She turned to face the fire, too. “And I could do a lot worse,” she said lightly, trying to keep defensiveness out of her voice. “Eugene’s building a house. It’s outside of town on the Antietam Road, near the tool and die factory. He’s building it all by himself, so it probably won’t be ready till next summer, but when it’s done it’ll really be—it’ll really be—”
“Something.”
“Something,” she nodded. “And he’s been promoted to foreman. People have a lot of respect for him where he works. You might not like him, but that’s because you don’t know him. He’s a man on the rise,” she summed up, using Eugene’s own words a trifle self-consciously.
The fire popped and snapped. Lou growled in his sleep. Carrie stole a glance at Dr. Stoneman; he was thinking, but his pointy profile didn’t give anything away. She thought back to the raw, foggy day when Eugene had proposed to her for the last time. He’d taken her to look at his new house, which was only a muddy hole and some scaffolding then, but he was so proud of it. While they stood in the bumpy dirt, he’d given her all his reasons again for why she should marry him. She needed somebody to take care of her now that she was being evicted; they’d known each other a long time; he was a man on the rise. And she’d hemmed and hawed, shivering in her shawl and wishing she was anywhere else but there. “Damn it, Carrie, I’m getting a brand new wringer washing machine!” he’d finally burst out, like that ought to clinch the deal. “We’ll put it over there, right on the back porch.” He pointed to four sticks with string tied around them to make a big square. “Well? Come on, enough’s enough, and besides, what the hell else are you going to do?”
Because she didn’t know the answer, she couldn’t get mad at the question. So she’d just hemmed and hawed some more, until he’d tried to kiss her. She wouldn’t let him; she’d craned away, pressing against his hard chest. “You let the doctor do it,” he taunted, shoving at her shoulders and knocking her back a step. She’d run away then, angry and confused.
In a way it was fitting that he’d caught up to her at the South Creek bridge, since that was the place where, in her mind, he’d first changed from a bully to a person all those years ago. He’d never apologized to her in words for anything in his life, but he did then—in his way, which she had to admit was surly and ungracious. Still, it was more than she’d expected. Much more. “I’ll be good to you,” he’d promised. His solid body had blocked out the sky. A little later she’d let him kiss her, and he did it softly, even with tenderness. She told him she needed the night to think it over, and he didn’t argue. The next day, she said yes.
Dr. Stoneman smacked his hands on his knees and teetered to his feet.
“Oh no,” Carrie wailed, “do you have to go? Stay to supper, can’t you?”
“No, I’ve got to go.” Unexpectedly, he reached for her hands. “You sure you know what you’re doing, Carrie?”
“Yes,” she answered immediately, meeting his serious eyes full-on. “I’ve thought and thought, and this is the best thing.”
“Then I’m for it. Shouldn’t have come tearing up here, I guess. I’ve got nothing against Starkey anyway, except that he’s not good enough for you. All I know about you and Tyler Wilkes is what I hear from gossip, and I don’t suppose you’d care to enlighten me any further on that score.”
“There’s nothing to tell. If there was,” she added earnestly, “you’d be the one I’d tell it to.”
His big hands surrounding hers were knobby and rough-skinned, but amazingly gentle. “Now, listen. I wouldn’t want to argue with you till I die of old age, but that offer I made stands, for as long as I do. For good, in other words.”
“I do thank you,” Carrie whispered, squeezing his fingers. She followed him to the door. She hated to see him go; the thought of being alone tonight sank her down low. “Want to see a baby skunk?”
“No.” He wound his muffler around his stringy neck and reached for the door handle.
“Wait, I forgot to tell you something. No, this is good,” she laughed when he made a face. “Mr. Mueller just told me yesterday. Guess what?”
“What.”
“My name isn’t Carrie Wiggins.”
“How’s that again?”
“Artemis never adopted me, so I’m no legal kin! I’m still Carrie Hamilton—that was my father’s name.” She blushed. “Catherine Hamilton,” she said, bashful and proud. “That’s my real name.”
