The Engineer's Wife

by Tracey Enerson Wood

  “Tell her how we live, Son.”

  “It’s not the life you’re accustomed to, Em. We live in dormitories, a stone’s throw from the site. Meals in a mess hall, one step up from an army camp.”

  I tucked the books into a steamer trunk while digging my heels firmly in my position. “Surely, we can find private housing in a city the size of Cincinnati.”

  “Perhaps. But finding something as close to the work site as I need to be would be a challenge. And the riverfront stinks of slaughterhouses and factories. You would find it quite unsuitable.”

  “We can try at least. I’m willing to give up my creature comforts to be with you.”

  Papa cut in. “It’s not only your comfort but your safety that worries us. Liebe Gott, it’s not Cold Spring.” He resumed his pacing. “And how would you manage a cook and a maid in a tiny flat? You can stay here with all you need. Or with your mother. If neither of those suit you, I will lease another home for you.”

  “You can visit monthly,” Wash said. “We’ll have a special weekend together, just the two of us.” The men nodded at each other, pleased with their compromise. Wash laid his hand on my shoulder. “Of course I want you to accompany us, purely for my own selfish reasons. But your welfare is more important.”

  Papa opened his arms as if to include the whole world. “Emily, mein Liebchen, you have many talents. There are things we need you to do in New York. Then you can be with your mother, and it is safer this way.”

  “What would you have me do?” I shirked away from Wash’s hand, closed the packed trunk, and latched the brass fittings.

  “This bridge”—Papa pointed to a model of the Cincinnati bridge—“is just a prototype. The real challenge is the East River. That’s what we’re working up to.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not following.”

  “We need support in order to be able to build the New York bridge. Political, financial, social. That’s where you come in.”

  “Me?” My eyes widened. Those didn’t sound like tasks for which I was equipped. And most of all, I needed to be with Wash. “What would you have me do?”

  Papa shrugged. “Speeches, meetings, dinner receptions, whatever necessary. We have to raise about seven million dollars.”

  My mouth fell open. They were responsible for funding the project as well as building it? And they were looking to me for help? And speeches! The mention of them steeled my resolve to not be left behind. “I don’t care about living in a grand house or if I have to learn to cook on a campfire. I can survive without a maid. But I won’t be a wife who’s tucked away like a china doll.”

  The men mirrored each other, arms folded across their chests.

  “Perhaps I can help raise the needed funds in New York when we all return from Ohio.” I managed a weak smile. “What do you think, Wash?”

  “I’m not opposed.”

  I gave him a you-need-to-do-better-than-that glare.

  Wash chuckled. “You see, Papa, I’ve married not only the fairest but the feistiest of women. Emily’s presence will not compromise my work. In fact, she is a gifted muse. And I can search for accommodations for both of us straightaway.”

  Papa uncrossed his arms, and I faced him. “With your permission, Papa, I will accompany Wash to Ohio. Upon our return, I promise to support the East River Bridge.”

  He took a long, appraising look at me, then with a nod, declared, “Sehr gut.”

  Five

  Cincinnati, Ohio

  After Lincoln’s assassination, the whole country was in mourning. Cincinnati paid homage in its customary veil of black. There was soot everywhere; one couldn’t travel a block without bringing home enough coal dust to light a fire. Cinders from factory smokestacks and chimneys floated in the air like black snow.

  Exploring the short distance from the river to our tiny flat, I followed a curious line curving through the dirt. After a few days of observing rats climb through cracks in our cellar door, I knew what had carved the path.

  Somehow, rats in our cellar didn’t bother me as much as the thought of thousands of them swimming in the river, riding the current, sleek and hidden. In the cellar, at least I could trap the vermin. A river was an uncontrollable beast. Long ago, one had taken away a part of me, never to be replaced. Now, it seemed, another had threatened to take me away from my new husband. I smiled at my victory in that argument.

