Forsaking All Others by Allison Pittman

Author:Allison Pittman [Pittman, Allison]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General Fiction, FICTION / Christian / Historical
ISBN: 9781414335971
Publisher: Tyndale
Published: 2011-10-01T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

My mother used to have a saying for those times when a mysterious chill would dart across her body.

“Like somebody’s walked over my grave,” she’d say, and I always found it to be the funniest thing because she wasn’t even dead yet. Neither was I, of course, but Nathan must have believed I was. There could be no other reason for him to give up his search for me. So as silly as the saying was, in light of Colonel Brandon’s revelation, I expected to be bombarded with such strange feelings. An eerie hollowness, a profound cavernous fear of an empty, waiting grave. Instead, I sensed only peace. In some ways, I’d been waiting for months to be taken away, tugged by force back to the church that seemed so intent on holding captive its members.

Now I was free—as free as I could be until my actual death.

As a result, I took to spending nearly as much time as I possibly could outside my little room. I walked and I walked, surging with a new energy born from the brisk breeze and sweet spring air. In fact, I might have lived my entire day among the piles of rubble and abandoned fire pits with the soldiers if I hadn’t been confronted one particularly warm day by Private Lambert.

“Mrs. Fox, ma’am, if you wouldn’t mind, I need to ask you . . . well, we—the company—would like to request, if you wouldn’t mind . . .” He stammered and blushed, crushing his hat in his hands as he shifted from foot to foot.

“What is it, Private?”

“Some of the men, they haven’t had a chance to do their washing pretty much all winter.”

“And they want me to be their laundress?”

“No, ma’am. Nothing like that at all. They’ll do their own washing. Thing is, they need to wash themselves, too.” He grabbed the back of his neck, twisting and turning in an effort to look anywhere but directly at me. “We was going to bring the washtubs outside. . . .”

“Ah, and you’d like me to stay inside.”

“If you wouldn’t mind, ma’am.”

I don’t think I’ve ever heard anybody make such a celebration of a wash day. While my curiosity was not remotely piqued, I did lend an indulgent ear to the sounds coming from the yard outside. Laughter, mostly, and other bits of conversation I’m sure they would never have let loose had they known I could hear them, let alone had I been out among them. I hadn’t seen Colonel Brandon at all that day—for that matter, I hadn’t seen him in several days—which might have contributed to the general sense of revelry.

Not long after, an agreement of sorts sounded from the men outside as scattered bits of noise joined together in one collective, victorious shout. It was a familiar sound, one that I associated with my previous stay, before my time in Salt Lake City. The shouting became distinct.

“Mail call!”

This, then, another hope for spring. Never mind the tiny shoots of new grass, the songs of birds, the days warm enough to roll your sleeves.

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