth of July speech, but I'm certain he isn't worth a whit. He kept jabbering and carrying on, so when he left, I gave him the bottle of smelling salts Dr. White gave me before we left his office.”

Amelia smiled.

Narcissa glanced out the window and said vaguely, “Can you imagine . . . my yard will have
my
child playing in it one day. I won't have other women's children to mess up my planters, or play in my tree, or spill dirt on the porch. It will be my son or daughter, and I won't be angry because I'll love them so much.”

Amelia swallowed the heaviness in her throat. She couldn't imagine. Blinking rapidly, she tried not to let Narcissa see her hurt.

Narcissa turned from the curtained window. “Amelia . . . I'm so sorry! I didn't mean . . . oh . . . how careless of me!”

“It's all right. I'm happy for you, Narcissa. I truly am.”

Narcissa embraced her, and it was all Amelia could do not to cry. Narcissa, on the other hand, had no trouble letting the waterworks flow. Easing back, she
dabbed her eyes with the corner of a lacy handkerchief she'd produced from the pocket of her wrapper. “I don't know what's gotten into me. I'm happy and sad all at once. I can't seem to control my tears, and at the same time, I'm laughing.”

The ring of the doorbell echoed through the house, and Amelia sighed. “Who else could be calling?”

“I wouldn't know.” Narcissa sniffed and ran her fingertips under her eyes. “Widow Thurman hasn't been by.” Then, as if remembering something, she gasped, “But do you know who came to call? Emmaline Shelby.”

The name sort of sliced through Amelia. She suspected the laundress had a severe case of infatuation for Frank Brody. Just like everyone else in petticoats. “Whatever did she say?”

“Nothing much about me. She wanted to know about you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. She wanted to know what your relationship with Mr. Brody is.”

Amelia's heart tripped in her ribs. “My relationship with Mr. Brody is purely business.”

Narcissa furrowed her brows. “From her tone, I would guess she thinks otherwise. She kept asking me—in a roundabout way—what you do in his saloon.”

“All I've done is practice on my piano.” Amelia held fast to the handle of her sun shade.
“The
piano,” she rephrased. “He insists it's his, and I've grown weary of arguing with him. But I know it's mine—even though he won't admit it.”