“I find she’s not.”
Mother harrumphed but said no more. Perhaps her desire for grandchildren was stronger than he knew.
He’d obtained Margaret’s company for five minutes. For that space at least, she would be in his arms again. He’d done it, he knew, mostly to be able to inspect her décolletage at a shorter distance and to clear the vertigo she had engendered in him merely by walking across the room.
Careful. It’s a dance, nothing more. You still disappoint her.
• • •
Margaret watched broad shoulders recede across the room. Air had still not returned to her body and had perhaps exited the room altogether. After a few formal words with Theo, she felt trapped in a bell jar. He made her a frozen observer of a confusing world. Then he began speaking with his mother and Josiah Trinkett, and her flush shifted abruptly to a chill. Of course.
She turned back to the cadre of her favorite students who stood in a little cluster around her. No one said anything. Matilda, Rebecca, and especially Phoebe blinked expectantly, hoping she would fill the silence with an explanation of who precisely Mr. Ward was to her. As if she could find the words. As if in the sea of language available to her there was a way to express the hopefulness and longing and heartbreak — all the emotions she had left in the past — that were contained in one name: Theo Ward.
She faced her most ruthless examiner, Phoebe King, with a smile and forced something out. “Do continue about the decorations.”
Phoebe had the aspect of an angel from a parlor engraving, gold curls, upturned lashes, and depthless blue eyes. If Margaret was being frank, the New York princess was more than surpassing vain. She avoided being insufferable, however, by being utterly candid about her shortcomings. Tonight she looked stunningly beautiful in a light blue gauze gown trimmed with white lace and a green paisley shawl. But the effect was ruined by the mischievous way she arched her brows and shook her head.
“Only when you’ve told us everything about Mr. Ward!” the impish girl said. The other two nodded in agreement.
Margaret swallowed a sigh. There was no avoiding it. She had to provide some story. As straightforwardly as possible, she said, “He was a dear friend of mine some time ago. We haven’t spoken in years, and now he would apparently like to reminiscence about our misspent youths. Nothing more.”
Matilda Winters — dear, sweet, demure Matilda — nodded. Auburn hair gathered in a low knot and gown simple and practical, she embodied an unvarnished purity. She accepted Margaret’s story with only a tiny hint of skepticism skimming over her pretty features.
The third member of the party, Rebecca Livingston, said nothing but appeared unconvinced.
After a beat, Phoebe sniffed and said, “Well, I’m glad you listened to me about the pink tulle, nonetheless. He’ll be half in love with you by the end of the waltz.”
“I doubt that very much,” Margaret said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get some air. This room is already oppressive.”
Once she had escaped into a quiet hallway, she collapsed onto a small bench and hid her face in her gloved hands. What was Theo doing, asking her to dance?
Their engagement felt like it had occurred a lifetime ago rather than a mere two years. Instead of moving forward together, they had stood still apart. Likely, he was still in that law practice where he felt so ineffectual, living with his mother, and generally raving inside while doing nothing about it. She had buried her heartbreak at the seminary, realizing her dreams in the lives of a hundred students. She had known what her future held when she broke with him, but she had anticipated he might progress.
He had remained a very handsome man, she thought with a smile. His curly brown hair was still thick and dark. He wore a short beard now, along his jaw line. His eyes were much bluer, even, than Margaret had remembered. Combined with his strong features, he had something of the aspect of an eagle. Margaret always felt as if he looked into her very soul with those eyes. To be regarded by Theo Ward was to be without cover or provision. He knew the ridges on her soul.
Why hadn’t he married? Each week she opened The Constitution with an air of resignation, expecting to see at last the dreaded announcement. Margaret’s jaw clenched. Presumably his mother had scuttled any hope of that. The only thing he’d ever reached for Mrs. Ward didn’t approve of was Margaret. And that had ended very quickly. So why approach again? What was he doing to both of them?
Before she could hazard a guess, Rebecca rounded the corner amid a rustle of skirts and petticoats. A brunette with great intelligence and spirit, she had strong, regular features, a plum of a mouth, and delicately expressive green eyes. Her natural mirth had been tamped down when her own engagement had ended a few months earlier.
“Miss Hampton?”
The purple silk of the girl’s gown murmured as she crossed the hall. The black lace trim floated in the air, a beautiful but funereal detail insofar as it announced to the room that she didn’t intend to dance.
You must save Rebecca from her grief. The thought cut through the roiling emotions and memories in the transom of Margaret’s mind. It was another problem without an easy or obvious solution.
The girl dropped to the bench beside her. For the space of a breath, Margaret hoped they could avoid the obvious topic, but then Rebecca said, “Mr. Ward isn’t merely an old friend, is he?”
Had it been so clear? Well, dishonesty was worse than exposure.
“No. He’s not.”
Rebecca settled her hands in her lap. “You understood everything with Emery so well. It takes heartache to know heartache.”
“Ah.” They sat in silence for a long beat. Rebecca wasn’t forcing a confidence. She was not pushing. She was acknowledging the situation. Opening a door.
Margaret sighed and walked through it. “Mr. Ward and I were engaged to be married.”
