Prologue

Charlottesville, Virginia

October, 1872

“Push!” the midwife cried, holding Charity’s legs back. From her position at Charity’s head, Cece couldn’t see what was happening, but from the sweat on her cousin’s brow and Charity’s vicelike grip on her hands, Cece imagined they were entering the worst of the labor.

She certainly hoped so. For the past twelve hours, Cece had watched as her cousin’s pangs gradually grew from intensely painful to completely unbearable. The bed, like her cousin herself, was coated in sweat, and there was an acrid smell in the air that reminded Cece uncomfortably of when her uncle butchered pigs. It was a smell of blood and dirt and sweat and pain, and Cece had to use all of her strength to keep from letting her anxiety show. She needed to be strong for Charity.

“Push!” the midwife cried again.

Charity sobbed and moaned, “Oh, God, it hurts!”

Cece wasn’t sure if Charity was taking the Lord’s name in vain or crying out to him for relief, but she decided the latter was more likely. “Stay strong, Charity,” she whispered. “It’ll be over soon.”

Charity sobbed again and the midwife adjusted the position of her legs and called again, “Push!”

Cece took a deep, steadying breath and encouraged Charity to join her. Charity managed one ragged breath before bursting into sobs again, and Cece breathed a silent prayer of her own that God would have mercy and bring the baby out of her soon.

The cabin was dark, and as the light faded outside, Cece felt a chill creep down her spine. She considered restarting the fire that had long since gone out, but another look at Charity’s red, sweat-soaked brow convinced her that heat wouldn’t help them now.

“Mama, help me,” Charity whispered.

Cece looked down at her cousin and said, “Your mother isn’t here, Charity. It’s me, Cece.”

Charity’s eyes lolled up to Cece, and she mumbled, “I’m having a baby, mother.”

Cece cast frightened eyes to the midwife. The sturdy older woman kept her hands on Charity’s legs and explained without looking up at Cece, “She’s delirious. Her fever has grown too high.”

“What do we do?” Cece asked.

The fear in her voice only served to increase the fear she felt inside, and the midwife’s response did little to reassure her. “There’ll be no hope until the baby is out of her.”

“Mama,” Charity mumbled. “My stomach hurts.”

“I know, sweetheart,” Cece said, “It’ll be over soon.”

Cece had lost count of the number of times she’d said that. The midwife had warned them that the stress of this pregnancy combined with the fact that it was Charity’s first child might make the birth pains harder than usual, but in her darkest nightmares, Cece had never imagined what an ordeal this would be for her cousin.

Charity squeezed her hand tightly and said in a perfectly clear voice, “I’m afraid, Cece.”

Cece forced a smile and caressed Charity’s cheek, ignoring the alarm she felt when instead of heat, she felt the icy coolness of her cousin’s skin. “I know, sweetheart,” she crooned. “It will be over soon.”

She decided to start a fire after all, and gently pulled her hand from her cousin’s grasp. Charity scrambled for it wildly, gripping it so fiercely her nails dug into Cece’s skin. “Don’t leave me!” she shrieked.

Cece winced and gently tried to pry her hand from her cousin’s grasp, staring in alarm at her cousin’s drawn face. Charity’s noble features were haggard, and her blonde hair was matted and caked with sweat. She appeared ten years older than her twenty-five years of age.

“I’m not leaving, dear,” Cece said, projecting a calm she didn’t feel. “I’m building a fire. Won’t a fire be nice?”

“I’m so cold,” Charity moaned.

Cece disengaged her hand from Charity’s and said, “I’ll have a nice warm fire in no time.”

She crossed the cabin, navigating by memory as much as sight. Other than the candle on the small table next to the bed the midwife had pulled into the living room for the birth, there was no light, and though she’d been here many times before during Charity’s pregnancy, she still bumped into several pieces of furniture crossing the short distance to the fireplace.

She just managed to get a fire started when Charity shrieked. Cece froze, rooted to the spot by fear.

“Hold her still!” the midwife cried. “Baby’s coming now!”

The midwife was well past forty years of age and had the solid build and leathery skin of a woman long accustomed to hard work. Her lined face wore a similarly tough expression, but there was compassion behind the strength in her eyes, and Cece clung to that look like it was an island in a storm.

