Mrs. Morgan looked scandalized. “You became a citizen for a horse?”
Sarah laughed. “That’s not very flattering, Captain Dawson.”
“I’ve never regretted it,” Dawson said.
Mrs. Morgan set her cup down in the center of the saucer. “Are you married, Captain Dawson?”
Dawson hesitated. “I am.”
“A Southern girl, I hope,” said Mrs. Morgan.
“A Charleston girl,” Dawson said. “Virginia Fourgeaud. We’ve been married for five years.”
“My felicitations,” said Mrs. Morgan, bowing.
“Thank you.” Dawson paused before he altered things. “But my wife has consumption. She became ill soon after we married. Four years ago.”
Sarah looked at him, stricken. “I’m so sorry.”
“Captain,” said Sally, “I hope people have been kind. The South owes you a great deal.”
“Very,” said Dawson, bowing, “but the South owes me nothing. I’m here because I want to be.”
“And what is it you do, Captain Dawson?” asked Sally. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten.”
“I’m fortunate enough to be the editor of the Charleston News,” Dawson said, trying not to sound proud.
“The editor!” said Sally. “You’re an important man.”
Dawson laughed, pleased. “Not to everyone.”
“How interesting.” Sarah leaned back in her chair. “Tell me, Captain, how do you go about being editor?”
He knew Southern women, how they asked men questions in order to make the talk glide along. It was not because they were interested. He’d learned that. It was a parlor game.
“I don’t do much.” Dawson smiled at her. “The reporters bring in stories and we juggle them around and make them fit onto the page, and then we print the whole thing up and send it onto the street.”
Sarah’s blue gaze was level. “You’re condescending to me, Captain.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
“Do you print national news?” she asked. “Or only local? How do you find the news? Do you write about books? Do you take positions on politics?”
Chastened, Dawson leaned forward. “I’ll be glad to tell you.” He set down the cup and told her what he and Riordan did, and how the paper worked. She listened, serious, attentive.
“And do you have a mission?” Sarah asked. “At the paper. A message? Or are you just entertaining your readers?”
He looked at her, delighted. No one ever asked this, though he and Riordan discussed it endlessly. “We do,” he said. “To maintain the honor and promote the welfare of the Southern people.” He hoped he didn’t sound pompous or pretentious. He was afraid he did.
“You sound like my father,” she said.
Dawson hoped it was a compliment.
* * *
EIGHT HOURS WAS not, actually, so long a trip. Dawson got on the train in the morning and was there by evening.
All fall, while Jem recuperated, Dawson visited. When he grew stronger, Jem came out and sat in the parlor. The talk was still about the war, even now. It was so large and present, it had gone on so long, there were so many stories to tell. They told each other what had happened to them, to their friends, to their houses. Yankees had pillaged the house in Baton Rouge. Gibbes had been there during the war, and had seen it. Smashed mirrors, plundered drawers, letters strewn on the floor. The portrait of Sally by Thomas Sully, all ivory skin and flashing eyes, slashed to canvas rags. Miriam’s best blue dress hoisted on a sword-point and carried out into the street, pumped disgustingly up and down. The soldier slashed at it with his knife and yelled, “That damned secesh woman.” A neighbor had watched it all. They were in New Orleans by then.
“We haven’t been back,” Sarah said.
“I don’t want to remember it like that,” Sally said. “I have it in my mind the way it always was.”
“The wisest way,” Dawson said, nodding.
There were funny stories: Dawson told them about the time he and another soldier had been surprised by Yankee soldiers. It was at night, in a back street. The two were unarmed, but it had been rainy that evening, and they both carried umbrellas. When they saw the Yankees at the end of the street they raised the furled umbrellas like rifles and aimed them at the Yankees, who fled.
So many stories, near misses, awful coincidences, miraculous saves. Once Dawson had leaned over to fix his boot and a sniper’s bullet had thumped into the tree trunk behind him, just at eye level. When he was at Oakland, recovering from a wound, Union scouts arrived and the Raineses hid him in the cellar, under a horse blanket. He lay still, listening to the boots overhead.
