by A. Valentine
The train was shorter than most; it had an engine, four passenger cars, and trailing those, a private car with big windows. Through the glass I could glimpse a tabletop dressed with white linen; beyond that, I had a fleeting glance of red velvet upholstery. Painted on the side of the car in golden letters were the words Benson Trading and Exchange, Limited.
My heart stopped in my chest. I could feel my mouth go dry. The fear I felt in that moment exceeded anything I’d felt the night before, watching Father’s print shop burn. The private train car before me belonged to Richard Benson. Riding inside it was the man so determined to be my husband.
Chapter Eleven
I knew Robert as soon as he stepped out of the train car. He had to stoop to do so; he was a very tall man, and that considerable height was exaggerated by the oily-looking black top hat he wore. Such hats were in fashion, but it suited him poorly; it was too small by half for his bulbous head.
The man who would marry me had red skin, covered over nearly entirely with angry boils and acne pustules. Such a thing was not uncommon among boys and even men my own age, but to see such a compromised complexion in one nearly Father’s age was revolting. It wasn’t particularly warm that day, but even at a distance I could see a glistening sheen where his skin appeared to be weeping.
He was broad, with a thick torso, tree trunk legs, and ape-like arms that filled his jacked sleeves near to bursting. Watching him move was a fascinating spectacle. Robert Benson didn’t walk as much as he lurched forward, one stiff step after another made without the slightest regard of anyone else’s presence or position. I saw a mother snatch her young child out of Mr. Benson’s way with barely a moment to spare; if she’d not acted, surely he would have trod directly on the tot.
Every bit of the man’s appearance seemed designed to evoke a response of fear and revulsion. His suit was the darkest black; the walking stick he carried was topped with a gold-chased burl. I’d heard he’d bragged of cracking heads with it, and rumors were that he would laugh at a dog’s pained yowls after he shooed them away.
I couldn’t stop staring at him, but I didn’t want him to see me. In that moment, I remembered my hair had fallen free from its braids. The red hue was particularly noticeable in the sun; of all the women of my age in the valley, I was the only one blessed with auburn locks. This I was sure Robert Benson knew; the merest glance in my direction would reveal my presence to him.
There was no time to re-braid my hair. With thick, heavy locks past my shoulders, putting my hair up properly always took the better part of an hour, not to mention a mirror and a brush. Besides, in itself, a braid wouldn’t be enough to conceal the color.
I had a handkerchief tucked up my sleeve. It smelled of smoke and had gotten a little dingy, but that couldn’t be helped. I managed to get it secured around my hair in the nick of time. No sooner was the small cloth knotted than Richard Benson stepped out of the train station onto the sidewalk. I was no more than twenty feet from him.
The air stilled. I could hear a million cicadas singing, their fiddling song cutting through the air like a saw blade with an agenda. When I breathed in, all I could smell was the sickly-sweet odor of rose water; clearly Benson bathed in the stuff. I didn’t breathe out. I feared that doing so might attract his attention. If the sound of my exhalation didn’t do so, surely the retching I was working so hard to contain would have.
Luckily, most of Robert’s attention was focused on the fact that his carriage had not arrived as scheduled to pick him up. “I don’t care if the blasted train is early,” he raged at a short man who toadied alongside him, carrying a heavy black case and a portfolio stuffed to overflowing with papers. “I need to go home now. I can’t waste half the day standing around waiting for Boutwell to show up!” He hit the ground with his walking stick, and then leaned heavily upon it. “I can’t, and I won’t!”
“You shant have to, Sir,” the short man said. “There’s the carriage there. He’s coming now.” From down the road, travelling at high speed, came an ornately painted coach being pulled by a splendid team of matching chestnuts. It was being driven by a man who bore more than a passing resemblance to the fire marshal.
Was this, I wondered, Kitty’s other brother?
My curiosity had a weight of its own, apparently. Benson started to turn in my direction, apparently sensing that someone was watching. I chose that moment to direct my attention back to the personal ads, deciding in the heat of that moment that I would answer the very first one I read; whoever placed that message was surely fated to be my husband.
“Iowa Agronomist Seeks Wife,” the headline read. The ad was shorter than most. The only other thing it said was “Must Love to Read.”
Chapter Twelve
When I returned home, I found Father sitting on the front porch. He had recovered his composure, thankfully. His eyes were dry. He’d combed his hair and exchanged the sooty clothes he’d been wearing for another set.
“I’ve news for you,” he said. “My daughter.”
“If you mean to tell me that Richard Benson’s come back from Boston, I know,” I replied. “I saw his carriage on the road.”
Father nodded slowly. “He sent a boy round with the message that we’re to join him at the dinner hour tomorrow.” He took a deep breath. “To discuss the wedding arrangements.”
I think Father was expecting a reprise of our earlier conflict, but I didn’t have it in me to argue with him again. There was no point in it. I simply nodded my head a little bit and said, “All right.”
He brightened at my acquiescence. “I know this isn’t what you wanted, girl, but things may work out better than expected. The Lord works in mysterious ways.” A smile, slow and tentative, crept across his face. “Why, your Mother and I hadn’t known each other but a season when we decided to wed. And we were very happy together.”
