The Abolitionist's Daughter by Diane C. McPhail

Author:Diane C. McPhail
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2019-02-12T05:00:00+00:00

BOOK THREE: ENDURANCE

1861–1863

CHAPTER 22

Ginny jammed a stick of wood into the steadying fire. Her angular shoulders drooped above the long sag of her body. She closed the firebox, letting it clang. Her exhaustion mired her; she could not recover from the too-long night preparing Charles’s and Hammond’s ruined bodies. There had followed, without respite, the equally long day of wretched burials. Most nights since, she had slept in heavy unrest, waking more tired than when she lay down. She was steeped in death. To rouse herself, Ginny hummed, low and soft at first. Her voice swelled as she straightened to roll out the biscuits. Her humming and the rolling melded. The rhythm was comfort.

“Gin?” Rosa Claire stood in the doorway, a stuffed rag doll hanging at her side, feet bare, her nightgown askew.

“How you get out here to this kitchen all by yourself?” Ginny said.

No answer.

Ginny lay down the rolling pin and knelt, her aching arms outstretched. Glum, Rosa Claire twisted her feet.

“Come on, honey. Ginny got you.”

Rosa Claire rose on tiptoe. The still-baby face brightened as she flew across the floor.

“Where your mama, child?”

No answer. Rosa Claire nestled her head on Ginny’s shoulder. She tucked her doll tight under her arm and sucked her thumb. Ginny snuggled the little girl in one elbow while she stamped out rounds of biscuit.

“You all right, baby. Ginny got you now.”

With her free hand, Ginny laid the raw biscuits one after another in orderly rows on a buttered baking sheet. She folded the scraps of dough, patted them, rolled them again. Rocking the child on her hip, Ginny stamped out three more biscuits and added them to the pan. She offered a pinch of raw dough to Rosa Claire. The little girl shook her head. Ginny popped the fragment of dough into her own mouth, sucking at its savory-sweet flavor.

“Ginny gone put you down now, baby. Got to slide these biscuits in. You stand way out behind me now so you don’t get burnt. That’s a good girl.”

Adeline appeared and scooped up the child. Observing the breakfast progress, she laid her hand on Ginny’s shoulder.

“Emily hasn’t moved,” Adeline said, and left the room.

Breakfast done, Ginny sat by the kitchen fire, gathering herself for the task ahead. After a while she stood and made her way into the house.

The hinges creaked as Ginny opened the bedroom door. The press of the room assailed her: stale air, disheveled bedding, lank strands of matted hair across the coarse ticking of the pillow. The pillowcase, with its incongruous flowered embroidery, lay wadded on the floor. Ginny hardly responded to the tug on her skirts, then twisted and knelt, shielding Rosa Claire from seeing her mother. Ginny wrapped her arms around the girl, nuzzled her cheek, and whispered, “You go on out to the porch now, honey. And don’t make no noise doing it. Mama’s asleep.”

Ginny smoothed the collar of Rosa Claire’s jacket. She stood and propelled the child toward the porch, monitoring her faltering steps. Rosa Claire turned back, a silent plea on her little face, but Ginny shooed her on.

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