She really should stop at this. For a week more at least, Rebecca was her student. But the words continued to flow out, impossible to stop now they had begun. “He is a passionate man, but he submits, I think, too much to the desires of others. He … doesn’t achieve moderation. I grew weary of his inner intemperateness and his outward capitulation. It’s a contradiction too great for one man to bear.” Margaret realized she was close to shouting. She had also said too much.
She swallowed and added more quietly, “We fought about everything. John Brown in particular.”
She paused to laugh. Not with mirth but anxiety. The country had become an angry, distrustful, and immoderate place in the two years since her break with Theo. Following the radical abolitionist John Brown’s hanging and President Lincoln’s election, many of the southern states had departed the Union in a terrible drumbeat, one after another. Shots had been fired on Fort Sumter in April, and forces were now gathering in Washington City, for what she knew not. Tides of uncertainty and fear soaked the land. The violence she had abhorred at Harper’s Ferry seemed poised to drown them all.
Finally, she turned back to the girl and finished her tale. “He felt I nagged him. That together we would know no peace. And so we parted.”
The words, and everything they represented, hung in the air for a moment. Rebecca asked, “That’s why you’ve stayed so long at the seminary? Was there never anyone else?”
Margaret’s hands swept up to press against her forehead. “I never expected there to be anyone at all. I was a poor orphan educated by the kindness of distant relatives. I became a teacher because I had to. When I met Mr. Ward, I thought my chance at love had passed. I was more than a decade on the shelf. When that ended, I had no interest in finding anyone else. Once was rare and strange enough.”
“But you told me — ”
Rising to her feet, Margaret said, “The situations are not the same: you are nineteen and I am thirty-seven. Romantic love is a young woman’s dream, Rebecca. I no longer find it appealing.”
The girl smiled. “I, however, saw the way he looked at you.” From inside the assembly room, the bright tones of the band tuning up floated to them. “Come now, let’s return.”
At the door, they encountered Theo. Rebecca curtseyed slightly and said, “Mr. Ward, I deliver your partner.”
Theo looked Margaret straight in the eye and replied, “I thank you,” offering her his hand. When she took it, she shuddered, despite the two layers of cloth between them. If he felt it, nothing in his expression betrayed anything but calmness and confidence.
He led her to the floor as if it hadn’t been two years since they had last danced. Those months, and what had caused them, were impossible to forget, however.
When his arm encircled her waist, she looked past his shoulder, training her eyes on the bunting that iced the room. His smell, like spice and linen, hadn’t changed. She felt weak and hot all over.
The band struck up a lilting waltz, and they joined the other couples in spinning through the space. Her body followed his cues in an intimate, disconcerting manner. He was a powerful and graceful dancer, as he had ever been. Margaret felt bereft by her body’s answer to his call even years later.
Finally, in the deep, rumbly baritone that she remembered so well, he spoke, “There’s a good assembly present this evening.”
“Indeed.”
“Are those some of your students?”
“Yes.”
A pause followed her reply. This was going to be a long dance.
When Theo made no motion to fill the silence, Margaret asked at last, “How does your mother fare?”
“Well. She’s been in good health of late and has become involved with the Ladies’ Aid Society. It turns out that she too enjoys ’causes.’” That was a jab at his mother, who had always mocked and belittled his interests in reform.
“And how are things with your practice?”
“As they ever were.”
“I’m always surprised when the slates of candidates are announced to never see your name on a ticket, Mr. Ward.” She could feel his shoulder tense beneath his jacket. She shifted her gaze and looked into his dark blue eyes. They were harsh and probing.
“Perhaps someday,” he replied at last.
“I remember how strongly you felt about — well, every social and political question.”
“Yes?”
“So how do you judge our current enterprise?”
Theo sighed. “Might I not enjoy a pleasant conversation without stating my opinion on the war?”
“By all means, Mr. Ward. I wouldn’t want to ruin your evening with anything so weighty as conversation.” For a moment they glared at one another. Then Margaret returned her attention to the wall. As they spun once more, Theo pulled her closer into his arms.
“Margaret,” he whispered with such fervency that she inclined her head to look at him in surprise.
“Mr. Ward, please don’t — ”
“How have you been?”
“Good, fair, ill. In the last twenty months, I’ve been through all the moods in turn.” Margaret was annoyed and felt certain her words betrayed it, but the expression in Theo’s eyes left her dazzled and numb. She forgot to put a respectable distance between them again. He pulled her closer still.
“Mr. Ward, I really must object,” she hissed.
“Don’t object. See me again. This coming week.”
“I cannot. Commencement is on Thursday. I have so many obligations.”
“Are you traveling this summer?”
“No.”
“Because you usually go to see your sister in Virginia, but can’t because of the uncertainty?” Margaret nodded. “Next Saturday then. Meet me at Ferree’s. After luncheon.”
She shook her head. “I shouldn’t.”
“But you will?”
Every thread of her being was at attention, flush with concern. They were entering a space dangerous to them both. But her heart’s curiosity won out. She said, “I will … if you answer one question.”
A warm smile settled over Theo’s features and he replied, “Most assuredly.”