  Our neighborhood teemed with men who carried their lunch pails off to the slaughterhouses or shipyards, leaving their wives left behind to mind the children. Although I tried to engage the women, bringing muffins or a sampling of teas, it seemed no one had time for a temporarily displaced new bride. Although we were all—or mostly—Americans, it seemed we didn’t speak the same language. I felt like an outsider, looking in at real lives while mine was only make-believe.

  I read every book in my collection twice, as well as anything interesting the public library had to offer. In the tiny room that served as his study, Wash’s textbooks stood in precise order, lined up like soldiers in every available space. Calculus. Trigonometry. Engineering. All subjects deemed unsuitable for women. Whether that was law or social expectation, I didn’t know, but either way, the injustice—or perhaps sheer boredom—compelled me to investigate the forbidden fruit. I slid out a text with a deep yellow cover. A feather floating on its cover belied its weighty title: A Treatise on the Calculus of Finite Differences. I opened to a random page and was treatised with equations, Greek symbols, and seemingly Greek text.

  The back of the book had keys explaining the symbols. I studied the keys, then flipped back to the first page. Eventually, the concepts began to make sense, and I was surprised by the ease with which I understood them.

  I had never heard of a girl or woman being encouraged to study scientific or mathematical concepts. Papa believed that females had no mind for them, but how could they if they hadn’t the proper preparation? Schools seemed to have no intention of changing education for women; it would take laws to force them to do it. All this reinforced the need for voting rights for women and for women to run for political office.

  I tried to think of ways to support this cause, even while chasing a driven husband. New magazines were appearing with tales of marches and speeches, but it all seemed so far away and not practical at the moment. But perhaps my promised efforts to raise support and funds in New York for the bridge could somehow serve a dual purpose.

  * * *

  Late in summer, frustrated with repeatedly scrubbing the fifteen square feet of kitchen and my clothes sticking to me like a hot washrag, I snuck down to the construction site. After leaving a basket of fruit and bread for the workers, I settled into a hiding place amid six-foot-tall wooden spools of wire rope stored in a clearing above the work site. The location offered a spectacular vista while shielding me from view of the dozens of working men. A mechanical contraption of wheels and pulleys spun wire back and forth across the river over two monstrous stone towers.

  Papa barked orders at his assistant engineers and numerous foremen, suppliers, and curious onlookers. It was quite the show, his fingers stabbing at the air or at someone’s chest. I pitied an innocent passerby who seemed to be politely asking a question, only to be met with wild hand waving. Papa ripped off his hat and flung it to the ground. An assistant guided the hapless visitor outside the construction zone, pointing to the warning signs he had either missed or ignored.

  With Wash’s permission, I visited the site each day, sometimes bringing a meal to share with him but staying out of sight. One windless afternoon, the air crackled with explosives as men cleared the path for road approaches. Workers halted midtask, fingers in their ears. A ginger-haired mechanic, tools dangling from his wide leather belt, rushed across the site and knelt next to a worker who huddled on the ground, arms wrapped around his head. I squinted to see if the worker was injured. The mechanic helped him to his feet. I gas
ped. It was Wash.

  He brushed himself off without a trace of injury. I breathed a sigh of relief, but it reminded me of similar behavior after the war. Something in him had not fully healed.

  The mechanic remained at Wash’s side, scratching his beard as they reviewed rolls of plans. Although he was probably forty years of age, he seemed boyish with his spritely movement and thin build.

  Later, I munched a crisp pear, using the back of my hand to wipe the juice running off my chin, as I watched some John Roebling theater.

  “Aha! This is what the boss has tucked away.” An unfamiliar voice chortled behind me. “I wondered why he disappeared back here.”

  Startled, I dropped the pear.

  The mechanic who had helped Wash minutes before grinned, showing off a lovely set of teeth and setting me at ease. He raised his bowler. “Sorry to spook you, ma’am. I’m Edmond Farrington.” Plucking a handkerchief from his pocket, he dabbed his own chin in demonstration, then handed the pristine cloth to me. “You missed a spot.”

