1747
In January the soldiers moved on. We had done our duty as subjects of His Royal Majesty, George Second. They had brought with them ravenous appetites for food, randy attitudes toward our ward, and death itself to my babies. No matter that they had softened their manner and tried their best in the end, my heart was hardened to agonizing iron. I watched them go and had to stop myself from spitting on their heels. They brought this corruption, this devil’s wrath upon my family, and I hoped they all died screaming.
Cullah spent the rest of that winter repairing and sharpening his tools. He also worked the blades of his battle-axe and claymore, dagger and dirk, and a short-sword he brought from town. I worried, for he neglected his shop, and orders stood waiting for furniture, paneling and trim, and, as always, coffins. I brought the woolen wheel upstairs to sit by the great fireplace after supper while the children read me their lessons. Before our season of illness, Cullah had listened to them, amazed, I think, that they could read, and enthralled by the stories they read aloud. Now, for hours before we went up to bed, he stared hard into the fire itself, paying no attention to the children or me. On a night in late February when a blizzard howled at our chimney, I asked him, “Why must you sharpen those again? You should be after the miller’s chest of drawers.”
“Three times in February I heard an owl after the sun rose. I saw a black cat on my way to town, walking back and forth as if to dodge something in the road, then it turned back and made tracks in the shape of an arrow.”
All those portended death. Death had been at work in our house aplenty. “Why did you not tell me before this?”
“I didn’t want you to fear. I believe war is coming.”
“I fear your reticence more.” At length I said, “I know no fear. Three of my babies have died in my arms, and me powerless to ease their suffering. Part of me lies buried in each of their graves. I am dead already, husband. Tell me not of war. Death is not my enemy. Living is.”
Cullah’s head rotated without expression, his eyes wide and staring like the owl his movement mimicked. His eyes brimmed with tears and he said, “Do I mean less to you, then? And Brendan? Gwenny? Are we not worth your taking one more breath?”
“Of course the living are in my heart.” I looked down at my hands and took my foot off the treadle, letting the wheel slow to a stop, its comforting clicks slowing, slowing, running out of time as the ticking of a great clock winding to a stop. “I did not mean that, Eadan. But you talk of war as if we must prepare for it. I will not think of war nor plan for it. War, you say? What should I do if you were killed? I would keep Gwenny and Brendan in until they are apprenticed, and then I should wish to die.”
Cullah’s face contorted with pain. “My pa is old but he is with me, yet. Upstairs, sleeping, sounding like a band saw shearing planks off a tree full of burls. His wife, my mother, is dead. His other sons, too. Now he has buried grandchildren. Even though I am a man, and I do not need him to keep me, I want him alive. Whether I live or die, your children will want you alive as long as you can stay alive. I want you alive.”
Tears dribbled down my face and fell to my bodice as I said, “I am no use to you or anyone.”
“That is a fairy talking, trying to fool me,” he said. Then he rose and knelt at my side. Taking my hand in his, he kissed my palm and then my fingers, folding them until my hand was as a small apple cradled in his hands. “You are so sad, so full of grief. I know better, my fair one. Believe me in this. You have no need to be of use. You have the need only to be.”
I fell into his embrace, burying my head against his neck.
“Hush now. The bairnies will hear you and then how would they feel?” He pulled himself back and smiled at me, the saddest, most burdened smile I have ever seen. “See then? That is Resolute. That is the wife I knew.”
I heard a sound behind us and turned to see America Roberts on the steps, watching us with rapt attention. Her eyes glistened with unspent tears. “Beg pardon, Mistress. Gwyneth is crying. She says she wants her babbies. I gave her her merry poppet but that did not soothe her and I don’t know what she means.”
In that moment, Gwyneth herself peeped from behind America’s bed gown, holding on to the girl’s legs. We held out our hands to both of them, and Gwenny ran to her pa, saying, “Pa? I want our babbies. Get them out of the ground now.” America nestled close to me and I put my arm about her.
I asked, “Is Brendan awake, too?” as Gwenny then climbed into my lap and put her thumb in her mouth, gripped a strand of America’s hair, and snuggled betwixt us.
“I know not, Mistress,” America said.