Cutler 05 - Darkest Hour

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    "Shortly afterward, she became pregnant." Mamma laughed. "I remember that even after five months, she hardly showed." Mamma's smile evaporated. "But while she was in her sixth month, a great calamity befell her. Her young husband Aaron was thrown from his horse during a rainstorm and hit his head on a rock. He died instantly," Mamma said, her voice cracking. She swallowed before continuing.
    "Violet was devastated. She wilted quickly, like a flower without sunlight, for her love was her sunlight; it was what brightened her world and filled it with promise. By this time, our papa had passed away, too, so she felt very alone. It was painful to see her dwindle in little ways: her beautiful hair grew drab and dull, her eyes were always dark, her complexion became more and more pallid and sickly and she stopped caring about what she wore.
    "Women who become pregnant," Mamma said, "usually look the healthiest they ever look. If the pregnancy goes well, it's as if the baby inside is enriching their bodies. Do you understand, Lillian?"
    I nodded although I didn't really understand. Most of the pregnant women I had seen all looked big and awkward, groaning when they sat down, groaning when they stood up and always holding their stomachs as if the baby would fall out any moment. Mamma smiled and stroked my hair.
    "Anyway, weakened by tragedy, weighed down by sadness, poor Violet didn't grow stronger and healthier. She carried her pregnancy as a burden now and spent long hours of each day mourning her lost love.
    "The baby, feeling the sorrow throughout her body, decided to be born sooner than she was supposed to be born. One night, Violet was taken with great pain and the doctor was rushed to her bedside. The struggle to give birth was seemingly endless. It went on all through the night and into the morning. I was there at her side, holding her hand, wiping her forehead, comforting her as best I could, but the effort was too much.
    "Late in the morning of the next day, you were born, Lillian. You were a beautiful baby with your features already quite formed, perfect features. Everyone oo'ed and ahh'ed over you, and everyone hoped your birth would restore Violet and give her some-thing to live for, but alas, it was already too late.
    "Shortly after you appeared in this world, Violet's heart stopped beating. It was as if she had remained alive just so you would be born, and her and Aaron's child would see the light of day. She died in her sleep with a soft, gentle smile on her face. I was sure Aaron was there for her, waiting for her on the other side, his hand out, his arms ready to embrace her soul and bring it together with his.
    "My mamma was too old and sick to care for a child, so I brought you back to The Meadows. The Captain and I decided we would raise you as if you were our own. Emily was four years and some months old by then, so she knew we had brought my sister's baby home to live with us, but we talked to her about you often and impressed it upon her that she should keep the secret. We wanted you to have a wonderful childhood and always feel you belonged with us. We wanted to shield you from tragedy and sorrow for as long as we could.
    "Oh Lillian, honey," Mamma said, embracing me, "you must always think of us as your mother and father and not your aunt and uncle, for we love you just as much as our two other daughters. Will you think of us that way? Always?"
    I didn't know how else to think of them, so I nodded, but in my secret putaway heart, I felt an ache, a deep down dark and cold ache that I knew would not disappear. It would linger forever and ever and remind me that I was once an orphan and that the two people who would have loved me and cherished me as much as they loved and cherished each other had been taken from me before I had a chance to set eyes on them. I couldn't help but be curious.
    I had seen pictures of Violet and I knew where there were others, but I had never looked at her with as much interest as I knew I would look at her now. Up until now, she was just a face, a sad story, some dark part of our history better not discussed and remembered. I sensed that I would have a thousand questions about her and the young man called Aaron, and I was smart enough to understand that every question I asked would be painful for Mamma and she would draw answers reluctantly from the pool of her memory.
    "You shouldn't worry about all this," Mamma said. "Nothing will change. Okay?"
    When I look back on