The Rebel Wife Read Free Page B

ma’am,” he answers quickly. “I just wondered. If there is anything that occurs to you, please let me know. I’m very sorry for the loss. I’m very sorry.”
    “I know you were close to him. And loyal. You will always have a place here with us.”
    He nods and rises abruptly. “May I see him?”
    Perhaps I should not have said that. They are free people now. They are not like before, when it was understood we would care for them. When Pa died, Mama assured all the house servants they would stay with us. They could become so excited from fear of being sold or separated from us. But Simon must worry if he will have a place here. Where else could he possibly go?
    We walk back to the house, and I leave him alone with Eli’s body. He closes the door behind him. He is too familiar, of course, but now is not the time to scold him. As if I have the courage to scold Simon.
    And Emma must be told. She cared for Eli, too, I think, although she has been with me from time beyond my remembrance. In my earliest days, she fed me from her own breast.
    I knock timidly at her bedroom door. It feels odd to seek her out here at the top of the stairs. She answers already dressed and has a look of understanding on her face. She embraces me. We hold each other for a moment. There is no need for me to explain or for her to condole. She feels some private grief over Eli’s passing, but she does not express it to me.
    She says she will come with me to tell Henry. She follows me down the stairs and back through the pink bedroom to where the nursery is tucked into a corner of the house. Henry is still sleeping in his short bed. He rubs his eyes in confusion to see Emma and me with him so early. I kneel on the floor beside him, my skirts padded under my knees. He sits up, tugging at his nightshirt and pulling it down toward his feet.
    He is my child. Only mine now, although he will grow up to look so much like Eli. And I tried so hard not to have him. Not to have a child at all. Emma’s little devices, the cotton cloths coated in sheep fat. Making Eli believe he was inside me while he bore at me between my legs, slick with his sweat. So much vigilance. Some night I was drunk with wine or my medicines, and I stumbled but could not face the horrors of those bottles and pills again. So I bore Eli a son.
    “Henry, you must be very strong for Mama.” What is my purpose? Those soft blue eyes are Eli’s eyes. I do not know what to say to him. How do I put it into words that he will understand? How can I explain that his father’s death means marvelous new changes for him and for me, that it is not all a loss but something that has changed our lives in a way that has so much of the better. I was ten when Pa died. Henry is not yet five, old enough to understand. Old enough to be afraid. Emma sits close by in an old rocker, looking out on the garden.
    “Your papa has died, honey, and we must say goodbye to him. He has left us and gone to a better place.” My words sound silly. How can they provide any comfort to my boy? He shakes his head and rubs his eyes and asks where his papa has gone.
    He starts to cry and pull away from me, but he must listen. I grab his hands and hold them. I squeeze them hard. He jerks at them in pain. The more I say to him, the more he struggles to get away. He rushes to Emma, who sits quietly in her chair. She scoops him up and rocks him, rubbing his head and murmuring to him about the angels taking his papa on a long ride up to heaven, where he will watch over Henry and all of us and make sure we are safe like he always has before.
    When did I stop believing the things Emma told me? It was late in my youth before I gave them up. Back then I ran to Emma with a hurt or a fear. I preferred her to my own mother. I guess I did not expect that my son would do the same. Perhaps I am too clumsy as a mother, or too harsh, as Mama was. Or perhaps Emma provides a comfort I cannot. All the same, it has happened. The feeling is cold