She Left the Babies in the Bed

She Left the Babies in the Bed Elaine Crume And She Left the Babies in Bed Copyright © 2023 by Elaine Haley All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means—whether electronic, digital, mechanical, or otherwise—without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Published by The Little French eBooks Cover design by Lea Prichard and The Little French eBooks Life hinges around singular moments, words spoken that set the tone for everything that comes after. Some of those moments leave scars on the soul forever. Contents Monday’s Child Is Fair of Face The Birthday Girl Family Secrets No Frigate Like a Book A Woman in the Nineteenth Century Jesse’s Last Adventure Settling for Less Babies and War Truth Hell Hath No Fury Escape A New Life Chicago, City of Contradiction Mephistopheles Ice and Fire A Waking Nightmare The Road Home His Sister’s Keeper Reunion Epilogue Monday’s Child Is Fair of Face It was told to me like this. She left the babies in the bed and ran off with a salesman. It was a shocking piece of ancient gossip provided to me with great delight by a distant cousin. When he first divulged the story of our mutual relative, Lydia Ross McGee had been lying dead in an unvisited grave for over a hundred years. Old news indeed, but she was kin and I was intrigued. The women in my family are fierce and outspoken, but never before had I heard of one who was notorious. I set out determined to add flesh and blood to the story of her life and answer the whys in my mind. What might compel a woman of the 1870s to leave her three young children sleeping in their beds and walk off with a stranger? Why was the husband not mentioned as part of the tale? Where did she go, and how did it work out for her? Who was the handsome drummer who incited her? That whirl of questions propelled me down many a dusty road in Kentucky and through many an hour sequestered and poring over many long out-of-print book. For years an image of Lydia sat constantly in the corner of my mind, her long skirt covering legs that were drawn up to her chest, her head resting wearily upon her knees. Often times she lifted her lovely face and gave me a questioning look, waiting for me to tell her story. Finally I could deny her no longer . . . * * * I will start on that chilly November night in 1840 when she was born. It’s as good a place as any, but as you will soon discover, the beginning of a story is very hard to nail down and the end is never quite the finishing point. A low thin cry broke the silence in the chill November air of a small frame house in the backwoods of western Kentucky. Jacob Ross, startled from a dream state, took a few seconds to remember why he was sitting at the kitchen table instead of warm and comfortable on the feather bed with Matilda. Lifting his head, he met the barely opened eyes of his brother William across the table. They listened for a second to make sure the baby’s cry was not imagined, exchanged relieved half smiles, and quickly found their feet. “I’ll fetch some more wood. Sounds like we’re going to need it.” William chuckled as he headed for the front door. Jacob pulled his grandfather’s watch from his vest pocket and noted the time, 6:15. He then went to the stove and started the process of building up the fire that had burned down to coals during the long night. The kettle of water the doctor had told them to boil still simmered on the back burner. It looked like Ma had refilled it during the night. A draft of frigid air announced William’s return. The two men busied themselves getting things ready for the women to cook breakfast, both stealing anxious glances toward the steps as they worked. They turned expectantly as they heard the footfall. The care-worn face of their mother betrayed nothing. “Jacob,” she spoke, “It’s a girl. She’s got all her fingers and toes. Your wife wants to see you.” William clapped his brother on the back, stirring him to mobilize his feet. Jacob took the stair steps two at a time, leaving William and Anne Ross alone in the kitchen. “What is it, Mom?” William asked, seeing a cloud cross her face. “Is it Matilda? Is she all right?” In view of William’s concern Anne quickly replied, “She is fine, Will. Had a rough time of it, but the doctor says she will be up and about in a few weeks.” “The baby?” William asked. “Healthy. Pretty little thing too, but . . .” Anne’s voice trailed off. “What are you leaving out, Ma?” Anne hesitated for a long moment before she spoke. “Oh, it is likely nothing, but I’ve never seen a new mother react so to a baby. When Dr. Allen handed her to Matilda, she took one look and turned her face away. She said, ‘You take her, Ma Ross.’ I guess it must be hard, her being all on her own. Did you get any word from Margaret?” “No, Ma. Ed took the team up there to fetch Matilda’s mom as soon as we knew it was her time, but he has not come back yet. He must have spent the night with Margaret and Cornelius after the long ride. I expect we will see them sometime today.” They both looked up expectantly when they heard Jacob’s slow descent down the stairs. He rounded the corner with a tiny bundle held protectively in his arms. “Look at her, Will, my beautiful firstborn child. Her name will be Lydia after her great-grandmother.” Will pulled back the enfolding blanket to look into the tiny sober face, almost comical in her seriousness. Peeking out of her knitted white cap were wisps of reddish-blonde hair. “Oh, Jacob, Gram must be looking down from heaven with a smile today. I can just hear Grandpa telling Grandma Lydia she had the temper to match her red hair.” William laughed as he recalled staring at Grandma’s white hair with a puzzled look and both of his grandparents forgetting their ritual argument and smiling