Palmyra

by Susan Evans McCloud

  “If the choice were in your hands . . .” Georgie leaned forward, waiting.

  Tillie raised her eyes slowly. “I know the things Father cares about are important, and I try to respect that.” She hesitated. We were like sisters, the circle of faces she looked upon. We had always shared our most intimate thoughts with each other. “Yes, if it were up to me, I should—I should prefer wedding Joel and living more simply. If . . .” She let her hands flutter, like faltering birds, to her lap. Lovely hands—slender with long, tapered fingers—Theodora’s one point of pride.

  “Sweetness!” Georgie cried, smitten with Tillie’s unhappiness, as I was. “Could your father not be persuaded?”

  “Has he ever been, Georgie, in any matter you remember?”

  We fell into a glum silence, the lot of us, each thinking her own dreary thoughts.

  “Well, I shall not make it a race,” Josephine announced, perhaps purposefully diverting attention. “I mean to have my courtship in full measure first, with time to stitch and fuss and prepare the dainties I want for my marriage bed.”

  This brought a host of reactions, as she knew it would, and we began babbling like girls again. I watched Tillie rouse herself and join in with the others. But I could not help wondering what unspoken longings and fears sat like a cold hand on her heart.

  For the next few days Josephine stewed, as I knew she would.

  “I always intended to be first,” she pouted. “And it is only right I should be.”

  “You are forgetting that Theodora does not wish this, Josie. It is none of her doing. If her father marries her off to this stranger you must support her with your love and excitement. It would be cruel to do otherwise.”

  For once Mother took my side of the matter. “Your sister is right. You can afford to be generous, Josie, seeing as how you have been given in all things your own free choice.”

  “Then Alexander Hall it shall be!” she muttered. I could see her determination harden. “He is older and established. None of the young boys could keep me in style.”

  I left her to her wiles, pleased that Father’s wheat fields were heavy with grain, that my herbs and vegetables were thriving—all things growing at good pace, Jonathan among them. A bit of color was even returning to Mother’s cheeks.

  Each day is a blessing, I remember thinking. Each day that passes kindly and pleasantly, free of mishap.

  The following morning I was aroused by Josephine shaking me into wakefulness; this was certainly rare!

  “Esther! There has been a fire in the Presbyterian church! All the men are being roused to fight it.”

  I rubbed my eyes. Was it morning? The square of sky outside my window looked cinder gray.

  “Father is taking the wagon in. I thought we could ride along with him. Hurry now, or he’ll leave us.”

  I sat upright. I could hear the muffled ringing of the alarm bell, eerie and lonely-sounding in the still night. “What time is it?”

  “Nearly dawn. Hurry, Esther!”

  Once we were settled on the wagon seat and jostling along the potted roads toward the village, I began regretting letting Josie talk me into going along. I would much rather have been in my bed cuddled under the blue and white coverlet Mother had woven for me when I was a child. But I think Father was glad of our company. And, if a fire, there might very well be injuries and need for women’s help.

  I was surprised to see so many wagons and horses drawn up to the churchyard. Was there so much cause for alarm? I felt my stomach muscles tighten as I took the hand Father extended and climbed down from the seat.

  People everywhere, but I could not see where the fire was; there was no sign of a flame.

  “I think it’s all over,” Father surmised. “People are coming back, you see.”

  He was right. The faces I looked into were tired, many streaked with soot. Some wore expressions of relief, but many were tense with anger.

  “What is it?” I cried, seeing Tillie’s father and tugging at his sleeve. “Was someone badly injured?”

  He answered me eagerly, almost pouncing on my question. “Several of the lads were burned, none badly. The fire was started a’ purpose, you know—Joe Smith up to his mischief again.”

  I felt myself withdraw from the coldness in his voice. “Who said it was Joseph?” I demanded, surprising myself. “Has that been proved?”

  He stared at me as if I had just taken leave of my senses. “It was him, all right. That . . .”

  He clipped off a string of colorful expletives that left me shivering. I backed away from him, feeling an answering anger rise in my throat like bile.

  “I believe that you, and any others who accuse him, are mistaken.” My voice was bold, even strident. “He is married now, you know. And he and his wife were not even in town last night.”

  Mr. Swift whirled back to face me. “You have that on good authority, missy?”

  “On the best. And I will give proof of it, sir, if it comes to that.”

  I was bluffing! My head was ringing with the audacity of it! “ ’Tis no small thing to falsely accuse another,” I added, lifting my head a bit. “I would discourage the others if I were you, sir.”

  He turned from me, disgust in his face, even in the lines of his body, as he walked back to his friends. I was trembling so hard that I had to grab hold of the fence post to steady myself.

  “What is it, Esther?” my father asked, coming up beside me. “You look white as a ghost.”

  “I have grown weak suddenly, Father. Might I wait in the wagon?”

  “Of course, girl. I shall help you.”

  “No, I’ll be all right.” I took a few steps to prove it. “And, Father, if you hear talk of Joseph Smith being responsible for this, will you—well—attempt to discourage it?”

