17. Golden Strings

1864 APRIL 17, SUNDAY

17

With Katie left in the care of Mrs. Mathis and her daughters, I traveled home. But this was not how I imagined my return to be. Pa and Harold met me at the York–Wrightsville station. Pa's face was drawn and pale, and I knew Mother's condition was declining.

"Robert's father died of typhoid last month," he divulged when we settled in the carriage. His voice was despondent.

I did not expect Mr. Moore's death. My mind never even considered it.

"His wife brought adoption papers she had a lawyer draft. She hoped you might one day consider adopting Katie, making her your own once you wed."

"Pa …" I didn't know what to say. I thought of dear, little Katie and how much she needed me—how much I needed her.

"I know it's a lot to ask of someone so young and yet unmarried. I am leaving the decision up to you, daughter. But I can give you the papers to hold on to until the time comes."

If John responded right away to my letter and was willing to take my hand, then I could adopt Katie and she would belong to me—to us. A surge of hope rose in me.

Pa took my gloved hand in his. "Think about it. You have time to make such an important decision." He released a deep sigh and adjusted the tie at his neck. I could tell there was more Pa wished to tell me, hope falling and simmering into nothing.

"What is it, Pa? What's the matter with Mother?"

"She isn't doing well, dear. Your mother has been ill for a long time now, longer than anyone ever realized. She is an extremely strong woman and rarely complains. Her headaches are worse than ever before. She is in constant pain. Unfortunately, the pills stopped working last summer, around the time you left home. The doctor suspects it's a cancer of the brain."

"Oh, Pa, no." I swallowed my tears, wanting to be strong for him. "I should have never left home."

"Don't bring that guilt upon yourself. That's the last thing your mother would want." Pa continued, "There is nothing left to be done but wait. The doctor has given her a much stronger dose of laudanum, and she sleeps most of the time. I know she is in pain, but she is too strong and stubborn to cry out." His lips tipped in a brief smile.

"Oh, Pa, certainly she will not leave us."

"Before you see her, I must warn you. She is struggling to see and speak, but she needs to see you, Ella, before she dies."

"Pa, please don't say that. She won't die. She mustn't. She knows we need her."

"A lot of things have changed since you left York. There is not much more we can do. For now, it appears you will be safe at home. At least for a short time."

I had to be Pa's stronghold now. Just as Mother had been for over two decades of marriage. Of course, no one could fill Mother's shoes. I never felt that I lived up to her expectations. I disappointed her more times than pleased her.

Lord, please give me the strength Mother possessed. Allow me to be the pillar my family needs me to be.

Silence drifted over Woodhue. It was not the silence of peace, but a cease-fire. I could feel death hovering and waiting. Drapes were drawn, blocking out the light. An eternal night.

I imagined my return so many times. A sweet reunion of joy and happy tears. Instead, Anna embraced me, her own eyes weeping, greeting me in hushed tones. Full of sympathy and regret.

I followed Pa upstairs. Doctor Cooper greeted us as he came down the hall. I thought to ask him how Nurse Fisher fared—I often thought of her in the aftermath of Gettysburg—but his face stalled my words. He looked tired and concerned.

He took Pa's arm, gripping it in comfort. "You should go in right away. I'm going down to the kitchen for some food and coffee. It's going to be a long night." His eyes flitted to me. "Now stay tranquil and quiet when you go in to see her. I needn't have her worry any or have her heart strained."

Pa gave a brisk nod and dragged me past Doctor Cooper. A soft moan drifted out from Mother's closed door, quickening Pa's steps. He pushed through the door, releasing me to rush to Mother's bedside. My feet froze at the threshold.

The room was dark and stuffy. The smell of medicine and sweat was powerful. Mother looked tiny in the bed, buried beneath layers of blankets. Her face was as white as her pillow. Her hair, like golden strings, splayed across the sheet. Gray lips pinched in pain, hollowing her cheeks. Her eyes landed on me, and I gasped. The brightness had already faded, leaving a dullness shadowed by bruised rings.

"Daughter," she croaked through parched lips.

"I'm here, Mother." None of this seemed real. Pa beckoned for me to come closer. "Don't worry. I'm home now."

Moisture gathered in Mother's eyes and misted my own.