  “You won’t tell on me, will you?” I glanced back to check on Papa and the other men, but none seemed be looking our way.

  Farrington sat down on a pile of cut stones and propped his boots on another. “Well now, that depends on the contraband you bring me.”

  The mechanic made me laugh, and soon we fell into a routine, Farrington, Wash, and I. The two came to my hiding spot on breaks, updating me on progress while digging forks into the jars of preserved apples I smuggled in for them.

  It occurred to me that I was much more comfortable in their company than with the aloof wives of Cincinnati. The steady progress of the wire cables and the hive of worker bees on the site held my interest much more than the pram-pushing ladies in the shopping district. In the evening, Wash would explain the work being done to help me make sense of what I saw during my visit.

  Wash delighted in quizzing me in front of Farrington, and I always knew the answers from our dinner conversation the night before. “Better watch out,” Wash teased Farrington. “You could be replaced by someone a lot better looking.”

  “Yup,” Farrington replied, pointing a half-eaten apple at Wash. “You better watch out.”

  * * *

  As summer turned to fall, the workload increased as deadlines loomed. Wash returned home each evening exhausted and irritable. I listened to his litany of difficulties and endeavored to make his home life comfortable. I tried to make a decent meal but never mastered the quirky cookstove. Far too often, Wash praised my attempts while sawing through charred meat. We desperately needed to hire a cook but were too stubborn to concede the point.

  On a late autumn evening, father and son arrived together at our humble flat. Wash stalked through the door, bringing a blast of cold air and dust, followed by Papa, spouting a tirade in German. Upon seeing me sitting at our tiny kitchen table, he switched to English.

  “It is necessary for me to return to Trenton.” Papa waved his hat for emphasis.

  “To check on your wire rope business despite choosing another supplier for the bridge,” Wash retorted. “You overlook our own perfectly suitable product and give the contract to overseas competitors.”

  “Their wire is more suitable, with greater tensile strength. We must consider the integrity of the entire project, not merely what is convenient or profitable.” Papa furrowed his brow and shook an accusing finger at Wash. “You shame me.”

  Wash faced his father chest to chest. “Importing wire from overseas makes no sense. The difference in strength is negligible, adding cost and delay for no good reason. There is no shame in being prudent and making a profit.”

  “I will not condone even the appearance that our work might be compromised by selfish gain. Our name, our reputation!” Papa pounded his fist on the table, rattling the place settings—and me. “They’ll think us carpetbaggers!”

  Wash didn’t blink, his demeanor as calm as if they were discussing a visit to the park. “No one would ever suspect you of that. We have the means to produce what is needed, our factory mere hundreds rather than thousands of miles away. Furthermore, by bypassing our company, you prevent us from developing our wire products for new uses.”

  Papa fixed his eagle glare on Wash, an expression that had made lesser men cower. “Yet you complain that I return to Trenton.” He leaned with fisted hands on the table, and his voice grew eerily quiet. “Be the man I have raised, or find your own work.”

  Horrified at the things Papa was saying, I attempted to exit. But without peeling his glare from Wash, Papa caught my arm. I froze in place, and the hairs on the back of my neck rose up as I steeled myself for his wrath. Earlier in the day, I suspected he had spotted me hiding among the wire spools.

  Wash slumped into a chair, too tired to pull off his muddy boots. He wiped grime off his face with his shirt sleeve. “Go to Trenton, Papa. We’ll manage without you. Perhaps while there, you’ll find the best way to control a factory’s output is to own it.”

  “We’ll see.” Papa focused his piercing gaze on me, my arm still in his grasp. But the crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened as his face softened. “Thank you, Liebchen.”

  “Wh—what for?”

  “For the bread and fruit. The men, they are most appreciative.”

  I blinked. “You’re welcome.”

  Papa held out his arms wide. “You two have any hugs left for a crotchety old bridge builder?”

