She knew in the end that her husband would never be satisfied to live as a near fugitive in Berkeley, and there could be no other life, and but few opportunities, for them there, with everyone knowing them from before, no matter his new status as a freedman.
Before they left, Sam gave Caleum a bag filled with a powerful concoction of plants and animal bones, with which to soothe the ground his house was set upon. “Every time you break the earth or otherwise interrupt the natural world, you have to heal it again,” Sam had said, walking around the house until he found the spot he was looking for. “You bury this right here, and things will be back to how they’re supposed to be.” In truth he had felt very strong energies coming from the land there from the moment he arrived and was not sure his craft was powerful enough to placate it. But he knew they had always had good fortune there at Stonehouses, and eventually whatever had been upset would be restored, as things always go back to being in the right balance. Still, he wished sincerely his charm would speed that process along for them, for he truly wanted nothing but blessing for the people of Stonehouses.
Whether it was only bad luck or a curse placed upon them, Caleum and Libbie’s problems did not end with Sam’s interdiction — but they weighed a bit less heavily upon them that entire autumn and winter, and the rift that had developed since the death of their child, keeping man from wife and vice versa, began at last to abate. The good spirits of the harvest, along with the shift in seasons themselves, made them feel closer again, and they began to spend the still temperate nights sitting out-of-doors together on a bench that looked out over the lake, talking until the cool hours of early night.
They went to bed on these nights very much enchanted with each other, as they had been when they were newlyweds. “We will have another child,” Caleum said to her that fall, after the caravans departed but before winter had set in. “You will see. We will have a whole house full of them.”
“We will have what it pleases God to allow us,” Libbie said solemnly.
In her heart she wanted the same thing he did and felt great affection for him when he spoke so boldly, wanting for their house to be filled. She dared not say so, though. She was no longer fearful of birth, as she had been on her wedding day, but she had new apprehensions about motherhood, including that it was possible she would never know its particular satisfactions, and so began to treat everything to do with children with superstition. So much so that when she first suspected she might be pregnant again she kept the news to herself for as long as possible, which was a great many weeks. At last, as they cleaned the kitchen one day, Claudia turned to her mistress without further remark and said, “You pregnant, Miss Libbie. You might better sit down.”
Libbie wondered then how long Claudia had known of her condition, or whether she had only just figured it out. Whichever the case, she knew her state would soon betray itself and thought it best to tell Caleum before it did, lest he accuse her of ill intent.
When she revealed her pregnancy in their bedchamber that night, Caleum was elated and showed none of her caution. “You see, it’s just as I said it would be,” he said. “And so close to Christmas!”
“Please, husband, don’t blaspheme,” was her hushed answer to his unchecked joy.
Adelia and Magnus were also reserved in their expression of emotion, having been cut down before by tragedy. “Perhaps Libbie should take to bed,” Adelia suggested to Claudia, when the winter holidays drew near. “She must be careful not to overexert herself.”
Claudia herself was of the opinion that hard work in the months before led to an easy labor, but in the end she acquiesced and Libbie was confined to her bed as the holiday preparations took place all around her. At first she protested against her idleness, but soon grew content being waited on by Claudia; as the smells of baking reached her, she began to feel as she had as a little girl in her parents’ house before Christmas.
This bred in turn its own nostalgia and melancholy, and in order to keep it at bay she began to embroider a scene of the first Christmas she could remember. She was a little girl and her brother Eli had just been born. Her young parents were filled with merriment; in her mind’s eye she saw them both smiling broadly. It was mild that year and she remembered everything being green on Christmas Day — not only the tree in their yard but also the landscape all around them. She received for gifts that Christmas a doll with a lovely dress and a small, bright round ball of a kind she had never seen before. When she held it before her face its smell tickled her nose, making her shriek. “Papa what is it?” she asked excitedly.
He told her it was called an orange, and that she was supposed to eat it.
She laughed gaily at this. It was so lovely she was drawn to taste it, but she could not imagine ruining such a wonderful gift. Instead, she carried it around with her doll, until eventually her mother remarked that her father had gone to great bother to get it for her, and if she didn’t eat it soon it would rot, leaving her neither toy nor fruit.
She sat down dutifully and, after her mother started the process, finished peeling the rind from the flesh. She was then careful to remove all the fuzzy white strings and divided the sections evenly. When she brought one of them to her mouth and bit into it, the thing was like a secret in her mouth. She could not believe she had carried it around with her for so long without knowing what it truly was. As if to make up for being such a slow learner she devoured the first six sections hungrily, as if she had never eaten before. With the last four slices, though — there were ten in all she remembered, for she had counted carefully — she became miserly again. She lined them all in a row on the kitchen table and allowed herself one every thirty minutes, so they lasted her almost until suppertime. The last hardened slice, though, she shared with her doll, thinking to be generous with her new treasure.
When she was done she went and thanked her father again for the orange. “It was the best thing I ever ate,” she told him. He smiled at her and reached into his pocket, from which he pulled out another.
“I was saving this, but since you like them so much why don’t you have it,” he offered. She could not believe her good fortune but took the orange from him and ran around the room, laughing in happiness.
This was the scene she tried to embroider as she lay in bed: a family at the holidays and a little girl eating an orange. It was very difficult, as the orange always seemed too big and the girl too small, but when Caleum saw it he proclaimed her work so well done he could smell the fruit itself on the fabric. He always loved her creations and found they put him in whatever mood she had hoped to invoke.
“You’re the best wife a man could have,” he said, sitting down beside the bed. “All will be safe.”
She smiled at him, as she thought how one day she must create a scene that was not only from her own head but from their life together there at Stonehouses. Alas, it would not be one from that winter.
With the exception of Christmas Day itself, she stayed in bed through the holidays until the first of the New Year — though she counted it bad luck to be idle on New Year’s Day. She ate the food Claudia prepared for her in the kitchen, and took her medicine as well. When Adelia visited she said she thought the girl looked in far better health than she had that time last year, and left thinking it only required patience before all was over and well.
Caleum, living with her every day, was more anxious by then but careful not to let his wife see his growing worry. There was, after all, nothing that had triggered his concern except her own, and his wanting everything to turn out as it should. As late as the third week of the year he could still hope this would be the case — things turning out as they should. However, he entered the house one day, after a morning spent out in the barns and curing sheds, to hear his wife’s diminishing sobs and Claudia saying, “There there, mistress.”