The Twelfth Child by Bette Lee Crosby Read Free Book Online Page A

married to Mister Callaghan.     
    That night, after the coals in the kitchen stove had cooled to a crimson glow and everyone else in the Lannigan household was sound asleep, Abigail Anne slid across the sheet and moved into the spot left empty by Livonia. In this place that had been shared by mother and daughter, she could still sense the fragrance of Lavender Water and linger with memories of the gentle voice that told stories of courageous women. Someday, Abigail Anne, her mother had promised, someday every girl with an adventurous heart will be able to follow her dreams. The tears started as small droplets that slid from the corners of her eyes, and then grew to great heavy sobs. Abigail Anne buried her face in the pillow to muffle the sound.     
    When the cock crowed the next morning, Abigail Anne remained in bed and turned her face to the wall. When she heard the footfall of William’s heavy boots and the clank of iron against iron as he stoked the fire, she pushed deeper into the pillow. Long before the red of sunrise could be seen above the ridge, William came to her bedroom.
    “Get up, girl,” he said. “You got chores to do.”
    “I’m sick, Papa,” Abigail answered. 
    “You’re no such thing. Now get up!”
    “No, Papa, I’m really sick. See.” Abigail stuck her tongue out as if it might prove the point. “I been shivering and shaking all night long,” she said, which happened to be the truth but not for the reason she would have him believe.
    “You got a fever?”
    “Uh huh.”
    William walked across the room and sat down on the side of her bed. He put his hand to her forehead, which was, as far back as Abigail could remember, the only time he’d touched her for something other than a paddling. “It don’t feel like a fever.”
    “Oh, it is .  I’ve likely caught my death of pneumonia.” 
    “Nonsense.” William removed his hand and let it fall limp between his knees.  “What’s likely is that you’re feeling sorry for yourself.”
    “No, Papa, I’m really and truly sick. My throat hurts even.” Abigail mustered up a pitifully weak cough, and then fell back against her pillow.
    “Well, okay. You stay in bed for awhile, but come midday I want you to have a meal on the table.”
    “Why can’t Will . . .”
    “He’s got men’s work to do. We’ve got to fix the south meadow fence.”
    “Why can’t I help with the fence and let Will do the cooking?”
    “What’s the matter with you, girl?” William looked down at his feet and shook his head. “You got the craziest notions I ever heard.”
    “It’s not crazy. Mama said . . .”
    William turned to face her, his eyes pitched with anger and his jawbone set hard as a wall of granite. “Your mama?” he sneered. “Well, your mama was a dreamer! A woman with a head full of silly notions and no understanding of what the world is really like!” He stood and walked out of the room.
    Abigail remained in bed long after the sound of William’s footsteps faded. She thought of things she had done with Livonia, a picture they had once painted with color sticks, a quilt they had sewn with a brilliant rose in the center to conceal the droplets of blood that had fallen when she punctured her thumb. Abigail remembered the stories of the girl in the snow globe and she also thought about something her father owned—a sailing ship sealed inside of a bottle and set atop the fireplace mantle. It was a ship that could sail nowhere. She imagined tiny little sailors scurrying around the deck of the ship, forever trying to find a way out, a way back to the ocean. As she lay in bed, watching a light snow fall, it came to her that she was no better off than those imaginary sailors or the girl in the snow globe.  She was trapped in a world of her father’s making, with no seeable way of getting out.
    Abigail vowed that if this was to be her life, she would remain in the bed until the day she died. Magic would be her salvation; she could