Free Heart of a Dove by Abbie Williams Page A

“He would have killed me, I know it, but Union Jack was with him and reprimanded him.”
    “Oh honey, I’m sorry,” she said, crying too.
    I opened my eyes and clasped her hands tightly, determined to stop my tears. Tears helped nothing. I said, as much to comfort myself as anything, “But he didn’t. I’m safe.”
    Deirdre clung to me and whispered, “I can’t thank you enough for helping me, Lorie. I wish I was your sister, truly.”
    “I love you too,” I told her, comforted by her familiar scent. “Now we best boil you some water.”
    Betsy paid us little attention as we set the crockery teapot atop the woodstove, letting it heat. When it whistled, Deirdre collected the tray and two porcelain mugs, though I carried them up the steps for her, to the relative privacy of her room. Within it, she sank to the mattress and I set the tea tray behind her, then quietly perused her belongings, though I had seen them many times before. It gave me comfort to look upon the trappings, though meager, of a life that had been lived beyond these walls. Before she’d become a whore; small pieces of her soul, scattered and arranged about her room.
    Joshua, her husband, appeared as I opened the hinge on the oval-shaped frame that held his Federal Army tintype. She kept this, her only image of him outside of her memory, in the top drawer of her bureau, and I was familiar enough with both her and her space to look for it; he was young and handsome, staring into the camera with not so much as a hint of a smile. Across his lap lay his Springfield rifle.
    “He loved me,” she said in a sigh. “He did. Would that I still had him, oh God.”
    I shut the frame with great care and joined her on the bed. I knew better than to try and offer comfort, as there was none and words only aggravated that knowledge; a few of us who worked within these walls harbored such feelings about the memory of someone, whether a husband or mother, father or sibling. Someone who had once provided the unimaginable safety of unconditional love. There was none of that here, not amongst us. Eva was the only one who had never once mentioned a family, leading Deirdre to speculate, after Eva had slapped me over a high-paying customer my second week at Ginny’s, that Eva had risen from hell fully formed. Ginny too, I’d said.
    “Do you think I’ll go to hell now?” Deirdre asked quietly, as though sensing my thoughts. I shivered before I could catch myself. She sounded truly concerned, vulnerable.
    “No,” I said firmly. “That could never be possible.”
    “But what I’m doing is—”
    “Saving your child from a life of living hell,” I said softly, catching and holding her hands. Hers were pale and cold within mine, and I curled my fingers around them more securely. Her hands seemed so small and slight; I was used to the large, hard, callused hands of men.
    “You’re so warm,” she murmured. “Thank you, Lorie, for everything. You risked yourself for me, and you were hurt in the process. I’m so sorry.”
    Her dark hair was loose, soft over her slim, pale shoulders and her eyes were wet with unshed tears. I tucked a wayward curl behind her right ear. I said, “You’ll be all right. I’ll tell Ginny you aren’t feeling well, and I have yet two days of bleeding, perhaps three. I’ll wait on you. I’ll bring you cake in your bed.”
    She smiled a little at that, shaking her head.
    After a moment I whispered, “How did it happen?”
    Her lashes lowered as she said, low, “I don’t know, Lorie, I don’t. I use the butter so carefully, I never forget.” She closed her eyes tightly then, clinging to my hands. She whispered desperately, “If I was yet Joshua’s wife I would be such a good mother, I would. I would love this child and raise it to care for others, to be a kind human being. And it would have Joshua’s smile. He had such a sweet smile, Lorie, I can still see it plain though he’s been gone these many years.”
    “I know,” I