“Well, now.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “That’s a fine name, a very fine name, indeed.” Carrie couldn’t have been more surprised when he took her hand again, raised it to his lips, and put a dry kiss on her stained knuckles. “I wish you every happiness, Miss Catherine Hamilton.”
She wanted to hug him, but she was too shy. Then he started to turn away and she did it anyway, throwing both arms around his shoulders and holding on tight. He went stiff for a second, taken off his guard, then hugged her back quick and hard. “Getting late,” he muttered, rumbling with the knob.
“Good night,” she called to him across the frozen yard. “Be careful, it’s getting dark—watch the ruts!” He said something irritable back; she couldn’t hear what it was, but it made her smile.
“You come on back in here, Louie, right now and I mean it.” Somewhat to her amazement, he obeyed. She praised him extravagantly. He flapped his ears and plopped down on the rag rug in front of the fire, groaning.
She followed more slowly, taking the chair Dr. Stoneman had sat in before. It was still warm. How could she be lonely with friends like him? After she was married, she’d live closer to him, be able to see him more often. She’d miss her cabin, though. She’d never discussed her wildling hospital with Eugene, so she didn’t know if he’d want her to give it up or not. If he did, she would: she wouldn’t have a secret one in the woods again, the way she had with Artemis. Marriage was different. There ought not be any secrets—not that big, anyway—between a husband and wife.
She clasped her knees and rocked a little, listening to the creak of the chair in the stillness. She wasn’t nearly as positive of her decision to marry Eugene as she’d tried to make Doc Stoneman think. Sometimes she was full of doubts, and sometimes she wondered if this was how her mother had felt before she’d made up her mind to marry Artemis.
Oh no, that wasn’t fair—Eugene wasn’t like Artemis at all. And she did have feelings for him. Not love; to be honest, sometimes she didn’t even like him. But gratitude, surely, for his kindness to her lately, and always for that other thing that had happened between them years ago. And then there was this strange … fascination she felt for him, simply because he wanted her so much. Why did he? What did he see in her? She’d thought and thought, and it always came back to that day when he and his friends had been ready to hurt and shame her; and all the time, underneath that ugliness in Eugene, there must’ve been a boy who liked her, or at least pitied her, and that was the part of him that had won a battle over his lower, baser self. So maybe she was like a triumph to him now, the triumph of his hopes for his own goodness.
Sometimes, though, because she was human, she couldn’t help thinking what it would be like right now if she’d said yes to Ty when he’d asked her to marry him. She knew very well what had prompted him to ask—his conscience, his sense of honor, and the natural goodness inside him that would have put her happiness ahead of his if she’d let him. But what if she’d said yes anyway? What if she’d ignored her own conscience for once and taken what she wanted?
She would have him now. Her heart’s desire. He would belong to her.
She felt a giddy fluttering in her chest—but only for a second, before the fantasy bubble burst. She might have bound Ty to her, but she could never have found happiness unless he was happy, too. Forgive me, Carrie, he’d said on the last day. For everything. She’d known then, as she knew now, that he meant for not loving her.
He must’ve read her letter by now, she thought for the hundredth time, reaching down to pet the dog. Did her news
surprise him? Probably; she was sure he thought nobody in Wayne’s Crossing would want to marry her. That was partly why he’d felt so guilty about her. Did he care that it was Eugene?
She shut her eyes and put both hands on her throat, to press against the ache that came there so quickly out of nowhere. But she mustn’t think of Ty missing her. “My life’s taken a new turn,” she’d written to him in her letter, and it was time to start believing that herself. “Please don’t write to me anymore. It wouldn’t be right, now that I’m promised to another. Thank you for your wonderful kindness to me, which I will never forget. I wish you luck and happiness and great success in your important work.” Not knowing how to end it, she’d finally signed, “Sincerely yours, Carrie Wiggins,” feeling quite idiotic. She’d enclosed the money he’d given her, and a little sprig of dried rosemary. For remembrance.
