“Mmm… Thasss all right…” Even through the fog, I knew as long as the baby was fine, nothing else mattered.
“I’m so sorry for leaving you. I’ll…I’ll never forgive myself.”
His face was wracked with anguish, and I tried to comfort him.
“I fine.” I felt the skin of my forehead being tugged as he plucked matted hair from it.
“There’s something else.” He hung his head. “We can’t have any more.”
“More what?” I asked, already fading into a soft dream.
“More babies.”
* * *
The surgery stemmed the bleeding, but I was very weak and unable to get out of bed for a month. My heart ached for the children we would never have. I pictured Johnny running through fields with the sisters that weren’t meant to be. I recalled my own childhood with nearly a dozen siblings vying for the best swing, the most attention, the biggest piece of bread. But part of me was relieved to never have to repeat the painful experience of childbirth. Johnny would have friends and cousins and parents who could devote themselves to him.
Johnny brought us great joy, and Wash no longer harangued me about my decision to accompany him to Europe with a child on the way. Likewise, I bit my tongue back from lashing him once I realized he’d gone away, leaving me and his newborn son for days while I hung in a precarious state.
* * *
When I had regained my strength, I accompanied Wash on research trips, sometimes leaving Johnny with the Roebling clan. Words like “caisson” and “quoin” became as familiar to me as “cat” and “dog.” Or le chat and le chien. When the opportunity to study a bridge over the Seine arose, I used my facility with French to worm my way into the visit.
We reveled in each other’s company, making love frequently and passionately once I had recovered, as if to make up for the lonely nights filled with his work and my waiting. It was the honeymoon we had never had.
Wash’s spells of soldier’s heart occurred less frequently, and his sweetness and lively sense of humor returned along with our lovemaking. He surprised me with unusual gifts of questionable taste. Once, he paid a few francs for some eggs from a farm woman, then drew comical likenesses of her on the shells and presented them to me in a lovely basket.
He had a knack for analyzing building design and why the human eye might perceive it with pleasure, as when we visited Versailles. The formal gardens were breathtaking with the precision of their carved hedges, the romantic twists and turns of the paths between them.
Wash pointed out features of the wondrous palace, such as the two stories of tall Palladian windows, precisely offset from each other. “It’s the symmetry and balance, two related but different things. The grandeur in size, restraint in design, and the consistency in the color of the stone taken together please the eye and soothe the mind.”
Especially enjoyable was our visit to England to see the architecture of Sir Christopher Wren. At the Royal Navy Observatory in Greenwich, Wash and I admired the perfect balance of grace, symmetry, and utility in Wren’s dome.
Windows and panels alternated in pleasing scale, and glorious carvings at the zenith drew my eyes toward the heavens. An enormous telescope protruded through an opening in the roof, similar to the Cincinnati Observatory. Once again, I was able to see beyond our world. How tiny and insignificant our lives seemed in comparison. We were living our lives as they were meant to be lived, our place in the universe ordained by a power greater than us. My perspective grew and my worries abated. I was physically as strong as I had been before the pregnancy and emotionally even stronger.
In a Scotland dry dock, Wash and I watched workers prepare the new clipper ship Cutty Sark for launch. Wash was eager to explore the innovative hull design. Her framework was designed for speed, with several types of wood fitted into a graceful curve. We were both awed by the waterproofing—a skin of brass, much more elegant than his plan for the caisson.
A wooden structure cradled the ship, and we ducked under the spectacular hull. The special type of flexible brass sheathing, called Muntz metal, was a precise mixture of corrosion-resistant copper and zinc. It was heated to a blazing 800 degrees, applied to the lower hull, then carefully cooled. I reached up and ran my hand across the golden surface’s breathtaking curves. One couldn’t see and feel that without wonder, without a sense of calm. It was a privilege to view this treasure of art and science before it was forever concealed beneath the waves.
