In His Eyes(6)

Westley dropped his spoon. “What!”

She fanned her face with her hand. “That scoundrel J. Wilkes Booth shot him in Ford’s Theatre. Took them what seemed forever to find the cur.”

“And justice?” The words came out as nearly a growl.

“He was killed when they attempted to capture him, and a trial was held for the conspirators. Hung four of them, sent the others to jail.”

Westley let this information settle. “Johnson is president, then?”

“Yes. And emancipation is being enforced. The South has been taken back into the Union.”

Relief washed over him. These years of horror, blood, death, and the loss of his family and dearest friends had at long last come to an end. “That is good, then.”

Mrs. Preston slapped her knee. “Good, indeed! I thought this bloody mess would never end.”

Westley had to agree. He’d felt the same. A military man from a line of military men, he’d thought himself prepared for war. Welcomed it, even, in the na?ve way of a young man yearning to earn his glory on the battlefield. Turned out he had no idea how much it would truly steal from him.

Mrs. Preston rose and reached for the now empty bowl in his hands. “Now, best you get some rest. You’re still a long way from being ready to leave.”

Westley surrendered the bowl. “I thank you for your kindness.”

“You are very welcome. It is my duty to care for you poor boys as best as I can.” Her eyes misted, and she gave him a nod as she slipped out of the door.

Westley wondered how many of her sons had survived these tumultuous years. He didn’t have long to contemplate it, though, because as soon as he settled back down in the warm blankets, exhaustion once more overtook him, and he drifted back into the quiet peace of sleep.





Ella pulled the babe closer and tried to ready herself for the task before her. Night would be falling soon enough, and if she didn’t hurry, she’d be caught out in the unrelenting shadows. Breathing a request for forgiveness, she plucked Cynthia’s cloak and shawl from atop the valise on the floor, then glanced back at the body in the bed. She’d covered the woman’s form, but had not been able to clean her up.

Forgive me.

She grabbed the valise as well and headed for the door. Surely the woman wouldn’t need these things, and wouldn’t begrudge Ella taking them. She would need something in the days ahead as she tried to secure the child’s future.

That’s what she told herself, but the guilt niggled anyway. The babe squirmed, drawing her attention back down to him. How long would it be before he would want another meal? She didn’t know much about children, but she did know that newborns ate every few hours. She wouldn’t be able to wait until morning to find the place Cynthia had told her about. It had to be midway through the afternoon by now, and she must hurry. Hopefully, the Remington home would be nearby.

Ella still hesitated in the room. She hated to leave Cynthia like this. All alone with no one to care for her body properly. Where would they bury her? Would any marker be left to indicate who she’d been?

Ella nuzzled her nose into the baby’s hair. Would that be what happened to her? With no family and no security, would she also wind up dead and alone somewhere with nary a soul to mourn her? Tears threatened, but she forced them back. No time to have pity on herself. This sweet babe needed her, and she would not leave him to starve. She tried to position him in her arm and put on the cloak, but found the task difficult. And how would she carry the valise in one hand and the babe in the other without growing too weary?

The shawl. She dropped the cloak and spread the shawl on the floor, positioning the child in the middle. Then she scooped both up and settled the babe against her small bosom, wrapped the two ends around herself and then back to the front, and knotted the ends behind the baby’s back. Ella slowly removed her hands. The baby remained comfortably positioned against her, and she had the use of both hands.

Thrilled with her accomplishment, Ella swung the cloak over her shoulders and fastened the clasp at her neck, then picked up the valise. She cast one final glance at the child’s mother, then set her jaw and descended the steps.

Mrs. Hatch stood at the bottom of the stairs, a scowl etched in her angular face. “You defied me, girl.”

Had the woman been waiting on her? “You were wrong. Someone had to help or they both would have died.”

The woman’s eyes flitted to the baby hanging at Ella’s chest and took a step back. “What are you doing?”

“Cynthia is dead. I must take the babe to a wet nurse.”

Mrs. Hatch fingered the cloth at her neck and eyed the child as though it were some kind of wild animal Ella clutched. “A dead trollop? In my inn?”

“Yes. And a baby who needs to be cared for.”

Mrs. Hatch’s eyes darted to the stairs and back to Ella. “That child is diseased, girl. Best you leave it up there with her.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’ll have some of the boys dispose of them.”

Outrage swelled in Ella, and she grasped the baby tighter. “You’ll do no such thing!”

Mrs. Hatch’s eyes hardened. “It’s what’s best.”

“I think not. I am going to find him a home.”

“Do what you like, girl. But all you’ll do is prolong the inevitable and make that child suffer. Ain’t no one going to want him, and even if they did, not many are left in these parts that could feed another mouth.”