Cece held her cousin’s hand and closed her eyes to pray. She begged God silently for strength and prayed that he would show Charity mercy and give her a healthy son despite the fact that he would be born out of wedlock.

Cece didn’t know who the father of the baby was. Charity wouldn’t say, no matter how many times Cece asked. Cece had a feeling the father was a soldier who had stopped to talk with them one day in town. He’d been in Charlottesville for two weeks before his unit moved north, and he’d been clearly attracted to Charity.

Cece thought nothing of it and nothing of Charity’s disappearance that night, believing her cousin had simply left for a walk along the banks of the creek that ran behind their house. When it became clear that Charity was with child, Cece had her suspicions, but Charity never confirmed them.

Cece could understand her cousin’s reticence. Her uncle, Charity’s father, had become livid when he learned that Charity was pregnant. He was an angry man on a good day, but since learning of Charity’s “shame” as he called it, he’d become terrifying. He swore up and down that he would have nothing to do with the child, and that if Charity insisted on keeping him, he would have nothing to do with her either.

“You’ll ruin our good name, Charity!” he thundered at her. “Do you know the kind of shame you’ll bring down on us by bringing a bastard into this house? Our family will become a joke in this town!”

Cece recalled how Charity had stood proudly in front of him, her head held high even through her tears and said, “God will love him even if you don’t, Father.”

Needless to say, Rutherford Beckett did not appreciate that answer, and for the past four months, Charity had lived as a guest at the midwife’s home, working as a maid for as long as she could to earn her keep. Over her uncle’s repeated objections, Cece visited her cousin often, helping as much as she could to ease Charity’s burden.

And now the day had finally arrived, and there was nothing Cece could do but hold Charity’s hand and pray as the midwife continued to shout “Push!” and her cousin—the only true friend she had ever known—screamed until her voice grew ragged.

Finally, the midwife cried, “There’s baby!” and a moment later, Cece heard the beautiful sound of the newborn’s first cry. “A healthy baby boy!” the midwife announced proudly.

“Did you hear?” Cece said joyfully, turning to her cousin. “It’s over! You have a baby boy, Charity.”

Her smile faded when she saw her cousin’s blank stare. Charity’s breath came in short, rapid gasps, and her face grew an ugly purple in color as she trembled on the bed.

“Charity?” Cece asked. “Charity, it’s over! The baby is here!”

“I’ll fetch Doctor Hart,” the midwife said.

She handed Cece the baby, and Cece took him in her arms, asking, “She’ll be okay, though, won’t she? Charity will be okay?”

The midwife looked at her but said nothing before grabbing the oil lantern off its hook by the door and running outside. The chill in Cece’s spine sprouted tendrils that spread through her limbs and up her neck. The baby wailed, desperate for its mother, and Cece numbly placed the baby in Charity’s limp arms.

When the baby was in Charity’s arms, she blinked and tried weakly to sit. Cece gently stopped her. “That’s all right, Charity,” she said softly. “Just rest.”

“He’s so beautiful,” Charity said softly. “My little Jonah.”

Cece grinned. “That’s a beautiful name, Charity.”

Charity looked at Cece and said, “I love you, Cece. Take care of him. Please. Take care of my Jonah.”

Cece felt another thrill of fear and said, “What are you talking about, Charity? You’re his mother. You’ll take care of him.”

Charity didn’t respond to her, but looked at Jonah and said, “I love you, Jonah. Mother loves you.”

Then her arms relaxed, and her eyes glazed over. Cece watched in horror as her grip on Jonah loosened, and the newborn slipped out of his mother’s arms. Cece just managed to catch him before he fell off the bed, and she cried for her cousin over and over, “Charity? Charity! Charity!”

There was no answer, and Cece knew her cousin was dead. Nevertheless, she continued to shout her cousin’s name over and over, not stopping until she felt the midwife’s arms wrap around her and pull her and Jonah away from Charity’s limp form.

“Oh no,” she wailed. “Charity, no.”

She collapsed into the corner of the room and held Jonah tightly to her. His cries sounded with hers as the doctor soberly covered her cousin’s lifeless body.