She sniffed, brushing tears from her cheeks, but for once she didn’t chastise herself for them. Because they were the last. She’d mourned long enough. After tonight, she would only look forward, not backward, because anything else would be disloyal to her betrothed.
She felt so heavy, it was hard to get up and start fixing supper. She was tired every day these days, but it was worse today than usual. She dragged herself to the stove and put on a pot of water to boil. Potato soup sounded kind of soothing. Looking down at her walnut-blackened fingers, she chided herself again for not having worn gloves. Would the stains be gone by next Saturday? She hoped so, because that was the day she was getting married.
22
THE MAN IN THE INFORMATION booth at Broad Street Station had told Carrie the Makepeace Hotel was seventeen blocks away. That didn’t sound like much, and she’d set off without a thought, clutching her cloth satchel to her bosom so nobody could steal it. (“Don’t let go of it for a second,” Eppy had warned her, “or they’ll have it off you before you can turn around.”) But the concrete sidewalks of Philadelphia were a far cry from the mossy, ferny trails of High Dreamer Mountain, and by the time she reached the Makepeace, her feet in the thin-soled half boots Eppy had lent her felt as tender as if she’d been walking barefoot.
The lobby was almost empty, which gave her the courage to go straight up to the desk and say to the man behind it, “I wrote ahead for a room.”
“Yes, and your name?”
“Catherine Hamilton. “
She knew she was imagining the skepticism in the clerk’s eyes when she said her brand-new name to him; but knowing it didn’t keep her from half expecting him to holler across the lobby at the people sitting around in big chairs, “This woman’s a liar! Somebody call the police!” Of course, nothing of the sort happened. She signed her name in the register slowly and carefully, with the result that her signature looked like a child’s. But otherwise it was perfectly convincing; it appeared to be a real person’s real name. In fact, seeing it written there made her feel a little better about things in general man she had for days.
Her room on the third floor had an electric light in the ceiling, which was a good thing because when she pulled the curtains back to let in some light, she found that the window wouldn’t open and all that could be seen from it anyway was a flat brick wall across a dark, dirty alley. She was sorry she’d looked; now she felt suffocated. She unpacked her belongings in two minutes, then sat on the bed and wondered what to do next.
It was the twenty-first of December. Ty was at home now, spending time with his family. The fact that it was still early, only four or so, and that if she wanted to she could go and see him now, not wait until tomorrow as she’d planned, filled her with a shaky, freezing-cold dread. No, I’ll stick to the plan, she decided hurriedly, not caring if that was cowardly or not. She’d tried many times to write to him in the last nine days, and once she’d almost asked Frank Odell if she could use the telephone in his newspaper office to call him. But what she had to tell Ty was going to be awkward enough without trying to say it through a machine. Why in the world she’d thought seeing him face-to-face would make it any easier, she couldn’t remember anymore. She must’ve been out of her mind.
She thought of the stiff note he’d written back after she’d told him about her engagement. “To Carrie and Eugene, Congratulations and best wishes for your happiness. Cordially, Tyler Wilkes.” Oh, she should’ve written him, she should’ve written him! A letter would’ve been a far better way to say what she had to say. And even though she’d thought of nothing but seeing him for days, she still hadn’t figured out exactly what she was going to say to him when she did. She’d think of his face, the way he smiled, and immediately her mind would go flying off on a girlish fantasy of happily ever after which got her nowhere. All she knew was that it would surely kill her if her news, that she was four months pregnant with his child, horrified Ty as much as it had horrified Eugene.
“You damn whore,” he’d called her, three days before their wedding, shaking his head over and over as if he had a bug in his ear and it wouldn’t come out. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it.” He’d said that several more times before he’d gone back to “You damn whore.” He’d never raised his voice, though, and he’d stayed more flabbergasted than angry—but then, she hadn’t stuck around long to hear any more. She’d gone away as soon as he’d started to curse Ty. That she wouldn’t tolerate.