* * *
We were in a remote part of France when I failed at the first chance I had to truly help Wash with his work. He planned to dive underwater to examine foundations and needed me to hold his rope line, which was tied about his waist in case he got into some trouble. Refusing to ask his father to pay for an assistant, when he needed an extra set of hands, he chose mine.
Wash was studying a small bridge, its several stone arches leaping across the water in perfect symmetry. It was as if we had stepped into a painting. Lilacs scented the spring air while apple and cherry trees bloomed with abandon.
I sat on the bank of the stream, a cool breeze blowing over my bare feet, a picture book of the French countryside in one hand, the coiled end of Wash’s rope in the other. The rope tugged, and Wash popped out of the water.
“Em! You must come see this!” He waded over to me, his wet bathing costume clinging nicely to his broad chest. He pulled off the swim goggles he had fashioned with round pieces of glass and bits of rubber, leaving black rings around his eyes.
I laughed. “You look like a panda bear.”
He growled and rubbed his face on my white gauzy skirt.
I pushed his head away. “Mon Dieu, this is the latest in French fashion.”
“You’re all dirty.” He gave me a smile. “Now you have to come in.” He offered his hand and guided me down the short bank. “It’s not too cold.”
He gently pulled me, but I dug my heels into the pebbled shallows.
“I’m quite content right here,” I said, although I wasn’t at all. I wanted to climb back up the riverbank. The thought of going deeper into the water sent a shiver of dread through my body.
“What is it? You told me you could swim.”
“I can survive.”
He tilted his head. “And what were you going to do if I needed help?”
“It’s not that I can’t, physically.”
“Metaphorically, then?” Wash waved at the sinking sun. “I’ve got the rest of the day and all night. Tell me.”
Perhaps I should have shared the story with him long ago. Memories tucked in a recess of my mind sometimes boiled to the surface, with or without provocation. If I shared them with my beloved, could I finally let go? A dull pain formed in the pit of my belly, convincing me to keep my secrets buried. It was so long ago, after all. I stared at the water rippling over my feet, screams of terror from the past echoing in my ears. He was right. It was time.
* * *
My memories begin, as everything begins, with water. Flowing serenely between cascading cliffs, the river appeared so gentle, so welcoming. My fifth spring had arrived, and we children were set free to explore the budding world.
My brother GK led my sister Elizabeth and me on a narrow path through the woods toward the river, bent branches snapping back into my face. We weren’t allowed to swim in the river but often threw pebbles into it and watched boats go by.
GK pointed out poison ivy, and I slapped at mosquitoes as we hiked a good mile from home, climbing all the way.
“Wait up,” Elizabeth called from behind. My parents favored her, the golden child, the sky-eyed angel among the rest of us with dark hair and dirt eyes. She was heavier and slower, although six years old to my five. We were always competing: who was braver, smarter, taller? Hearing her clomping behind me, I giggled and raced farther ahead.
White sunshine blinded us as we emerged from the woods. The dirt
path ended at a smooth stone ledge. We scrambled up the rock to the top of the cliff, high above the water.
“You see that, Emily?” GK pointed across the river to a bald mountain, as pockmarked as his face. He was thirteen years older than me, therefore fascinating, and seemed to change with each day. We crept to the edge of the rock for a view of the iron foundry just upriver but far below us. “They shoot the cannons across the river to test them.”
The woods rustled behind us as Elizabeth caught up. “Get back from there.” She huffed, her shoulders rising and falling with each breath.
I ignored her, mesmerized by the river slithering through the rounded green mountains like a glittering snake.
“Here comes the train.” GK pointed to the river’s twin, a black snake running beside it.
Elizabeth pulled on his arm. “I mean it. Get back.”
“Stop it.” I pushed between them.
“You’re too close.” Elizabeth held her hands on her hips.
“Shut your mouth. You’re not the boss. We got here first.”
“Enough, you two.” GK herded us back from the cliff, but I wasn’t having any of it. I kicked the back of her knee.
