Twelve Days in December: A Christmas Novella by Michele Paige Holmes Page B
Authors: Michele Paige Holmes
Ads: Link
beyond that and the one beyond that…” She turned away, walking to the window that overlooked the snowy yard. “It brings a great measure of comfort.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “That you have given us a home.”
“You— and Matthew— did not reside in the same home throughout your marriage?” William came to stand beside her, close but not too much so. In the past few days they had been silently figuring out boundaries— what each might say and do that would not cross a line of discomfort for the other.
Charlotte shook her head. “We did not. Before we left England, we had saved enough for my passage, but Matthew traveled under indenture. His first employer in Virginia was a kind man. He allowed me to work for our lodging, while Matthew’s labor went solely toward paying off his debt.” She smiled wistfully. Those first two years had been good— or as good as they’d enjoyed. “Then the plantation was sold, and Matthew’s indenture with it, and the next owner was not as sympathetic. I had to take work elsewhere and went to live with a different family. For a good year and a half, Matthew and I saw each other only on Sundays.”
“And this was your circumstance when your husband died?”
“No.” Charlotte turned away from the window and faced William. She’d dreaded speaking to him of Matthew but found now that she had started, it was not as difficult as she had feared. In some ways, it felt a relief to tell him, to share with someone the sorrows that had been hers and hers alone for too long.
Marsali had been too consumed with her own grief to listen to Charlotte’s tale. And before that… No one to listen or care. Matthew had not been the only man killed in the accident at the mill; the whole town had been consumed with grief, with none to spare for the newcomer’s wife, especially considering the circumstances.
“Last April Matthew’s passage was finally repaid. He found work at the mill in another town, and we were renting a small cabin. I planted a garden, and we were beginning to save money for our own farm.” Charlotte closed her eyes briefly, as if to shut out the painful memories.
At a gentle pressure on her hands, she looked up and found William’s gaze upon her.
“You don’t have to tell me any more if you don’t wish to.”
“I know.” She allowed him to lead her back to the settee, where they sat silently admiring the lovely tree. How had she allowed the mood to turn melancholy? She didn’t want to feel this way, not now, not on Christmas Eve and when William had worked so hard to make the holiday special for Alec.
But well begun is half done, her mother used to say, and Charlotte did not wish to leave this half done. Just tell him— all of it.
“In late July there was an accident at the mill. Three men were killed. Matthew was seriously injured. Everyone said it was his fault. They brought him home to me, and I tried to take care of him. But his leg and chest had been crushed, and there was something inside hurting him, making him suffer terribly. I tried, but I couldn’t help him. I couldn’t ease his pain.”
“Was there no physician summoned?” William asked, his face drawn and concern reflected in his own eyes.
“The doctor came— once,” Charlotte said, reminding herself that being bitter helped no one. “His son was one of those killed, and it seemed to me as if he did not try very hard to help Matthew.”
“How long did he suffer?” William asked quietly.
“Six days— nearly a whole week.” How it hurt to think of that time— the worst six days of her life. At least after Matthew was gone, she’d known he wasn’t in pain any longer. Seeing him suffer and being helpless to do anything about it, anything for him, had left her drained and hardly feeling alive herself. If not for Alec, she might not have been. “I never left his side, except to care for Alec. No one came to see how Matthew was. And after— no one bothered to see
“You— and Matthew— did not reside in the same home throughout your marriage?” William came to stand beside her, close but not too much so. In the past few days they had been silently figuring out boundaries— what each might say and do that would not cross a line of discomfort for the other.
Charlotte shook her head. “We did not. Before we left England, we had saved enough for my passage, but Matthew traveled under indenture. His first employer in Virginia was a kind man. He allowed me to work for our lodging, while Matthew’s labor went solely toward paying off his debt.” She smiled wistfully. Those first two years had been good— or as good as they’d enjoyed. “Then the plantation was sold, and Matthew’s indenture with it, and the next owner was not as sympathetic. I had to take work elsewhere and went to live with a different family. For a good year and a half, Matthew and I saw each other only on Sundays.”
“And this was your circumstance when your husband died?”
“No.” Charlotte turned away from the window and faced William. She’d dreaded speaking to him of Matthew but found now that she had started, it was not as difficult as she had feared. In some ways, it felt a relief to tell him, to share with someone the sorrows that had been hers and hers alone for too long.
Marsali had been too consumed with her own grief to listen to Charlotte’s tale. And before that… No one to listen or care. Matthew had not been the only man killed in the accident at the mill; the whole town had been consumed with grief, with none to spare for the newcomer’s wife, especially considering the circumstances.
“Last April Matthew’s passage was finally repaid. He found work at the mill in another town, and we were renting a small cabin. I planted a garden, and we were beginning to save money for our own farm.” Charlotte closed her eyes briefly, as if to shut out the painful memories.
At a gentle pressure on her hands, she looked up and found William’s gaze upon her.
“You don’t have to tell me any more if you don’t wish to.”
“I know.” She allowed him to lead her back to the settee, where they sat silently admiring the lovely tree. How had she allowed the mood to turn melancholy? She didn’t want to feel this way, not now, not on Christmas Eve and when William had worked so hard to make the holiday special for Alec.
But well begun is half done, her mother used to say, and Charlotte did not wish to leave this half done. Just tell him— all of it.
“In late July there was an accident at the mill. Three men were killed. Matthew was seriously injured. Everyone said it was his fault. They brought him home to me, and I tried to take care of him. But his leg and chest had been crushed, and there was something inside hurting him, making him suffer terribly. I tried, but I couldn’t help him. I couldn’t ease his pain.”
“Was there no physician summoned?” William asked, his face drawn and concern reflected in his own eyes.
“The doctor came— once,” Charlotte said, reminding herself that being bitter helped no one. “His son was one of those killed, and it seemed to me as if he did not try very hard to help Matthew.”
“How long did he suffer?” William asked quietly.
“Six days— nearly a whole week.” How it hurt to think of that time— the worst six days of her life. At least after Matthew was gone, she’d known he wasn’t in pain any longer. Seeing him suffer and being helpless to do anything about it, anything for him, had left her drained and hardly feeling alive herself. If not for Alec, she might not have been. “I never left his side, except to care for Alec. No one came to see how Matthew was. And after— no one bothered to see
Similar Books
