Cheryl St.John – The Magic of Christmas: A Christmas Child / The Christmas Dove / A Baby Blue Christmas (страница 2)
Mrs. Baker brought the bottle to her and Marianne settled down for the first time to the task of feeding her infant brother, acknowledging the swell of love that filled her as the tiny mouth sucked at the nipple with an eagerness that expressed his hunger. He seemed to be a survivor, she decided, and if there was any way she could help him to do that very thing, she would set her sights on his future and do all she could to make it one worthy of him.
Joshua. She’d call him Joshua, for her mother had decreed that it be so, just days ago before the fever took hold and laid her low in a sickbed from which she would never rise. Papa had died the day before, but Mama had lived to deliver the child they had so longed for, had prayed for and were to finally see. The baby boy they had yearned for for so many years, with small graves in the orchard attesting to the failure of Mama to bear live children.
Now they had a boy, Joshua, almost a Christmas baby, for it was but three weeks until that most wonderful of holidays. One that would mean little this year, with the outlying ranchers and farmers burying their dead in the wake of a typhoid epidemic. To think that such a tiny bundle would survive, when all about the countryside strong men had succumbed to the dreaded sickness.
Marianne rocked and whispered soft words of comfort and love to her small brother that night, then changed his makeshift diaper and wrapped him in a bit of flannel that Mrs. Baker found in her trunk. He’d need new clothing, for the things sewn for him by his mother must be burned in the cabin, lest the epidemic be spread by their use.
In the morning Marianne watched as the menfolk of the surrounding community burned her parents’ cabin, knowing that such a dreadful thing must be done in order to contain the germs within. Only her visit with Mrs. Baker over the past days had kept her from the disease. Helping her neighbor had been a godsend in more ways than one, for she would surely have been a victim herself had she not volunteered her services to aid the neighbor after a bad cold had put her to bed with a fever and a case of the quinsy, leaving her house without a cook and someone to mind her three-year-old.
Mrs. Baker had a small son, but her other children were grown, most of them gone from home, and she had a wonderful husband who worked hard to support them. With spare rooms aplenty now that her young’uns were mostly grown, there was room for Marianne and the baby.
Yet Marianne knew that she must soon be on her own, that she must make provision to take care of herself and little Joshua as soon as she could. And to that end, she made her plans.
The horse she’d borrowed from her neighbor was less than perfect, but sometime in the past her mother had dutifully told her something about beggars not being choosy about what they got, and Marianne smiled at the memory. The old mare was swaybacked, had but one gait beyond walking, and that jolting trot was less than comfortable to the young woman’s sore bottom. She’d been riding for long hours, appreciative of the loan of the horse, but weary to her soul as she considered the future lying before her.
Mrs. Baker had written out instructions to her sister’s home in the small town of Walnut Grove, Missouri, and sent Marianne on her way, the baby, Joshua, wrapped tightly in flannel blankets and with a small supply of diapers and wrappers for the child. Enough to last until Marianne could find work and a place to live. Her sister was Sarah, a woman with four children, but surely with enough goodness of heart to help a young girl on her own, Mrs. Baker had said.
December seemed to be an unforgiving sort of month, with snow on the ground and more in the air, causing dark clouds to hang heavily over the land, hiding the sun. Marianne had ridden for a day and most of a night already, stopping only to rest in an empty barn in the middle of a field. The house was gone, only stones and burned upright boards remaining to mark where once a family had lived.
The barn had been warm—at least warmer than the windswept fields—and, huddled in a stack of moldy hay, Marianne had kept herself and her baby brother warm. The prospect of meeting Mrs. Baker’s sister, perhaps even today, kept her going, even as she ate the last of the biscuits and bits of cheese Mrs. Baker had sent along. The baby had drunk from his bottle, the milk not warmed but nourishing, and yet even that was coming to an end, for the bottle now held the last of the supply she’d carried with her.