“I know, Papa.” I leaned over and hugged him, squeezing his shoulders gently. It struck me that there weren’t many more times when I’d get to embrace my Father – the train for Iowa was scheduled to pull out of the station shortly after first light. Tears sprang to my eyes, hot and quick. “I know.”
His eyes searched my face when I stepped back. Perhaps a tear drop or two had slipped onto his shoulder, alerting him to my distress. Perhaps the timbre of my voice wasn’t as steady as it might have been. “You will be happy,” he said. “I am sure of it.”
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and nodded. “Of course,” I agreed. I didn’t want to lie to Father, so I chose my words carefully. “I just have to get used to everything being different.”
He nodded. “It was only yesterday that you were this high,” he said, holding out his hand at knee-height. “Always sticking your hands in the ink and getting prints on everything.” He reached out for another embrace. “And now you’re a woman grown.”
He hugged me tightly, squeezing so hard I could feel that affection and anxiety were coursing through his body in equal measure. “Oh, my darling. I am going to miss you.”
My tears came back, in greater quantity than before. “I’m going to miss you too.” Then I took a deep breath and stood straight, smoothing my skirts until I composed myself. “But we’ll have to put the best face on it.” I took another breath, feeling the air shudder its way down into my lungs. “Who knows? Before too long, there may be another little girl running around who can’t keep her fingers out of the ink.”
“Give him a son first,” Father said, “and I’m sure Benson will let you have as many daughters as your heart desires.” He shook his head. “A man in his position needs an heir. Someone to leave his legacy to.”
“A heir and a spare,” I said, forcing a smile back onto Father’s face. “And more besides, should the good Lord will it.”
“I’m glad to see you’ve come around to the idea,” Father said.
“What choice do I have?” I shrugged my shoulders, feeling a sour surge in my stomach. It felt wrong, so wrong, to deceive Papa, but if I told him o
f my plans – much less the fact that I’d cabled Iowa, announcing I was on my way with Shakespeare in tow – I knew he’d do everything in his power to stop me. “Did Mr. Benson send a message for me?”
“No.” Father shook his head. “I expect that he’s waiting to greet you for the first time in person.”
I nodded, as if that seemed sensible. More likely to me was the possibility that it never occurred to Mr. Benson that there was any need to communicate with the woman destined to become his bride; after all, I’d already been purchased and paid for. “I’d best go get my attire for tomorrow sorted out,” I said, stepping toward the front door. “And begin to pack my things.” My voice wavered more than I wanted it to, but there was nothing that could be done about that. “I have just one question for you, Papa.”
He turned toward me, with more than a little fear in his eyes. “What’s that, darling?”
“What’s an agronomist?”
Chapter Thirteen
Having learned that an agronomist is a farmer who is also a scientist, I retreated to my room with my emotions a whirl. I knew nothing about this man in Iowa – not even his name! – but already he seemed infinitely more appealing than Robert Benson could ever be.
A scientist, if nothing else, came equipped with a curious mind. Being similarly equipped myself, I found this comforting. I could imagine life in a household equipped with a laboratory; it would be like living with the pharmacist, with a room filled to bursting with jars full of mysterious ingredients and glassware.
For as long as I could remember, a small trunk stood at the foot of my bed. It was meant to hold my trousseau, and in there, I had long treasured a precious few items that I’d inherited from my Mother. There were linens she’d embroidered and a French chemise made of linen so fine you could see the sunlight through it when you held it up to the window.
I took that out and stared at it. This was always intended for my wedding night; one of the very few things I actually remembered about my Mother was her telling me how happy I would be when I became a bride.
It was a blessing that Mother hadn’t lived long enough to see what a travesty my life had become. I carefully folded the chemise and laid it on the bed; I knew I wouldn’t be able to bear leaving that behind.
The trunk was another question. It was stout and strong – perfect for travelling – but it was also quite heavy. My departure from Father’s house was going to have to be stealthy. There was no one to help me carry a trunk, and I’d not the ability to do it myself.
The black leather satchel I’d used to use to carry my school books would have to do. It wasn’t particularly spacious, but it was large enough to contain the essentials: the Shakespeare, Mother’s chemise, and my most practical dresses. I didn’t see life on an Iowa farm affording many opportunities for dancing. The prettier dresses were consigned, one by one, to the trunk. One pale green ensemble I couldn’t bear to leave behind; people always said I looked fetching in it, and it wouldn’t be amiss to have something attractive to wear for my new husband.
Father appeared in my doorway just as I was tucking the skirt into the satchel. He didn’t say anything. Instead, he stood staring at the trunk, which now held a modest rainbow of finery.
“Papa?” I asked, after a time. “Are you all right?”
He shook his head. “Every Father knows that this day will come. And you ask the Lord to let it stay a distant possibility rather than a present reality for as long as possible.” His voice broke. “You are my only child, Abigail.” His shoulders shook and he choked back a sob. “When you are gone, what will I have left?”
