by Elise Hooper
“How marvelous, congratulations. May I be the lucky gent to escort you to the Opening Day?”
May hid her flushing face by rearranging a chair and tried to keep her tone lighthearted as she agreed. She could feel him watching her, so she composed her face, folded her hands in her lap, and faced him.
“Shall I play you a song I wrote myself?” Ernest fixed his eyes on May’s and perched the violin on his thigh, leaning his chest in behind it.
“Of course, yes, please play it.”
May loved the first moment when he’d pick up the violin and place it to his cheek to settle his chin against the instrument. He ran the bow down the strings with a long smooth stroke, and the note hovered in the air like a question before the melody started. His eyes closed. His shoulders bobbed and dipped with the song. She leaned back and felt the keening of the song reach inside her and remain there, compressing around her heart. The music buzzed along her nerves, down through her belly, along her thighs and all the way to her toes. She touched the tips of her fingers together gingerly on her lap. All of her senses felt alert, as if she could practically feel the tickle of her stuffed owl’s feathers from across the room and the wetness of the raindrops dripping down the outside of the windowpanes. The ropes of his arms and the contours of his shoulders moved gracefully as he worked the bow along the strings, vigorously, then gently. His toes tapped, quadriceps flexed, and torso engaged as he flowed with the music. A glimmer of skin quivered from underneath the cuff of his sleeve, and she could see the delicate flesh on the inside of his pale wrist.
The song ended, and Ernest lifted his chin from the violin to look at her. The final notes still danced in the air around them. There was no longer any questioning in his eye; he did not seek her approval for his song; he looked at her as if he knew everything about her. Without thinking, she rose from her seat and moved across the small space between them. He placed the violin and bow on the table next to them and opened his arms to receive her against his shoulder. She curled into his lap. They said nothing.
Up close, she could see whorls in the blond stubble along his cheek and chin, creating a pattern of trails. A map into the unknown. She traced her fingers along his jawbone. Tiny flecks of gold swam in his light blue eyes, like sunlight reflecting off water. May leaned over, closed her eyes, and kissed him. They pushed together with urgency. Without peeling her lips from his, her fingers unfastened the top button on his shirt and moved along to the next.
IN THE MORNING, she awoke alone, wondering what on earth had possessed her the night before, but her fears over her actions dissipated when she saw Ernest’s violin still resting on the table next to her white stuffed owl. Like a spent arrow, the violin’s bow lay on the floor. May bent over to pick it up, and the strings glittered next to the clawed foot of the table. The waxed wood of the instrument shone in the knowing light of morning.
She traced her index finger along the swirl of the scrollwork at the end of the violin’s neck and then picked it up to hold it as if she were going to play. She pressed her chin against the instrument, the heft of it resting on her shoulder. She dared not ruin the morning’s perfect silence, so she placed the bow on the table but rubbed her hand along the violin, feeling the press of the strings dig into the flesh of her palm until it hurt. A red imprint from the four strings glowed on her hand when she lifted it away. Last night was real; there was no mistaking it as a dream. No more worrying about choices, she knew what she wanted. She would never hear the music of a violin again without thinking of this moment.
Chapter 36
Ernest arrived at her room again later that evening with a high flush on his face. May prattled on about the rising price of primer she encountered at Brodie & Middleton earlier in the day. The chessboard lay out on a small table between their chairs so the two could play, but he ignored it and paced the room.
“I received a letter today from the company’s headquarters in Paris offering me a new post as Inspector General of Trade. It will be in France or Russia and most likely require us to part for a while.” He stopped with a desperate look on his face. “You should know that I’m very fond of you.”
“But we’ve only known each other for two months.” She held back from giving the exact date they met, though she knew it.
“I’ve loved you from the first night we met.”
May drew in a shaky breath. Love. All this time, she had forbidden herself to think about it, but she felt it, she could no longer deny it. She pictured how his face had glowed when he saw her from the high wheeler and started laughing, collapsing onto him, and wrapping her arms around his back as if she could dissolve into him. Every bit of her desired him. She traced his shoulder blades with the tips of her fingers.
