For one hour, Jonah Mercer’s house sounded almost alive.
The next morning, Viola Trask arrived.
She did not knock. Women like Viola believed every door in town belonged partly to them.
She entered carrying a basket covered with a lace cloth and wearing a lavender dress too fine for a ranch kitchen. Ruth stiffened at the table. Eliza, who was holding Mercy, went quiet.
Jonah stood from his chair.
“Mrs. Trask.”
“Jonah.” Viola’s smile was sorrowful enough to be offensive. “I have come out of concern.”
“That seems to be a busy road.”
Her smile did not move. “A man drowning in grief sometimes mistakes a stone for a rope.”
Eliza looked down at Mercy.
Jonah stepped fully between them. “Say what you came to say.”
Viola’s gaze shifted to Ruth. “Not in front of the child.”
Ruth’s chin lifted. “I can hear whispers too.”
A flash of irritation crossed Viola’s face.
“I brought broth,” she said, setting the basket on the table. “And a cordial for the nerves. Clara trusted it. She took it often when she was delicate.”
Jonah frowned. “Clara took cordial from you?”
“Only when needed.”
He did not like the answer.
Eliza liked it less.
“What kind of cordial?” she asked.
Viola turned slowly. “Not the kind shared with servants.”
“Eliza is not a servant,” Ruth said.
The room froze.
Jonah looked at his daughter.
Ruth looked frightened by her own courage but did not take it back.
Viola’s nostrils flared. “How quickly children can be turned.”
“No one turned her,” Eliza said. “She has her own mind.”
“And you have no place here.”
Jonah’s voice dropped. “Enough.”
But Viola was looking at Eliza now, and all the honey had drained from her face.
“You think feeding a motherless child makes you holy? You think stepping into Clara’s kitchen, wearing your grief like a shawl, will make this town forget what follows you?”
Eliza went pale, but she did not bend.
“No,” she said. “I think a baby was hungry.”
Viola leaned closer. “Babies die around you.”
Jonah moved so fast his chair scraped backward.
“Leave.”
Viola looked at him with wounded astonishment. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said leave.”
“I was Clara’s blood.”
“And Eliza is Mercy’s food. Right now, that gives her more claim to this house than your gossip.”
Ruth stared at her father.
So did Eliza.
Viola’s mouth tightened into a thin, colorless line. She picked up her gloves but left the basket.
“You will be sorry for this,” she said.
Jonah held the door open. “I already am. Just not for the reason you think.”
She walked out.
No one spoke until her buggy wheels rattled away.
Then Ruth whispered, “Is she a bad woman?”
Jonah looked at the basket on the table.
“I don’t know what she is.”
Eliza did.
She did not say it yet.
Three days later, Mercy stopped breathing.
Not all at once.
That would have been kinder.
It happened after supper, while rain tapped the windows and Ruth was reading aloud from a primer beside the stove. Eliza had fed Mercy an hour earlier. The baby had seemed well, drowsy but warm, her fists opening and closing in sleep.
Then Ruth stopped reading.
“Miss Eliza?”
Eliza looked up.
Ruth was staring into the cradle.
“She sounds funny.”
Jonah came in from the porch, shaking rain from his hat. “What is it?”
Mercy made a small wet gasp.
Eliza crossed the room and lifted her. The baby’s body felt wrong—too loose, too heavy. Her mouth glistened. Her eyelids fluttered but did not open.
“Jonah,” Eliza said.
He heard the change in her voice and went cold.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know.”
He took one step closer. “She was fine.”
“Yes.”
“She fed?”
“Yes.”
The question was ordinary.
The accusation beneath it was not.
Eliza looked at him.
His face changed as he realized what fear had made him imply.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “You did.”
Mercy gagged.
There was no time for hurt.
Eliza turned the baby carefully over her arm and swept a finger inside her cheek. “Ruth, bring the lamp closer. Jonah, get Dr. Harlan.”
“I’m not leaving her.”
Eliza’s head snapped up. “Then lose her while you stand here being a father in your heart and a fool with your feet.”
Ruth gasped.
Jonah ran.
Eliza worked with a calm she did not feel. She cleared Mercy’s mouth, rubbed her back, counted breaths, whispered nonsense and prayer and instructions all tangled together. Ruth stood beside her holding the lamp with both hands, crying silently.
“Did she eat anything?” Eliza asked.
Ruth shook her head too fast.
“Ruth.”
The girl’s eyes darted toward the pantry.
Eliza’s stomach sank.
“What did she have?”
“Nothing.”
“Ruth.”
The child broke.
“Mrs. Trask said it was only a drop.”
Eliza went very still.
“What was?”
“She said babies need help sleeping sometimes. She said Mama used it. She said Mercy was restless because the house was upset.” Ruth sobbed. “She said not to tell Papa because he would be angry. She said you would blame me.”