“Oh.” Her blue gaze dropped to the beans.
“The safest thing you can do is to fend for yourself. If I were young again, I would study law and become a lawyer. Not all girls have the minds for that, but I believe that you do, Jennie.” I was peeling potatoes while we spoke; spirals of peel fell down on the floor. I looked at her across the table: the first child I properly raised. I knew Peter thought I was hard on her, strict and often angry. Too angry, he said. Too strict. But what did he know about being a young woman? What did he know about being prey? He was the butcher—always the winner. I envied that in him. Envied how he took it for granted.
Jennie was nothing like that; she was fragile and soft and needed to toughen, else she would perish when she stepped outside my doors.
“It was sad about the baby.” She picked beans out of the leathery pod.
“Everything must die, and infants are so fragile. She was always sick.”
“My sister lost a child, but it wasn’t proper born yet.” She had seen her sister in Chicago just the other month.
“She’s young,” I murmured. “She’ll have another child.”
“Why is Papa blaming you for Baby Jennie?”
I felt cold all over and ashamed too. Jennie heard more than she ought to, understood far more than she should. “He is mad with grief. He will soon come to his senses.”
“I think it’s a cruel thing. You were always so good to her.”
“Yes.” I put the knife away. “I treated her like my own, just as I do you. It truly is unfair, but that’s what men do. They always blame and point fingers at others for everything that goes wrong.”
The girl gave a sweet little sigh. “I hope no one else dies. It’s hard to remember not to laugh, and my black dress is pretty, but it itches.”
I could not help but smile then; she was still such a child. “I will buy you another black dress, then. One that is soft and doesn’t scratch at all.”
I often thought of James Lee in those days, and all the things he had warned me about that sadly had come to pass. I missed his easy company, the way he never condemned me, and thought myself quite the fool for choosing wholesomeness over him. Had it not been for my urge to spite, we could have been quite happy, he and I. I had chosen differently, though, and now I was, yet again, burdened with a man who did not live up to my expectations but made my days both miserable and grim.
What happened the next day did not help one bit.
* * *
—
I was out in the stable drying off the horse. It had been a long day with haggling at the market, but I had returned to the farm with cash instead of vegetables and had a few fine deals in my pocket as well. I did not mind so much, then, that my day ended with horse sweat. Peter came in behind me, wearing just his undershirt, as was his habit. He carried a bottle and took a swig, but there was nothing tempting or lustful about him. He was merely a drunk husband who ought to know better.
“I see you’ve gotten things done while I was away.” I could not help but being snide.
I heard the liquor slosh in the bottle as he lifted it to his lips. “I have been thinking, Bella.” His voice was loud and clear enough; he had not been drinking as much as I feared. “We ought to send Swanhild to live with my uncles in Janesville.”
I looked at him then. “Why have you been thinking that?”
“The two of you don’t seem to get along very well, and she’s still upset about the death of her mother.”
It was true that the girl had not warmed to me as much as I would like, but then she had just lost her natural mother and moved to a new place. “How is moving in with strangers going to help?”
“I think it would easier if she didn’t have to see me with another woman.”
I pressed my lips tightly together and could feel my nostrils flare. “Haven’t I been a good mother to her, cleaning the muck off her frocks? What kind of mother was your first wife, then? Cake for breakfast every morning? New dresses every month?” I could take much from this man, but he would not question my ability to take care of our little girls.
“It’s just for the best, Bella. You do have a terrible temper, enough to make any child worry.” The accusation hit me like a bucket of cold water. True, I could be angry; I was often tired from all the work, but my children knew me—they knew it would pass. It was only he who looked at me with worried eyes when a plate or a shoe hit the wall.
“I think it’s you who worries. The poor girl never said such a thing.”
He shrugged and drank again. “I cannot help but wonder if my Jennie would still be alive if I had been at home that morning.”
“What do you mean by that?” My anger snapped like a hungry bird.
Peter did not answer but turned his back on me. “I’ve already written to my uncles. I’m sure they will take her in. It’s for the best. Better with three than four little girls. It’s easier for you to handle them then, if they’re all yours.”
With that, he left me alone.
* * *
—
When I was back inside and had eaten some, I made the girls ready for bed. Then I counted the day’s earnings and went in search of my husband. I found him in the barn, drinking and slicing through a rib.
“I didn’t harm your daughter,” I told his back, “but if I had, you should be glad of it, as the child was a nuisance every day of her life. It was a blessing to us all that she died.” The hurt rose in me like poison, spilled out as anger and spite. My jaw ached and burned.
“I’m sending Swanhild away no matter what you say. She doesn’t care for you, and you don’t care for her.” He chased the words with a swig of the bottle.
“Be as that might, she’s your child and it’s your decision. I won’t say anything more against it.” I nodded and placed my hands on my hips, thinking myself very reasonable.
“You can stop asking me about the life insurance as well. Swanhild is young and healthy and no one should profit from her death should she die.” He looked back at me over his shoulder. His eyes were bloodshot and his brow slick with sweat.
“It was meant as a kindness. All my children are insured.” I lifted my chin and clenched my jaws.
“It’s just wrong.” He glanced at me and went for the bottle again; the knife in his hand was filthy with gristle. “Even thinking of a child’s death is asking for it. Writing it down like that is an invitation.” His voice shivered with emotion.
“I never took you for a superstitious man, Peter Gunness.” My voice was steady and calm.
“Well, I never took you for a harpy,” he snapped, and looked back. His face had twisted up in an ugly grimace.
“Is that what I am to you now?” I could not believe what I heard!