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Funny how little an endearment from Cal-him meant to her,
and how much
one meant coming from Rogan.
From the chair closest to the stove came a long, broken
snore.
Amos had had a tot more than his share of rum tonight, but
he'd seemed
to enjoy it.
Hetty shifted in her chair, mumbling something in her
sleep, and Callum
moved quickly in time to rescue the pile of treasures
before it slid
off her lap.
"We'd better get these two to bed. Want me to help you
with the
birthday girl?"
Kathleen bent over and kissed the halo of white curls.
"No, I can manage. Settle Amos on the sofa with a quilt
and a pillow,
if you'd like."
"Thanks, but he'll be better off in his own bed. I can
sleepwalk him
home. Won't be the first time I've done it for him, nor
him for me."
He looked as if he wanted to say more, but all he said
was, I'll see
you tomorrow.
As Christmas day drew near, Kathleen tried not to let
herself hope, but
she couldn't help glancing out the window a dozen times a
day, or
standing on the front porch, wrapped in the black woolen
shawl Rogan
had given her and looking down along the winding road that
led to the
wharves.
If he came, it would be along that road.
From the fork up by Homer Sty ron' s, along the shoreside
to the
turnoff, past Mr. A.
J.
's store, past Smith's house, past George Styron's.
Of course, he wouldn't come.
She knew that.
And even if he did, it would be only for Hetty's sake.
He wouldn't want to disappoint Hetty.
But of course, he wouldn't come.
Callum took upon himself the task of cheering her up,
although Kathleen
could have sworn she'd managed to hide her despondency.
It wasn't just a matter of missing Beaufort, missing Alice
and the
twins .
and Caleb and baby Margaret.
Her parents had died three weeks before Christmas.
Her grandmother had died two days after.
December held sad memories for her.
Rogan had nothing to do with her dragging spirits.
She played poker, practiced her cheating and still lost.
She laughed, but the shadows still lingered in her eyes.
It took Amos's wretched fiddling and Callum's attempts to
teach her to
waltz to make her laugh until the tears ran down her
cheeks.
Earlier, they had dined on boiled drumfish with potatoes
and cracklings
and onions, which all pronounced the best they'd ever
tasted.
Leaving the dishes on the table, Callum had lured them
into the sitting
room and rolled up the rugs.
"Tune up first, Paw."
And then in an undertone to Kathleen, "Not that you can
tell much
difference."
They waited until Amos got warmed up, and while Hetty sat
in her
rocker, clapping her hands and tapping her feet, Callum
led Kathleen
into a courtly waltz to the unlikely strains of "Turkey in
the
Straw."
Before they'd circled the room the second time, she was
laughing
helplessly, completely oblivious to the longing in
Callum's eyes as
they moved over her flushed face.
"I warned you," she gasped, leaning her head against his
chest so that
she could watch her feet.
"The only dancing I've ever done is walking the floor and
jiggling
Alice's babies when they had the colic."
"I hope you appreciate the difference," Callum said with a
wicked grin,
no hint of anything other than amusement on his handsome
face.
"You don't see a napkin tossed over my shoulder, do you?"
He looked properly horrified, and then, laughing, caught
her to him and
spun her around until her feet left the floor.
Which was just as well, as they were hopelessly tangled by
that time.
As Amos sawed relentlessly on the ancient fiddle, Kathleen
and Callum
danced and laughed, while Hetty clapped, tapped and sipped
her rum
toddy.
Why can't I love him ?
He's all the things any woman with a gJ'ain of sense would
want in a
man.
But he wasn't Rogan.
Hetty's moss rose dishes were rattling in the old pine
china cabinet,
and Kathleen was ready to plead for mercy when she
happened to glance
across the room.
Afterward she knew she must have sensed something wrong.
"I do believe she's fallen asleep," she whispered,
slipping out of
Callum's arms to go to Hetty.
Amos lowered his bow.
She thought he might have said something but by then she
was truly
alarmed.
"Hetty? Hetty, wake up. Callum, do something! She's
not--she doesn't
seem to be breathing right."
Callum knelt beside the rocking chair and removed
Kathleen's hands from
the old woman's shoulders.
He placed two fingers on her wrist, and then at the side
of her
throat.
Finally he lifted one of her wrinkled old eyelids.
"She's not breathing at all. I'm afraid Hetty slipped
away while we
were dancing, Kathy. She won't be back."
Chapter Sixteen
Christmas was a day of mourning.
On the following day, it took more than an hour for the
church bell to
toll out Hetty's due, one peal for each year of her life,
or as nearly
as anyone could guess.
The church was more than a mile to the northeast, and what
wind there
was blew out of the west, yet the sound carried clearly,
each lingering
note a reminder.
Henrietta Beshears Rawson was laid to rest in her yellow
silk gown and
a rusty black lace shawl and thin gold bangle Kathleen had
found among
her things when she'd gone looking for an unmended pair of
stockings.
Kneeling beside the old pine chest in the cluttered back
chamber,
Kathleen had ached for the young woman Hetty once must
have been, a
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