I froze. My Father was already grieving, and the magnitude of the loss he was about to experience was even greater than he knew. Marrying Richard Benson meant moving to the other side of the Valley; while we’d be apart, Papa had every right to expect that he’d see me now and again.
Going to Iowa meant we’d be apart forever. This night would be the last one we’d ever spend under the same roof; there would be no visits. He would never see his grandchildren. He would indeed be truly alone.
I burst into tears, sobbing intensely. I was crying so hard there was no sense in talking, but of course I tried anyway. “I don’t know, Papa!”
He took me in his arms. “Abigail. Stop.” Father squeezed me gently, and sounded like himself again, the reliable source of comfort and strength I’d always known him as. “You needn’t worry. Everything is going to be all right. I shouldn’t have troubled you.”
“I don’t want you to be unhappy,” I said to him. “And who is going to take care of you when I’m gone?”
He laughed. “I’ll manage,” he said. “One way or the other.”
“I need to know that you’re going to be all right,” I said to him, grabbing his arms and staring into his eyes. “No matter what happens.”
Father paused for a moment.
“Kitty Benson didn’t survive this, Papa. I might not either.” I squeezed his biceps, hard. “Promise me that you’ll be all right.”
He nodded and gulped. “But you make me a promise too, girl.”
“Anything, Papa,” I said.
“If it comes to it…if things go badly between you and Mr. Benson…” Father steeled his voice. “You do what you need to do to survive. You stay alive. No matter what.” It was his turn to insist. “Promise me.”
“I will, Papa,” I said. “I promise.”
Chapter Fourteen
That night, I hardly slept at all. My bed seemed as if it had turned to stone; I couldn’t get comfortable no matter how I turned. Downstairs, I could hear Father pacing back and forth into the small hours of the night. His mind wasn’t resting easily either.
Everything was so uncertain. Iowa was a mystery to me; I knew next to nothing about the country I was headed into. The clerk at the train station had been very enthusiastic about all the new track that I’d be riding on; the spur to Sioux City was barely a year old. He’d found this wonderful. I myself would have preferred a situation with a little less novelty.
Even the name of the town scared me a little. Sioux City. Perhaps it had been founded by Indians. I’d read about it as one of a handful of boom towns blossoming out west; people were moving there every day. While these towns certainly didn’t have the population of New York or Boston, they were crowded enough and sufficiently distant that it would be difficult for Robert Benson to find me. Even if he did follow, by the time he arrived, I’d be married to another man, and there’d be nothing he could do about my flight.
I wished, not for the first time, that the personal ad had revealed more about this Iowa agronomist. I didn’t know if he was young or old, sickly or healthy, rich or poor. He hadn’t mentioned children, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have any: I could be getting off of this train to find myself serving as stepmother to a brood of six!
It was entirely possible that the Iowa agronomist was every bit as repulsive as Robert Benson. I thought of the near-encounter I’d had with the man at the train station and shuddered. There was no way I could spend my life that way. It didn’t matter if I was here at home in the Shenandoah Valley or out in the mysterious land of Iowa: I wouldn’t marry a man who evoked such strong feelings of fear and disgust in me.
What would I do if that were the case? I knew no one in Iowa, and sneaking out of town before my wedding day surely meant I wouldn’t be able to come home again. I’d spent almost every penny I had on my train ticket, banking on the fact the Iowa agronomist would be able to support the wife he’d sent for. If this didn’t work out, I’d be far from home with no support, no connections, and no prospects. It was a terrifying idea. If it idea of marrying Robert Benson wasn’t even scarier, I never would have considered it.
But marrying Robert Benson was a scarier idea. The rumors that he’d killed off both his wife and her purported lover had to come from somewhere. Father took them seriously enough to ask the Sheriff – and the lawman hadn’t said they were unfounded. He’d only said he’d no
t been able to find any proof. These were two very different things, and I could find no comfort in the lack of proof.
Another issue was the man’s appearance. We’re not meant to judge a book by its cover, and in truth, I’d met many a homely yet honorable person over the years. But there was something about Robert Benson’s visage that exuded evil; his very presence seemed to taint the air around him. In even a brief observation it was clear to me that he knew the impact he made and he had clearly decided to do nothing to mitigate it.
No matter what the Iowa agronomist looked like, I doubted it could be nearly as bad as Robert Benson.
The skies had begun to gray with dawn’s first light when I finally heard Father retire to bed. It didn’t take long for his snores to fill the house. When I was certain he was fully asleep, I slipped out of bed, took up the black satchel, and started out. I didn’t know what the future held, but I knew what I was leaving behind: Richard Benson.
Chapter Fifteen
It is more than 1,200 miles from the Shenandoah Valley to Sioux City, Iowa. This meant three days on the train. I had provisioned myself for this by taking some cheese, bread and sausages from the kitchen, but I’d not thought about drinks at all. After the better part of the day, I asked the conductor if there was any water on board.
The conductor looked me up and down. He was the same man who’d remarked on how strange it was to travel with such a small bag for such a long journey. “We certainly have water available, Miss. It’s a dollar a glass.”
I blinked. “For that price, I’d expect you’d be serving champagne!”