Ahead of her lay a small town, the main street lined with shops and buildings on both sides, houses lined up neatly as she approached, a sign beside the road designating it as Walnut Grove. Children ran to and fro, not caring that the snow threatened, calling out to each other, playing in the road. They all had homes to go to, Marianne suspected, warm coats to wear and mothers to tend to their needs.
For the first time in a week, her loss seemed overwhelming. The planning and working to accomplish this trek had taken her mind from the perils she would face—a woman alone, a newborn child to care for and but enough cash to buy a meal or two.
The map in her pocket was clear. If she would but turn her horse to a side street, down this alley and then turn right, she would arrive at the home of Sarah Nelson, Mrs. Baker’s sister. A kindly lady, she’d been told. And yet as she rode the mare close to the front porch, she heard a thundering roar from a man who erupted from the front door, fast on the heels of a young boy. Snatching up the child, the man delivered several hard swats of his palm against the boy’s backside and tossed him back into the house, then turned and looked at Marianne.
“You lookin’ for somebody, lady? Or just enjoying the scenery?”
Marianne froze atop the mare and shivered. “I was told that Sarah Nelson lives here,” she said quietly, to which the man snorted, then opened the door and shouted words that echoed back from the hallway.
“Sarah. Somebody here wants to see you.”
A small, skinny soul who bore but a slight resemblance to the sturdy form of Mrs. Baker came to the door, and a tentative smile lit her face. There was a resemblance after all, Marianne decided, there in that fleeting smile.
“I’m—or rather I was—a neighbor of your sister’s, ma’am,” Marianne began. “She told me I might find you here.”
“I’m here, all right” was the harsh reply. “What do you want?”
“A place to get my little brother changed and warm and some milk to give him in his bottle.”
The woman’s face softened a bit and then she looked up at the man who towered over her. “Ain’t got no room for anybody else in this house, girl. I’ll give you a cup of milk for the baby, but that’s the best I can do.”
Marianne’s heart sank. Mrs. Baker had been so sure…so certain that her sister would welcome the travelers. She watched as the skinny woman closed the door and waited until her return, just minutes later. Carrying a cup in her hand, she approached the horse, peering up at Marianne with a look of sorrow.
“Sorry I can’t be more hospitable, but my man don’t hold with givin’ away the food he buys. I couldn’t give you this, but I’m the one milks the cow and makes the butter and I told him it was mine to keep or give and I chose to give it to the babe.”
“I thank you,” Marianne said, well aware that there was no welcome here for her, hoping that Mrs. Baker would never find out how desperate her sister’s situation was.
“Head on into town. You might be able to get some help at the general store.”
Without awaiting a goodbye, the woman went back into the house, the door closing with a solid thud behind her. Marianne turned the mare and rode back down the drive and onto the road. The lights of several storefronts were still ablaze and she halted before the general store, sliding from the mare’s back in a quick motion, holding her small brother to her breast.
The store was warm, redolent with the scents of leather and pickles and smoke from the potbellied stove that reigned in one corner. Behind the counter a woman watched her approach and bent a smile in her direction.
“Hello there, young lady. You just arrive in town?”
“Yes,” Marianne said quietly, shifting the burden of her brother to rest him against her shoulder.
“You got you a young’un there. Looks pretty much like a newborn, don’t he?”
“He’s three weeks old now. My brother, Joshua.” Marianne pulled back the blanket and displayed the darkhaired child she held, his flawless skin pink and healthy looking.
“Sure is a good-lookin’ young’un,” the storekeeper said.
“Where you heading, honey?”
“Nowhere, just looking for a place to stay for a bit. I had instructions to find a friend’s sister, but she apparently doesn’t have room for me, so I rode on.”
“Who did you say you saw in town?”
“Sarah Nelson is the sister of my old neighbor. She sent me here, but Mr. Nelson didn’t seem too hospitable.”
“Hospitable! Hah, that’s one word you couldn’t apply to Henry Nelson. He’s a mean one, gives poor Sarah a hard time of it. Treats those young’uns like slaves.”