The Merchant's Daughter

Written by: Elaine J.

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Chapter One

-Mr. & Mrs. Ellison-

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Tell him I lingered alone on the shore,
Where we parted, in sorrow, to meet nevermore;
The night-wind blew cold on my desolate heart
But colder those wild words of doom,-"Ye must part."

—Sarah Helen Whitman

When Jeanine Ellison was born, no hint or indication of trouble was openly displayed in the weather. The sky was a soft palette of blue, with traces of cloud aswirl in the cool atmosphere and the distant songs of redstarts and tree sparrows fresh with the traveling wind. Nature reflected the serenity of the Ellison home, sending large breaths of sweet early summer air through the open windows and to every open space in the house.

Master John Ellison sat in a large, cushioned chair upon his white veranda, lazily flipping through the book seated in his lap and frequently glancing up from the yellow pages to gaze at his neighboring garden. He sniffed as a passing zephyr blew too much pollen into his nose, and as he withdrew his handkerchief from his coat pocket, a sudden and very loud, ‘thump’ echoed from within the bones of his quiet home.

Cautiously, he stood, peering at the doorway back into his house with eyes narrowed partly out of serious curiosity and partly out of the sun hitting his young face. Setting his book onto his seat, he straightened his coat as he made way to the door, only to hear more thuds approaching. But they were not as heavy as before. They sounded much lighter and came at a speedier tempo.

He opened the door and stepped in, his eyes accustoming to the dimness of the unlit foyer.

“Justine?” he called, the name of his wife reverberating with the company of those rapid thuds from above.

But his wife did not answer his call. Instead, one of his servants scurried down the staircase and towards him, her face flushed and sweat on her brow.

“My lord,” she cried, coming to a halt before him but with feet still pacing about nervously. “Your wife. I think it is time!”

Mr. Ellison, although usually a calm fellow, instantly felt a wave of panic shoot through him and he ran towards the front door, only to stop himself from twisting the doorknob by a hair.

He turned back around and was about to sprint up the stairs and comfort his wife when his maid wailed urgently, “The midwife, my lord! The midwife!”

“Right,” murmured John as he pivoted on his heel and wrenched the door apart. “Right!” he repeated, forgetting to close the door and running towards the stables. “I’m on my way!”

He located his swiftest stallion, threw on a saddle carelessly and mounted, nudging the sides of the animal with the heels of his boots before the steed gave a high-pitched whinny and took off galloping down the path to the street.

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If there was one thing Justine Ellison wanted at the time her baby decided to come into the world, it was her husband. She distinguished him from other men by several characteristics, but the one thing she admired most about him was his unnatural capability to remain indisputably calm in the worst situations. Why, on their wedding day he seemed stiff as a rod and as serious as a battered brick, with not a drop of sweat greasing up his face. And even before that, when he had gone to her father to ask for her hand, she remembered how he stuttered not once or slumped in stature as her father looked at him with a berating glare.

Yes, her husband was quite the master of keeping calm.

So why wasn’t he there yet to keep her calm as well?

“Stella!” she moaned, her head falling back onto the pile of pillows supporting her back as she lay in her bed. “Where in the blazes is my husband!”

All her maid could do was wipe her mistress’s damp forehead with a cold, wet cloth and say, “He’ll be here soon, my lady. He’s jus’ run off to get the midwife.”

Mrs. Ellison gritted her teeth as she felt the pain in the lower half of her body elevate. “Get him back!” she screamed. “I… need… him… now! What kind of a man leaves his wife when she’s about to give bloody birth to—” The ache had become unbearable, and she let out a high pitched cry before she could finish what she was saying, or rather, growling to her pale-faced maid. And still, all the servant could do was dab Justine’s frowning brow with more water.

“Bathsheba!” yelled the maid, wringing the cloth over a bowl. Another servant entered the room cautiously, afraid to further disturb the ailing lady of the house.

“Yes?” she answered.

“Tell Thomas to find Mr. Ellison an’ bring ‘im back. I’m afraid poor Missus is jus’ in too much pain for ‘im to be away from ‘er.”

The girl nodded before silently leaving and telling the messenger boy to run as fast as he could towards the town. The boy seemed more than happy to do the task and was out before the girl even finished explaining his duties to him. And with the cheerful spirit of a bird, the boy ran.

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-Jackaroe