Under Water Excerpt - Rachel's Fiction

With a small gush of water, an infant’s corpse slid from the bag, mud brown but perfectly preserved, as if in endless slumber.

1863, Aoife:

The screams jolted her upright, open-mouthed shrieks that jolted her upright. “Wake, William! Wake!” Aoife shook him to break the nightmare’s spell.

That did little good. Instead of awakening, he shrieked, “No, no, no,” and clung to his terror as if to an old and dear friend.

She took his arm again, only to have him moan and struggle, raining blows down on her head and shoulders. All the while, he remained deep in the blackness of sleep.

He fell back and was quiet, but moments later he again stirred, muttering commands softly and then with mounting agitation, Fire! Fall back, they are too many! As his voice peaked, his hands twisted at the cloth of her nightdress, like a bridegroom ready to part her limbs and push himself inside her.

But William was no longer an eager bridegroom and never would be again. He feels not a man, and that is what drives his madness.

At last, he seemed to tire, his arms sagging, the blows softening, sliding off her body. The words became mutterings and then soft moans as his struggle subsided. Finally, he slumped down against her.

“Hush, hush,” she murmured. To soothe his soldier’s heart, she sang the lullaby her mam once crooned to her. Outside in the pond behind the house, the frogs sang along.

“Hush, hush,” she murmured. To soothe his soldier’s heart, she sang the lullaby her mam once crooned to her. Outside in the pond behind the house, the frogs sang along.

Fleeing the bed would have been easy but staying was her duty. She was his wife, and she was what he needed. And, at daybreak, he was his true self again.

“Morning, love.” She cradled his head against her bosom, kissing the high rise of his cheek and smoothing back the light brown hair over his brow.

We were in love once, and still are, in our way. She closed her eyes, wishing for a bit more sleep, then let them snap open again and thought, At least, in the light of day.

“Thomas is already in the fields with the oxen, William, and the cows are lowing. Do you hear them? I must leave you now, for the milk shed. For just a little while. I’ll bring your breakfast porridge and an egg the minute the cream is separated.”

He turned his stony face to the wall as she rose to dress for the day.

Making her way down the stairs, she groaned, as the day was already warm and with promise to be suffocating later. If she wanted the cows to produce, she’d have to wet them with buckets of water and let them linger in the shade of their byre, timothy hay in their rack. Keep the barn doors open to encourage the breeze. Thank the Lord, I do not have to pull up bucket after bucket from the well!

After they’d wed, two years before the war, William said, “Wife…”

Oh, upon my soul, I do love that word! Aoife had put her arms about his middle.

“…from now, you will not be servant to anyone, and I have kept money aside for what would ease your life.” He rested his chin lightly on her head. His warm breath blowing across the tight pull of her parted hair set a ripple deep inside her. “I will hire a maidservant for the heavy work.”

How she’d smiled, pressing tighter against him. He’d already provided her pump instead of an oaken bucket and rope—the first house in the township to have one. But a maid?

“No, husband…” She loved that word, too. “…household work is nothing new to me. I wish to share our home with no one else.” Certainly, no other maid, not ever, unless someone old and stout like your mother. She did not doubt his love and devotion, but wished to show herself frugal and grateful. “I shall manage the milking and tend the kitchen garden, cook and keep the house.” She smiled up into his face and winked. “Perhaps get me a servant when we have many little ones underfoot.”

William Sprigett had honored her by taking her hand in marriage, an unbelievable stroke of luck for such as her. William was born a gentleman with an inheritance of good land. Money, too, more than adequate to start and with the promise of more to come when his mother followed her husband to the grave.

Which, Lord forgive me, cannot come fast enough. Aoife tamped down that thought like a spark spat from the fireplace onto her rag rug. It was unchristian to wish for anyone’s death, no matter how deserved.

Aoife tamped down that thought like a spark spat from the fireplace onto her rag rug. It was unchristian to wish for anyone’s death, no matter how deserved.

William had wooed her and refused to marry another. It was their marriage that led to the break with his family. He was in love and being so, willingly took a tumble down the ladder of respectability and wealth.

I was in love, too, with his handsome face and the long clean limbs that gathered me to him. And charming he was, able to lift my heart when I grew sad for my lost mam. Aye, she thought, I married a treasure.

There had been too much farm work for William alone. Thankfully, his hired man, Thomas Walker, was hardworking and trustworthy, married to the town’s washwoman. He lived in the village and, before coming to the farm, earned his way with odd chores and seasonal labor. He and William put in the crops—corn, wheat, and hemp—and harvested them to be ground down beneath the millstone on Mill Road. Together, they herded the livestock, both cattle and sheep, the flock a fancy of William’s father, whose English ancestors had once held great estates in Ireland. It was the likes of them that had driven Aoife’s family from their croft to starve by the road. All to better the hunting for the rich.

After William and Aoife married, any loneliness she felt, any desire for the company of other women, she pushed away from her busy mind. William is more than enough for me.

Especially when he came into the house at midday, leaving Thomas in the fields. Another woman in the house would have spoiled their time. The very thought made her cover her blush-warm face with the apron’s skirt.

Aoife paused at the door to the barn. Those happy days glowed like gold in her memory.

And then came the war.