The Marriage Cure Read online

  Chapter Four

  Sabetha Mahoney Trahern

  His tears did not shock her; she knew from the first that he carried heavy burdens and she hoped that his release eased his grief a measure. After that night, he continued to improve although his progress was slow. She fed him everything she could find, milk from the Jersey, eggs from her hens, scrambled in butter that she churned, cornbread, potatoes from her stash mashed with cream and butter, fried rabbit, broths, and even fish from the river. Sometimes she gave him a wee sip of Henry’s whiskey, just to strengthen him.

  As the woods blossomed into full spring, she hunted greens and fed him those, too, although he made faces and fussed at the greens. He liked the cornmeal mush better, sweetened with honey, and best of all the tender wild mushrooms, morels she found in hidden spots in the hills above the river, soaked in salt water, washed, then dipped in egg and cornmeal and fried.

  Johnny spent his first week of convalescence propped with pillows and blankets. He used the china chamber pot she carried from Kentucky for his necessary business, never asking how she handled it during his illness. That was just as well; she doubted he would want to know she diapered him much like an infant. Each day, he seemed a bit stronger and more color washed away the terrible pallor of his illness. Although he sometimes joked and had almost grinned more than once, she had yet to see him smile.

  He spoke no more of the trail where they cried and little about his lost family but they talked often, making conversation in the long hours and she saved up little things to tell him as she went about her chores. One day it was the tiny bird’s nest she found filled with delicate eggs, another time it was the copperhead that crossed her path on the way to the spring, and often she brought some small thing to show him, a strange rock, or a stone sparkling with mica.

  When she tended the cow, hoed the corn, or weeded her garden, Johnny tied snares for her, far better snares than the clumsy ones she made. Using his snares, she brought home more small game than she had before, mostly rabbits and squirrels.

  At his urging, she pulled some of the wild onions to flavor their food, even scrambled them with eggs. She foraged for wild garlic, cress, mustard, and even the first tiny but sweet red clover heads.

  “Would there be more cornbread?” Johnny asked, scraping the plate with his spoon. He now could feed himself and hold a cup while he drank.

  “There is,” Sabetha said, pleased that he both had such appetite and that he liked her cooking. “Did ye want more butter too?”

  “I do,” he replied. “And a wee bit of honey if ye have more.”

  Sabetha smiled. He knew that she did, had heard the tale of how she found a bee tree last fall. She added the cornbread to his plate, slathered it with butter from the day’s churning, and dribbled honey over it. He lifted it to his mouth and took a huge bite.

  “Wado, Sabetha.”

  She now knew that meant “thank you” and gave him back a smile. He was not self-conscious any more about dropping words from Tsa-La-Gi into conversation and she sometimes knew what the simplest ones meant.

  “Ye’re welcome, Johnny. ‘Tis good to see ye eat.”

  He finished the bread and for a moment, she thought he would lick the plate but did not. Instead, he looked up at her with those fine dark eyes, melting her heart and asked, “Wouldn’t it be even better to see me out of bed and in a chair?”

  “It would,” Sabetha said. “Tomorrow we’ll try it, then.”

  “And not today?”

  “’Tis late,” she said and it was. Dark outside and she had not yet brought the night water from the spring. “I’m tired and ye must be too. I’ll go to the spring and then if you want a song or two, we can sing, then I need to sleep.”

  Since dawn, she’d hoed weeds from the corn, set snares, and caught one fat rabbit, which she skinned, dressed, and then cooked. Sabetha had also rubbed wool wax into his fading rash, emptied the pot more than once, milked the cow, churned the butter and she had still to bring the water up, and then wash their few dishes. She stifled a yawn as she rose from the rocker, both plates and spoons in one hand.

  “Where do ye sleep?” Johnny asked, eyes dark and serious now.

  “What?” His unexpected question rattled her.

  “Where do ye sleep? There is but the one bed and I’m in it, day and night. Have ye slept in that rocking chair for the last three weeks, woman?”

  She had, waking stiff each morning with a crick in her neck that dogged her all morning.

  “Aye. ‘Tis no bother, Johnny.”

  “It is,” he said with a sigh. “Don’t I feel useless enough without taking the bed so ye can’t rest?”

  “I’ll not take the bed from a sick man,” Sabetha said, uncertain where he might be taking the conversation. “There’s no place else for ye to lay your head.”

  “That’s what I mean,” Johnny said. “Ye’ve no place to rest but ye work hard all the day while I lay here like a gentleman and then ye don’t rest easy.”

  “And what else would I do then?” He might not mean to do it but his questions irritated her.

  “Ye’d sleep in this bed,” Johnny said. “Ye would share it with me. I’m in no shape to do more than sleep and then ye could rest. ‘Twould be warmer, too, I’m thinking.”

  Sabetha wavered between shock and mirth but laughter won. She grew up sharing a bed with her siblings, lined together like a litter of pups in a box. Even up to the day, she wed Henry, she did not sleep alone, and she doubted Johnny had enjoyed that luxury either. Until widowed, she had never slept solitary and though the idea of sleeping beside a man who was neither kin nor husband might edge toward sin, she trusted him and there was no one to judge.

