The room was furnished with bed, rocker, a washstand and table, but nothing of a personal nature, no doilies or books, not even a clock. She heard Henry on the stairs, the clomp too heavy to be one of the children or his spurious wife, and guessed it to be noon. He knocked once and the deranged bird that was her heart began flapping in her chest.
“Are you all right in there?”
“Yes.” The door wasn’t locked. The besotted buzzard could easily enter and take her in his arms, say he was sorry, so very sorry, and vow to fix things straightaway. “Come in.”
He cracked the door, taking two steps inside and coming no farther. She remained by the window, the light pouring in, silhouetting her nakedness beneath the gown. She made no move to cover herself. She’d overcome modesty early on in marriage and had no intention of returning to it now. He was her husband. He had every right to look.
“You missed breakfast,” he said. “You must be famished.”
“I’m not.”
He looked tired, as if he hadn’t slept. She hoped he hadn’t. She hoped he’d suffered a long and torturous night as she had. He lowered his eyes. “I’d thought you gone.”
She blinked. “I’m not.”
He ran a hand through his hair, a familiar gesture of helplessness. His hair was silver at the edges now. Maturity became him. He was as handsome as ever, more so, perhaps. “I looked everywhere.”
“Not everywhere, Henry,” she said.
He looked up. “I’m sorry. Lord, Meg. I’m sorry.”
She held his gaze. “How do you plan to right things?”
He took a step closer. “I don’t know. But you needn’t worry.”
She felt a little flutter behind her ribs, a stir of hope. “I needn’t?”
“I shall do right by you and the children.”
“How so precisely?”
He threw up his hands. “By providing for you, of course, sweetheart!”
Sweetheart. Her stoic resolve broke. Margaret bowed her head and wept. Henry came to her, tears standing in his eyes. He touched her shoulder, creating such a surge of love in her. Her husband and children were all she wanted on this earth. Nothing more. Only that. He pressed his handkerchief into her hand. “Please don’t cry.” All wrongs could be righted here and now if he’d take her in his arms and hold her. But he did not.
He offered instead a cup of tea. “I could have a tray sent up.”
Margaret shook her head, unable to speak or look at him.
He touched her arm again, briefly. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. There was a pause. “You need to eat something, Meg.”
Feed the gaping wound, give it tea. She looked at him then, with a desire to laugh, an urge to slap him hard, an impulse to throw off the gown and give her whole self to him.
“I’m all right, Henry. Just go now, please.” He did.
SHE WAITED OUT the dinner hour, then dressed and started down the back staircase. It took a lifetime to descend.
In the chaotic kitchen she found Josephine and Martha just out of the tub, with wet hair pulled back, sleek and plaited. They sat at the table, hands clasped in their laps, somber angels in a stranger’s house. “You’ve bathed.” Why did her clean children shock her, offend and shame her?
The stocky young maid, Dora, turned from a sink full of crockery with a bemused look on her face. Henry’s wife paced the floorboards, bouncing her miserable raspy baby on a damp shoulder. She was quite pretty, even in her blowzy state; there was no pretending otherwise.
“Well, good gravy,” she said. She had a strange, drawn-out accent, unlike other American accents Margaret had encountered. “Mercy, yes, they’ve bathed. I’m sure you’re dying to do the same, Mrs. Oades.” The baby coughed a rough cough directly into her red ear.
“Colic,” said Margaret, striving to maintain a calm façade for her children’s sake. “What’s being done for it?”
“Lately we’ve tried avocado juice,” said Henry’s wife.
Margaret stepped closer and peered at the baby, seeing Henry’s flat ears and feeling a pang of jealous sorrow. She could hardly fault the scrawny infant. “Has it done any good?”
“As you can plainly see and hear,” said his exasperated wife, “no.”
Margaret resisted the temptation to poke a finger and scrape out the baby’s caked left nostril. “May I suggest angelica root boiled in sugar?”
His wife heaved a sigh. “Nothing works. I’m at my wit’s end here. I’m thinking about trying a brandy cocktail.” She laughed a weary laugh. “On myself, not Gertrude.”
