The Witch of Tin Mountain(82)

“Who . . . whose baby is it?”

“It’s the groom’s baby—Mr. Blake. We got to talking one night, over whiskey, shortly after you left for Charleston. I’d been so lonely, so sad. And he listened.” Hannah’s mouth wrenched. “Being with him chased the misery away for a little while. The loneliness. Shouldn’t I have a little bit of happiness, Deirdre?”

“I think . . . I think I know some manner of what you’re talking about.” Deirdre thought of her sweet stolen moments with Esme, and how delicious it had been to give in to her urges. But Deirdre had no husband to bind her. She was free to do whatever she wished. Though her husband was absent, Hannah was still a wife. “Where’s Mr. Blake now?”

“Oh, he left, of course. They always leave, don’t they?” Hannah’s lip trembled and her skeletal hand rubbed her belly. “I wasn’t expecting this. Especially so soon after Collin. By the time I figured it out, it was too late to do anything about it. No one knows except you. No one else can ever know. My daddy would disown me if Billy divorced me. I don’t know what he’ll do if he comes back and finds me like this.”

“I see.”

“Now that you’re here, things will be all right, won’t they, Deirdre? You’ll help me figure it all out?”

Deirdre glanced out the hazy windows, at the rubbish crowding the edges of the room. The scent in the house was overpowering—moist and heavy, like meat gone to spoil. It would be a daunting task, recovering the house from Hannah’s melancholic neglect. But what else could she do? Being Hannah’s companion would give her purpose. And money, besides. Money that might someday return her to Charleston, where she could live with Esme and her husband—if Esme could ever forgive her for the way they’d parted. She’d write to her. Beg for understanding. There might be a chance. Hope was all she had left to cling to.

She reached out to grasp Hannah’s frail hand. “We’ll fix things, Hannah. We will.”



A month later, Deirdre was cleaning the larder when she realized she’d missed her menses. A few days after that, a rank biliousness relieved her of her appetite. She’d rinsed with vinegar water after she and Robbie had been together the last time. Had been drinking her tea. But the signs were unmistakable. She was with child. Panic set in as she realized what it meant, and the true nature of the promise Gentry had made to her:

In fifty years, I’ll return to reap what I have sown.

Deirdre was certain Gentry had possessed Robbie on that bridge. Spilling his seed into her. Now, this child—whatever it might become—was growing inside her. She was tempted to take dire measures as Anneliese had to prevent its birth, but she could not bring herself to destroy what was half her own. Instead, the drive to nurture the life growing in her strengthened every day. She would not let Gentry lay claim to what was hers. She would find a way to protect her child.



Deirdre told no one about the baby. Not even Hannah. Her breasts grew heavy, pendulous, and tender. Her wherewithal ran low. One frigid afternoon in December, as Hannah lay soaking in the bath, Deirdre raised a question. “Would you think about hiring more help, Hannah? It’s becoming hard to manage things, just the two of us. Perhaps one of the girls from town might come by once or twice a week to help? Just for the day.”

“Oh?” Hannah sat up, water splashing over the edge of the tub. “Who did you have in mind? It has to be someone who can keep my secret.”

“I saw Ebba Nilsson at the mercantile a few days ago. Ingrid’s younger cousin.”

“That strange child? Does she still not speak?”

“No. Not English, anyway. That’s why I thought she might be suitable.”

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt, if you think she’ll keep quiet.”

Deirdre went to fetch Ebba from the Nilssons’ farm that same week. Maja came to the door, her careworn faced creased with deep wrinkles. She offered Deirdre a seat by the fire and a mug of spiced tea. Deirdre tried not to look at the rag rug in front of the fire where she and Ing had often played with their dolls as little girls. Losing Robbie had hurt. But not as much as losing Ing. She’d been tempted to go back up the hillside to apologize for the harsh things she had said. But the thought of seeing Robbie again made her blood boil. Her hatred—and her pride—ran far too deep.

A few moments later, Ebba stepped into the room. She’d grown taller, and had lost some of her fey, childlike whimsy. She’d be a handsome woman, someday. She shyly came to Deirdre’s side, and Deirdre offered her hand. Ebba took it and smiled. “Tack, Deirdre.”

“She’s been good help to me with Ingrid gone and Petr abed with a fever,” Maja said, swaying heavily to the hearth. She plucked the lid of the crock and stirred the hearty-smelling pottage within. “But, if Mrs. Bledsoe pays her well, the money will help us more.”

“Hannah pays more than what’s fair,” Deirdre offered. “Ebba will have money to spare and enough to save for a healthy dowry, someday, too.”

Maja nodded brusquely. “Good, good. Off with the two of you, then.”

It would be the last time she’d see Maja alive. A week later, Petr died, and Maja sickened from caring for him. She was dead within a week. The eldest Nilsson boy, Erik, followed soon after. By taking Ebba from the Nilssons’, Deirdre had not only given her work but had likely saved her life.