Wife Number Seven (The Compound, #1)(28)

“Ah,” she said, but I knew she wasn’t convinced. Despite having eight children, my mother knew me all too well. Which was why I needed to leave her house as soon as I could.

“Here you are.” Aspen rounded the corner and placed a bed tray over my mother’s lap. Tea, butter cookies, and an apple sliced into wedges had been artfully arranged on it.

“Thank you, dear.” Mother reached for the ancient teacup adorned with painted roses. “But I insist you two leave. You have responsibilities back at home. I’ll be fine.”

“Mother, I don’t—”

“I insist.”

Her tone was sharp and I dared not question her further. Disrespecting your parents was completely unacceptable, and that included questioning their judgment in any given situation.

As I stared down at my mother, so frail and small, her graying brown hair arranged into a loose bun, I realized the irony of the situation. No matter how tiny she was, no matter how weak, I had been taught that there was a line, a line that could not be crossed. And my tiny mother was, in all ways that mattered, ten feet tall rather than the five foot one she truly was. If she gave me an order, I was to follow it without question.

“All right,” I said reluctantly. “But I’ll return in a couple of days. How does that sound?”

“That will be fine.” Satisfaction crossed her face as she sat back, sipping her tea.

I kissed the top of her head and walked to the door.

“Oh, and Brinley, dear.”

“Yes?”

“Please don’t say anything to Jessa. She’ll tell you when she’s ready.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I nodded.

Aspen glanced at me curiously, but said nothing. I waited until we left my mother’s home before telling her about Jessa, and she let out a sad sigh.

“Poor thing.”

“Have you ever . . . lost a baby?” I picked at the pocket of my dress, unsure how Aspen would respond. With anger? Embarrassment? Disgust? We weren’t encouraged to discuss such things. It was hard to keep sweet when you were wallowing in past disappointments.

“Yes,” she answered matter-of-factly. “Just before you married Lehi.”

“Oh no.” I froze, my hand raised to my mouth in shock. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was sad, yes. But it happens.” Her voice had softened, and I felt safe asking my next question.

“What was it like?”

She cleared her throat before answering. I knew I was making her ridiculously uncomfortable. But my heart was breaking for Jessa and I needed to know what she was going through.

“Scary, mostly. And painful.”

“Did you—did you bleed?” I asked, feeling intensely uncomfortable with the conversation, but pushing ahead anyway.

“Yes, a lot.”

“Did Lehi take care of you?”

Aspen pulled me to an abrupt stop and turned to me. “Brinley, you can’t be serious?” Her words were sharp, cutting.

“What?”

Aspen crossed her arms in front of her and her nostrils flared. “Do you honestly think he would do that?”

I searched my heart for the answer. And it didn’t take long.

“No.”

“Exactly.”

“Did anyone help you?” The thought of Aspen doubled over in pain, clutching her abdomen, broke my heart. The idea of her going through it alone brought tears to my eyes.

“Ruthie helped me.”

Aspen’s firstborn daughter, Ruthie, was only eight years old now. So at that point, she would have been only . . .

“But . . . she was barely five!”

Aspen shrugged, her eyes welling with tears. “She’s all I had.”

I bit my lip, willing my tears to stop, but they wouldn’t. Several slid down my cheeks.

“Stop,” Aspen said, closing her eyes and waving her hands wildly in the air. “It was a long time ago. I’m fine.”

Despite Aspen’s insistence, I knew my questions had caused her grief to resurface. Without thinking it through, I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around her. She stiffened at my embrace, but slowly she wrapped her arms around my lower back, allowing me to comfort her.

I pulled her closer and whispered in her ear, “I’m here for you.”

“Thank you.”

I rubbed my hands up and down Aspen’s back, and soon felt her muscles relax at my touch. I couldn’t make the past go away, but I could do my best to assure her that I would be there for her in the future.

“Now stop,” Aspen said, pulling away and wiping the tears from her eyes. “Let’s not make a spectacle of ourselves.”

“Sorry,” I muttered, and turned to resume our walk home.

“May I ask something else?”

“Oh goodness, Brinley. You are determined to have me sob, aren’t you?”

“No, nothing sad. I promise.”

“All right, then,” she said with a reluctant chuckle.

“When you, when you have intercourse . . . do you enjoy it?”

Aspen kept her eyes focused on the dirt road ahead of us. We were still several blocks from home. She knew it was safe to answer, but that didn’t convince me that she would.

“What do you mean?”