The house feelsempty in the absence of Warren’s protective presence, and without him to hide behind, I tuck my nervousness behind a stoic face as Dove approaches. Perhaps not the most welcoming of expressions, but how on earth am I to carry on a conversation with these women I don’t even know?
Except for Dove, and only somewhat. But being this close to her brings back a rush of desperation and envy just as fresh as when we first met—desperation for my bleak future and bitter envy that I didn’t have someone to chase after me.
“Mara,” she breathes out, tucking a dark curl behind an ear. “I’m so glad here. You’re here. You’re safe.”
Safe. A small crack forms in my resentment. “I am.”
“Can I hug you?”
She knows what happened to me. Knows the reeking stench of despair and body odor that clung to me as I prepared to die. Knows how I lashed out at her for her undying hope that she would be rescued. Yet she still wants to comfort me.
“Yes.” My quiet answer catches her off guard if her shakysmile is any sign. Honestly, I’m rather shocked myself as I awkwardly lean into the smaller woman’s embrace. Her arms tighten around me, and my lungs empty with a rough noise. As small as she is, strength radiates from her. A different sort than what Warren’s broad shoulders and muscular arms offer. No, her strength comes from within, and I squeeze her petite frame tightly as if to steal some for myself.
Dove leans back, and when I lock eyes with her kind, hazel ones, more resentment chips away. Fear and despair were no stranger to either of us in that wagon, even if for different reasons. I can’t hold jealousy toward her simply for the fact that her husband came after her. Now I have Warren, and part of me thinks he’d do the same for me. At least out of duty, because it’s too soon for him to love me.
Isn’t it?
Emmaline coos, stealing the attention. “Oh, your baby,” Dove says softly, pressing a palm to the slight curve of her abdomen. “Can we see her?”
After a beat of hesitation, I nod, and she and Warren’s mother follow me to the cradle. Will they be ashamed to claim her as family? Or think less of her for her birthmark? She was tightly swaddled when Mrs. Shay saw her last so it didn’t show, but it’s in plain sight now as she waves her fist. “This…this is my daughter Emmaline.”
“So beautiful, Mara. She’s so beautiful,” Dove says almost reverently as they come up beside me.
“Isn’t she, though?” Mrs. Shay pats my hand. “Such an adorable little girl, and a much needed blessing to the Shay family. I love all my grandchildren, but we’ve been long overdue for a girl. Oh, and look at her little hand! Ephraim, my oldest, had a similar mark on his neck.”
“He did?” Something loosens in my chest. Had, she said. “Does he still have it now?”
“No, it went away on its own. It began to fade when he was almost a year old, then it continued until it was finally gone by the time he was five.”
I rub Emmaline’s mark, daring to hope just the slightest bit. Maybe hers will do the same. Life will already be difficult enough for her simply because of her heritage. But not as bad as it would have been without Warren Shay.
“All right, girls.” Mrs. Shay rubs her palms together. “Let’s get to work.”
Emmaline has different plans, though. I can tell by the way her nose scrunches and her legs grow restless. “I’m sorry, she’s ready to nurse again. I fed her before breakfast, but she always seems to want a little more throughout the morning,” I ramble, scooping up my baby and moving to the rocking chair.
And I didn’t expect company either, but I keep that thought to myself.
“I’m the one who should apologize, Mara,” Warren’s mother says remorsefully. “I should have sent word beforehand, but I suppose I was just too excited for the chance to visit.”
Her contrition seems genuine, but perhaps an unexpected visit was better. Otherwise, nerves would have gotten the better of me waiting for their arrival. A small smile forms. “It’s truly all right, Mrs. Shay.”
“Oh, no,” she tsks. “That will never do. Call me Eleanor or Momma just like the rest of my daughters do. And you can call my husband Cornelius or Pop.”
“Eleanor.” I fit Emmaline to my breast as I try the name. I don’t know either of them well enough for the morefamiliar term, and I likely never will. Especially not for Mr. Shay.
Eleanor settles onto the sofa. “Cornelius doesn’t know it yet, but Widow Hester is expecting us for tea later today. The poor dear hardly ever has any company, so she’s desperately lonesome.”
That name sounds familiar, except I think Warren called her… “Old Widow Hester?”
Both women fall into a fit of laughter. Dove is the first to compose herself. “Warren told you her? About her?”
“Just that she might be a visitor here sometimes. Is she really an old woman?” I’ve spurned Warren’s charms before, but now I find the thought of him offering those same charms to other women unsettling.
Dove snorts almost daintily before carefully answering me. “At least eighty years old. Perhaps more. But she never keep…can keep her hands to herself.”
“What do you mean?”
“Warren always complained she pinch him—pinched him—on his backside and tells how handsome he is. Ched says she did same to him until he married me. So you saved Warren.”
