The Four Winds

Elsa waited for Mama to speak. It was obvious she was thinking something; her face was drawn into a frown, which was something she tried never to do. A lady doesn’t reveal emotions, was one of her favorite adages. Elsa had heard it every time she’d cried from loneliness or begged to be allowed to go to a dance.

Mama studied Elsa. “It couldn’t be.”

“What?”

“Have you dishonored us?”

“What?”

“Have you been with a man?”

Of course Mama could see Elsa’s secret. Every book Elsa had ever read romanticized the mother-daughter bond. Even if Mama didn’t always show her love (affection being another thing a lady should conceal), Elsa knew how bound they were.

She reached out for her mother’s hands, took them in her own, felt her mother’s instinctive flinch. “I’ve wanted to tell you. I have. I’ve been so alone with these feelings that confuse me. And he—”

Mama wrenched her hands back.

Elsa heard the gate creak open and snap shut in the quiet that had settled in between Elsa and her mother.

“Good Lord, women, why are you standing out in this vexing heat? Surely a glass of cold tea would be the ticket.”

“Your daughter is expecting,” Mama said.

“Charlotte? It’s about durn time. I thought—”

“No,” Mama snapped. “Elsinore.”

“Me?” Elsa said. Expecting?

It couldn’t be true. She and Rafe had only been together a few times. And each coupling had been so fast. Over almost before it began. Surely no child could come from that.

But what did she know of such things? A mother didn’t explain sex to her daughter until the wedding day, and Elsa had never had a wedding, so her mother had never spoken to her of passion or having children, it having been assumed Elsa would never experience any of it. All Elsa knew of sex and procreation came from novels. And, frankly, details were scarce.

“Elsa?” Papa said.

“Yes,” was her mother’s barely there answer.

Papa grabbed Elsa by the arm and yanked her close. “Who ruined you?”

“No, Papa—”

“Tell me his name right now, or as God is my witness, I will go door to door and ask every man in this town if he ruined my daughter.”

Elsa imagined that: Papa dragging her from door to door, a modern-day Hester Prynne; him banging on doors, asking men like Mr. Hurst or Mr. McLaney, Have you ruined this woman?

Sooner or later, she and her father would leave town and head out to the farms …

He would do it. She knew he would. There was no stopping her father once he’d made up his mind. “I’ll leave,” she said. “I’ll leave right now. Go out on my own.”

“It must have been … you know … a crime,” Mama said. “No man would—”

“Want me?” Elsa said, spinning to face her mother. “No man could ever want me. You’ve told me that all my life. You’ve all made sure I understood that I was ugly and unlovable, but it isn’t true. Rafe wanted me. He—”

“Martinelli,” Papa said, his voice thick with disgust. “An Eye-talian. His father bought a thresher from me this year. Sweet God. When people hear…” He shoved Elsa away from him. “Go to your room. I need to think.”

Elsa stumbled away. She wanted to say something, but what words could fix this? She walked up the porch steps and into the house.

Maria stood in the archway to the kitchen, holding a silver candlestick and a rag. “Miss Wolcott, are you all right?”