CHAPTER 3 – IN FLAGRANTE DELICTO

28 NOVEMBER 1850

A nagging sense of foreboding whispered of the impending storm the other evening, but I did not heed its warning.

In search of tea, I had stumbled into the kitchen, the dying embers casting shadows that danced like phantoms in the gloom. The sight that greeted me, obscured by the flickering light and the haze of exhaustion, sent a jolt of shock and disbelief.

Discovering my son and Ellen entwined on Sally’s cot shattered any illusion of normalcy. They were beneath a quilt, but I saw enough. I grabbed a broom, a weapon against the betrayal threatening to tear our family apart.

“Mother! Stop!” Rufus’s voice boomed as he emerged from the cot, his pants undone but revealing nothing indecent. He held up his hand and wrested the broom away from me. “When you mentioned today that I would be going off to school soon, I waited until everyone was asleep to tell Ellen. She became distraught, and I was comforting her!”

“Comforting her!” I exclaimed, unable to comprehend the situation. With all my strength, I slapped Rufus, and in my fury, I also backhanded Ellen as she got out of the makeshift bed, her blouse undone.

Rufus’s desperate plea for understanding and forgiveness reverberated against the walls. The sharp sting of betrayal and fury echoed like a thunderclap, a harsh reminder of pain and anguish beneath the surface.

As the whirlwind of emotions and accusations swirled, I felt the ground shift beneath my feet with vertigo and disorientation overwhelming my senses. The world spun around me, shadows merging with light, until everything faded into darkness, a void swallowing me whole and plunging me into the abyss of unconsciousness.

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The dawn broke with a hazy light filtering through the curtains in the bedchamber where I lay, disoriented and weary. The touch of my husband’s palm on my forehead brought a sense of solace amidst the fog.

“John?” My voice was a whisper, a fragile thread of sound that hung in the air between us, laden with unspoken questions and fears. His finger on my lips silenced the words that threatened to spill forth, a silent command to remain still and listen.

“Darling, stay still. You fell in the kitchen and hit your head before I found you. You will be alright, but you gave me quite a scare!”

I reached back and touched the base of my skull, which action made me woozy. There was a bandage upon it.

“Louisa,” he said, taking my hand and placing it on my lap, “you mustn’t touch your wound. Dr. Parrish cleaned the cut after I trimmed some of your hair and applied the bandage. He told me to keep a close eye on you and will return within the hour to check on your progress.”

As he spoke, his words a soothing balm to my frazzled nerves, the memory of the fall came flooding back.

The weight of his gaze, the depth of concern and love that shone in his hazel eyes, enveloped me in a cocoon of warmth and security. His hand on mine grounded me in the present moment, a lifeline in the stormy sea.

“Rufus?” I asked, concerned.

The coarse texture of the bedsheets beneath my fingertips offered little comfort in the face of the unknown. My eyes sought John’s, my silent plea for reassurance hanging like a fragile thread of hope.

“Darling Louisa, please stay still and do not speak. Joe and the girls were with you when I arrived, as was Sally, who was wringing her hands and wailing. But Rufus must have stepped out.”

The mention of Rufus, his absence a glaring omission in the narrative, sent a nagging sense of worry gnawing at the edges of my consciousness.

I gazed into my husband’s eyes and mouthed the word, “How?”

“Joe placed you on Sally’s pallet. Our dutiful son heard a noise and came to the kitchen, where he found you on the floor. I had just returned from my journey and followed the commotion. Joseph insisted on carrying you here to our bedchamber, reminding me that my old back might not bring you here safely.”

John injured his back while loading a cotton gin onto the wagon. He forgets he is fifty-two and others to handle such tasks.

“Janie woke up and told me that Mattie Lou was in the library, running a fever and having stomach troubles. Dr. Parrish checked on her, too, but informed us she will be fine in a day or two. I asked Janie to stay with her and instructed Sally to tend to the fire and whatever else they need. Then I sent Joe to find Ellen.”

I winced. John must have thought it was from my wound, but I was remembering what happened before I fell.

Ellen entered the room, head bowed, not saying a word as my husband told her to fetch more wood. She hurried out.

Oh, dear! I thought. What shall I tell John?

After my family dispersed to their respective destinations, and between bouts of slumber, I asked Sally to bring this journal and writing instruments to me, along with my lap desk. I penned the events of yesterday and today, trying to piece the fragments together. The crackling of the fire mingled with the sound of Ellen and Sally moving about the kitchen, their hushed whispers a symphony of bustling activity.

Ellen, whose presence had been a source of comfort and joy, now stood at the center of a storm. The bond we shared now felt strained and fragile, a delicate thread that threatens to unravel at the slightest touch.

As I stirred again from my slumber, my sweetheart’s form shifted beside my bed, his hand brushing aside my lap desk and toppling my pen. Fortunately, the ink was dry upon the nib and the inkwell was safely stowed. With a tenderness that belied the storm of emotions raging within me, he offered me a cup of water, a simple gesture laden with unspoken care. A wave of nausea washed over me, a physical manifestation of the turmoil.

As tears welled up in my eyes, my husband’s expression softened with empathy and understanding. His presence was a solace in the face of the unknown.

My hands trembling—whether from apprehension or weakness, I know not—I  recounted the events of the previous night. John’s reaction reflected both concern and anger.

His voice reverberated through the walls and floors of the old house. “How did we not see the consequence of our inaction?”

“Where is Rufus?” I inquired yet again.

Sally, her apron stained with the remnants of her labor in the kitchen, emerged from the depths of the house, her footsteps echoing in the hallway. At our threshold, she paused. “Master, shall I look for him?”

“Yes. Yes, indeed!”

The creak of the stairs beneath her feet added a layer of suspense to the unfolding drama. The hollow sound of her knuckles rapping on Rufus’s door, then the brief pause before she returned with news of his absence, sent a chill down my spine, a knot of fear and worry tightening in my chest.

Rufus’s disappearance unleashed a flood of tears that I could no longer contain. The raw emotion that spilled forth washed over me like a tidal wave, leaving me gasping for breath in its wake.

As I drifted in and out of a fitful sleep, the awareness of my son’s presence stirred me from my troubled dreams. John was gone, so we were alone. He sat nearby with bowed head and tear-streaked cheeks, mirroring the anguish that gnawed at my heart. Raw emotion spilled forth in his plea for understanding and forgiveness, while love and pain warred within me.

I pulled myself up, a cautionary tale resting on my shoulders.

“I tell you this, son, because I am not one who wishes to hide from truth, even when I do not care to see it,” I began. “But it is, of course, impossible to ever admit your feelings for Ellen.”

I gripped the quilt and gestured for Rufus to help me pull it up. He appeared relieved to offer me any reprieve from the anguish he was causing me.

I continued. “You cannot ever be married to her. And without the sanctified marital state, you will never find peace. I doubt you ever shall, anyway.”

Just then, John re-entered the room, his presence a sudden interruption. Rufus, his eyes filled with a mix of guilt and defiance, began to rise, but his father’s firm voice stopped him in his tracks. “Bring in another chair from the dining room,” John instructed him, his tone grave and commanding.

As Rufus left the chamber to fetch it, a silent tension re-emerged. When he returned, his movements slow and deliberate, his father gestured for him to sit, his expression stern and unwavering. “This, son, is a very serious matter.”