That smile! She could feel it like a caress running down her body from crown to toe. But she would not let him distract her thus. She asked, “Why did you ask me to dance?”
“Because I saw you and couldn’t put you from my mind,” he said, as if it were the most natural and uncontroversial thing in the world.
“But why now?”
“That’s two questions.”
It was as if he had cast a spell over her. She could not look away. Margaret knew they were much too close. With the heat of the crowd and the intensity of Theo’s eyes, long-dead memories came thronging back to her. She remember when he first pulled her into his arms, in a dark hallway off the Smith’s parlor, and pressed his lips to hers. It was a brief kiss. Artless, compared to some they would later share. Oh, but she had thought she might expire from happiness. Theo Ward wanted her. Loved her.
She felt a blush creep into her cheeks at the thought, mirroring the flush on his face. Was he remembering the same moment? This was madness.
Somehow her feet produced the right steps. Somehow they avoided colliding with other couples. Somehow she restrained herself from committing any more serious breach of decorum. When the dance was finished, they clapped politely and Theo offered her his arm to lead her from the floor. When they reached the edge, he took her hand and stared down at it for a long moment. He raised it to his mouth and brushed his lips over her knuckles.
Theo murmured, “Why now? Because it’s time.” He pressed her hand to his mouth firmly a second time before releasing it and then whispering, “Until next Saturday, Miss Hampton.”
Chapter II
After Thursday’s dreary commencement ceremony, which had been overshadowed by fears about the war, Margaret said farewell to her students. She had given her life to the raising of other people’s children, taking young girls in hand and teaching them they could be so much more than they believed. At first, they needed her for companionship, for advice, for instruction, and for censure. Over time, she would teach them to trust their inner voice. Then they would fly off and leave her.
Her friendships with her students were intense and powerful and then were over. After graduation, her services were no longer necessary. The initial flood of letters would slow to a trickle and then stop entirely. Now, as she gathered with Rebecca, Phoebe, and Matilda in the parlor of the seminary for a private moment, she wanted this trio to defy her experience and remain in her life, if only as a change of pace.
The girls were talking over their summer plans. Matilda was returning to Washington City to keep house for her father. Rebecca was going to her family farm outside of Hagerstown, Maryland. And Phoebe would return to her family in New York.
The latter was full of anticipation to see the summer fashions and the grand ladies strolling in the Central Park. She was particularly concerned as to whether the rational silhouettes, as she termed them, would ever give way to more daring designs.
“I shall write you all with my notes,” Phoebe was saying, “for I know you want to stay au courant no matter where we all are come fall.”
“Do you think we won’t be together, Phe?” Rebecca asked gravely.
“If we can whip the Rebs by fall, I’ll be back with Miss Hampton, but you and Matilda won’t be returning on any account. If the fighting continues, my father wants me at home until it’s over. It’s so silly. The war will never reach Middletown.”
Margaret looked out over the gardens beyond the window. She hoped rather than believed the girl was correct. The unspoken wish charged the air between the four of them. Even Phoebe’s tone seemed forced, as if she were trying to make it so through sheer force of humor.
“Since we didn’t hear from y
ou at commencement, will you give us a benediction now?” Matilda asked.
Margaret smiled. “I will tell you what I wish for each of you. For Rebecca, I desire to see you put away the sadness that has entered your heart. I miss the jolly that tempered your seriousness. Set Emery aside once and forever. Be our Rebecca again.” The girl looked at her, eyes gleaming, and nodded.
“For Phoebe, I hope you will learn humility. It’s not that you don’t recognize it, my dear, but that you do not act on it. I wish you would live the virtues you know to be true and right.” Phoebe grimaced, unconvinced and accepting at once. It was not her accustomed expression, but then she grinned playfully and balance was restored.
“For Matilda, I wish rebellion.” All three Girls’ eyes snapped up at that now-charged word. “Playfulness is a better term, maybe,” Margaret offered. Turning back to Matilda, she said, “You’re perfectly biddable, submissive, and reverent. But I would see you know what you want and pursue it.” The girl contemplated her fingertips, finally inclining her head slightly to acknowledge the words.
Margaret concluded, “To the class of eighteen sixty-one, and one member of the class of eighteen sixty-two, then, I wish happiness, modesty, self-knowledge, and discovery. May God bless you all the days of your lives.”
They exited the building then, into a world of carriages, bustle, and noise. Rebecca embraced her and whispered in her ear, “Miss Hampton, my wish for you is for greater faith in yourself and a revival of your belief in love.”
Over the next two days, Margaret pondered those words for hours at a time. Was this wisdom or naiveté?
When she could not decide, she contemplated skipping her assignation with Theo. What good could result from it? At best it would be pleasant but painful. At worst … well, Margaret was not sure which outcome was the worst. The rekindling of shallowly buried feelings? Rejection? Heartbreak?
She wanted fervently to believe in what had been written in Theo’s eyes when they had danced. Perhaps he was finally prepared to change. He always seemed to acknowledge that he needed to. He had said to her more than once that his mother held too much sway over his actions and that his comportment and values were not in accord. He could never seem, however, to do anything about it.
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