“I knew it!” he said. “Does that mean yes?”
Reluctantly, she drew back. “Ernest, how old are you?”
“Twenty-two, but I don’t care about age.”
May gasped and her hands clutched at her heart. “I do! I’m too old for you.” She could barely breathe as she calculated their age difference: almost sixteen years. She was practically old enough to be his mother. And they had only just met. It was insanity. All of it.
“Age means nothing.” He took ahold of her waist and rested his forehead against hers, their eyes inches apart. “Admit it. You care for me, too.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, she couldn’t look at him. “Yes, of course, I do,” she said, indignation flooding her as she thought of what she had done the night before. All of the anxiety she held back, sprang forward. “I would never have—”
Ernest grasped May by her shoulders and searched her face. “There’s only one thing for us to do. Let’s get married. Then you can come with me.”
“Married?” she echoed back, weakly. She couldn’t bear to think of their age difference, but no one had ever come close to making her feel the way he did. His honesty, confidence, humility—all of these qualities called to her. Shivers ran from the base of her skull down along the back of her arms. She whispered, “Where will we go?”
“I don’t know yet. Does it matter?”
Her legs felt liquid. They stared at each other.
“You’re right. None of those details matter. Yes . . . yes . . .” May said as the idea picked up momentum. In the brief time they had spent together so far, she didn’t dare allow herself to picture a future with him, but now a sense of absolute certainty gripped her. No matter the obstacles, she wanted a life with this man whom she loved. Her face burned with intensity. “I need fresh air.”
In their haste, they left their overcoats behind as they raced down the three flights of stairs to the outside door, but it was no matter. The evening’s rain had stopped, leaving the sidewalks glistening like a sheet of glass. Except for the occasional sound of raindrops filtering through the trees, Bedford Square stood still. The world looked brand-new. A full moon hung overhead. In the houses surrounding them, she could see people behind the windows: a serving girl checked her reflection in a silver spoon as she cleared a dining room table of dishes; a woman yawned while reading a novel in her bedroom; a man in a tweed vest blew lazy cigar smoke circles while he sat in his library. The normalcy of the night soothed the tumult inside of her.
“I plan to keep painting.”
“Of course. Why would you stop?” He looked at May and tucked some loose hair behind her ear. His closeness made her dizzy. “I’d never ask you to give up painting. You’re an artist—I understand that. But you should also understand I’m still making my way in the world. I may not have all of the comforts you’re used to, but I’m a hard worker and will get us there in time.”
She let out a half-gasp, half-laugh. “Oh, I care nothing for that.”
“All I care about is you.”
May could feel goose bumps rising on her arms. He pulled her to him in the gloaming of a street lamp. She never wanted him to let go of her. After all of this time, she had finally met someone who understood, respected, and admired her. H
ere was a man committed to earning his way. All of the years of frustration with her father’s instability wafted away in the darkness. Here was a man who honored her work as an artist. This relationship would be a meeting of two minds, two souls. She closed her eyes tightly and surrendered her head onto his shoulder. Finally, a man who cherished her. She felt it in the way he ran a tender hand down her cheek and grasped her tighter.
Alone in her room later, May wrote to Anna telling of her engagement, glad for the two weeks she would have before the letter arrived at Orchard House to be read. Anna would be overjoyed for her. Her father would be nonplussed and distracted by his own concerns. Louisa’s reaction was tougher to imagine, but enthusiasm seemed unlikely. May wanted to protect and treasure her new joy before opening it up to the scrutiny of others, because it felt fragile but full of possibility.
WHEN THE LADIES Exhibition opened the following day, Ernest arrived at May’s room in a state of agitation. “Paris. I’ve been posted to Paris. We must be there within two weeks.” He grinned at May’s befuddlement. “I realize this doesn’t offer much time for planning a wedding but—”
May’s life’s accumulation consisted of the possessions jammed in around them, and she waved her hands at all of it. “I don’t care about a fancy wedding.”
Ernest smiled with relief. “We can be married within the week and honeymoon in France while I work out the details of my new post there.”
“Yes, perfect.” May glanced at the clock. “Now we must go to my show. Let’s keep this news to ourselves and announce it to our friends afterward.”
