by Amelia Rose
“Margaret? Margaret, are you in there? Please, dear. Open the door. It’s only me, and no one else,” Clara urged through the locked door. She waited, but heard only the muffled sound of sobs that were cried into a pillow. She knew the sound all too well, as it was how she’d cried herself to sleep many a night after the day she’d read the wounded soldiers list.
“Mags… I have to insist that you open this door. I’m sorry to be stern with you, but I must speak with you. Open this door at once, young lady!” Clara finally called out, smacking the flat palm of her hand against the solid wood.
She heard a slight gasp of surprise followed by footsteps. The door latch was lifted inside and Margaret peeked out. Clara hated to be cross—with this poor girl especially, but with anyone at all—and couldn’t help but give her a sympathetic smile.
“That’s better. Now won’t you please come out here and tell me what’s wrong? I’m the only one here, I promise. Ned and Mr. O’Bryan went back to his place, and if I know Ned, I’m sure he’s horsewhipping him all the way there for making you cry. But you haven’t told me what happened.”
Margaret sniffled and choked back another sob, but emerged from the room and came to sit in a chair at the table. Instead of answering right away, she played with the lace edge of the table cloth, turning it around and around her finger nervously. Clara handed her a handkerchief, then wordlessly went to put the kettle on.
She watched Margaret from the corner of her eye while she fixed them each a mug of tea, then when she’d brought their drinks to the table, she settled herself into a chair near the girl and waited for her to begin.
“Clara,” Margaret finally whispered. “I told him I wanted to marry him.”
“You did? Why, that’s wonderful!” Clara gushed, but quickly checked herself when she saw fresh tears in the girl’s eyes. “Isn’t it? Or is it not wonderful? Because I really can’t tell from the way you’re crying.”
“It was horrid. He was horrid, I should say.”
“What do you mean? What did he say when you told him?”
“Nothing at all. He didn’t have the decency to utter a single word; he only stood there staring at me with a blank look. And after I’d poured my heart out and told him that I wanted to marry him, that I would marry him whenever he said! He said nothing at all.” Margaret stirred her tea absentmindedly, but continued to sniffle. Clara’s heart ached for the girl, but she had no words of comfort.
“I… I don’t know what to say, dear. That is so strange! All I can tell you is that I know Mr. O’Bryan has been so looking forward to your arrival, and to your wedding. This just doesn’t make any sense.”
“If he’s been as glad of this as you say, then that only confirms it. ‘Tis me he’s displeased with. Why else would he not even acknowledge what I’d said? Unless he simply does not wish to be married to a woman who would come out and say as she feels?”
“Perhaps Ned can shed some light on it. I know he’ll be by later if he can clear this up.” Clara looked at Margaret and her heart ached even more now that she’d seen the mask of hurt the girl wore. Her usual chipper demeanor was undone by this, and there was nothing she could do or say that would take away the hurt. “Go back and rest, Mags. I’ll be here if you need anything. And my dear… I’m so sorry, really.”
Margaret nodded, then silently slipped back into the room and threw herself on the bed. Everything she’d endured to get to Montana had fallen through her fingers like water. She had crossed the country to take a chance on a husband, and now she had nothing to show for it but the awful memory of Declan’s emotionless face.
Sometime later, she heard the sound of voices outside the bedroom window, and she sat up for a moment, letting hope stir in her chest. She was crushed all over again to discover it was only Ned. He’d come to speak to his wife, and he’d come alone. The knowledge that the saintly man was being pulled in the middle while Declan didn’t have the honor to face her sent Margaret into another round of tears.
“What are you going to do?” Clara yelled frantically beneath the window, causing Margaret to open her eyes and listen. “Ned! Please! Please tell me, what are you going to do?”
Margaret listened, but she couldn’t hear his answer. The sound of silence followed by the loud slamming of a door made her start. She heard the unmistakable sound of a chair’s legs scraping against the floor and knew it meant Clara had reached the point where she had no more positivity or good thoughts to share.
“Clara? Are you all right?” Margaret asked, stepping out of the bedroom and coming to stand behind the older woman’s chair. She reached a hand out and put it on Clara’s shoulder, and the older woman responded by putting her own hand on top of Margaret’s.
“I don’t know, dear. Ned… he’s gone… he’s gone to talk to Mr. O’Bryan. I’m afraid, I think he might do something rash. I’ve only known Ned a short time but I’ve never seen such a look of fury cross his face. He’s always so even tempered, so jolly. But this… I just don’t know.”
Margaret leaned forward until she had both her arms around Clara’s shoulders, holding her closely as she stood behind her chair. The older woman sniffled once, then turned to look at Margaret with her usual bright expression, although it was obviously forced with a great amount of effort.
“It’ll be all right, you’ll see. Somehow, it will all turn out well. I’d best get the washing in off the line. Excuse me.” Clara removed herself from Margaret’s arms, and for just a moment, she thought she saw a look of irritation cross the older woman’s face. Maybe it was simply her own emotions projected on the woman, but Margaret thought she saw a tiny flash of blame come over Clara, as though she blamed Margaret for whatever may befall her husband.
Maybe she’s right, Margaret thought. These people were happy. Ned and Clara were happy, Declan may even have been happy. I’m the reason for all the unrest. It’s clear to me now.
She hurried to the stack of freshly washed dresses that Clara had brought in earlier and changed back into her traveling dress. After only arriving the day before, it didn’t take long to replace her few items in her traveling bag and ready herself to go. Margaret looked at her trunk, the one that had once carried the sum total of her entire worldly possessions across an ocean, and wondered how she would drag it all the way back to town with her, knowing the walk would take her more than a day even if she traveled light. Suddenly, and with a sinking feeling in her heart, she realized she didn’t have much need of anything in it. After all, the trunk was packed with items that a frontier wife would need: cooking items, a heavy skillet, needles and thread to sew clothes for her new family. She’d have no need of those things once she returned home.
Margaret wiped at a tear and, for a moment, she stood still, looking at the beautiful cabin Ned had built for his life on the prairie, for a life he now got to share with Clara. They were so suited for each other that even the simple home seemed luxurious when she noticed the little touches.
And I will naw have any of that, she thought, brushing aside another betraying tear. I’ll have to go home and beg my sister’s husband to take me back in. I’ll have to beg for my position in the yarn mill, too. I’ll spend the rest of my life having to beg others to take care of me, all because I’ve lost what I never had out here.
Margaret ran her hand over the old wooden trunk one last time, longing for the life that its items had promised her. She picked up her traveling bag and headed out the back door of the cabin so as not to be seen, and started walking back towards town.
Chapter Ten