“Oh,” said Margaret, and twitched a smile. “I see.” She stroked the baby’s warm bald head. “A bit of honey perhaps. To coat the throat.”
His wife shifted the baby, staring down into its pink face. “I don’t think she likes me.”
“Of course she does. All babies like their mums.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Henry’s wife. “She may be the world’s first exception to the rule.” She grasped the baby beneath her arms and thrust her toward Margaret. “Would you take her, please? I’m way behind schedule.” Margaret had no choice but to accept the sour-smelling child. His wife flexed her free hands. “Dora and I were supposed to start the clothes soaking this morning. It’ll be the middle of next week before I get to the ironing now.”
“Put us to work,” said Margaret. “My girls and I are quite capable.”
“You’re company,” said his wife.
“We’re not.”
The baby squawked. His wife scowled and scratched some of the crust from the tiny nostril. “I never know what she wants. I never know what anyone wants.” She brushed a hand across her apologetic face. “Never mind me. I didn’t sleep a single wink last night.” She hesitated. “I’m sure you didn’t either, Mrs. Oades.”
Margaret walked to the kitchen door and back again, rocking the peevish baby, saying nothing. How absurd it was to be having this asinine conversation with her husband’s child bride.
His wife opened the door to the maid’s room. “Look what Mr. Oades and John built this morning. I don’t know what possessed them, really. The davenport isn’t all that lumpy. But then no one asked for my opinion.”
Margaret looked in, still jiggling the baby. A wall had been erected, another cot put in. There was a peg for John’s clothes, a tiny table, and a lamp.
“It’s not exactly the Palace Hotel,” his wife said.
“I’m sure John will be comfortable,” said Margaret.
“Mr. Oades is very grateful that you and the children have turned up alive,” said his wife. Her eyes were hazel with flecks of gold; they were clear and well spaced. She had all her teeth and an unblemished complexion. She was fleshy, though. Years hence, she’d no doubt turn fat, carry a bosom large enough to accommodate teacup and saucer. But for now the advantages of youth and health were hers to enjoy.
“I’m truly sorry for…for things, Mrs. Oades,” she went on. “But I don’t know what you expect me to do. Well, maybe I do know….”
“I don’t expect anything from you,” said Margaret, aware of Dora blatantly eavesdropping. She shifted her eyes toward Martha and Josephine. “Now wouldn’t be the time to discuss it, in any event.”
His wife sighed and held out her arms. “I’ll take her now.” Margaret returned the baby. “You don’t even want to try, Mrs. Oades.”
“I beg your pardon, madam?”
“You don’t want to try and get along.”
“Really, Mrs. Oades. I’m quite sure I don’t know what you mean.”
His wife rolled her eyes. “We can’t run around calling each other Mrs. Oades day and night. It’s too confusing, not to mention just plain unfriendly and dumb.”
“What do you suggest?”
“You’ll call me Nancy and I’ll call you Margaret.”
“As you wish,” said Margaret, surrendering to the unwanted intimacy.
His wife shook her head. “It’s a start, Margaret. We have to start someplace,
don’t we?”
“I suppose,” said Margaret. Precisely what did this young imposter think they were starting?
Calling the
Same Man Husband
MARGARET AND HER children had been living under their roof three weeks to the day when the sheriff’s deputy rode up. It had started out a nice day too, warm, not too muggy. He arrived midmorning. Nancy saw him from the front room and came out onto the porch. The brim of his hat was angled, so she could not discern his mood at first. Though when, if ever, did the law bring good news?
He came as far as the bottom step and stopped, smelling like cheese gone bad. Some bachelors will go the entire winter without bathing.
“I have a warrant for the arrest of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Oades.”
It took a moment for the crazy words to align themselves. “There must be some mistake, sir. My husband and I are law-abiding citizens.”
He regarded her as one would a strange specimen under glass, leering after a moment, displaying large yellow teeth. “You Mrs. Margaret Oades?”
