But in the Duncan household, all was not work. On mild Sundays, Douglas would drive them in the buggy west along the Pecan River. Or north, to the village of San Marcos, or east across the San Antonio Road to the blackland prairie. Or they might take a picnic basket to the spring, where they spread a blanket in the shade, ate Annie’s fried chicken, and enjoyed the breeze while Douglas played his guitar and sang. His father and mother had come to America from Scotland, and he loved the old Scottish ballads—“Highland Mary,” “My Love Is Like a Red, Red Rose,” and his favorite, which always brought tears to Annie’s eyes:
Maxwelton’s braes are bonnie
Where early falls the dew
And it was there that Annie Laurie
Gave me her promise true
Gave me her promise true
Which never forgot will be
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I would lay me down and die.
Annie hoped to give Douglas the son he wanted, but it had taken many months to conceive. While she was waiting, she continued to make lace—such beautiful lace that, while at first she gave it away, her friends and their friends soon clamored to buy it. Douglas wasn’t a man to be offended if his wife brought in a little extra money doing something she enjoyed, and he allowed her to keep what she earned. It gave her great pleasure to use it to buy little things for the house and for Douglas and herself: a white silk parasol, for instance, that she trimmed with frills of her very own lace.
But Annie was impatient to get her family started, so one afternoon shortly after their third anniversary, she walked down Crockett Street to call on Mrs. Jane Crow, who ran a boardinghouse on the next block. A plump, kindly woman with brown hair pinned up in a shaggy knot, Mrs. Crow had hung a sign on her porch rail: Herbs & Herbal Remedies For Sale. She grew a great many herbs in the garden behind her house and sold them to Mr. Jackson, the village pharmacist, and to anyone else who came to her with a request.
Annie found Mrs. Crow sitting in a rocking chair on the porch with her knitting, a kitten playing with the ball of yarn at her feet. “What can I help you with, my dear?” Mrs. Crow asked.
“I’d like to buy some herbs,” Annie said. Her mother was dead and her aunts lived far away, but she remembered hearing them talk about plants that were useful to women in their childbearing years—plants that could help you conceive. Or could help if your monthly was late, or too heavy or too scanty, or didn’t come at all.
“What exactly are you looking for?”
“Red clover, perhaps,” Annie said. “And nettle and yarrow, too, I think.” She paused, frowning. “I’m sure there’s something else, but I can’t quite remember—”
“Ah.” Mrs. Crow picked up her ball of yarn and pushed her needles into it. “You and your husband are wanting a baby?”
“Yes,” Annie said, relieved that she wouldn’t have to go into a long explanation.
Mrs. Crow stood up. “I think I have what you’re looking for, my dear. Of course, there are no guarantees, but we can try to give nature a bit of a boost.”
A little later, Annie was on her way home with a large paper packet of dried herbs. On it was written: Red clover, nettle, evening primrose, chaste berry, yarrow. Pour boiling water over a spoonful in a cup and steep for fifteen minutes. Drink twice a day.
Annie brewed Mrs. Crow’s tea, drank it as prescribed for several weeks, and was delighted when her next monthly didn’t appear at the usual time. She waited until she missed the second, then sat down and wrote a thank-you note to Mrs. Crow. When her husband came in from the smithy that evening, she told him. He caught her up in his arms and whirled her around in an excited dance.
“A baby!” he cried. “Our baby. Oh, Annie, my dearest, dearest Annie, I love you!”
And then it seemed to Annie that their house was filled with such a great happiness that it should surely burst. Douglas never stopped smiling and she went about her work with a joyful song on her lips.
Later, she would tell herself that it was a very good thing that she couldn’t look into the future and see what lay ahead. After the worst had happened, she would look back on those days with a wistful longing, wishing with all her heart that she could have held on to the good times and kept them with her forever.
Of course she couldn’t. None of us can. But we can try.
Annie tried.
Chapter One
Queen Anne’s lace (Daucus carota, aka wild carrot) traveled to America from Europe and hopscotched across the continent with a recklessly joyful abandon. Some herbalists speculate that its use as a morning-after contraceptive made Queen Anne’s lace a valuable must-have herb for pioneer women, so they made sure to carry the seeds with them wherever they went. With this in mind, I suppose it’s no surprise that we find this plant growing everywhere—along roads and in ditches, in farmers’ fields and urban backyards.
Queen Anne’s lace earned its common name from the lacelike delicacy of its doily-shaped white blossoms, each of which is centered with a single, tiny bloodred flower.
“Anne’s Flower”
China Bayles
Pecan Springs Enterprise
I love Mondays. I really do.
Thyme and Seasons is closed
