Queen Anne's Lace

Mrs. Crow’s knowledge. She had often heard her grandmother and her mother and her aunts talking about the plants they used, of course. Women didn’t need to consult a doctor when it came to managing their families. They knew what had to be done when their husbands didn’t want to make their beds in the loft and their health wouldn’t permit them to bear another baby—or when they felt that eight or nine children were quite enough. They had grown most of the plants themselves, or they knew where to gather them, but in these modern times, with a pharmacy in town, many women found their answers in Lydia Pinkham’s tonic or Madam LeRoy’s pills. She added, “I’ll let my friend know what you’ve said.”

“Well, just tell her to keep me in mind,” Mrs. Crow said with a benign smile. “I can give her tinctures or dried herbs and tell her how to use them. Some of the plants can be dangerous, if you don’t know what you’re doing.” She took down a large glass jar and spooned out some prickly-looking brown seeds. “Now, these are wild carrots. Queen Anne’s lace, they’re sometimes called. Your friend should soak them in water to soften them a bit, then right afterward, chew a teaspoonful and wash them down with a glass of water. Not the tastiest things in this world, I’ll grant you. But those who dance must pay the piper.” She did a quick calculation. “That’ll be forty-five cents for everything, please. That includes your hibiscus.”

Annie paid for the herbs and went home with a packet of wild carrot seeds as well as envelopes of rue and thyme and a paper bag of ruby-red hibiscus flowers for tea. That night, as she and Adam lay together in her bed, naked under a single sheet, she told him what she had done. She wanted him to know that she was taking precautions so he wouldn’t worry.

“Rue in time,” he said soberly. “Truth be told, Annie my sweet, I rue it all the time. Not us, of course,” he added hastily. “I don’t regret us in the least. I’m just sorry it has to be this way. If we could . . . if we could only . . .” His voice died away.

She could tell by the shadow that crossed his face that he, too, was thinking of the irony. It was almost funny, although she didn’t dare laugh. The two women in Adam’s life—she and Delia, lover and wife—were using all the wiles they knew of to make sure that neither would bear his child. The difference was that his lover desperately wanted his baby but didn’t dare become pregnant, while his wife just couldn’t be bothered. But Annie didn’t want to put the irony into words, for it would only remind them both of the painful truth: that she was not his wife and Delia was.

And then he put it into words. “I wish you and I could have a child together,” he said, and traced the line of her jaw with his finger. “I want that more than anything.”

His voice was low and gruff and she could hear the raw regret in it. She knew that he was asking himself the same questions she was. Where was this taking them? Where, where, where would it end? Surely tragedy loomed, one way or another. She turned away from him, shivering, suddenly possessed by the image of the two of them alone on an idyllic island surrounded by a threatening sea, with a hurricane of incalculable consequences looming over the horizon.

But he pulled her back and bent over her and kissed her, and she relaxed into his arms with a grateful sigh, willing herself to blot out the image, yielding herself to his protective strength. She shared his desire to have a child, but she knew he was relieved to hear about her precautions. She treasured this mark of their growing closeness, their deepening intimacy.

In other ways, too, things seemed to be looking up. Annie had scratched St. Louis off her list of future possibilities; to leave Pecan Springs now was unthinkable. She took the train to San Antonio, where she located two dress shops and a millinery shop on East Commerce Street, each of which seemed to cater to the wealthiest women of the city. The proprietors were so impressed with her laces that they bought every scrap she had with her—bought it all outright, rather than taking it on consignment. And then they gave her orders for more, to be produced as quickly as possible.

“All I’ve been able to get is the cheap machine-made stuff,” one shop owner told her. “Your work is beautiful, Mrs. Duncan. It will please my most demanding clients.”

Back home, Annie and the girls, thrilled by their success, worked with an even greater dedication. They could meet the orders, she thought, but if they fell behind, she could look for other needlewomen to help. Annie’s Laces had stepped back from the brink of disaster.

Between that daily excitement and the nightly delights with Adam, the weeks rocketed by, and if Annie felt any pangs of guilt, she simply refused to acknowledge them. She was no longer in control of events. She was simply moving as the feeling and the opportunity took her. She was comforted with the thought that if she couldn’t help herself, she couldn’t blame herself—not a very sophisticated argument, but the best she could come up with under the circumstances.

In one way, it was frightening to feel herself so entirely in the grip of circumstance.

In another, it felt utterly natural and right and good, and she simply refused to think of consequences, calamitous though they might be.

Chapter Nine

The carrot has a long and distinguished history. Wild carrot was cultivated in Northern Europe as early as 2000–3000 BCE, but not as an edible plant. Rather, it was grown for its flavorful, aromatic, and medicinal leaves, roots, and seeds. It was used to treat bladder and kidney ailments,