Page 62 of The Heart’s Charge

Eliza adjusted her grip on the reins. “Dr. Hampton.”

Fern nodded. “He’d called on me a couple of times after the birthing to check on my healing and give instructions to the ladies overseeing my care. So I went to his office and asked him to tell me everything he could about my baby. He assured me my daughter was well. That she’d been taken to Harmony House, and that a wet nurse had been found. But his answers didn’t satisfy. He urged me to come see for myself, but I couldn’t. I just . . . couldn’t.” She shook her head as if she still didn’t believe it a good idea, even though she was on a wagon barely a mile from where her daughter was being fostered.

Then she grasped her purse, which sat on the bench between them, and pulled it onto her lap. She unfastened the clasp and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “That’s when the doctor gave me this letter.” She unfolded the page, smoothed it against her legs, and inhaled a long, shaky breath. “From Wendell’s mother. The doctor had written to her about the baby. About me.”

Jonah had told Eliza as much. Said the doctor hoped the Dawsons might provide a home for Fern and the child. Or at least the child. But how would they react to a daughter-in-law they barely knew? To a child they might be too old to care for themselves? What if they had health problems? Or were harsh taskmasters? Or were lazy and overindulgent in nature?

“I was afraid to read the letter at first,” Fern said, “sure it would be full of blame and anger. How could it not? I’d only met them twice. At the wedding and then three months ago at the funeral. They’d offered to stay a few days and help around the house, but I sent them away. I couldn’t bear hearing Yancy’s voice when it sounded so much like my Wendell’s. And his face—he had the same eyes, the same cleft in his chin. It hurt too much to look at him.

“But when I read Myrna’s letter, there was no hate in evidence. No anger. No blame. Only the most amazing grace.” She ran her fingers along the words inked onto the page. “I’ve read this a dozen times and still find it hard to believe.”

She met Eliza’s gaze. “They’ve made up a room for me in their home. Invited me to live with them. Said I was family and that I could stay as long as I liked. Even permanently, if I wished.” Fern swallowed. “Myrna said that Dr. Hampton had explained about my . . . complications following the birth. About how the baby was with a wet nurse while I . . . recovered. She’s already talked to one of the young mothers at her church, and that woman has agreed to nurse my daughter along with her own should I decide to move to Houston.”

A chance to rebuild her family. Not many were given such an opportunity.

“They are coming next week.”

“So soon?” Eliza asked as she steered Bessie and Tessie onto the side road that led to Tildy James’s house.

Fern shrugged. “They’re probably anxious to meet their granddaughter.” She ran her hand over the letter a final time, then carefully folded the page and slipped it back into her purse. “I decided I better meet her first. See if what they proposed was even possible.”

“Remember what I said earlier, Fern. With God—”

“—all things are possible. I know. I’m just not sure I believe it yet.”

“Well, I guess today’s as good a day as any to start.” Eliza grinned.

A tiny smile curled the edges of Fern’s mouth, proving she wanted to believe, she just needed some practice.

“Now,” Eliza said, turning the conversation to more practical matters, “don’t take it personally if little Sarah cries when you hold her. Crying is what babies do. She’ll get used to you quick enough. She was part of you for nine months. She’ll remember.”

“You call her Sarah?” Fern’s nose wrinkled slightly.

Either she didn’t care for the name or it bothered her that someone besides her had selected it. Well, Eliza’s sympathy only stretched so far, and here was where it stopped. “Every child deserves a name,” Eliza said, perhaps a little more forcefully than gentleness dictated. “When your daughter came to us, she didn’t have one, so Mr. Wallace named her after his mother.”

Bessie tossed her head and snorted at the front of the wagon, bringing Eliza’s awareness to her too-tight grip on the reins. She relaxed her hold, offering a silent apology to her ponies and her Lord. Passion for the children in her care served her well most of the time, but perhaps this particular instance called more for compassion than conviction.

“Of course,” she said, taking pains to soften her voice, “if you take the babe back into your keeping, you may name her whatever you like. Did you and Wendell have a name picked out?”

Fern shook her head. “No. And after he passed, I stopped caring.”

“But you don’t like the name Sarah.”

Fern’s nose wrinkled again. “No. I had an Aunt Sarah who took me in after my parents died. She was a miserable old hag who was impossible to please. When I met Wendell, I couldn’t escape fast enough.”

Eliza spotted the James homestead and turned the team down the short drive.

Fern sat up straight, smoothed her bodice, and lifted a hand to her hair. “I do like the idea of honoring the man who brought my daughter into the world and kept her safe for me, though. Just not with the name Sarah. What is his first name?”

“Mark.” Eliza chuckled. “Doesn’t really lend itself to a little girl, does it? I guess you could call her Marcia.”

Another wrinkled nose. Apparently Marcia didn’t sit well either.

“You’ve got time to decide,” Eliza assured her as she halted the wagon and set the brake. “Why don’t you wait until you see her? Maybe the perfect name will come to you.”

Fern tucked her handkerchief inside her sleeve and ran her palms over her skirt. “I . . . I don’t know if I’m ready.”

Eliza patted her hand. “No first-time mother is ever ready.”