“I am Mrs. Nancy Oades.”
A jaw muscle twitched. “I’m here for Mrs. Margaret Oades.”
“What is the charge? I demand to know.”
The arrogant mongrel consulted the paper in his hand, and said without emotion, “Open and notorious cohabitation and adultery.”
She gasped, her insides sinking. “Outrageous!”
He worked up a cheekful of brown juice and spat. “I don’t have all day, miss.”
Nancy flew down the porch steps, running past him on watery legs, checking first the buggy shed, and then the henhouse and pigpen. She found Mr. Oades in the milking room with Titus, and fell upon him in broad daylight. “Oh, Mr. Oades.” She got it out piecemeal, whispering in his ear the odious words cohabitation and adultery.
Together they went back to the house, Mr. Oades walking fast, Nancy straining to keep up. Margaret had come outside in the meantime. She stood on the bottom step, stiff as a queen, a glowering John Oades at her side.
“You’re trespassing,” said Mr. Oades, approaching.
The deputy scowled, putting a hand on his holstered gun. “Henry Oades? You’re under arrest.” He pointed to Margaret. “You and this here woman. I’m to take you in.”
Mr. Oades extended a grimy hand. “Let’s have a look.” The deputy shrugged and surrendered the warrant. Nancy pictured Mr. Oades ripping the paper into tiny pieces and throwing the scraps down the well. But he only scanned the sheet, looking up once finished, thrusting his chin toward Margaret.
“The lady and I were legally married in England,” he said.
A glaze, a love-shine, crossed Margaret’s narrow features. Nancy didn’t mistake it. “Three, February,” said Mr. Oades, “1880.”
They, she and Mr. Oades, were legally married, too, don’t anyone forget. They married in the United States of America, before a judge and two sober witnesses. What God hath joined together, let no man turn asunder.
“I’ll write for the wedding certificate today,” said Mr. Oades. “And prove it.”
“Tell it to the judge,” said the deputy. He put a hand on Mr. Oades’s arm, as if to goad him forward. Mr. Oades pulled away. He took Nancy’s face between his hands and kissed her forehead.
“Take heart,” he said. “Be a brave girl.” Nancy nodded. He smiled. “The situation shall right itself, not to worry.” He turned to John and ticked off some chores to be done, clapping the boy’s shoulder.
Margaret took a tentative step into their midst, pulling on her hands. “When shall we be returning?”
Mr. Oades spoke gently. “Calm yourself, Meg. We’ll be back before supper.”
“Don’t bet on it,” said the deputy.
Margaret said to Nancy, “You’ll look after my girls?”
“Of course,” said Nancy, flicking a smile. “Like my own.”
Margaret looked almost appreciative. “I’m in your debt,” she said.
Without farewells, Mr. Oades and Margaret set off down the walk, the bowlegged deputy between them. Nancy stood watching until they were out of sight, thinking of Francis then, how quiet life had been with him, how sweet and peaceful. Had he not gone after the money, had he not died, she never would have met Mr. Oades, much less married him. He and Margaret would have surely resumed their life together. There’d be no trouble, no deputy at the door. It galled her to know what plain old greed had led to.
THEY DID NOT RETURN that day. Alone in the front room after supper, a cold supper she’d barely touched, Nancy dipped into Mr. Oades’s brandy and became almost instantly drunk. Still she couldn’t sleep. Around three in the morning, Martha cried out. Nancy threw on her robe and rushed into their darkened room, nicking her shin on the bedpost. “Damn it all!” She bent over, breathing hard, her leg throbbing with pain. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
Josephine whispered in a tiny voice, “She had a bad dream, Mrs. Oades. We’re sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” said Nancy. “Who doesn’t have a bad dream from time to time?” Martha had the covers pulled up to her eyes. Nancy touched the top of her head. “Are you all right now?”
Josephine answered for her sister. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Come to my room if you need me,” said Nancy, limping to the door. “And don’t tell your mother I cursed.”
Squally Gertrude was awake now. Nancy spent the next two hours rocking her, dozing intermittently, jerking to with cricks in her neck.
