was only because her appetite had diminished when Ned left. She touched her stomach. What would her father say? She crossed her arms over her waist protectively: she could endure the shame. Ned had suffered worse.
Ned . Her heart picked up immediately as her body and mind entered into a familiar dialogue. Something must have happened. Ned would never not write her for such an extended period of time, no matter how hectic things became. She remembered that when the news had come about Tom, Mrs. Jeffries said sheâd already known. That sheâd been washing the floors and suddenly the lye smelled differently and there wasnât enough air to breathe, and sheâd known her son was gone. Meg pictured Nedâs face, the way his gray eyes changed colors depending on his mood or the weather. Would I feel differently if something happened? she wondered. She put her hands on her stomach again and closed her eyes, trying to see if she felt anything. She wanted to think she would feel it if he had died or was hurt or ill.
. . .
It was a Tuesday when she got the news. She knew it was a Tuesday because on Tuesdays she did the laundry, and she was hanging the clothes to dry when Mr. RobertsâNedâs fatherâappeared. His face was ashen. Her own father was close at his heels, eyes downcast. Meg felt the ground sway as she dropped a clothespin.
âMegââ Mr. Roberts took off his hat and twisted it in his hands. She couldnât bring herself to look at him; with his kind gray eyes and wavy brown hair, Ned looked so like him. âMeg, please sit down. Iâm afraid Iââ his voice broke. He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead, distressed.
âMeg.â Her father came forward and took her firmly by the arm. He sat her down on a nearby wooden bench, taking her face in his hands. âMy poor child.â He shook his head. He looked away as the tears came, running silently down his face.
âNo.â Megâs voice was quiet. âNo!â She looked, pleading, at Nedâs father. âPlease, Mr. Roberts.â Her hands shook as she brought them together in her lap. âPlease tell me that youâre not here to tell meâ¦that. He is well? Perhaps just a bit ill again, or injured?â Her eyes searched his face, frantic for some sign of hope.
âIâm sorry, my girl.â He took a deep breath and regained some of his composure. âI am truly sorry. But our Ned, heâs gone.â He patted her self-consciously on the forearm.
âGone?â
âIt was a heroâs death.â Mr. Robertâs voice was feeble. âHe died rescuing another boy whoâd been shotâ¦â His voice trailed off.
âThank you for telling me.â Meg stood up quickly, avoiding eye contact. âMy condolences to you and Mrs. Roberts.â She needed to get away, to be alone with her pain. She felt selfish, but she didnât want to comfort Henry Roberts, to sacrifice her own tears on the altar of his loss. She didnât want to compare and wonder whose loss was greater. She turned hurriedly, tripping over the laundry pile. Reflexively, her hands flew to her stomach, and her eyes met Nedâs fatherâs as he looked sharply at her abdomen. His eyes widened.
âMeg, wait.â She could hear him beckoning her to come back, but feigned deafness. Instead, she ran. Her father shouted something, but she ignored him, too, and ran faster. The kitchen smelled of baking bread when she reached it, and it sickened her. It smelled sweeter than usual, almost like overripe fruit on the verge of decay. It penetrated her senses, and she retched. She wondered how long he had been gone, without her knowing. Was it days or weeks? A month? She retched again, stumbling to her bedroom.
She wasnât sure how much time had passed when her father knocked on the door. âMeg?â He opened the door a crack. âI fetched you some
Ned . Her heart picked up immediately as her body and mind entered into a familiar dialogue. Something must have happened. Ned would never not write her for such an extended period of time, no matter how hectic things became. She remembered that when the news had come about Tom, Mrs. Jeffries said sheâd already known. That sheâd been washing the floors and suddenly the lye smelled differently and there wasnât enough air to breathe, and sheâd known her son was gone. Meg pictured Nedâs face, the way his gray eyes changed colors depending on his mood or the weather. Would I feel differently if something happened? she wondered. She put her hands on her stomach again and closed her eyes, trying to see if she felt anything. She wanted to think she would feel it if he had died or was hurt or ill.
. . .
It was a Tuesday when she got the news. She knew it was a Tuesday because on Tuesdays she did the laundry, and she was hanging the clothes to dry when Mr. RobertsâNedâs fatherâappeared. His face was ashen. Her own father was close at his heels, eyes downcast. Meg felt the ground sway as she dropped a clothespin.
âMegââ Mr. Roberts took off his hat and twisted it in his hands. She couldnât bring herself to look at him; with his kind gray eyes and wavy brown hair, Ned looked so like him. âMeg, please sit down. Iâm afraid Iââ his voice broke. He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead, distressed.
âMeg.â Her father came forward and took her firmly by the arm. He sat her down on a nearby wooden bench, taking her face in his hands. âMy poor child.â He shook his head. He looked away as the tears came, running silently down his face.
âNo.â Megâs voice was quiet. âNo!â She looked, pleading, at Nedâs father. âPlease, Mr. Roberts.â Her hands shook as she brought them together in her lap. âPlease tell me that youâre not here to tell meâ¦that. He is well? Perhaps just a bit ill again, or injured?â Her eyes searched his face, frantic for some sign of hope.
âIâm sorry, my girl.â He took a deep breath and regained some of his composure. âI am truly sorry. But our Ned, heâs gone.â He patted her self-consciously on the forearm.
âGone?â
âIt was a heroâs death.â Mr. Robertâs voice was feeble. âHe died rescuing another boy whoâd been shotâ¦â His voice trailed off.
âThank you for telling me.â Meg stood up quickly, avoiding eye contact. âMy condolences to you and Mrs. Roberts.â She needed to get away, to be alone with her pain. She felt selfish, but she didnât want to comfort Henry Roberts, to sacrifice her own tears on the altar of his loss. She didnât want to compare and wonder whose loss was greater. She turned hurriedly, tripping over the laundry pile. Reflexively, her hands flew to her stomach, and her eyes met Nedâs fatherâs as he looked sharply at her abdomen. His eyes widened.
âMeg, wait.â She could hear him beckoning her to come back, but feigned deafness. Instead, she ran. Her father shouted something, but she ignored him, too, and ran faster. The kitchen smelled of baking bread when she reached it, and it sickened her. It smelled sweeter than usual, almost like overripe fruit on the verge of decay. It penetrated her senses, and she retched. She wondered how long he had been gone, without her knowing. Was it days or weeks? A month? She retched again, stumbling to her bedroom.
She wasnât sure how much time had passed when her father knocked on the door. âMeg?â He opened the door a crack. âI fetched you some
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