The exhibition consisted of a flurry of greetings and conversations May would later forget. The thrill of her secret with Ernest consumed her. Throughout the event, the couple looked at each other with a giddiness that felt impossible to hide. May spoke too fast and laughed more often than decorum called for, but she could barely contain herself. Afterward, they went out to a nearby tearoom with the Warners, the Pierces, and Una.
When they all sat down to lunch, Ernest interrupted the chatter about the show and cleared his throat. “Friends, congratulations to our dear May for her work in today’s show.” There was an echo of good wishes and clapping that Ernest acknowledged by raising his glass before continuing. “And now, there’s more good news to celebrate. May and I are to be married by the end of the week.”
May beamed. Everyone else looked stunned. Her heart sank. She knew it. No doubt they all thought he was entirely too young for her and the courtship too hasty. Walter recovered first. He stood to bow to May and to shake Ernest’s hand. “By Jove, you two have caught us all speechless! What’s brought about this excitement?”
“Goodness, congratulations,” Una murmured, wide-eyed.
“I know, it’s a surprise to all of us.” May looked across the table to see Ernest watching her with a tender smile that made her heart ache. “But I’ve learned not to waste any time when you’ve discovered someone precious.”
“Hurrah!” Robert said. “Let’s get some bubbly to toast the happy couple.” A bottle was brought forth, glasses clinked, and conversation zigzagged around the table. All the while, May watched Ernest. He showed no sign of anxiety or doubt as he discussed his new position in Paris with Robert and Walter.
“May, I must ask you something.” Caroline pulled May aside as they all spilled out of the restaurant after lunch. Her clear round face fixed upon May in seriousness. “Is it possible you’re somewhat rushing into this marriage?”
“Oh, I’m rushing in wholeheartedly.” May smiled and looked at the concerned faces of her friends gathered around her. “I’m thirty-seven years old and always hoped to find love. Recently I’d begun to believe this would never happen—yet it has, at a time when I least expected it. Really, Ernest is all I’ve ever hoped for.”
“Well then, I’m very happy for you.” Caroline hugged May, while the other women nodded their approval. “Truly. You deserve love. And I have something to share with you. I’m to become a mother.” The poet rested a hand on her belly, making May see a faint swell through the folds of her friend’s gown.
“Congratulations. What a thrill,” said May with a squeal as she embraced her friend. “Oh, goodness, I’m so happy for you.” She tenderly kept an arm around Caroline. “We should hail you a hackney and give you a rest.”
“I’m not made of fine china. I can make it home on my own two feet,” she answered, laughing.
As they walked home, the women all discussed possible baby names, but May drifted to the back of the group, deep in thought. Questions about her age difference with Ernest would not go away. She had to stop dwelling upon what people thought of her. She remembered what Marmee used to say: It’s none of your business what other people think of you. Looking ahead at Caroline happily arguing over the merit of spelling the name Catherine with a C or a K, she smiled wistfully, thinking of her own mother. Wherever she was, Marmee would be so happy knowing May had found love.
THE FRIDAY OF the wedding brought rain, the type of gusty rain that blew sideways and rendered umbrellas useless. When she stepped outside, May’s fawn-brown silk dress speckled with dark water stains, and the festive ostrich feather adorning her hat drooped in soggy defeat, but her spirits brightened as she climbed into the hansom cab with the Warners. They would all meet Ernest at the Office of the Registry for the brief ceremony. Later, she would barely recall the details, but somehow a gold band landed on her finger under the narrow nose of the weedy officiant who married them. The bride and groom whisked themselves to Waterloo Station and boarded a train for Southampton with the final destination of Le Havre stamped on their travel itineraries. After a week of honeymooning on the coast of France, the couple landed in Meudon, a village fifteen minutes outside of Paris by train, and rented a small apartment with a view of the Seine River valley.
When they arrived in Meudon, a backlog of mail awaited her. May sat on a crate in her new empty drawing room to read the first letter she had received from Louisa since her mother’s death.