"I'll give you a moment," Pa whispered. He leaned over to kiss Mother on the forehead before leaving us alone.

"You shouldn't be here. But …" She wheezed. "I needed to see … my girl … one last time."

"I love you so much. Please forgive me—for everything."

She shushed me. "Forgiven. Just thankful," she whispered, closing her eyes.

I grasped her hand, bringing it to my lips. To touch those fingers that gently caressed me through my childhood. To smell her skin. The aroma of sweet apples. I breathed in, memorizing the feel and scent of her.

Anna came in from the side door and walked to my side. My eyes blurred.

"Let's let her sleep. Come, ye should get some rest too. There's food in the kitchen." She helped me to my feet.

She guided me into the drawing room beside Mother's room. Faces looked up at me with a start as I entered. Pa leaned against the wall with Elizabeth, who breathed in jagged sobs, in his arms.

"Oh, Sissy," she bleated, clinging to Pa.

Aunt Agatha sat beside Grandmother Montgomery. Grandmother was as I remembered her—rigid, her face drained of color and emotion. Her wrinkled hands, adorned with diamond and ruby rings, clutched her shiny, mahogany cane. Within her large, black bonnet, her shrewd eyes and beaklike nose protruded. She prided herself on her appearance, her black, silk dress cut to the curves she still managed.

Through thin lips, she upbraided, "Why in heaven's name are you wearing that mourning dress, child?"

My mouth fell agape.

"Don't look at me like a mute, dearie. Have you married, and has your man been shot by a Rebel bullet? I don't recall you ever having a wedding. In fact, if I remember correctly, a certain wedding was canceled at the last moment because a certain bride had run off to Gettysburg to nurse some poor boy while he died. You left your mother distraught with anxiety and humiliation. No wonder she's dying before her time!"

"Mother!" Aunt Agatha put a hand to her heart.

"Don't say a word more to my daughter, Mrs. Montgomery." Pa spoke sternly to his mother-in-law for the first time in his life. "She did no harm. She merely loved a man. We don't punish children around her for simply loving someone. And don't you dare guilt her for her mother's condition."

"Humph! I don't recall speaking to you, Christopher. I never did approve of Adellia marrying you, and I can see why I shouldn't have allowed it. Her children were never disciplined accordingly."

"For goodness' sake, Mother?—"

"Not a word, Agatha. You haven't done your best by way of marriage and child-rearing either. I thought I raised my daughters better than this. I only wish my eldest daughter would have disciplined her children more in accordance with their status and rank in society."

Pa took a step forward. "Adellia loves her children very much, and I expect civility while you are in this house. Not another word of disrespect, madam, while my wife is lying in the next room, dying. I will escort you out of my home if need be."

"She's my daughter. Don't speak to me as if I do not know the direness of the situation. Mothers are supposed to die before their daughters!"

"Please!" I broke. I ripped my black bonnet from my head, throwing it to the ground. "I can't bear another word." I stormed out of the room, leaving stunned silence in my wake.

"Oh, Mother, I have tried very hard to be the woman you wished me to be. I really have. I never meant to disappoint you." My voice strained with emotion.

Mother grasped my hand. Her hand was featherlight in mine.

"Proud," she croaked. "Proud of my girl. You are … who I want … you to be."

Tears stung my nose and escaped my eyes. "Why didn't you tell me how ill you were? I would have returned sooner. Please don't go yet. I still need you."

"Find a loving husband. Someone … like your father."

"Oh, I will, Mother. I will." I thought of John, hoping my letter reaches him.

"Don't bury your heart … with the one … you lost."

"I know, Mother. I've made many mistakes, and I've been so scared. I still need your guidance."

Her lips cracked into a sleepy smile. "You know … what to do. You … are my … daughter. Strong."

I wiped my eyes and returned her smile.

Mother breathed in a short breath, and her face flinched with pain. "Your father," she said, trying to catch her breath.

"Yes, Mother. What about Pa?"

"Tell him … lay me … beside … my son."

"Oh, brother Christopher. Yes, Mother."

Mother's eyelids grew heavy, and she closed them for a short interval. "I love you," she breathed.

"Oh, I love you so much, Mother."

"You know …" Her words faded off into the silence and her face relaxed.

I lay my head down on the bed, kissing her hand, pressing it to my wet cheek.