something halfhearted about Ellen not knowing how to care for an infant in an uncertain tone that didn’t fit the usually overconfident woman. Ellen hadn’t appreciated the woman’s comment about the child’s disfigurement, and she also knew without a doubt that the Ashfords shared the common prejudice against the illegitimate, the baseborn. “I’ll keep the child. I’m sure someone will realize they’ve made a mistake and come back for him.”
“I hope so,” Mr. Lang spoke up. “This is serious thing, to give up one’s own blood.”
His statement struck a nerve in Ellen. What had driven someone to give up their own child, their own kin?
Mrs. Ashford handed Ellen a bag of rags, three more bottles and the tin of powdered infant food. “Just mix it with water right before you need it.”
Ellen thanked them sincerely and apologized for bothering them after dark. The two had been more helpful than she would have predicted. Maybe she had judged them too harshly.
Ellen and Mr. Lang walked down the back staircase with the baby in her arms and the cloth sack of supplies over his shoulder. The toads still croaked at the nearby creek. Ellen brushed away a mosquito, protecting the baby from being bitten.
The baby had slipped into sleep. Still, his lips moved as if he were sucking the bottle. With a round face and a nice nose, he had white-gold hair that looked like duck down. His skin was so soft. She’d not felt anything so soft for a very long time.
Ellen had always told herself that she didn’t care for babies much, holding herself back from contact with them. But she knew—when she allowed herself to think about it—that all stemmed from losing her infant brother. His loss had altered her life, and led her to not fulfill her accepted womanly role. This had grieved her mother.
But now everything had changed. This child—who had been given to her—needed her. She bent down and kissed his birthmark.
“William.” She whispered the name that still caused such hurt.
“What?” Mr. Lang asked.
“I lost a brother by that name.” She couldn’t say more.
After a moment, Mr. Lang said quietly, “This baby will cause trouble.”
She paused.
“People will talk.”
She tilted her head as she gazed up at him tartly. “Everyone will know that this couldn’t possibly be my child.”
“I... Sorry,” he stammered. “I do not mean that. I mean, people will not want this child here. If someone gives away a child, no one wants him.”
She wanted to argue, but recalling the Ashfords’ comments and attitude, she couldn’t. “I will keep him, then.”
Mr. Lang looked quite startled. “They will not let you.”
“Why not?”
He lifted both his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “You are schoolteacher and unmarried. They will say—”
“What do you say, Mr. Lang?” she demanded suddenly, prodded by something she didn’t yet understand.
He gazed down at her. “I say that troubled times come here. Soon.”
She couldn’t argue with him. But she wouldn’t relinquish the child except to someone who would love him as he deserved. “Good night, Mr. Lang. Thank you.”
“Good night, Miss Thurston.” He paused as if he wanted to say more, but then merely waved and headed toward the cart.
She gazed down at the child as she entered her home and shut the door. She moved inside, rocking the child in her arms, humming to him. His resemblance to William, who had died before he turned one, brought back the pain and guilt over his loss, and for a moment, it snatched away her breath. Her little brother had been born when she was nearly fourteen, and he had left them so soon. And even though she didn’t want to remember, to be reminded, she couldn’t help herself.
She thought of Mr. Lang and how he’d helped her, how he’d also cared for a baby not his own.
“I will call you William,” she whispered and kissed him again. “Sweet William.”
Chapter Five
The next morning, Kurt waited, hunched forward on the last bench at the rear of the schoolroom where Sunday services were also held. When would Miss Thurston appear with the baby? He sat between a surly Gunther and an eager Johann, hoping neither his inner turmoil nor his eagerness to see her were evident.
A warm morning meant that the doors and windows had been opened wide, letting in a few lazy flies. Men, women and children, seated with their families, filled the benches. Ostensibly Kurt had come to worship with the rest of the good people of Pepin. But he knew he and his brother and his nephew did not look or feel like a family in the way that the rest of those gathered today did. Their family had been fractured by his father’s awful choices. Gloom settled on Kurt; he pushed it down, shied from it.
Wearing a black suit, Noah Whitmore, the preacher, stood by the teacher’s desk at the front. But Kurt knew that more than worship would take place here today. The foundling child would not be taken lightly. His stomach quivered, nearly making him nauseated, and he couldn’t stop turning his hat brim in his hands. He was nervous—for her.
He’d had no luck making the schoolteacher see sense last night. He didn’t want to see the fine woman defeated, but to his way of thinking, she didn’t have a hope. What would everyone say when they saw the baby? When they heard Miss Thurston declare she intended to keep him?
As if she’d heard his questions, the schoolteacher stepped from her quarters through the inner door, entering the crowded, buzzing schoolroom. With a polite smile, she called, “Good morning!” And then she paused near Noah, facing everyone with the baby in her arms, back straight, almost defiant.
As if hooked by the same fishing line, every face swung to gaze at her and then downward to the small baby, wrapped in the tattered blanket in her arms. Gasps, followed by stunned silence, met her greeting. Kurt had to give the lady her due. She had courage. Her eyes flashed with challenge, and Kurt could not help but notice that she looked beautiful in her very fine dress of deep brown.
She cleared her throat. “Something quite unusual happened last night. This baby was left on my doorstep.”
In spite of his unsettled stomach, Kurt hid a spontaneous smile. Her tone was dignified, and when a wildfire of chatter whipped through the room, she did not flinch. Kurt could not turn his gaze from her elegant face. She blushed now, no doubt because of the attention she drew.
Recovering first from surprise, Noah cleared his throat. “Was a note left with the child?”
Everyone quieted and fixed their stares on Ellen again.
“No, the child came without any identification.”
“Is it a boy or a girl?” a man Kurt didn’t know asked.
“How old is he?” Martin Steward asked. His wife, Ophelia, started to rise, but Martin gently urged her to remain seated. Would Miss Thurston’s family support her in her desire to keep the child?
“The infant is around a month old, Mrs. Ashford thought,” the schoolteacher said. “He is a boy, and I’ve named him William.” At that moment, William yawned very loudly. A few chuckled at the sound.
Mr. and Mrs. Ashford, in their Sunday best, hurried inside with Amanda between them. “We’re sorry to be late,” Mr. Ashford said, taking off his hat.
“But we lost so much sleep helping Miss Thurston with the foundling last night,” Mrs. Ashford announced, proclaiming herself as an important player in this mystery. “We overslept.”
Kurt watched them squeeze onto the bench in front of him, though plenty of space remained open beside Johann. The simple act scraped his tattered pride.