at him. Later Grandma had pulled a little bag out from the bottom of an ancient trunk and laid a twist of auburn hair into his hand. Jacob followed his brother’s thoughts into the treasured memory. “That trunk,” he said. They both sank into their own reminiscences. For Jacob it began with the slightly acid, dusty smell of old paper, leather and fabric, then a vision of the sheen of the faded blue satin ribbon that served to hold the lock of hair together. He felt the softness of his grandma’s cheek against his as she held him close and told him about being teased for her red hair when she was a girl. Both he and Will stared again at the tiny new baby and prayed that she would grow up with the same fire and passion as her namesake. The noise of an approaching wagon snapped them from their nostalgia. “I’m as surprised saying this as you must be hearing it, but I hope that’s Mrs. Lynn. After all, she is Matilda’s mother and I’m certain she will be able to comfort her.” He paused and then added, “Matilda is not quite herself, but, well, of course that’s to be expected, I’m sure.” Ed came into the room with a valise in hand followed closely by Mrs. Margaret Cox Lynn, unruffled and in charge as always. The volume of her voice was adequate for a grand hall, and it echoed like a gunshot in the tiny cabin. The previously placid baby commenced to wail. All but Mrs. Lynn looked toward the newborn. “Well!”, intoned Mrs. Lynn, ignoring the baby’s cries. “What are you waiting for, Edward? Sit that bag down and get those horses into the barn.” As she spoke, she removed her bonnet and cloak and handed them to the still-befuddled Edward. He stood for a moment until she gave him a sharp look. With some difficulty he hung Mrs. Lynn’s items on the already-crowded peg beside the door and hurried outside before they fell. She turned her attention to Jacob who was attempting to sooth the newborn. “Let me have that baby and you men go about your business.” Reluctantly, Jacob passed the precious bundle to his mother-in-law. “Boy or girl?” she barked. “A little girl.” Jacob beamed with pride. “Unfortunate,” Mrs. Lynn snapped. “It’s always better to have a boy first.” She stared into the tiny screaming face and gave a disgusted grunt. “And to top it off she’s redheaded! I certainly have my work cut out for me with this one. She’s going to be a challenge every step of the way.” Although Jacob had only known his mother-in-law for a few years, he had quickly grasped that there was no future in refuting her opinion. Mrs. Cox made no effort to quiet the child. Instead, she turned to the only other woman in the room, Jacob’s mother. “Anne,” she boomed. “When will breakfast be ready? I’ve had no more than coffee and a piece of cold bread this morning and have been bounced about on that horrid wagon since before sunrise.” Anne turned from the stove where she had been working for the past half hour and had just popped a tray of biscuits into the oven. There was no affection in the look she gave Margaret. Anyone with eyes could read the exasperation on her harried face, but Margaret, the object of her displeasure, was oblivious. Having been up all night with her daughter-in-law and the doctor, Anne was too exhausted from helping to bring her grandchild into the world even to try for sarcasm. She had known Margaret since they were schoolgirls and had learned that to say what one really thought around her was even worse than holding one’s tongue. With a quick prayer to God for her unchristian thoughts, Anne replied, “It will be another twenty minutes until the bread is done, Margaret. You can sit and have a cup of tea or go up and visit with your daughter while you wait.” She somehow managed a cheerful tone with an only slightly grim smile. The retreating wail of the baby could be heard up the stairs as Margaret huffed off. “Mother is here. Doctor, you are excused,” were the first words out of Margaret’s mouth as she entered the room. The good doctor had no compunction to mince words and so replied with scathing derision as he turned to her with a basin containing bloody cloth and the afterbirth. “So you’ll be taking care of this and cleaning up the patient?” Margaret gave him a look that would kill lesser men, but the doctor had already turned away, back to checking to make sure the flow of blood had slowed enough for him to be on to the next emergency. While Margaret flapped about for something nasty to say, the doctor spoke quietly to Matilda telling her she had done a good job and everything appeared normal so he would be heading off. Matilda thanked him as he picked up the bloody basin and his bag and left the room with not even a nod toward Margaret. Margaret deposited the still-screaming baby in the crib her son-in-law had so painstakingly made and sat down in the chair beside her daughter. Matilda reached weakly for her hand, and Margaret took it briefly and then patted it with her other hand before letting go. “We have serious issues to discuss about this child,” she began. “It is as I feared: a girl and the image of Jacob’s grandmother to boot. I have no doubt that she is a bad seed, and we will have to work together diligently to keep her on the straight and narrow.” “Yes, Mama,” Matilda replied, “I know, and in spite of all my protests Jacob is determined to name her Lydia after that woman.” A disgusted grumble was Margaret’s first reply. “Well, it will serve to keep our goal in mind, to keep our guard up at all times.” Baby Lydia’s tiny wails increased in volume and urgency. Both women seemed immune to her distress as they continued to plot out her future. Neither of them heard Anne’s quiet step as she came into the room, but both fell into a guilty silence as Anne lifted the baby out of the crib and made soothing noises.