The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(26)



“No. I like him real well, but –”

“If you’re not sure you love him, Abigail Anne, you shouldn’t be marrying him.”

“I’m not going to.”

“But, you said…”

“I’m gonna leave the farm before my birthday.”

“Leave? To go where?”

“The city. I’m going to Roanoke and get a job in one of those factories.”

“Oh, Abigail Anne,” Miss Troy said and hugged the girl to her chest. “You don’t want to do such a thing, honey. That’s a hard life; a real hard life.”

“I’ve heard tell that the rooming houses in Roanoke have electricity and water spigots inside the house.”

“Maybe so, but you work long days and come home exhausted. You’re a smart girl; you can do better than that.”

“Better? Marrying Henry Keller and getting stuck on his papa’s farm for the rest of my life, that’s better? I’d sooner jump off the top of Thunderhill Mountain.”

“There are things besides marrying Henry.”

“Not for me.”

“Yes, there is, Abigail Anne. I don’t know what, just yet, but you give me a bit of time and I’ll think up another way to handle this situation.”

“Don’t come out to our place, Miss Troy! I swear, Papa will shoot you dead!”

Judith Troy assured the girl that she wouldn’t come near the Lannigan farm, but when they left the storage room the teacher was wearing that same far away look as Abigail Anne. She told the class it was time for a recess and then she took a piece of paper from her desk and started to write. After she’d penned three pages, she signed her name, folded the letter and placed it inside an envelope. The envelope was addressed to Miss Ida Jean Meredith, 10 Jefferson Square, Richmond, Virginia.



After that, things went along pretty much the way they had been. Henry came to supper most every night and ate so much that his gauntness began to disappear. His face grew rosy and round, so much so that even his mother noticed. “That girl’s having a mighty fine effect on you,” she told her the lad.

As Henry blossomed, Abigail faded. Her eyes developed dark circles and lost their sparkle; ridges furrowed her brow and her face took on the hollow-cheeked look of misery. Most nights she’d lie awake for hours—counting and re-counting the number of days she had before her sixteenth birthday. When the numbers became too painful to count, she listened to the cawing of crows that had taken up residence in the maple tree right outside her window. As the number of days grew shorter and her troubles became more intense, the crows squawked louder and louder—until she finally began to believe the birds were trying to warn her of something. Although crows were troublesome birds that most people would have shooed away, Abigail took to leaving seed at the base of the tree. Every time she’d pass that maple she’d look up and find seven or eight black crows with beady eyes staring back at her. “What are you trying to tell me?” she’d ask—but the crows just sat there like a line of black-robed hangmen.

Her father occasionally took notice and would make mention of her peaked look; but such comments were short-lived because minutes later he’d be talking to Henry about breeding cows or planting crops.

Not much was said about the upcoming marriage; but everyone certainly assumed that such a thing would happen. Henry left no doubt about it, because he was forever reminding William of the advantages he planned to provide for Abigail. “We’ve got a brand-new ice cream maker and a water pump inside the house,” he’d say, “She’s gonna love that!” He’d gobble down a few more bites of pie and then add something about a flower bed alongside the porch steps.

As Henry told of the luxuries that awaited Abigail, her father sat there smiling and nodding his approval. Long before there was even a trace of spring in the air, William came home from Buena Vista with a bolt of white organdy tucked beneath his arm. He handed it to Abigail Anne and said, “This here is for your wedding dress.”

“But, Papa…” she gasped.

“No buts about it; Will can take of your chores for a few days. Now, you get inside and start sewing. Make something real pretty; something like your mama would make,” he said. He gave Abigail a kiss on the cheek and smiled like a man who was truly proud of himself.

For almost three days Will fixed the supper, fed the chickens, and slopped the dirty clothes up and down the washboard while Abigail hunched over the sewing machine. She pumped the foot pedal back and forth just as Livonia had done; carefully easing yard after yard of organdy along the guide line. She fashioned the dress with balloon puff sleeves and a wide ruffle along the hem; both things she’d never before done. When the dress was nearly completed, she stitched buttons down the back of the dress as carefully as any prospective bride might do. Once the last button was fastened in place, she hung the dress in her closet.

“Let’s see what you’ve done,” William said; and when he saw the dress he smiled. “That’s a real nice piece of work,” he told her. “Real nice. Henry Keller’s gonna get himself one fine, beautiful wife.”

“Thank you, Papa,” Abigail answered then she went right back to doing her daily chores. Night after night she’d set supper on the table, food that she’d prepared as carefully as she’d sewn the organdy dress, but she herself hardly ate a thing. She’d nibble on a biscuit or little wedge of potato, then push back her plate as if she couldn’t stand to swallow another mouthful. By the time winter began to make way for spring, Abigail had grown so thin her collarbone circled her neck like the yoke of a harness.

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