  Bewildered by his change in tone, I gave him a tentative embrace. Wash rose to bear-hug him, and they slapped each other’s backs as if they had never argued.

  “Six a.m. tomorrow, Son.” Papa put his hat on his balding head, and the door slammed behind him, his harsh words echoing in my head.

  Wash groaned, holding one hand on his back as he bent to untie his boots.

  I knelt to help him. “How do you change from harassed underling to beloved son in an instant?”

  He shrugged. “When you grow up in a family business, you learn to straddle two worlds, always knowing which one you’re in at the moment. Don’t worry. He’s just a stubborn son of a gun.”

  Despite the early workday and his constant fatigue, Wash labored long into the night, his drawings and schedules spread across every horizontal space. I tiptoed in, bringing him a fresh cup of tea every few hours. He gazed up with the faintest of smiles and that horrid emptiness in his eyes. When I left my soldier to his work and went to bed alone, guilt poked at the edges of my sleep.

  I had attended a lecture at the Women’s League about “soldier’s heart,” and I saw in Wash so many signs of the affliction suffered by his fellow veterans of the war, most recently the fall to the ground at the sound of the explosives. The doctor advised that the only cure was to be found in exertion followed by plenty of rest. Somehow, I had to keep his mind safe. He could no more do that for himself than he could keep the sun from casting a shadow. So I got up, wrapped my arms around his neck, and whispered, “Come to bed.”

  * * *

  Having had my fill of construction-site peeping, I decided to take advantage of my location. Wearing all black clothes to match the coal dust was a helpful start. I joined local ladies’ guilds, and accepting the need to do things on my own and without Wash opened many possibilities.

  On a dark, clear night, I visited an observatory on a hill overlooking the city and peered through a giant telescope at an explosion of stars and planets. Across the river in Kentucky, I toured lovely ranches for sale with acres and acres of grassy pastures surrounded by white rail fences. Buying one was a far-off dream, but until then, I rode horses until my thighs burned and my heart galloped in rhythm.

  Six

  1867

  Champagne corks exploded skyward as a band played Sousa marches for a cheering crowd at the riverside. After years of torturous work, the Cincinnati-Covington Bridge was complete. Thousands attended the April dedication, c
limbing on chairs to toast the Roeblings.

  Papa, Wash, and I were escorted to our seats in the front row—white wooden chairs stenciled with our names. A city official presented me with a bouquet of roses. It was certainly a lovely tradition, but my cheeks pinked, accepting honors for someone else’s achievement. Papa popped up like a jack-in-the-box, shaking admirers’ hands.

  I perused the program, complete with likenesses of both Papa and Wash.

  “Quite the show.” Wash let his long legs sprawl in front of him, his face more relaxed than I had seen in two years.

  “You have much to be proud of.”

  “I’m just glad it’s done and Papa and I are still on speaking terms. We learned an awful lot.” Wash folded his program into careful creases and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

  “Yes, now the next bridge will go up lickety-split,” I said.

  Papa looked at me, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Haven’t you told her?”

  Wash shrugged.

  My heart sank. This did not sound promising.

  Papa jutted his jaw at the new bridge in front of us. “The East River Bridge will be much more difficult than this one. A longer center span and higher for tall ships. It’s not a serene river like the Ohio but deep and turbulent and tidal, changing direction twice each day, sometimes flowing at great speed.”

  He pulled note cards from his pocket and passed them to Wash. “Germany, France, and England are innovating underwater foundations. Go there. Study the latest technology.”

  Wash tried to hand the cards back. “Papa, I’ve told you, we—”

  “You can take Emily.” He caught my eye and winked. “Consider it a belated honeymoon, on me.”

  “And what of the fundraising for the East River Bridge?” I dreaded holding up my end of the bargain. Although throwing dinner parties would be amusing, I would rather swim upstream with rats than give a speech. A trip to Europe was much more to my liking.