Abbie's Child. Linda Castle
and the hot brew in the other. He looked up at her with exasperation written across his young face.
“Mama, I’m not a baby anymore.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She smiled behind her hand and resisted the urge to deposit a kiss on his head. He had recently, in his most serious fashion, asked her to refrain from doing things like kissing him in front of the men. He said it made him feel like a baby—and the miners were not reserved about teasing him. It was the only area where she could exert no proper influence over the rowdy men. Abigail watched Matthew’s straight back disappear through the doorway.
“He’s growing into a fine boy, Missus,” Snap said softly.
“Yes, he is,” Abigail agreed.
Willem had lit the lamp on the small chest in his room. Now he stood like a statue, unable to move. He kept telling himself the new sensations he was experiencing were the result of too little rest and food, but he was beginning to wonder.
One moment he ached with longing for a son like Matthew Cooprel, and then he felt so annoyed that he couldn’t remain in the same room with the boy. His actions and feelings were at odds with each other. He ran his hand through his long hair and worried he might be coming apart at the seams. A soft tapping at the bottom of his door brought his head up with a snap.
“Who is it?” he growled.
“Matthew Cooprel, sir,” a small voice on the other side announced.
Willem felt the vise around his heart tighten. He crossed the room and opened the door. The boy was holding a piece of pie big enough to feed three people and a steaming cup of coffee. He grinned when he realized the boy had knocked with his bare foot.
“I brought you something.” Matthew craned his neck to look up into Willem’s face.
When he took the hot coffee from him Willem tried not to grin at the serious expression on Matthew’s face. A part of him wanted to make the child laugh again, to hear the sound. He saw relief soften the freckled features when he liberated the boy from the burden of the pie plate.
“What is this? Apple pie?” Willem held the golden wedge under his nose while he inhaled with great relish. It was a bittersweet triumph when the boy’s face broke into a pleased grin.
“I thought you might be lonely,” Matthew said honestly.
His innocent words sent a shaft of cold iron plunging through Willem’s chest. God, yes, he was lonely—bitterly lonely. So lonely he couldn’t even sit at the table and eat while the widow and her son talked. He finally admitted that was why he had behaved so strangely since he’d walked into this place. The sights, sounds and smells of this home had awakened things inside him, hungry hurting things he had forced to lie dormant for over six years.
“That was real kind of you, Matthew.” Will heard the husky catch in his words. “Would you like to sit with me awhile?”
Matthew nodded and launched his body toward the narrow bed. He landed in the middle with a plop. The springs groaned, while the covers disengaged themselves around the edges and furled upward toward the middle. He sat cross-legged and stared like an eager pup at Willem. Will folded himself into the solitary chair and put the coffee on the wooden chest beside him. He cut a forkful of pie.
“I have a loose tooth—do you wanna see?” Matthew asked.
Willem blinked and looked at the boy. He felt an odd ripple of emotion while the child seared him with his clear blue eyes. The small body in the center of the narrow bed resonated with life and energy. Willem couldn’t help but grin at the child’s generous offer.
“Sure.” Willem had to bend nearly double to be able to lean close enough to Matthew. The boy smelled of milk, clean clothes and fresh air. The scent brought desolate hunger racing through Willem’s belly again while he stared at Matthew’s perfect, small teeth.
Matthew stuck a finger in his mouth. By really concentrating Willem detected the almost imperceptible movement of the front tooth in question.
“Thee?” Matthew asked with his finger still between his lips.
Willem leaned back in his chair and tried to keep from laughing aloud. “Yes, I see.” He found himself relaxing a bit. “It should be coming out soon.”
Matthew seemed inordinately pleased with Willem’s assessment. The boy grinned wider and wiped his moist finger across his pant leg.
“Uncle Lars says when you lose all your baby teeth you’re not a baby anymore.”
“Are you in a hurry to grow up?” Willem finally popped the thick bite of pie in his mouth. It was delicious. He enjoyed a feast for all his senses as dark corners of his shuttered mind awakened. It was nice to have Matthew tell him about things that mattered to little boys. He found himself wondering if his own son or daughter felt this way about pie and loose teeth and growing up.
“Oh, yes. I want to grow up and be a miner—just like my papa was.”
Willem frowned and sipped some coffee. Matthew’s words sent the hair on the back of his neck bristling. The child was a comfort but at the same time he made Will strangely uneasy. He realized with a jolt that he felt a strange sensitivity and awareness to the boy—an odd connection of some sort—but he dismissed it as more of his bleak desire to find his own child.
“Has your mama told you stories about your papa?” Willem heard himself ask.
“Lots. He was a miner but he died before I was born.” Matthew did a small half bounce on the bed and stared at Willem with round bright eyes. Intelligence and too much natural curiosity burned in those crystal blue depths.
“Are you really the Black Irish?” Matthew blurted out.
Willem felt the hot coffee and pie halt halfway down his gullet. The darkness of old scars and bitter memories crept toward him.
“You don’t look black to me,” Matthew added helpfully while he squinted at Will’s face. His child’s voice and candor drove a small part of the gloom from Willem’s tortured mind.
“Nor am I Irish,” Will quipped dryly. He found himself smiling, even though he hated that name as much as he hated what it represented in his haunted past.
“Well, are you him? Why do they call you that?” The boy stared at Willem and frowned.
“Some fool gave me the name a long time ago. I don’t think he knew Welsh and Irish are not the same,” Willem mused.
“Couldn’t he see you weren’t black? Was something wrong with his eyes? Maybe he’d been hurt and couldn’t see real good.” The boy tilted his head and peered up at Willem for a long time. Then he crinkled his nose and bounced again. “Nope, you’re not black at all.”
Willem laughed aloud. The child’s logic followed a path straight as a lodestone to the truth.
“He called me black because of my black rages and devil’s temper, Matthew. I did terrible things when I was angry. I frightened people. I made a promise I would never raise my voice in anger again, but it was too late to change some bad things that had already happened.” Willem had never admitted that to anyone before. It was a strange feeling to say it aloud.
“Oh.” The boy accepted the answer without question. He sat quietly, fidgeting only every other minute while Willem finished the pie and drank the coffee. Then he bounded off the bed to pick up the empty plate and cup.
“I’ll take those to Mama,” the boy said. “Mama has a rule that nobody eats in their room, but she let me bring this up. I like you, Mr. Tremain. You are going to be my friend,” Matthew declared before he scampered out the door and down the stairs.
Willem found himself grasping the doorjamb for support for several minutes after Matthew left. He hadn’t been a friend to anyone—not even himself—for a very long while.