She sat and wept, rocking Jonah in her arms and calling over and over, “Charity, Charity.”

There was no answer. Cece looked down at the wailing infant and a deep dread settled over her, mingling with her grief until it seemed a weight pressed on her shoulders, stealing her breath until it nearly suffocated her.

She’d promised to take care of Jonah. She’d promised not to let anything happen to him. How could she fulfill that promise? Jonah needed his mother, not an aunt who knew little else besides to follow her cousin’s lead everywhere she went. There was no cousin to guide Cece now, no mother for Jonah to rely on, and though Cece’s uncle was a horrible man, he was right about the shame the circumstances of Jonah’s birth would bring. She would find no help in Charlottesville.

“Oh, Charity,” she whispered as tears streamed down her cheeks. “Oh, Charity.”

Chapter One

Cece watched numbly from the porch as the doctor and the midwife loaded her cousin’s body onto the back of the wagon Cece had brought with her. She had wept until her voice was hoarse and now simply sat silently.

Jonah stirred in her arms and a moment later woke fully from sleep. He began to cry immediately, and Cece realized he was hungry. She wondered how she would feed him with his mother dead, but the thought brought no fear and no further grief. She was too tired to feel anything other than the hollow numbness that filled her now.

The midwife heard his cries and disappeared into her cabin, returning a few minutes later with a bottle of warm milk. She placed it in Cece’s hands and showed her how to hold Jonah so that he could eat without choking.

“You need to make sure it’s warm but not hot,” she said. “Too hot, and you’ll burn him. Too cold, and you’ll cause stomach cramps. You can use cow’s milk if that’s all you have so long as you mix it with sugar, water and cream, but goat’s or sheep’s milk is better.”

Her voice was firm and contained only the barest hint of compassion, but Cece was grateful for that strength because it shored her own mind enough that she was able to think more clearly.

“Thank you,” she said.

She noted that the midwife didn’t suggest a wet nurse, but that wasn’t surprising. It was unlikely anyone would be willing to help a child born in sin. After a moment’s reflection, the midwife did say, “If you can get Jonah to latch onto your breast, you might be able to produce milk for him, but it will be difficult and may not work at that. Yes, goat’s or sheep’s milk is better.”

“Cotton cloth will work for the diaper,” the midwife continued. “You’ll want at least three. Make sure it fits snugly but isn’t too tight. Here, I’ll show you.”

She went back inside the cabin and returned to the porch with a long strip of white cotton cloth. She showed Cece how to change Jonah’s diaper and afterward, she retrieved some more linens and showed her how to swaddle him.

When Jonah was changed and swaddled, she took him from Cece, balanced him on her left forearm and used the heel of her right hand to lightly tap his back in between his shoulder blades. “While he’s new,” she explained, “You’ll want to burp him like this. When he can hold his head up by himself, you can hold him over your shoulder like so.”

She demonstrated how to hold Jonah properly, then returned him to her forearm and continued tapping his back. After a minute or so, Jonah burped and then promptly fell asleep. The midwife handed him back to Cece, who mumbled “Thank you,” as she took her nephew’s sleeping form.

The midwife stood silently in front of her a moment, then said, “You can say his father died in his country’s service. No one will fault him for being the son of a dead soldier. The church will help with charity if you need.” She fell silent a moment, then said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Cece couldn’t bring herself to reply, and after another moment of silence, the midwife returned to assist the doctor. Cece knew that though the midwife’s advice was well-meaning, it was unlikely that the church or any of the townsfolk would trouble themselves with the orphaned son of a woman who had committed fornication. Her uncle had made clear already that he would not welcome Charity’s child into his house. There was no place for them here.

Cece was too exhausted to think about where she would go, so she put those thoughts aside for now and decided she would think more clearly in the morning.

When Charity’s body was loaded and tied down, the midwife took Jonah from Cece, and the doctor helped Cece into the wagon. Once she was seated, the midwife handed Jonah back. Cece held him with one arm and held the reins in her other arm.

The doctor cleared his throat and said, “The church will take Charity’s body. Christ himself had compassion on prostitutes and sinners.”