Sarah and Sally told him about the time the Yankees shelled Baton Rouge and they all walked to Greenwell.
“We were terrified,” Sarah told Dawson. “We’d been packing to leave, but when the shelling started, everything flew out of our heads.”
Sally laughed. “I took an old cloak and some books.”
“I took two toothbrushes and some hairpins,” said Sarah. “Some powder against the sun, but no clothes.”
“The hairpins were essential,” Jem said. He turned to Dawson. “Do you know about Sarah’s hair?”
“Should I?” said Dawson.
Jem rose from his chair. “Stand up, Zay.”
“Jem,” Sarah said, shaking her head.
“Stand up!” He was laughing.
“I’m not to be ordered about,” Sarah said, but she was laughing, too. Jem beckoned.
“Come here,” Jem said. “And you, Dawson. Now, Zay. Take it down.”
It was late afternoon. The sun painted parallelograms on the wall. Sarah was still laughing, the color rising in her bright face.
“Take it down,” Jem said again.
Sarah stood up and raised her hands to the back of her head, to the heavy mass of hair. She began drawing out the pins, and the mass began to fall, heavy and loose, rolling and sliding down until it hung like a long, soft golden shawl, down to her ankles.
Tilting her head, she parted her hair with her hands, exposing the white nape of her neck. Dawson felt a jolt at the sight. Jem handed one hank to Dawson, and took the other himself. He lifted it like a tawny rope, stepping backward. Dawson did the same, and they both retreated, step by step, until their backs were against the walls. Sarah stood in the middle, her face rosy, the long ropes of hair spanning the room.
Dawson felt the heft of it in his hand. It was soft and living; he could smell it. The intimacy of the touch swept through him. Sarah laughed and blushed, but held her head high. She looked like a tribal queen. He couldn’t speak, something had risen in his throat.
* * *
IN EARLY DECEMBER Virginia died. Her health had been failing steadily, then in the last few weeks, precipitously. He and his parents-in-law had been taking turns sitting up with her. Dawson and Virginia had always lived with her parents, at first from economy, then, when they all realized that Virginia was ill, from grief. That night Dawson was asleep when his father-in-law knocked on his door. “It’s time,” Eugene said. He carried a candle, and the rising light and sharp shadows made him look like Satan. Dawson got up and followed him, pulling on his robe. In Virginia’s room Celena was kneeling by the bed, holding her daughter’s hand. Virginia was motionless, her eyelids half-closed, her skin icy white. Dawson felt a deep flood of sadness, coupled with the hard fist of relief. He had been mourning Virginia for years.
He had a photograph of her mounted on porcelain, and gave a copy to Sarah. Each time he saw the picture he felt a double strand of feeling, a stab of pain and a sense of relief. The Fourgeauds wanted him to stay on with them, and it would have been cruel to leave. They had no other children, and he was a link to their daughter. But the house was silent and terrible. The blinds were drawn, the rooms seething with grief. He dreaded going home.
13.
For the last week we have averaged a murder per diem in the city and suburbs.
—THE NEWS AND COURIER,
JUNE 21, 1873
* * *
IN JANUARY Sarah and Dawson began Middlemarch, taking turns reading it aloud. In the winter the fire was always lit in the parlor. Dawson sat in the chair; Sarah lay on the sofa. When he finished his chapter he handed the book to Sarah. “What do you think?”
She shook her head. “I think Dodo is an appalling prig,” she said. “Casaubon is old enough to be her father. And he’s so dull! She mustn’t marry him.”
“What if she loves him?”
“She doesn’t,” said Sarah, sitting up. “She’d never be happy. She’d only be doing it because she thinks she should. Which is exactly why I’ll never marry.”
“You wouldn’t marry because you thought you should,” said Dawson. “You’d only marry because you wanted to.”