March 3, 1878
Concord
Dearest May,
I have just received your letter about your engagement to Mr. Nieriker and must confess to being astonished this is all happening so quickly. You seem adrift in England. This young man has come along and given you some romance when you were in dire need of cheering up. You’re moving too quickly and acting foolishly. Furthermore, Anna tells me your Swiss suitor is considerably younger than you. At your age, why bother marrying? Be brave enough to lead a life of independence. It seems you have selfishly forgotten all of the time, effort—and dare I point out expense?—that has been put forth toward your artistic training?
I have recently read “The Story of Avis” by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward, which has been released to great debate here at home about the role career ambition should play in a woman’s life. Avis is a painter, who in many ways reminds me of you. She marries a “modern man” who promises she shall carry on with her art. Must I tell you the outcome? Lest you think I am overly obstructive of your wishes, I must inform you the inevitable interruptions that beset the life of a wife interfere with her art. Squalling children, unruly servants, an unaccommodating husband, and the demands of running a household all leave Avis depleted and unable to continue with her painting.
I only share this story with you in an attempt to give you pause in your race toward marriage. Come home.
Yours,
Louisa
Too late, thought May as she tossed the letter aside. What did Louisa know of love? The rest of the letters from her family expressed congratulatory wishes, but Louisa’s overshadowed them all. May did not need her sister’s help. Not anymore. The accusation of foolishness burned with a particular intensity inside of her. Ernest placed another crate on the floor next to May and wiped a handkerchief across his brow.
“So, what does your family have to say?”
May got to her feet and unpacked some of her artwork from a crate. “They’re deligh
ted. My eldest sister, Anna, thinks our elopement sounds like something straight out of Little Women—Amy March marries suddenly while studying art in Europe.”
“I still regret there was no time to secure your father’s permission before our marriage.”
May shook her head. “He probably read my letter and went straight back to analyzing Plato.” She rubbed the feathers down on her stuffed white owl, before setting him gingerly upon a shelf.
“And what of your sister, the writer?”
May’s hands dropped from the owl and hung empty as she stared into the blankness of the creature’s glass eyes. “She’s very happy for me.” She stood with her back to Ernest for a moment and then turned to continue unpacking. She pulled out a rectangular box and opened it to see the small red leather diary Ernest gave her as a wedding present in Le Havre. When she had first opened it, she feigned delight, but in truth, she detested journaling. Why dwell on the past when you can look ahead? Without saying a word, she placed the journal underneath some sketchbooks. After several minutes, though, she slid the diary back out, walked over to a spot by the window, and began to write.
Chapter 37
June 19, 1878
Meudon, France
Dearest Violet,
First of all, thank you for the lovely painting of the San Francisco Bay you sent to Ernest and me for a wedding present. I’ve hung the painting in our new bedroom and look at it every evening as I go to sleep in hopes I will enjoy lovely dreams of you. My sweet, thoughtful friend, I long to see you. It’s a shame we are so far away, for I know you would adore Ernest. Ever since I met you and Mr. Keith, you’ve both shown me a harmonious marriage based on love and mutual respect, and now I’m blessed with a partnership that promises the same values.
In your last letter, you asked if I miss Paris. Surprisingly, I don’t. I love our quiet country life. We’re renting a small stone house, fifteen minutes by train outside of Paris. Ernest’s superiors could announce a move to a new locale at any moment, but I don’t mind these vagaries for I’m used to a life of moving around. As long as Ernest and I are together, I shall be content. Here in Europe, I feel free to make a life of my own design. Europeans seem far more forgiving of the unconventional lives of artists than Americans do, but the amusing aspect of my life is its very conventionality at the moment. Every morning when Ernest leaves for the train station, I walk down into the village center to visit the boulangerie and the butcher shop. Bundled with brown-papered packages and breathing in the loamy smell of overturned soil from the nearby farmlands, I walk home and relish the smell of fresh air. The days here always begin cool, no matter the brightness of the sun overhead. By midday I’m home and usually painting or sketching in the garden behind our rooms—I’m still in touch with my dealers in London and have added a couple of new ones here in France. After dinner, I usually sew while Ernest plays his violin.