Through her grief and shock, Cece found the strength to say, “My cousin was not a prostitute.”

The doctor’s eyes fell, and he didn’t respond. Cece snapped the reins and Sergeant plodded forward, pulling the wagon steadily toward her uncle’s home.

As she drove, Cece considered the future. She couldn’t stay with her uncle. He had made it clear that he would not accept Charity’s “whorespawn” into his home, but Charity had been confident that she could convince her father to accept Jonah, or at least tolerate him.

Cece was inclined to believe her. After all, Uncle Rutherford had been reluctant to accept Cece after her parents’ death, but Charity had been able to convince him to take Cece in. A child born out of wedlock was a far more serious case than an orphan niece, but Charity’s will had proven strong enough to bend Uncle Rutherford’s several times in the past, and Cece was confident that Charity would have succeeded again.

Just as she was confident that she herself would not succeed. Charity was Uncle Rutherford’s daughter, and tyrant though he was, he loved her. Cece was the daughter of a brother Uncle Rutherford didn’t respect, and he only tolerated her presence for Charity’s sake.

Charity was gone now, and without her to stand in between Cece and Uncle Rutherford, there was nothing to stop him from following through on every terrible promise he had made. She would have to leave as soon as she could.

But where would she go? She had no friends other than Charity. For all the compassion the midwife and the doctor showed, no one in town would accept an orphan child and his unmarried aunt into their home, not even them.

Her cousin would not be buried in the church either, that she knew. The church might accept her body, but she would be dumped into an unmarked pauper’s grave in the very back of the churchyard, left there to be forgotten by the good Christians of Charlottesville, to whom the thought of an unmarried woman with child was far more shocking and evil than the thought of a grandfather rejecting his grandchild and a town of “good Christians” rejecting both the child and his aunt.

One day, she and Charity had visited the small grove of trees next to the river where the two of them had often them played as children, and Charity had told her that she wished to be buried by the willow tree that occupied the center of that clearing. Charity surely hadn’t intended for that burial to take place so soon, but there, at least, Cece would know where her cousin was and who she was and that fornicator or not, she was a better Christian and a better person than anyone else in the town that scorned her.

Jonah would know too, when Cece told him.

Oh, Jonah. He would never know his mother.

The thought brought fresh tears to Cece’s eyes, and she was still weeping when Sergeant plodded to a stop at the hitching post in front of her uncle’s house. Cece carefully got down from the wagon, nearly falling as she struggled to hold Jonah with one arm while descending to the ground. The jostling movement woke Jonah, and he began to cry again as Cece ascended the porch steps to the house and walked inside.

No sooner had she walked inside than her uncle cried, “That whorespawn better not be in my house!”

Cece felt a flash of white-hot anger so powerful she didn’t respond right away. After a moment, her uncle came into the parlor from his bedroom and glared at Cece and the baby. Rutherford Beckett was a giant of a man, well over six feet tall, and in his prime he was said to be strong enough to crack walnuts with his bare hands. Age had begun to soften his once strong features, but he still cut an imposing figure as he glared at Cece.

He pointed toward the door and said, “I told you both before, Cecilia. I will not have that whorespawn in my house!”

“Charity’s dead, uncle,” Cece said, “And your grandson has nowhere else to go. Not yet, at least.”

Rutherford Beckett was a hard man, and on his best days, he was ill-tempered, surly and mean, but Cece believed he loved his daughter, and for the briefest of moments, she saw grief and even guilt cross his face. It disappeared a moment later, though, replaced with defiance and the haughty self-righteousness that Cece most despised about his character.

“Well,” he said, “The Lord has rewarded her for her actions. Now, get that whore—”

“His name is Jonah,” she interrupted, “And whatever you may think of Charity, he is your grandson.”

Uncle Rutherford recoiled as though slapped, and despite her emotional exhaustion, Cece felt a momentary rush of satisfaction at his surprise. “Cece, I don’t want him in my house!”

“He has nowhere else to go,” Cece repeated. Her voice trembled a little, and she hated that her fear was so evident in her tone. Charity had a talent for appearing fearless in any situation, and Cece envied her that now.