The Baby Bequest

Night was overtaking them. Fortunately the half-moon had risen so he could see to drive. He glanced at its silver half circle above the treetops. Then, after many quiet moments, he asked, “What am I to do with him?” He didn’t try to hide his anxiety.

“Making him sit with little children won’t work,” she stated.

“But he must learn. And I cannot teach him.” His words rung with deep feeling he couldn’t conceal.

“I think private lessons would be best,” she said. “I asked my cousin to invite you tonight so we could discuss this without calling attention to Gunther. If I came alone to your place...” Her voice faded.

“Private lessons?” he echoed.

“Yes. Why don’t you bring him two evenings a week? I will help him improve his English, and learn American history and government. You can make sure he studies at home on the other evenings.”

“That will make more work for you. I cannot pay.”

She touched his forearm. “I’m the teacher here in Pepin. Whether I teach in the daytime or evening, I’m being paid.” Then, seeming embarrassed, she removed her hand from his sleeve and looked away.

He wished she hadn’t taken her hand away so quickly. Her long, elegant hands, covered in fine kid gloves, were beautiful. “You are good. But still, I think Gunther must not be given good for bad behavior.”

“Very few sons of farmers attend school beyond eighth grade. Don’t you see? It isn’t normal for Gunther or good for him.”

The school came into view through the opening in the forest. Kurt tried to come to grips with what Miss Thurston had suggested.

Then an unusual sound cut through the constant peeping of tree frogs. Kurt jerked the reins back, halting the pony. He peered ahead through the dark shadows.

Miss Thurston did the same. The sound came again.

A baby crying.

They looked at each other in amazement.

“It’s coming from the rear of the school, near my quarters,” she said, stark disbelief in her voice.

Mr. Lang slapped the reins and jolted them over the uneven schoolyard to her door. A shaft of moonlight illuminated a wooden box. The crying was coming from inside.

Without waiting for his help, Miss Thurston leaped over the side of the cart and ran to her door. She stooped down and leaned over the box.

The wailing increased in volume and urgency.

Kurt scanned the shadows around the schoolhouse as Miss Thurston called out, “Hello? Please don’t leave your child! I’ll help you find a home for the baby! Hello?”

No answer came. Only the crickets chirped and toads croaked in the darkness. Then he thought he glimpsed motion in the shadows. He jumped down and hurried forward a few steps but the cloaking night crowded around him. The woods were dark and thick. Perhaps he’d imagined movement.

The baby wailed as he walked toward the teacher’s quarters. He joined Miss Thurston on the step, waves of cool disbelief washing through him. “Eines kind? A baby?”

“It seems so.”

She looked as if she were drowning in confusion, staring down at the baby, a strange, faraway expression on her face. She made no move toward the child. Why didn’t she pick up the child? In fact, Miss Thurston appeared unable to make any move at all.

* * *

Ellen read his expression. How to explain her reluctance? She hadn’t held a child for nearly a decade, not since little William. Her baby brother.

“How does the child come to be here?” he asked, searching the surrounding darkness once more.

“I don’t know.” The insistent wailing finally became impossible for her to avoid. She stooped and lifted the baby, and waves of sadness and regret rolled over her.

“What is wrong?” he asked.

She fought clear of her memories and entered her quarters, Mr. Lang at her heels. She laid the baby gently on her bed and tried to think.

“Does this happen in America?”

She looked at him. “What?”

“Do women leave babies at schoolhouses?”

“No. I’ve never heard of this happening before.”

The child burst into another round of wailing—frantic, heartfelt, urgent.

Mr. Lang surprised her by picking up the infant. “He is hungry.” He grimaced. “And the child needs a clean...windel.”

“Windel?” she asked.

“The child is wet,” he replied.

She lit her bedside candle. In the light, she noticed the child had a dark reddish discoloration showing through his baby-fine golden hair. Was it called a port-wine stain? Memories of her brother so long ago made it hard to concentrate. She could feel Kurt looking at her, most likely wondering why she was unable to take action.

“Do you have an old cloth to dry dishes?” he asked when she offered no solution. “We could use to...”

“Yes!” She hurried to the other side of the room, threw open a box of household items and grabbed a large dish towel.

Mr. Lang completely surprised her by snatching the dishcloth, laying the baby on her bed and efficiently changing him.

“You know how to change a diaper?” she asked, sounding as shocked as she felt. She couldn’t help but admire his quick, deft action.

“I raised Johann from a baby. We must get milk for this one.” He lifted the child. “We will go to Ashford’s Store, yes?”

Glad to have direction, she blew out the candle and followed him outside. They rushed past the pony and cart and headed straight for the store. The motion of hurrying seemed to soothe the infant.

Within a few minutes, Ellen and Mr. Lang arrived at the back of the store, at the stairs to climb to the second-floor landing. Moonlight cast the stairwell in shadow so she held the railing tightly as she hurried upward. She rapped on the door, and rapped again and again. The child started wailing once more. Mr. Lang stood behind her, trying to soothe the child. She wrung her hands. What seemed like forever passed.

Then Mr. Ashford in trousers and an unbuttoned shirt opened the door. “What do you...” he began forcefully, then trailed into silence, gawking at Ellen.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Ashford, but we need help,” she said.

He stared at them yet didn’t move.

“We come in, please?” Mr. Lang asked even as he pushed through the door and held it open for her. She hurried inside, again thankful for Mr. Lang’s support.