Mother Gibson sat with Mary-doll and was rubbing her left arm.
“I do not know what the fuss is about, Reed. I am taking care of yer Grandmother just as yer father wanted.”
“Is everything all right, Mother?”
Mother Gibson looked at Ann as a mist shrouded her eyes. A shaky nod affirmed that she was all right.
“We are just trundling along as we usually do. Isn’t that right?” Catherine asked.
Ann shouldn’t have left her even for a moment. She stood in front of Mother Gibson. “Is that right? Show me yer arm, Mother.”
The rubbing slowed.
Catherine paled. “There’s nothing wrong with her arm. Is there, Mother Gibson?”
Ann gently pulled back the sleeve. Large purple and black bruises covered her forearm.
“They bruise easily is all. She bumps into anything, and she’s bruised. Ye know how they are.”
Reed knelt on one knee. “Did ye bump into something?”
The old gaze jerked to Catherine, to Ann, and then to Reed. Mother Gibson nestled Mary to her shoulder and started to rock and hum.
“This is Mary.” Ann nodded at the doll.
“She pinched me. Told me to be quiet when ye came. Said ye were just like yer father.” She stopped rocking and looked him in the eye. “But yer not, are ye?”
Reed inhaled deeply and his back became a little straighter even though he was on his knee. “No, Grandmama. I am not like him at all.”
“Ye look like him.”
“Do ye know he died?”
“Mary told me.” She closed her eyes and rocked the Mary-doll tight against her bosom.
“Would ye like to come back to the big house?”
Old eyes popped open wide. “With Margaret?”
A new voice entered the room. “Yes, Mother. With me.” Ann turned to see Reed’s mother standing in the doorway.
“Yes. With Margaret. Not Catherine.”
“I will deal with Catherine.” Quiet anger infused Reed’s words.
His mother and grandmother both retreated a step.
“It does no good to coddle them. Yer father was right about that.” A rigid Catherine stood her ground. “Ye’ll see what a burden she’ll be. I’m glad to be rid of her.”
“Ye will be quiet—” he said as he rose to his full height.
Catherine stepped back two paces.
“Ye will gather yer things. Ye leave for Williamsburg within the hour.”
“Cousin Jerome will welcome me.”
“I don’t care where ye go so long as ye never return to Archer Hall.”
Catherine huffed out of the room and her shoes clattered up the stairs.
Margaret Archer rushed to her mother. A questioning gaze engaged Ann.
“This is my Mary.” Mother Gibson supplied.
Mrs. Archer’s eyes flooded. “Mary was my sister. She died of fever when she was but a baby.”
Reed ran fingers through his hair. “I will be outside.”
Ann found Reed pacing the yard. Rage hardened his strong shoulders. Shoulders which carried more weight than she’d realized. “Yer mother is with Mother Gibson.” She offered the red ribbons in an open hand. “I think ye will find that the bruises come from these.”
He closed his eyes. Ann understood his fight for control. She’d never been this angry in her life. Not even the night Richard was lamed by Reed’s foolish prank.
He swung around to face her and grabbed her shoulders. “I would never strike a woman. Not ever.” He walked away and headed back again. “Not in my worst pranks did I ever come close to raising a hand to—how could they think that?”
Ann went to him, placed her hand on his arm. “I’ve never come so close to striking anyone. That monstrous woman—”
“Annie, I would never…” His eyes pleaded for her understanding. The anguish in his eyes released tears from her own.