“I’ll never marry because I don’t want to,” Sarah said. “Women are expected to marry, and I won’t do it just because I’m expected to.”
Dawson shook his head. “You make no more sense than Dodo.”
“I’m just telling the truth.” Sarah put her hand out for the book. “Let’s find out what she does next, this Dodo.”
Dawson handed it to her. “Such fierce opinions,” he said. “What would you think of writing for the paper?”
Sarah raised her eyebrows. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said loftily. But he could see she was pleased.
“Why not?”
“I have nothing worth saying, and I’d never use my name in public.”
“You do, and you could use another one,” Dawson said. “Use a man’s. George Eliot.”
Sarah laughed, but Dawson was serious, though he said no more then.
The next morning, when he was leaving, he stood at the front door with her to say goodbye.
“Miss Sarah,” he said, “I have a request. When I’m back in Charleston, may I write to you?”
There was a pause.
“We have so much to say.” Was he pleading? He was afraid she’d refuse.
After a moment Sarah said, “You may write me, Captain. But with a three-letter rule: three letters from you to each one of mine.”
It was the first time he’d seen her frankly flirtatious. He laughed. “I’ll be delighted. I’ll number mine, to keep track. You’ll be shocked at how fast your debt will mount.”
January 15, 1873. Charleston
FRANCIS WARRINGTON DAWSON TO SARAH MORGAN
My dear Miss Sarah:
I wrote you a long letter last night, but I was so miserable that I thought I had better sleep on it. This is the result—for better or for worse, in the words of a service which a lady never reads. I found my business in a very satisfactory condition, with mountains of dry work to be done. “Home,” as it is called, is inexpressibly dreary. Enough of me!
I have sent you some New Orleans papers and to-day I have sent … the second volume of Middlemarch, the French Revolution, & Valerie Aylmer. What can I say of Middlemarch, except that I shrink now from reading more than we read together. The Carlyle you will, of course, read leisurely. With Lamartine’s [Histoire des] Girondins & [Dickens’s] the Tale of the Two Cities, it will give you a vivid understanding of the causes and excuses of the crimes committed in Liberty’s name. (My hand trembles fearfully. Why is it that even writing to you affects me so?) … Those days at Hampton’s were amongst the happiest of my life & so shall remain. The pines are as plainly seen as when I last looked upon them, & there is a wealth of meaning in their gray lights & dreamy shadows. Of this be certain: You have sealed me with your seal, and, God willing, you shall never be ashamed of me. Proud of me you will not be: you may, in some new happiness, forget all about me, but you live, & will live, as freshly & tenderly to me as when you were quietly saying that winter as well as summer romances must fade away. You see, I fancy I am at Hampton’s again. Would that I were! For me you have abundant work to do, if you care to do it. As you determine I shall linger in the plain or breast the mountain height. Do as you will with me, and ask anything except that I forget you. Do write to me if you may, & as kindly as you can. I am not well in mind or in body, but my head is clear … Give my love to your dear Mother & brother … And for you I pray, that Our Lady may keep you & watch over you now & always. This is the best (of what you have not) that can be given you by your poor servant.
F. W. Dawson
* * *
IN LATE JANUARY, Jem married again. His new wife was Gabriella de Saussure Burroughs, called Ella. Her sister was married to a Trenholm, so Jem hadn’t really left the family. Ella joined the household at Hampton’s, with Sarah and Sally. Within a week she moved all the furniture.
* * *
EARLY FEBRUARY, one afternoon, Dawson and Sarah set out across the field for a walk with Duchess. The field was dun-colored, and the dried stalks were noisy underfoot. A pheasant scuttled along the edge, firing off a series of urgent metallic clucks. As they approached he took laborious flight, wings pumping, heavy body rising at a low angled slant, then vanishing among the trees. Beyond the field was the path into the pine woods, where the gray trunks closed around them, and the soft red-needled floor muffled their steps.
