“That’s a little grim, don’t you think?” I was shocked at the sudden vehemence in her voice. “I raised two girls—”
“Oh Nellie, don’t even try to convince me. I’ve been a young girl myself, and I certainly did not escape it unscathed.” The furious rubbing had turned her jaw red. “She must be where she is protected—with me at all times.”
“But children move away, Bella. Soon she will too, no matter where she lives now.” I tried to catch her eyes, but they deftly slid away.
“Of course she will; I’m not stupid, Nellie, but when she does, it will be somewhere I know she’s safe.” She was still rubbing her jaw, and her face twisted up as if she were in pain.
“Are you all right?” I dared to whisper.
“Of course I am.” The rubbing stopped. Her hand fell down in her lap. She breathed a little fast and lifted her other hand to wipe sweat from her brow. “I’m just worried, that’s all.”
* * *
—
I was certainly not surprised when the buggy appeared again later that day with Jennie next to Bella. I did not even want to think of what my sister might have said to convince the girl to come back to La Porte.
They would continue there the next morning but spent the night with us. John was not too thrilled about it, but what else could I do but offer hospitality? Jennie looked awfully tired and could certainly use the rest. She brightened a little when she saw Nora, though. The two of them quickly renewed their bond and spent the evening out in the garden.
Bella slept on the bench, as she had done every night when she first came to Chicago. She did not say much about what had transpired, but I could tell that she was pleased. She even made an effort to be pleasant to John, and the three of us played cards in the sitting room. Bella won all three games and offered us all brandy from a bottle she had brought in the buggy.
As before, I found that it was easy enough to let things be as they were before, if only I did not think about poor Myrtle, and Bella’s two dead husbands. It was almost shameful, how easy it was to pretend to forget, when everything seemed so pleasant and nice, and the brandy was rich and the game exciting.
One thing she had said that day stuck with me, though, so much so that that I brought out my paper and pen the very next day and wrote to our sister Olina, asking her, at last, what had happened back then, when Little Brynhild was attacked. Olina had been there at the time, and would surely know. It was the rubbing of the jaw and the tone of voice that did it, the fretting over young Jennie’s safety. Suddenly it was as if I could have no peace unless I knew.
What I learned when I received her reply was what brought me back to Brookside Farm at last.
35.
Belle
La Porte, 1903
The walls never did seem to tarnish at Brookside Farm. Maybe the place had seen so much misery that it was immune to the stains of sin. Baby Jennie died, Peter died, but my house was still the same: a silent sister that sheltered and comforted me as no place had ever done before.
I had no desire to burn it down. I wanted to keep it and nourish it, help it thrive and blossom—just as I thrived and blossomed within its brick walls.
Brookside was a beautiful place; the cedar and sycamore trees grew tall and green, and the barn gleamed, freshly painted. The chickens flocked around my skirts when I came out, and the hogs grew fat and happy. I had everything I needed right there on the farm: eggs, meat, and milk. The windmill spun, the orchard was bountiful, forty-eight acres of land, all my own.
I had gotten rid of most of the pigs when Peter died. I did not think raising them to sell sausages was my trade. After all the upheaval, I just wanted to be a regular farmer and a mother, taking care of us all the best that I could.
I no longer feared losing Jennie; she was at peace at home and only rarely spoke of Chicago with anything resembling longing. She was my daughter through and through, or so I thought at the time.
My son, Philip, was a good boy who soon grew soft and content in my care. He did not miss his real mother at all. He was so small and trusting that he fell asleep on my chest that very first night. I had not wanted a son of my own—young men are often a menace—but now that I had one, I did not regret it. It could be wise to have a boy to stand up for his mother and take on the farm when his sisters were married. I planned for the future then.
I always planned for the future.
As much as I had, it still cost to run a farm, and it felt as if the money went out as soon as it came in. Although I had a comfortable amount of cash, the farm barely paid for itself and I could not help but worry. What if the crops failed, or the animals got sick? What would happen to us then, if our livelihood shrank to nothing? I would not eat poor man’s fare again. I had crawled my way up from that deep, dark den. My pantry grew ever fuller as my worry increased, and I preserved as much of the produce as I could, lining the cellar walls with glass jars and filling the vegetable bins to the brim.
Now that I had what I wanted, my new aim was to keep it.
I hired Peter Colson in March. He was a good worker and a handsome man. I let him sleep in the room above the kitchen and found that I liked to have him around. He was easy to please, this new Peter. All I had to do was feed him and tell him what a great man he was and he would light up like the sun and work twice as hard just to keep me satisfied. After the demands of my husbands, it was easy to like Peter Colson. He laughed a lot and played with the children. At night, he joined me in games of cards, and later, after Philip’s arrival, he joined me in bed as well. Though he was much younger than I was, we were not a poor match between the sheets. Colson had a fondness for rough play that suited me, and he never brought our secrets out of the bedroom. It did not take long before his gaze softened when he looked at me, and there was not a thing he would not do to please me.
I found myself thinking how easy it was to make a man happy. How easy to make him feel strong and wanted. I was certainly no courtesan—far past my prime and plain to look at—but even I could make a man like Peter Colson soft as clay. Most people, men and women alike, are foolish in that regard. They all yearn to be something special. There is much power in flattery and a hearty meal.
In the end, what all men want is a mother.
* * *
—
Nellie came out to see me late in the summer, bringing Nora with her. My sister never learned to speak English well and needed an aide when traveling far from home. I was happy to see them, but the visit was not wholly pleasant. Nellie had grown very ill, for one, and walked slowly, blaming her bad back.
“Did you ever experience pain like this after you had yours?” she asked, sitting outside in the yard with a glass of lemonade, watching my girls and the dog chase the chickens inside the barn. The birds had been at the vegetables again and were now banished to their own enclosure.