  “Warmer?” she said, laughing. “Aye, it might be warmer in the depths of hell, too, I’m thinking but I’ll share the bed with ye. I trust ye and ye’ve not the strength to do more than sleep.”

  “Nay, but I’ll sleep easier knowing ye are not bowed up in the chair,” Johnny said and she thought he almost smiled.

  By the time she carried up the water and cleaned their few dishes, his eyes drooped with pending sleep so she lowered him prone and without singing, she slipped in beside him, glad that Henry had made the bed broad and that she had stuffed the mattress full of soft corn shucks. For the first time since he came, she laid her weary body down, such a relief. She relaxed at the familiar comfort of another body beside her, something she had not known for twelve months now.

  She meant to sing to him, one song but instead, she drifted into sleep, her hand touching Johnny, reassurance that he was still there and safe. Just as she faded away, she thought she heard him whisper,

  “Oiche mhaith.”

  “Good night, then.” She thought she spoke aloud but whether she did or not, she did not know.

  ****

  Johnny Devaney

  He woke early, eager to be up and out of bed but Sabetha rose even earlier, gone from the bed already. Johnny could still feel the lingering warmth where she had lain, though, and when he squinted, peering around the cabin to find her, she was there, stirring up the fire. As the flames flared from the smoored ashes, the firelight highlighted her pretty hair and he liked that.

  “Bean, I’m ready,” he called to her and she turned.

  “Don’t ye want to have some tea and eat a bite first?” She said, and then cocked her head as if she considered it. “Well, maybe it’s best not to eat should ye puke. All right then.”

  He pushed up on both elbows and she steadied him with one arm, lifting, then guiding him so that he could swing his feet to dangle from the bed. As he moved, the room shifted, titled and then his head whirled. Brilliant light filled his eyes and he could not see but he did not care. Johnny fought the dizziness that swelled over him, threatening to drown him and take him into darkness. His empty belly rolled and he was glad he had not eaten. He shut his eyes but it did not help.

  “A Dhia,” he muttered.

  Sabetha sat beside him and he leaned agains
t her, grateful for her support. She had one arm about his waist and to steady himself, he put his left arm across her shoulders. His breath came hard and he gasped for air, willing the awful vertigo to still. Her voice drifted over him, soothing but he felt too woozy to make out the words. For a moment, he knew he would spew, empty belly or no, and then the nausea passed. As the giddy feeling began to subside, he heard her now with clarity.

  “There, now. It’ll pass soon enough. Will ye be sick, do ye think?”

  “Nay,” he gasped.

  He must have looked as terrible as he felt for she narrowed her vision and a sharp worry line divided her forehead in half.

  “Do ye need to lay back down, Johnny?”

  That was the last thing he wanted to do and he shook his head.

  “No. I’ll do in time. I want to move to the chair.”

  Until she wiped his face with a rag, he had not realized he sweated from the effort.

  “Ye’re whiter than milk,” Sabetha said, her tone both kind and scolding. “How do ye feel?”

  “Weak and dizzy.” He was honest. “But I want to sit up a bit. It’s but two steps to the rocking chair.”

  “Ye’re sure?” She was not going to argue and that pleased him.

  “I am.”

  Her sigh heaved hard enough that he could feel the exhalation.

  “Are ye ready then?”

  “Aye.” He hoped he was for he felt he might faint.

  She stood up first, her right arm still bracing his waist and used her left hand to pull him up. “Stand up then. It’s one step, then two, and ye’re there.”

  He collapsed into the rocker, eyes blinded with brightness again, panting as if he ran a mile. The chair shifted, rocking back and forth, enough to cause a surge of dizziness. This time, he would faint, he thought, but she pushed his head down.

  “Amadon,” Sabetha said but her voice was tender. “Raise yer head up slow when ye can.”

  When he could and did, he gripped the arms of the rocker for support. Sitting up in a chair felt strange, very odd as if he had never done this before but stronger, he felt he won a victory. Once he caught his breath and the dizziness vanished, she brought him sassafras tea.

  He sipped it, glad for the warm, strong drink to spread through his body and sighed, happy.

  “Ye’re all right, then?” she asked.

  “Aye, I am.” Now that he managed the feat, he felt cocky and far more confident. She put a hand on his shoulder, and then surprised him by cupping her hand to his cheek.

  “That’s grand,” Sabetha said, smiling. “I’d never want ye to relapse.”

  He spent two hours sitting up, loving every moment, but fatigue set in, growing heavy as an unwanted blanket and even he knew he should go back to bed. He had less trouble with the three steps back, however, and managed to lie down using his own power. By then, Johnny was so tired that he wanted to do nothing more than stretch out and close his eyes so he did as she whispered,

  “Sleep then, mo chroi.”

  He woke ravenous, devouring fried rabbit and fried ‘taters with onions. Johnny finished with a cup of milk with cornbread crumbled into it, eating it with a spoon as Sabetha watched. Then he insisted on rising again, sitting in the chair for another hour. Although getting there remained strenuous, it was easier than the first time. He hoped soon to be able to go outside, to feel the wind in his face, to breathe fresh air and told her so.

