Free The widow's war by Sally Gunning Page B

in.”
    Freeman’s head whipped around, his features at last unbridled. “A minute,” he said. “Gentlemen, you will excuse us a minute,” and without ceremony he grasped Lyddie’s arm, drew her from the study and into her room, closing the door behind them.
    “My dear madam,” he said, “what are you about?”
    “I’m about governing my life, Mr. Freeman.”
    “When I spoke just now…but surely you knew? I spoke to give pause, to perhaps achieve some small addition to your keep and care. I in no way recommend a course of separation from this household. Why, it would be madness.”
    “Very well, then, call me mad. But take no blame on yourself; you didn’t invent this idea, in fact, you’ve done nothing but shown me a way to remove several obstacles. With ample wood and grain—”
    “No, no, no. The law is one thing; the other is the practicality of the situation. Do you think for a minute that by casting yourself outside your son’s care—”
    “He must care for me wherever I am. Did you not just say so?”
    They stood and stared across the foot of space between them, like two people who had just met by surprise in the road, one come from a wedding and one from a funeral. Standing so close, Lyddie noticed that the lawyer’s queue was caught up in his collar. He’d ridden out in such haste he hadn’t settled his coat on his shoulders; he’d taken a good piece out of his day on her behalf; she owed him a great debt that she had no means to repay. She could do nothing for him but reach up and lay flat his queue, but the simple gesture loosed anotherflood of emotion across his features; as she removed her hand he caught it in his own long fingers.
    “Widow Berry. Lydia. You see? I say your given name, speaking to you now as a husband would if he were present. As your husband would. He talked of what he wished for you, what he felt was best for you—”
    “And you agreed with him? That my best happiness lay in my son Clarke’s home?”
    The eyes flickered away.
    Nathan Clarke shoved open the door. “All right now, you’ve had your little chat. Come, Mother, and sign the paper. Doane must be off to Barnstable this hour.”
    “I shall be glad to sign a paper,” Lyddie said. “As long as it’s one written up to the specification just now outlined by my lawyer.”
    Lyddie might as well have stuck Nathan with her knitting pin. She had some trouble believing that her own son-in-law would say such things, not only to her, but also to Eben Freeman. It drove all the visitors from the house in quick order, except Eben Freeman, whose presence did nothing for Lyddie but draw half the venom. Even Mehitable’s soft tones served as nothing but kindling, although she did manage to entice her husband out of their presence, if not out of their hearing.
    “’Tis done!” Nathan roared from the next room. “Over! Finished! I’ll not have her in front of my eyes! I’ll not have her at my table! She’ll find out what kindness she’s forfeited! Let her sleep in the barn with the bloody cow if she wishes!”
    Eben Freeman cleared his throat. “I wonder if you might like to dine with my sister and me. She’s often suggested it.”
    Lyddie accepted.

     

    Betsey greeted her cousin with the kind of welcome Lyddie recognized as that of a woman whose husband had just left for a season onthe Canada River. Eben Freeman attempted to portray the events of the morning in the lightest possible manner, but Betsey’s eyes immediately turned the size and color of pewter porringers.
    “You’ll stay the night,” she decided. “Let the man cool. We’ll send Eben back with a message so they won’t fret about you.”
    It seemed like a good idea to Lyddie. No doubt it seemed a better one to Mehitable; when Eben Freeman returned he carried a sack for Lyddie in which her daughter had packed two skirts, two shifts, one gown, her hair comb, her letter book, and four pairs of stockings, both winter and summer.

13

    Lyddie