This is a continuation of The Wet Nurse (Fetish), my tale of the Stearns family
PROLOGUE
On a clear autumn day in 1901, a man and his son walked through a dense forest. With each gust of wind, leaves showered down and settled on the trail: a kaleidoscope of yellow, bright orange, and deep red. The man, Edwin Stearns, carried a small single-shot rifle with which he had bagged two squirrels that were now in his haversack. His wife Annie would make squirrel gravy for their breakfast in the morning.
Like his father, eight-year-old Edwin Stearns Junior was clad in a hunting cap, wool coat and pants, with canvas leggings. He walked quietly; his father sensed that the boy was deep in thought.
"What's on your mind, son?"
After a long pause the boy spoke. "Henry and Carl, my classmates, have been teasing me. They say because my skin is darker and my hair black, that I'm not really your son. That I must be an adopted orphan; maybe even a Red Indian."
The boy looked hesitantly at his father. Edwin paused and in a quiet voice said, "Let's sit on that log over there and rest awhile."
After the two were seated, Edwin took from an inner pocket a wallet. From a hidden recess in it he drew a small photograph whose sepia tones showed a well-dressed man and woman. He handed the picture to Edwin Junior.
"Do you recognize me?"
"Yes sir. You were younger than now."
"Yes. And that woman was my wife. Edwin, I am your father, and she is the woman who gave birth to you. Her name was Helena Goodwin Stearns."
The child's dark eyes gleamed. As if unsure that he wanted to hear the answer, he asked, "What happened to her?"
Edwin took a deep breath. "Son, childbirth is an awful time for a woman. Your mother died giving you life. The doctors did everything they could, but it wasn't enough. It was just God's will that it be that way, I guess."
He held an arm around the boy's shoulders, awaiting a reply. Instead came a long silence followed by quiet sobs that continued for many moments. Somewhere far away Edwin could hear a bubbling brook, and then a squirrel barking.
After a while the boy spoke. "But who is Mother? Annie, I mean?"
"We hired her as a wet nurse when you came home from the hospital. She nursed you when you were an infant. And I fell in love with Annie. I married her a year after you were born. We'd been living in New York at the time, and moved up here to Stony Point."
The child sighed, gazing deep into the forest. "It's not easy for a little boy to hear what you just told me, Father."
"No it isn't. But you must know that Annie, the woman you call Mother, loves you so much. Two years ago, when you had that fever, she stayed with you day and night, kept you cool with wet towels until it broke. And she cried so, saying she didn't know if she could go on living if the fever took you."
"Do my sisters ... do Emma and Sarah know that Annie is not my mother?"
"No, but it's time that we tell them too."
The man rose and stood before his son. "A boy must know who he is. Can you take it?"
"Yes sir."
"Then we'd better head back toward Oakdale. Your mother and sisters will be wondering where we are."
The child stood and took his father's hand. As they began to walk, he said, "Father, please tell me about Helena. I'd like to know about her."
The man began to speak as the two figures disappeared into the swirling autumn leaves.
CHAPTER 1
Why does a man long for something he can never have? Edwin Stearns Junior grew up in a close-knit family, nourished by the love of his stepmother Annie. Yet a small part of him felt an outsider. He treasured the photograph his father had given him on that autumn day. Often he would take it out and gaze at Helena, who, like him, had raven black hair. Whose blood flowed in his veins.
His few attempts to know the Goodwin family, and to meet his cousins, were a disaster. The Goodwins had been outraged by Edwin's renunciation of New York society and by his marriage to the lowly maidservant Annie. The fact that the two remained perfectly happy only added to their irritation. Blood kin he may have been, but to them Edwin Junior was no better than his father.
The child would have found it ironic to know that his father had felt the same longing for a long-lost mother, and that he satisfied that need by suckling at his wife's ripe breasts. But for Edwin Junior there was no succor.
And so he grew up introspective, at ease in his own company. He became what was called a rambler. Often, when work and school permitted, he roamed the New York countryside for days on end with nothing but a knapsack and bedroll as companion.
In early September 1911, just before starting college, Edwin embarked on such a ramble, by rail and then on foot. He did not stop until he reached Maine. Near Camden he spent the night along the Megunticook River. After a morning hike, he returned to his camp for a lunch of bread and cheese. The day being warm, he rested against a birch tree and soon fell asleep.
Edwin had awakened and was splashing cool river water on his face when her heard a faint splash downstream. Curious, he walked among the pines and birches lining the stream until he came to a charming sight: a young woman bathing in the river.
Edwin would never forget the scene: the deep green pool, above and below which were lively cascades; the girl's rich red hair, glowing in the afternoon sun; her lithe body gliding through water so clear that he could plainly see the tantalizing dark triangle covering her pubic mound.
The young woman was pretty, she was naked, and she was alone.
Spellbound by what he saw, Edwin stepped forward into view. His smile was one of fascination, not lasciviousness. The girl, treading water near the center of the pool, saw him. Instead of becoming angry or panicked, she merely watched for a few seconds.
"Hello!" Edwin spoke.
"Hello yourself. I don't recognize you."
"My name is Edwin Stearns. I'm from New York, up here on a camping trip."
"Are you alone?"
"Yes."
What happened then foretold what would come later. The girl casually swam to the river's edge near Edwin. She rose up and sat on a rock that was submerged in the pool, so that water flowed around her waist. Sitting with her legs together, the dark triangle still visible, she continued to regard Edwin.
The girl's luxuriant hair, which she had taken care not to get wet, was pulled back in a bun. His first impression was that the girl was put together from mismatched parts: she was short and slim, almost frail, yet possessed of a long graceful neck and an unexpectedly mellow voice. She was more striking than beautiful, with expressive green eyes and a prominent nose.
Her ample breasts, neither petite nor oversized, were set low on her torso, glowing in the sun. Rivulets of water flowed down her bosom and dripped from pink nipples that were little more than buds.
The girl spoke. "You strike me as someone who enjoys Walt Whitman."
"The poet?"