He was aware of every part of her, the small neat feet, the trim squareness of her shoulders. The way her arms swung, quick and limber; the small cloud of curls at the nape of her neck. It seemed a waste not to look at her all the time. He wanted to look at her and he wanted something more.
Beyond the woods a field sloped down to a creek; the pale grass was beaten down by winter. By the water stood a willow, the long whips drooping into the water. The sky was muted and soft, like gray silk. Far above a hawk circled slowly, dark against the sky. In the distance a woodpecker interrogated the bark of a tree. They were alone.
“You were kind to send those things for Mother,” Sarah said. “The books and magazines for me.” A faint wisp of steam marked her breath.
“It was my pleasure.” Dawson wasn’t sure about their finances. “Let me know of anything you need.” He felt flattened by something, something large that was approaching him.
“It’s so cold here.” Sarah pulled her shawl more tightly around herself. “It was never so cold in Baton Rouge.”
“You miss it,” Dawson said, “Baton Rouge.” He wanted her to be happy here.
“I miss the way it used to be, all of us together. But that’s gone. I don’t want to go back now.”
“So when you’ve sold the house you’ll stay?”
“I don’t think Ella wants us at Hampton’s.”
“Why don’t you think so?” The things she was saying seemed impossible.
“Just that she’s moved every single stick of furniture in the house from where we’d had it,” Sarah said. “She dragged the little rocking chair across the parlor and set it by the window. She cocked her head and said, ‘Doesn’t it look darling?’ Mother and I didn’t dare look at each other.”
“She can’t be so obvious,” Dawson said.
“And yet she is.”
“But are you happy in South Carolina?” He wanted her to stay. He wanted her to know what he was going to say.
“We’re not settled,” she said. “Jem’s having a hard time, and Ella wants us gone. I don’t want to go back to Brother.”
“Where would you most like to be?” Dawson asked. He wanted her to say Charleston. He’d find them rooms, servants, friends, everything. He wanted to take care of her. He wanted her nearby, on a tree-lined street, within reach. He wanted her.
“Provence,” Sarah said.
“Provence?” He was lost.
“In a stone house with a wrought-iron balcony and blue shutters,” Sarah said. “Everyone speaking French. I’ve always wanted to live in France.”
“Provence.” He nodded.
Well, then. He could sell his shares in the paper to Riordan. He spoke French, he could work as a journalist. He could move to Provence. But he could not organize his thoughts, with all this thudding, the blood pounding in his head. He took a breath.
“Sarah.” His chest had tightened. He saw that she knew what he was about to say. She looked stricken.
“I want to ask you,” he began, but the words he’d prepared were gone. “I want to tell you.” He had to get the words out.
Sarah raised her hand to stop him. “Captain.”
“Marry me,” Dawson said. “Please.” There was more, but he couldn’t now remember it. Something inside him was expanding; fear and excitement. “You are at the center of my heart.”
The sloping field, the pale grass, and the leaning tree were tilting beneath him. He could feel the turning of the planet. Her eyes were brilliant blue.
“Please don’t ask me this,” she said.
He waited, searching her face. The words were final, though her voice was not. “But you’ll think it over. You’ll let me ask you again.”
“I’ve always planned to take care of my brothers.”
“Your brothers are married,” he said.
“I must take care of my mother.”
“Your mother would be part of our life,” Dawson said.
She looked at him, but said nothing.
“I’ll persuade you.” He wouldn’t let her say no.
She opened her arms like a bird spreading its wings, the shawl’s fringe fluttering like feathers. She drew it more tightly around her shoulders. “I wouldn’t be a good wife.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I was nineteen,” she said, “I was in a serious carriage accident. I was thrown out. For three months I couldn’t walk.” She looked at him directly. “My spine was damaged. I may become an invalid.”
“I’ll take care of you,” Dawson said steadily.
“You’ve already had an invalid wife. I wouldn’t give you another.”
He smiled gently. “That’s for me to decide.”
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