The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(13)

“No, Papa, I’m really sick. See.” Abigail stuck her tongue out as if it might prove the point. “I been shivering and shaking all night long,” she said, which happened to be the truth but not for the reason she would have him believe.

“You got a fever?”

“Uh huh.”

William walked across the room and sat down on the side of her bed. He put his hand to her forehead, which was, as far back as Abigail could remember, the only time he’d touched her for something other than a paddling. “It don’t feel like a fever.”

“Oh, it is. I’ve likely caught my death of pneumonia.”

“Nonsense.” William removed his hand and let it fall limp between his knees. “What’s likely is that you’re feeling sorry for yourself.”

“No, Papa, I’m really and truly sick. My throat hurts even.” Abigail mustered up a pitifully weak cough, and then fell back against her pillow.

“Well, okay. You stay in bed for awhile, but come midday I want you to have a meal on the table.”

“Why can’t Will . . .”

“He’s got men’s work to do. We’ve got to fix the south meadow fence.”

“Why can’t I help with the fence and let Will do the cooking?”

“What’s the matter with you, girl?” William looked down at his feet and shook his head. “You got the craziest notions I ever heard.”

“It’s not crazy. Mama said . . .”

William turned to face her, his eyes pitched with anger and his jawbone set hard as a wall of granite. “Your mama?” he sneered. “Well, your mama was a dreamer! A woman with a head full of silly notions and no understanding of what the world is really like!” He stood and walked out of the room.

Abigail remained in bed long after the sound of William’s footsteps faded. She thought of things she had done with Livonia, a picture they had once painted with color sticks, a quilt they had sewn with a brilliant rose in the center to conceal the droplets of blood that had fallen when she punctured her thumb. Abigail remembered the stories of the girl in the snow globe and she also thought about something her father owned—a sailing ship sealed inside of a bottle and set atop the fireplace mantle. It was a ship that could sail nowhere. She imagined tiny little sailors scurrying around the deck of the ship, forever trying to find a way out, a way back to the ocean. As she lay in bed, watching a light snow fall, it came to her that she was no better off than those imaginary sailors or the girl in the snow globe. She was trapped in a world of her father’s making, with no seeable way of getting out.

Abigail vowed that if this was to be her life, she would remain in the bed until the day she died. Magic would be her salvation; she could dream of places beyond the high ridge, float off and become a suffragette, or a piano teacher, maybe even an actress on the stage. For a long while she watched as the snow deepened on the ground and draped a white blanket across the bare limbs of the chestnut trees but when William stomped in cold and hungry and told her to get her skinny ass out of bed, she did. She pulled on a pair of woolen stockings and covered her dress with the apron her mother had last worn; then she tromped into the kitchen and set about the task of warming foods that had been brought by the neighbors.

There was something about the wearing of Livonia’s apron that helped Abigail to remember the way her mother had moved about the kitchen. It came to her where Livonia kept the iron skillet that was used to fry the meat, she remembered to wrap the biscuits in a cloth towel before placing them inside the warmer, and when dinner was finished she heated water to wash the dishes. A neighbor peering through the windowpane could have believed it was Livonia moving about the kitchen, except for the stone set of Abigail’s eyes.

As the days drifted into February, Abigail developed the ability to be elsewhere as she worked. She would appear to be peeling potatoes or plucking frozen laundry from the clothesline, but inside her head she was riding horses and attending parties. She pictured a horse that was all her own, a black stallion with white markings, a horse named Thunder, so mighty that people took a deep breath and gasped as she climbed astride his back. She dreamed of taking the train to far away places such as Lynchburg and Alexandria and saw herself wearing a yellow hat with partridge feathers as she marched into President Wilson’s office along with the other suffragette ladies. Yet, try as she might, Abigail couldn’t imagine the fair-haired girl breaking free of the snow globe.



In early March, Abigail Anne returned to school, despite William’s objections. He’d been of the opinion that seventh grade was plenty of schooling for girls, but when Miss Troy came to call with Preacher Broody, he pretty much backed off of that stance. He might not have been intimidated by Miss Troy, even though she was said to be the prettiest teacher in BlackburnCounty, but he was a God-fearing Methodist and wasn’t about to go against anything Preacher Broody said. Abigail hid in the pantry and listened to every word that was spoken.

It started off with William being right sociable, like this was just a friendly-come-to-call-visit. Then when Miss Troy said it was past time that both children returned to school, he got real huffy. “Who’s to say, when my girl goes to school?” he snapped.

“Every child deserves an education.” Judith Troy answered; her voice as calm and collected as someone commenting on the favorable weather.