  “Soon,” Sabetha promised. “Ye mustn’t run afore ye can walk, Johnny.”

  “Aye, but I can try,” he said, somnolent and satisfied.

  “Don’t,” she said. “Do ye know the song, Maidrin Ruadh?”

  “About the fox?” He loved the familiar old song, sung by his father when he bounced him on his knee. “Aye, I know it well.”

  “Won’t ye sing it with me, then?”

  So Johnny Devaney, who thought all music had been leached from his soul by tragedy, erased by bitterness, sang with Sabetha, sang the words about the feisty little fox with the fine fat goose until she broke off, laughing. A month ago, he would have said he would never sing again but here he was, singing with a beautiful woman, and alive after a terrible fever that would have killed most men. It was more than he ever hoped to have again and for the moment, too much to contemplate so he feigned fatigue and let her put him to bed where he could think.

  Although his itchy rash was almost gone, she rubbed soft wool wax over it again, her hands rubbing the creamy substance into his skin, marvelous, but he could not think deep thoughts now, could think nothing but how good her touch felt upon his skin. He was almost asleep by the time she finished, barely alert when she slipped into bed beside him but he was aware of her presence, reassured by it.

  ****

  Sabetha Mahoney Trahern

  She watched him sleep; marveling at how much better he was now, compared to the worst hours of his illness. More than anything, she wanted to see him smile but he had not yet. The good humor he often displayed, the sharp wit delighted her for Henry was humorless, unwilling to joke or laugh as unlike her father as day from night. The flashes of good craic Johnny demonstrated made her see the man he was, before, and God willing could be again, a light-hearted man with inner strength, a man of courage.

  His hunger pleased her; it was a sign he would get well. He devoured the small game and fish she brought but he should have more. Sabetha thought about sacrificing one of her chickens to the cook pot but they all were good layers and she hated to lose one. A fat turkey would be nicer, she mused, remembering where in her foraging she saw turkeys. They roosted in the top of a great walnut tree at the top of the ridge above her valley. Setting snares would take too long so in the morning, she vowed she would take down Sweet Betsy, the old flintlock rifle her Da put into her hands when she left Kentucky, and shoot a turkey.

  Although the old gun was taller than she was, a full six feet long, and heavy, Sabetha could shoot it well. Da taught her along with the boys, although it had been some time since she used it. Both shot and powder were in short supply but there would be enough to go hunting at dawn.

  Before she left in the faint milk light, Sabetha poured two thimbles full of black powder into Sweet Betsy’s muzzle, added a square of cloth, and then the lead ball. She forced it all down with the ramrod, packing it tight. She would have one shot on the ridge, after she primed the pan but it should be enough. With enough powder in hand, she crept from the cabin on bare feet, closing the door behind her without a sound. God willing, she would be back, bird in hand, long before Johnny awoke.

  Chapter Five

  Johnny Devaney

  He awakened with slow pleasure, savoring the comfort of the bed beneath him, the pillow under his head, and the heady feel of returning strength. He would get out of bed again today, maybe venture outside if he could coax Sabetha that it would do him no harm. By the time he opened his eyes fully, sunshine streamed through the chinks in the cabin wall and he realized it was very quiet, no sound in the cabin save the whisper of the fire. Wherever she was, it would not be far, he thought, and contemplated maneuvering into the rocker unaided. That would surprise her and show her that he was stronger, well enough to go outdoors.

  Just as he began to wiggle toward sitting up, the first step toward rising, he heard the unmistakable roar of a musket. He glanced above the fireplace, above the mantle shelf where an ancient flintlock rifle hung and found it gone. She was hunting, then, he thought and if she were as capable with the rifle as with all else, she would be fine. Few women he knew could handle a gun or shoot but if any woman could, it would be Sabetha.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed, prepared this time for the rush of wooziness that came and had just put his feet to the floor when he heard a scream. No bean sidhe could have screeched louder, he thought, heart pounding. With no other woman near, it was Sabetha. Without thought, he paddled across the floor, snatching up his knife from the mantle where it lay next to his clean, folded buckskins and stepped outside. />
  Johnny stopped, his breath ragged and knees shaking so hard he could barely stand. The shift from the dim cabin to the bright light of day dazzled him, disconcerted him even more than his weakness. All the wee buds and tiny leaves just bursting out when he last set foot on solid earth had exploded into a green tangle that overwhelmed him. He could not admire the greenery, though, not when she needed help.

  “Sabetha!” he shouted. “Caw duit?”

  She did not answer but he thought, head swimming, legs trembling, that he might faint before he could find her. He backed up so that he leaned against the cabin wall and tried to put his head down enough to slow the swirling brilliance that threatened to suck him under. He could feel his heart banging like a drum at a ceildh and the shirt he wore felt damp with sweat.

  He shut his eyes, willed himself not to lose consciousness. When he heard footfalls in the leaves, he opened them. Sabetha walked out of the woods, her dress dirty down one side, with the huge rifle on one arm, a large turkey in the other. She beamed, proud of her prize, whole, and sound, not hurt or in danger at all. Tears burned his eyes at the reprieve but then anger, righteous rage, took its’ place.