And that was that. Lucy went on nursing, not missing a beat, and the earth presumably continued to spin on its axis. Olive lifted a finger and traced the delicate curve of Lucy’s ear, the most beautiful thing in God’s creation, and slowly the tremors died away into her middle, deep inside, where no one could see them. As it should be.
Where was Harry at this moment? (She could now ask that question to herself without bursting into tears and perplexing poor Hans.) If she closed her eyes, she could feel him, wherever he was. The other side of the world, perhaps. No one knew where he had gone, and the Pratt house now stood empty of life, waiting for the auction that would empty it of objects, too. That was according to the newspapers, which had also covered, in breathless detail, both the wedding of Miss Prunella Pratt to Mr. Harrison Schuyler in October, and the financial ruin of Mr. Henry August Pratt the following month. Apparently he hadn’t taken Olive’s advice and divested of those Philadelphia & Reading shares, after all.
Or perhaps he had been too distracted with grief for his sons: one dead and the other missing.
Missing. But Harry wasn’t missing, not really. He was right here, wrapping his arms around her, looking down over her shoulder at Lucy’s hungry movements. She’s beautiful, just like her mother, he whispered in Olive’s ear, just before he placed a kiss on her temple.
She could actually feel that kiss, warm and soft on her exhausted skin.
You’re a wonderful mother. I am so proud of you.
And then, even more quietly: I forgive you.
No, Harry hadn’t gone away at all. He was still there, inside her head. Occupying the chambers of her heart.
Lucy’s eyelids were drooping now, and the rhythm of her suckling began to slow. The lamp flickered over her skin. She was five weeks old, and just awakening to the extraordinary world around her. She liked the sounds and sights of the bakery. Olive would sometimes nurse her there, because it was so warm, and Hans’s face would light up at the sight of his daughter. He would reach out his floury hands and cradle her in the crook of his massive elbow, and she would stare up into his delighted face and brighten, too, just like the Christmas tree that stood in the parlor, decked with candles. Already Lucy adored her father, just as Olive had adored hers.
As if he could read her thoughts, Olive’s husband stirred in the bed behind her. The springs creaked under his weight, and his voice emerged from somewhere inside all those blankets, blurry with sleep. “Meine Frau? Wo bist du?”
“Right here,” she answered. Inevitably, she had picked up a little German over the past several months, just enough to understand her new relatives when they spoke among themselves, though she always addressed them in English. “With Lucy.”
“Ah, there she is. Meine kleine Sch?nheit.”
“Your very hungry little beauty. But she’s almost finished, I think.”
Hans yawned gigantically. “Bring her here, when she is done.”
Lucy’s mouth dropped away at last, and Olive lifted her carefully to her shoulder. The wind rose at once, thank God. Some nights Olive felt as if she were patting Lucy’s tiny back forever, while she staggered with fatigue, mindless, almost falling asleep where she stood. And still patting, patting, the way a snake keeps moving after its head is cut off.
She tucked her breast back into her nightgown and rose from the chair. Hans lifted the blankets, and the warmth of his body seeped out from within, scented with soap. Her husband had clean habits, washing himself with a cloth in the morning and bathing at night before bed. To take away the yeast and the flour, he said, and Olive was grateful for that. She sank into the mattress, and Hans’s large hands stole into her arms and lifted Lucy away.
“Ah, meine kleine Tochter, meine kleine Sch?nheit,” he crooned, settling her in his lap. He slid one finger into her tiny fist, and poor Lucy could hardly encompass the thick digit, though she tried her hardest.
Olive smiled and slid under the covers, on her side, facing the two of them. At first, she had been repelled by her husband’s giant size, by the heat of his body as they lay together in their marriage bed. On her wedding night, she had felt crushed under his heaving body, and when he had fallen into snoring unconsciousness afterward, one enormous arm thrown across her middle, she had wept so hard and so silently, the tears had rolled down her temples and wet her hair.