In the morning, groggy and bloated, she sent Titus into town to find out what was what. He was back before noon, tramping up the front steps and onto the porch, leaving a trail of dried mud in his wake. “They’re in the clink,” he said, hat in hand.
Nancy let the door slam in her fury, waking Gertrude inside. “This family has done nothing wrong!”
“Judge Billings came down with dropsy, ma’am….”
“Serves him right,” said Nancy. May his privates swell and burst, fall down a trouser leg and into the gutter.
“So the hearing was put off.” Titus dug inside a coat pocket and proffered a folded note on dirty paper. “Until the 17th.”
Nancy opened the note and read.
Dearest wife,
Rest assured, this foolish debacle shall be put behind us soon. Do not get it into your head to attend the hearing. No possible good would come of it. You and the children are better off on the farm. I shall be home before you know it.
Your husband,
Henry Oades
Inside, the baby wailed, pining for Margaret most likely. Margaret had an almost magical soothing way with Gertrude. Maybe the baby preferred Margaret’s voice over her own mother’s. Nancy didn’t know. She crumpled the note, thinking about the ironing and mending still to be done, about supper. Margaret’s children woke hungry and stayed hungry the livelong day, especially John. He was always feeding, like a hog bent on a blue ribbon. She was not sure she wouldn’t trade places with Margaret, given a choice. What was jail but a little room with service and no ravenous boys, no ironing or colicky babies. She was weary, too weary to think straight. What was a debacle, anyway?
THE FOUR LADIES, led by Mrs. Charles Middleton herself, the bursar’s wife, came the next day, a broody, rainy morning. Nancy was in the front room dusting Mr. Oades’s Oriental carvings, ugly satanic-looking pieces, inherited from old Mr. Barnhill along with everything else. She heard the horses and went to the window, recognizing the women right away, of course: Mrs. Middleton, fat Mrs. Dooley, the dentist’s wife, Mrs. Goodfriend, the professor’s wife, and Mrs. Knox, the poundmaster’s wife. Collectively and separately they served on dozens of committees. Their photographs, mainly Mrs. Middleton’s, regularly appeared in the paper. The temperance brigade was their most vocal endeavor.
The old hags want to burn down every saloon in town, Francis once said, mounting his soap box, claiming the rich would hoard their whiskey and drink in the privacy of their homes, but the poor workingman would have
no place to go. He must be turning in his jar to see them scurrying up the walk, shielding themselves against the rain with newspapers, a single open umbrella among them. Nancy tore off her work apron and stashed the ratty thing inside the liquor cabinet, and then went to let them in.
“We apologize for arriving without notice,” said Mrs. Middleton. They left the umbrella and newspapers behind on the porch and entered single file, looking about. Nancy had nothing in the house to serve them. They’d probably expect one of those fancy frozen bombes.
She smiled. “To what do I owe the honor?”
Mrs. Middleton was elegant up close, tall and stately, with a pale complexion and kindly expression on her long horsey face. She reminded Nancy of the Catholics’ Mary. “We represent the Daughters of Decency, Mrs. Foreland.”
Nancy frowned, hairs prickling on the back of her neck. She was aware of someone lurking in the dining room, Dora probably, or Margaret’s Josephine. “It’s Mrs. Oades now.”
The ladies exchanged knowing looks. “Not legally,” said Mrs. Dooley.
Nancy put a hand to her chin, where a pimple was starting. “Mr. Oades and I are very much legally married. I can show you the license.”
“We don’t blame you, dear,” said the poundmaster’s wife, a mother of girl triplets. Mrs. Tillman had said that her bloodcurdling screams went on for days. Three times the ripping agony. Merciful God, no thank you.
“Blame me for what?”
“You’re not the first naive girl to be taken in by a depraved hedonist,” said Mrs. Dooley.
Nancy looked directly into her little black piggy eyes. “I beg your pardon. Are you referring to my husband?”
The Wives of Henry Oades: A Novel Page 18
