Chapter 17 - The Girls Who Came Looking for Their Mother
Evelyn refused to open Clara’s letter for three days.
Josiah did not press.
On the fourth evening, Abigail placed it in her lap.
“Read it.”
Evelyn looked at her.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Margaret climbed beside her.
Josiah sat across the room.
Evelyn broke the seal.
Clara had written the letter during her final pregnancy.
Before the threats intensified.
Before the accident.
She called it foolish.
Perhaps sentimental.
She wrote that motherhood had taught her how little parents controlled.
Children grew.
Parents changed.
Life broke plans.
If Clara ever died young, she hoped Josiah would eventually find someone kind enough to love the girls without demanding they stop loving their first mother.
Evelyn had to stop reading.
Her vision blurred.
Abigail leaned against her.
Josiah looked down.
Evelyn continued.
To the woman who may someday braid their hair, calm their nightmares, scold them when they are selfish, and sit beside them when they are ill: you will never be stealing my place. Love does not divide that way. If my daughters choose you, then thank you for choosing them back.
Evelyn sobbed.
Not prettily.
Margaret hugged her.
Abigail cried too.
Josiah crossed the room.
They ended in one heap on the sofa.
Later, Evelyn folded the letter beside Sarah Gallagher’s letter from Eleanor Harrington.
Two women.
Two generations.
Two acts of protection.
The Whitmore house no longer felt haunted.
Its dead were remembered.
Not trapped.
That autumn Abigail began attending school in Oak Haven part-time.
Margaret followed.
The first morning Evelyn worried terribly.
Josiah mocked her.
“You faced Percival Harrington without blinking.”
“He was less frightening than eight-year-old girls.”
Margaret corrected:
“I’m seven.”
“That is worse.”
The girls returned happy.
Mostly.
A boy had mocked Margaret for calling Evelyn “Mama” when everyone knew Evelyn was not her real mother.
Margaret punched him.
Evelyn stared.
“You did what?”
“He was rude.”
“Words are not improved by fists.”
Josiah entered.
“What happened?”
Evelyn pointed.
“Your daughter punched a boy.”
Josiah looked at Margaret.
“Did he deserve it?”
“Josiah!”
“What?”
Margaret grinned.
Evelyn covered her face.
Parenthood, she discovered, was mostly loving people while preventing them from becoming outlaws.
Gallagher House expanded.
A classroom opened.
Then a small sewing cooperative.
Mrs. Lovell volunteered twice each week.
The irony delighted Evelyn.
One afternoon, the former hotel manager entered.
Evelyn looked up.
He removed his hat.
“I need help.”
She said nothing.
His wife had died.
His sister had come west with three children.
The hotel struggled.
His sister needed employment.
Evelyn could have refused.
Part of her wanted to.
Then she remembered three days without food.
“What can she do?”
He looked surprised.
“Cook.”
“Send her tomorrow.”
His shame deepened.
“Mrs. Whitmore…”
“Yes?”
“I was cruel to you.”
“Yes.”
No comforting lie.
“I’m sorry.”
Evelyn studied him.
Then nodded.
“Be kinder to the next hungry person.”
He left quietly.
That night she told Josiah.
“You forgave him?”
“No.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“I helped his sister.”
“Difference?”
“Forgiveness is between me and him. Hunger is between her and supper.”
Josiah smiled.
“I married a terrifying woman.”
“You should have interviewed me first.”
Winter arrived gently.
On Christmas Eve, Whitmore House filled with people.
Gallagher House residents.
Mine workers.
Town families.
Even Everett Harrington returned.
Older.
Quieter.
The girls had chosen to maintain a relationship with him.
Evelyn allowed it carefully.
Family could heal if people changed.
Not all did.
Some could.
After dinner, Margaret tugged Josiah toward the tree.
“We have something.”
Abigail stood beside her.
They handed Evelyn a small package.
Inside was a silver locket.
Two tiny portraits.
Abigail.
Margaret.
On the back were engraved three words.
OUR CHOSEN MAMA
Evelyn could not speak.
Margaret laughed.
“Mama crying.”
Abigail smiled.
“She always cries.”
Josiah leaned close.
“Constantly.”
Evelyn hit him with the wrapping paper.
Everyone laughed.
Later, after guests left, she stood alone near the fireplace.
Josiah approached.
“Happy?”
She looked around.
The house.
The tree.
The girls asleep upstairs.
The man beside her.
“I’m frightened to say yes.”
“Why?”
“Because every time life became good before, something took it.”
He understood.
He took her hand.
“Then don’t trust life.”
She looked at him.
“Trust us.”
Those words remained with her.
Because happiness did not come from believing tragedy would never return.
It came from knowing she would not face it alone.
Several weeks later, Evelyn woke sick.
She blamed dinner.
Then breakfast.
Then a smell from the kitchen.
Mrs. Crowley watched her suspiciously.
“What?”
The housekeeper’s mouth slowly curved.
A terrifying sight.
“When was your last monthly bleeding?”
Evelyn froze.
“No.”
Mrs. Crowley smiled wider.
Evelyn sat down.
“Oh.”
The physician confirmed it that afternoon.
Evelyn was pregnant.
And suddenly joy arrived carrying an old fear neither she nor Josiah had expected.
Because Clara had died while carrying Josiah’s child.
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When Evelyn told him, happiness and terror appeared on his face at exactly the same moment.
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