When she’d caught sight of Eugene coming toward her this morning at the train station, she’d been positive he only meant to revile her some more. But he hadn’t. He’d stood there on the platform and told her he’d still marry her if she wouldn’t go to Philadelphia. She’d been surprised, to say the least. And moved. It wasn’t till she told him she had to go that he’d started abusing her again. “Go on then! Run to him like the whore you are, but it won’t do you any good. What do you think he’s going to do, Carrie, marry you?” He had an ugly laugh; she’d always hated it. “He’s as much of a bastard as you are a whore. He won’t even look at you! And don’t come crying and crawling to me when he leaves you flat, because I don’t want you anymore. I gave you a chance, an honorable offer, but it’s over now because you’re a goddamn whore.”
She lay back on the narrow, too-soft mattress and stared up at the electric light. She thought she could hear it humming, but that was probably just her nerves. “I have to go,” she’d told Eugene this morning, “can’t you see? It’s his baby, I have to at least tell him about it. He deserves to know it exists. That’s all I’m going for, just to tell him.” Eugene hadn’t believed that, and now, tracing a thin, spidery crack in the ceiling with her eyes, she had to admit that that wasn’t really all she was going for. The shameful truth of the matter was, she had hopes. She couldn’t think them out loud to herself, though; they were too embarrassing.
But sometimes, just before she fell asleep at night and her defenses were down, she saw pictures in her head that stood for the wishes she couldn’t completely give up. She couldn’t hear the words, but she saw herself talking to Ty, telling him the secret of the baby. His beautiful smile filled the picture. He put his arms around her and held her. “I love you, Carrie,” he said.
She turned on her side and drew her legs up, shutting her eyes against the vision because it was preposterous and it might bring bad luck. By this time tomorrow, she’d know everything. All she could do in the meantime was wait, and try hard not to hope.
When she woke up, she had no idea where she was. After it came to her, she had a desperate need to know the time. But she had no clock, and her only clue was that the brick wall across the alley was black now—but that could mean anything. She had to force herself to calm down. She’d never taken a nap in her life until a few weeks ago—one of the many signs that, in her ridiculous ignorance, she’d missed before Eppy finally put two and two together and Dr. Stoneman had confirmed it—and even now the naps she took never lasted more than an hour or so. At worst, it was five o’clock. She was starving, as usual. Was it too early for supper? Dinner, she corrected herself; only country people called the third meal su
pper.
She had the new suit she was wearing, and one other dress, the visiting gown she would wear for Ty tomorrow. She went to the tiny closet in the corner to look at it, something she never got tired of doing. It was of clinging dark-blue merino, soft as cashmere, the simplest dress she’d ever seen; it didn’t have anything to it except gracefulness. She’d loved it on first sight, but she’d never have bought it, or any other dress that cost so much, if Eppy hadn’t insisted and insisted, until the dignified saleslady in the Chambersburg store had finally raised her eyebrows at them—the way Miss Fuller did with noisy children in the library. So Carrie gave in.
After all, she was temporarily rich. Even though it had almost killed her, she’d sold Ty’s beautiful Audubon book to finance this trip, and she still wasn’t over the shock of discovering that he’d paid much, much more for it than the publishing company was going to pay her for the book she’d written! If she had known, she couldn’t have accepted the gift, though, and then she couldn’t have come to Philadelphia. What was the moral? Sometimes ignorance had a few compensations? She sighed, and decided to wear the maroon to supper—dinner—even though she’d stupidly fallen asleep in it and gotten it even more wrinkled than the train had.
Eppy said the Makepeace was a “modest” hotel, but the restaurant down a long hall from the lobby made Pennicle’s, which Carrie had always considered the height of elegant dining, seem like a feed store by comparison. Seated at one of the glossy tables, she had a moment of panic when a man in a white jacket bent close to her ear and seemed to be listening. She looked up at him in bewilderment. Just then, across the room, she saw a man in the same white jacket taking food off a tray and putting it in front of another diner. “I would like dinner, please,” she said softly.
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