She whirled around, reaching for my hair. “Stop it, you baby.”
I punched at her face, and she blocked with an elbow. My brother pushed us both back toward the woods, but we escaped him, mindful only of unsettled rows and hurts of the past.
We tussled, a shoe hitting a knee, an elbow meeting a chin. GK grabbed her corn-silk hair and a wad of my brown curls and pulled us apart, our fists swirling in air. He let go of her first, the older, more sensible one. She backed away, her plump cheeks pinked, her hair wild.
“You look like a witch,” I said.
She shoved me, or tried to anyway, arms stretched, hands ready to flatten across my chest. I dodged. She stumbled forward, and her momentum carried her the few steps toward the edge. She tried to stop but slid on loose gravel. I ran to catch her, but GK stiff-armed me back, reaching to grab Elizabeth.
But he missed.
She screamed as she tilted, then tumbled off our rock and crashed into a clump of trees below. She was safe there for a moment, the tender green branches nesting her body.
“Hold on!” GK yelled.
She scrambled, no baby bird but a little girl seeking solid earth. Branches gave way, and she fell out of sight, her voice echoing in the riverside canyon.
GK scooped me up and jumped down off our perch. He carried me, slipping and jerking, down a narrow, steep path, barely wide enough for a foothold. We zigzagged down the face of the gray rock mountain, and I hid my face in his shoulder. About halfway down the cliff, he put me down on a fallen tree. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
“No, don’t leave me!” I clung to him.
He hesitated. Elizabeth’s cries for help were like a baby bear calling for its mama.
“You’ll be safe here, Emily.” He cupped my chin in his hand. “I’ve got to help our sister.”
“No, no, no.” I wrapped both arms around his leg.
Groaning in anguish, he picked me up and tossed me over his shoulder. I clasped his brown shirt as we bumped down, down, down. At the bottom of the ravine, he set me on a patch of pebbles at the edge of the water.
“Help me,” Elizabeth cried. She was in the river, clinging to a branch, her face curtained with blood.
The water rushed by much more quickly than it appeared from above. Logs and branches swept by faster than I had ever run. Having no experience in the water, I stepped in to help. A shock of cold water captured me. I paddled madly to keep my head above the water. My head slipped under, and I arched my neck to get a breath.
The current dragged me under, sunlight wavering through a filter of water. Then strong arms scooped me up, and I sucked in a great breath of air. The river pulled against us, and GK stumbled, waist-deep and weighed down by me and our sopping clothes. When we reached the shore, he set me down, told me to stay put. I obeyed, wet and shivering, my sister’s pleas filling my ears.
He jumped back in and swam to Elizabeth, still clinging to the branch. He reached her just as the current yanked her from it. She slapped at the water and clawed for him as he grasped her dress and pulled her toward him. He lost his grip on the branch.
I watched them float away, arms flailing, voices muffled, their heads bobbing under the water, until only one head popped back up.
* * *
I shared my darkest secret, about the most horrible day, of losing my sister and my fear of the water ever since.
He wrapped me in his arms, my head tucked under his chin. “I’m sorry, my love.”
I raked my foot against the wet pebbles. “So GK was determined to teach me how to swim. For several months, he woke me before dawn, and we snuck out of the house to a small pond covered with lily pads. He would pick me up and wade into the water until it reached my feet. I screamed in terror when we went any deeper. Gradually, he helped me overcome my fears enough to separate from him and paddle around him like a puppy. My strokes grew stronger over time, but I was much relieved when he declared the lessons to be completed.”
“Was that the last time you swam?”
“Once or twice since, but I’d be perfectly happy never to swim again. Every spring, we go back to the overlook and throw flowers down the cliff in her memory.”
GK and I, the guilty survivors, had made a pact. We had taken a life. Whether we called it an accident or fate or irresponsibility or recklessness, it was just a name for our pain, not a way to live with it. We had told no one the full story of what happened that day. It was a secret that both bonded and haunted us.
