Four Years Later

Lillian’s back was aching. Her back was aching, and she needed to empty her bladder urgently. 

Of course, Clara had warned her about this. Pregnancy was no picnic, and even with her due date a full month away, it was already getting difficult. 

Still, nothing seemed to be going wrong. Clara had examined her, as had the local doctor, and all was well. 

With Clara at her side, she’d do fine. It seemed natural for her to be the Silver Pines midwife, considering that she’d given birth to six children—four before Dewey, and two after—and all were healthy, strong, and happy. 

She hauled herself up onto the porch, balancing her basket in one arm and clutching the sturdy railings with the other. 

A few pastries and goodies waited in the basket, covered over by a checked cloth. On top lay the day’s post. Most of it was for her, letters from Helena, Alvin, and Nathaniel. There was a small, crisp envelope, still smelling heavily of scent, that could only be from Mother. 

No letters from Father. Mr. Mercer had never directly communicated with his daughter since the fateful day at the hotel. He did, however, ask his wife to add postscripts. Often, Lillian would receive a letter which finished with something like this: P.S. Your father says to tell you that … etc. Which was, of course, better than nothing. 

The relationship was not entirely fixed. Maybe it never would be. 

But the letters were better than silence. Maybe one day there’d be a visit. Mother already seemed inclined to see the children, which she referred to quite happily as her grandchildren. 

Lillian wasn’t so sure that Mr. Mercer would come. How could he look Jonah in the eye? 

She stopped before the front door, making sure to square her shoulders and ready herself to go inside. They had a house full of people, as usual. 

The door flew open before she could reach the handle. A lanky, dark-haired, dark-skinned boy of very nearly twelve stood there. He was only a foot shorter than herself, and over the next few years would soon come to tower over her. 

“Ma, what are you doing, hauling that basket along all by yourself?” he exclaimed. “Didn’t you take Alina with you?”

“I did not,” Lillian huffed, handing over the basket. “Alina has schoolwork to catch up on. Thank you, Jonah. You’re very kind.”

Jonah beamed, revealing white, straight teeth. Already, Lillian could see traces of the man he would become one day. Tall, strong, with long, clever fingers and a handsome, oval face. He’d get married one day, no doubt, and move out and set out on his own adventure. 

The thought sent a pang through her heart, despite the understanding that it would be the best thing for him. Children couldn’t, after all, stay at home forever. A baby bird couldn’t grow if it stayed stuck in the nest. 

She stepped inside their house, pulling off her shawl. The coat stand, as always, was overflowing with scarves, hats, cloaks, coats, and jackets. Pairs of shoes stood neatly against the wall. Lillian used to eye the pairs, counting them up to guess who was at home. 

Well, there were Horace’s heavy boots, to start with. His visit was a long one. When he first came, he’d asked, cautiously, if he could stay more than a few weeks, perhaps a couple of months? 

They’d said yes, of course. Edmund loved having Horace around. He’d find his own place soon enough, but for now, there was plenty of space. The attic served as the children’s bedrooms, leaving plenty of space for the adults downstairs. 

Beside Horace’s boots stood Jonah’s, of course, then the smaller pairs belonging to Alina and David. The twins were ten, small, delicate-featured, freckled little things. They were naturally shy, and life had made them cautious. They trotted around after Jonah as if they were his bodyguards, and the three of them were thick as thieves. Where one was making trouble, you’d find the other two lurking nearby. 

Susan’s neat little heeled boots came next. Susan had come to the orphanage months ago, a widowed woman who’d lost her husband in a mining accident. She was eight months pregnant, with no family, and had been turned out of her cottage a week after her husband’s funeral. The orphanage had sent her here, and she was the latest in a long life of women that Lillian and Edmund took in, providing shelter and prospects for the future. 

Only one other St. Patrick’s woman was in residence at the time, an exhausted woman, Margaret, of about twenty-five with triplets. Quinn, Quentin, and Casper were six years old and absolute menaces. 

Fortunately, the Calloway household specialized in managing menaces. 

“I’ll put away the pastries, Ma,” Jonah offered. “And I’ll put the letters on the writing-desk. You should sit down and put your feet up. It won’t be good for you or the baby to be so tired.”

She cupped his face in her palm, and smiled. 

“And how did my oldest son grow into such a thoughtful, charming gentleman?” she murmured. 

Jonah beamed. “You were lucky, I guess.”

She gave a hoot of laughter. “And so humble!”

“It’s my best quality!” Jonah shot back over his shoulder, heading to the kitchen. 

The very last pair of boots at the end of the line were, of course, Edmund’s. 

She knew she’d find him in the parlor, probably writing to his friend Calvin, still back in New York. Apparently, Horace intended to spend his twilight years shuttling between the two men he saw as sons. 

There he was. Edmund looked up as she stepped into the room, and his eyes softened. 

“If you’d waited, I would have taken you to town,” he murmured softly, extending a hand. “You shouldn’t tire yourself out.”

“I’m not too tired,” she murmured, taking his hand and stepping close. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pressed a kiss to her rounded belly. “Clara says a little light exercise is good. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts for a little while, and we all know that’s impossible here.”

He chuckled, glancing up at her. “I agree. You love it, though.”

“I love it,” she agreed. “I’ll love it even more when our baby gets here. Alina is hoping for a girl, by the way. She wants a sister.”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

She bent down to kiss him, a soft, easy kiss, unhurried. They had time. The savory, rich scent of chicken drifted out of the kitchen, where Susan and Margaret were making supper for the chaotic household. 

“I love it,” Lillian murmured, “And I love you.”

“Oh, but not as much as I love you, I think,” he responded, grinning. “Not that it’s a competition, of course.”

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