Deeply Devoted by Maggie Brendan Page B

started up the stairs with the trunk, Catharine in the back to bolster most of the weight.
    “Oh? About Peter . . . your wedding night?” Greta teased.
    Catharine bristled and said, “I wasn’t thinking anything of the kind!” She realized that her protest sounded defensive and hurriedly added, “I was just thinking about Anna. She’s such a dreamer.”
    “What you really mean is she’s lazy!” Greta laughed.
    Catharine paused halfway up the stairs to look at Greta. “In her defense, I doubt that’s true. She just sees things through a different eye.”
    “Meaning she marches to the beat of a different drummer?” Greta raised an eyebrow.
    “Mmm . . . you could say that.” They both laughed. She continued on up the stairs, pushing the trunk as Greta pulled.
    When they finally reached the attic door, they were tuckered out and paused to catch their breath on the landing. “I’ll help you drag it into the attic space, but I don’t like dusty, spider-filled rooms, so let’s hurry,” Greta said, breathing heavily.
    “All right. Then I’ll have to go start lunch.”
    Greta snorted. “Then count me out unless you really need me. I want to straighten our room and put our things away. You know Anna will only leave things right where she left them, and I can’t stand clutter.”
    They continued up the last of the stairs that led up into the attic, and it turned out Greta was right. It looked as though no one had been in there for quite some time.
    “We can just leave it right here by the door, Greta.”
    “Good. Now let’s go.” She turned back to the short flight of stairs.
    “You go on ahead. I want to see if there’s anything usable up here.”
    “Suit yourself, if you can find them under the dust and dirty cloths.”
    Catharine didn’t mind being alone in the attic to explore. As a child, she had frequented her parents’ attic, enjoying the history there. She lifted a cloth and found a stack of old books that she and Anna might like, then proceeded to the other items draped with the dusty cloths. There was a charming lady’s dressing table and chair, whose now faded fabric had a tear in the seat. She might be able to repair it. It would be a good reading chair in the alcove under the window in her sisters’ room. She’d think about it before asking Peter to carry it down.
    The dust caused her to sneeze, and as she turned to go, something next to a rusty birdcage caught her eye. She slowly drew the cloth back so as not to disturb any more dust, and her breath caught in her throat. An exquisitely carved cradle of fine cherrywood sat vacant. She timidly touched the smooth wood, which caused it to rock slightly . . . almost eerily. Whose cradle was this? Peter’s? How wonderful it would be if their own baby could lie in it next to their bed. She blushed, thinking of the previous night and Peter’s gentleness as he wooed and touched her with his love. A tear started at the corner of her eye, and she knelt down next to the cradle. Maybe they wouldn’t be able to have a child. Maybe God won’t entrust me with one. She buried her face in her hands, struggling with emotions she’d tried to push deep inside.
    “You’re still up here?” Greta called out as she came up the stairs. She knelt beside Catharine and placed her arm around her sister’s shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze. “Cath, it’ll be all right . . . you’ve had a lot to bear. Don’t torture yourself. Come on, let’s get you back downstairs.” Greta stood and draped the cover back over the cradle. She held out her hand and Catharine reluctantly took it. With a heavy heart she struggled to her feet to go prepare lunch.
    After scouring the cupboards, Catharine found green beans and a jar of peaches. She sliced what was left of the bread and added leftover bacon from breakfast. Pretty sorry fare, she concluded. She hoped she’d be able to come up with something better for supper and wished there was some soup. She would