I rested my hand on Wash’s cool, wet chest. “Each year, we renew a pact: to work twice as hard, be twice as good, and have twice as much fun—for Elizabeth.”
He caught my eye, his lips curled into a slight smile. “That explains so much.” He lifted me up. “But this won’t do for the wife of a bridge builder. We’ll be around water our whole lives.” He leaned close. “Come. You’ll enjoy it with me.”
“No, put me down!” I kicked my legs free.
“Emily, you are going to have to face this sooner or later.”
“Not now.” I stepped back. “Is that why you brought me here? Did GK tell you? Have you known all along?” My insides felt exposed like a freshly gutted trout.
“No, I wanted you here, thought we might enjoy the day together, and I could benefit from your assistance. But now I think you rather need help yourself.” His fingers swirled the water, tinkling around us and smelling of yesterday’s fish. “Nothing’s going to hurt you.”
“I’m not ready. You’ll have to find another assistant.” I stepped through the murk back to the riverbank. My feet slid on its slippery face; I grabbed tree roots for support.
He approached with sloshing steps, and his warm hand rested on my back. “Stop. Let me help you.”
I hugged the steep bank, breathing the scent of mud and grass and worms. Tears flowed down my cheeks.
“It’s all right.” He gently tugged my shoulder.
When I could breathe without shuddering, I echoed him. “All right.” He slid his hands down to make a seat for me, and I wrapped my arms around his neck. I raised my legs around his waist, and he slowly, slowly waded in. My arms clung tightly to him, my face tucked into his neck as he crept deeper, the water chilling my legs. Bile rose in my throat, and I struggled to breathe.
But I did breathe, in jerky gasps at first, smoothing and slowing as his musky smell calmed me. With the clutch of his hands under my bottom and the solid wall of his chest against me, I pushed thoughts of swirling, rapid river from my mind. “Are your arms getting tired? You can bring me back.”
“I can hold you as long as you need.”
Shivering, I inched my legs into the waist-deep river while wishing t
o be lifted away from the snake that stole my sister. But he rocked me with the current, repeating, “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”
My trembling stopped, and the corset laces of fear and guilt that had long squeezed my chest loosened. We kissed, the stream gently flowing past. The sky darkened and the crickets chirped. I dipped my fingertips in the water, making peace with it.
“Good?” he asked.
I nodded, and he slipped his arms from around me, reached under the current, and brought up a muddy piece of junk. “Aha. This is what I wanted to show you.”
I raised my eyebrows at his offering.
He swirled it in the water to rinse off the mud, revealing a white ceramic pitcher with beautiful lines and in good trim. He raised it like a trophy. “An artifact of an ancient culture.”
I wiped my streaked face, trying to resemble a normal sort of person. “Or something that fell off someone’s boat last week.”
Eight
New York City, New York
1868
After returning to the States, we lived for a short while with GK, Millie, and their son in their Manhattan home. I took turns with Millie minding the children, which allowed me a bit of free time to explore New York.
The streets were quite congested, and the horse and buggy proved cumbersome to maneuver, as I favored driving myself. Still a country girl at heart, I longed to ride in the saddle. There was quite a kerfuffle when I raised the idea, with Millie aghast, Wash in favor, and GK bemused.
“Emily runs counter to the rules,” GK said. He kindly lent me his horse and a sidesaddle, and I rode the streets, delighting in the sights and bustle of the growing city. If the people of New York were offended, they showed no sign. Indeed, there were smiles from the ladies and gentlemen tipping their hats. I guided the horse with precision—filthy water befouled the streets, carrying the debris of life toward the river. I had read in Harper’s that a better system of sanitary waste disposal was to be established. It could not come soon enough.
New buildings shot up, and the city was becoming more crowded. Immigrants poured in, creating neighborhoods where only the mother tongue was spoken or English with lovely accents.
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