Secrets of the Morning (Cutler 2)

Visions of the baby provided my only pleasant moments. Sometimes I would stop whatever I was doing and place both my palms over my stomach. I'd close my eyes and imagine the baby's little face. In my mind I saw a girl. She had my blond hair, but Michael's dark

sapphire eyes. She had a robust little pink face and a happy disposition. I couldn't wait for the moment when I would hold her in my arms.

Despite the horrid circumstances and the tragic blows dealt me by the hand of fate, I foresaw only good things after the baby's birth. She would precipitate a change of luck. Somehow, I would make us a good life together and she would grow up to be beautiful and good. I could daydream for hours and hours about the two of us walking hand in hand in the sunshine on some beautiful beach.

Of course, I began to think about names. I had considered naming her after Momma Longchamp, but now I decided she should have an identity free of anyone else, an identity purely her own. Every chance I got, I thumbed through the dusty old volumes in the library, searching for unique names. One afternoon, Miss Emily caught me doing so.

"What are you looking for in those books?" she demanded, her eyes small and suspicious. "There are no erotic or provocative passages in my books."

"That's not what I'm trying to find," I said. "If you must know, I'm thinking about names for my baby."

She smirked.

"If it's a girl, call her Chastity or Virtue. She will have enough to overcome as it is. If it's a boy, name him after one of the disciples."

I didn't reply. There was no question I would reject any names she suggested. I liked the name Christie for a girl, but I was no longer sure what to call it, if it was a boy. As I mused over it, I realized Michael had never gone over names with me. I should have been more suspicious when he didn't have a proud father's interest from the start. I couldn't help wondering about him still. I was sure he was starring in some new spring production by now.

According to Luther, spring was late this year in the South and that played havoc with the planting. Days didn't finally warm up until the beginning of April, even though trees had formed buds and grass had begun to turn green. However, I didn't have much chance to appreciate the nicer weather, the birds and blossoming flowers anyway. Miss Emily's list of chores usually kept me busy all day. And despite the warmer days and nights, the great plantation house didn't seem to be any less cold to me. It was as if the sunlight pouring through the windows when the curtains were open lost strength the moment it entered this dark, brooding house.

By the time I entered the seventh month, I had grown quite large and I began to experience a shortness of breath during physical exertion. Miss Emily, although claiming constantly to be an experienced midwife, didn't reduce my chores. She continued to insist I get down on my hands and knees to scrub floors and move heavy furniture to dust and polish. If anything, she increased my load.

One morning, after I had finished washing the dishes, pots and pans and scrubbed the kitchen floor, she came in to inspect my work. I was so exhausted from the effort that I was still sitting on the floor, holding my stomach and taking deep breaths. She stood towering beside me, gazing down at me and what I had completed.

"Didn't you empty the pail now and then in order to use clean water?" she inquired.

"Yes, Miss Emily," I said. "I did as I usually do, using three pails full."

"Humph," she said, walking slowly over the kitchen floor. "This floor doesn't look as if it's been touched."

"It's a very old and worn floor, Miss Emily," I said.

"Don't try to blame your incompetence on the floor," she shot back. "From here," she said, making an invisible line with her toe, "to the end, it has to be redone."

"Redone? But why?"

"Because you used soiled water and simply ground in more dirt as you went along. How do you expect us to come in here to eat with a floor this filthy?" she said, her mouth twisted, her eyes filled with fire. How furious and ugly she could become, I thought.

"But I have furniture to polish and you told me to wash the windows in the library today and . . ."

"I don't care what else you have to do. What good is your doing anything if you're going to do it poorly. Redo this floor immediately," she insisted.

"Miss Emily," I pleaded, "I'm much further along in my pregnancy. It's getting harder and harder for me. Isn't it dangerous for me to work so hard now?"

"Of course not. It's just like someone like you to think so, someone spoiled and soft. The harder you work, the stronger you will be at the time of delivery," she said.

"But I'm tired. It's more difficult for me to sleep now and . . .”

"Wash this floor immediately!" she cried, pointing down. "Or when the time comes, I'll have Luther put you in the barn to give birth with the pigs."

"I should see a doctor," I mumbled, but kept my eyes down. I wanted to say more, but I was afraid she might just do what she promised and the only thing I would accomplish would be the death of the baby.

I struggled to my feet and went to fill a new pail of water. Then I put in the soap and returned to the spot she had indicated on the floor. She stood in the doorway watching me work.

"Press down harder," she commanded, "and make wider circles when you scrub. I thought you claimed to have worked as a chambermaid in my sister's hotel."

"I did, but we never had to do this!"

"That hotel must be filthy then. So much for what my sister knows. She was always the favorite, the apple of my father's eye and never did her share. She always managed to get me or poor, stupid Charlotte to do her work. She's still managing it," Miss Emily said. "You're here. Harder. Wider circles," she repeated and pivoted out the door.