  He peered at me for a moment, then nodded his head. I knew I could trust him. I made my way back to the wagon and crawled up to the seat, drawing deep breaths in order to slow my heartbeat and calm myself. But the air still tasted of smoke, and there was a settling of cinders smudging the dew-wet ground.

  After a little spell I noticed three young men walking toward me, one of them limping badly. As they drew closer I recognized that the one with the limp was James Sadler, one of Josie’s old beaus.

  “Where’s your sister?” he asked, gazing up at me.

  “You have been hurt,” I replied.

  Just then, as luck would have it, Josephine made her appearance—on the arm of a quite smug and contented Alexander Hall. I saw the younger man wince.

  “James here has been burned badly, fighting the fire,” I said, hoping to move her to sympathy.

  My sister glanced up, arched an eyebrow, and took on the manner of a scolding school mistress. “You boys ought to be more careful—or else leave such serious work to older men.”

  I wish I had not seen James’s face. He was perhaps the best of her beaus and would make any girl a good husband. I dropped my own eyes in shame.

  After the crestfallen trio shuffled off and Mr. Hall had torn himself reluctantly away, I lit into her. “Josie, how could you? Have you no decency, no compassion at all?”

  She blinked back. “Whatever are you talking about, Esther?”

  “You know what I am talking about! Your behavior a few moments ago—your treatment of James!”

  “Oh, Esther! He’s just a boy, my dear.” She scurried up to sit beside me, her eyes ashine. “Alexander has just asked if he might speak to me alone tomorrow. He will come after Sabbath services, for he wishes an audience with Father as well.”

  I remained purposefully unimpressed and unmoved.

  “Esther, you know what this means!”

  “It means that Mr. Hall intends to propose to you. Do you intend to accept?”

  “Of course I do, silly girl.”

  “Then heaven help him,” I muttered under my breath.

  I sat hunched and miserable until Father at last emerged from among the dim shapes and drove us, sleepy and heavy-eyed, home.
I cared not that my sister was vexed with me. I was disgusted with her.

  “Half an hour,” I said to my father, “just a little catnap before I start breakfast.”

  He smiled and nodded. Halfway up the stairs I turned back. “Did the talk about Joseph die down?”

  “Enough to avert trouble, I think,” he replied.

  Thank heaven for that, at least. I had accomplished some good that morning, though not half of what I would have liked to. People will run their lives amok, with precious little anyone can do to stop it, I thought as I pulled the cool covers up over my head. But I did not like being ashamed of my sister. Will she ever grow up and take real responsibility for her own life? was the last conscious thought I had before sleep settled over me and kindly blotted all thought and sensation out.

  Chapter 5

  Palmyra: Early September 1827

  As my mother’s health improved, her obsession with Jonathan increased, whereas I would have expected it to work just the other way round. She was protective of the child to the point where Josephine and I could barely endure it. She wished never to let him out of her sight, trusting no one. Could he sit on a blanket at the edge of the gardens with me while I harvested the ripe squash and tomatoes? Certainly not. A bee might sting him, or flies annoy. Could Josie mind him while she sewed on her trousseau? What if she forgot to keep her eye on him and he rolled over and—what? harmed himself somehow, lying on his tummy? It was sadly pathetic to watch her. No, thank you. She would keep the child by her side. She could scour the pans, churn butter, and bake bread while she looked out for his safety and comfort. Any task that would take her attention off the infant for any length of time more than minutes was allocated to me. I did not mind much. But I worried about the future—the days when Jonathan would be crawling, then walking and wanting to fend for himself, explore his new world a bit. Would she grow worse? Would her attentions smother him—would her fears fester into an appalling obsession? I dearly hoped not.

  In truth, I had other, weightier matters that concerned me. Scarcely had August shook out her flowery skirts and departed than Theodora came calling one morning, bright and early, hoping to catch me, I knew, before my gardens drew my attention.

  “Will you drive with me, Esther?” she asked. “For only a few minutes.”

  “Of course,” I replied, wiping my hands along my apron, then untying it from about my waist.

  “Where is Josephine?” Tillie whispered.

  “In the back room cutting dress patterns,” I said, just as quietly.

  “Must you announce your going—off with me?”

  I realized, with those words, that her voice was tense, her manner nervous. “No, they’ll assume I’m out in the garden and not worry, not for a while at least.”

  “Good.” She tugged at my hand. “Come, quickly.”

  She was driving her mother’s town carriage; a most rare occurrence. I climbed up beside her, even as the wheels began turning and she clucked to the horse. She said nothing, and I ventured no questions, until we had cleared our farm and topped the ridge to where the road turns into a cool copse of birch and hemlock through which a thin stream meanders and sings. She steered the wagon in as far as it would go and dropped the reins so the mare could graze. I heard grackles scolding from the high branches and saw a cardinal, like a streak of flame, dart across our path.

  “Gerard has spoken to my father, without even approaching me first. They two have agreed. I am affianced to him—the marriage date is set, Esther! For six weeks from now!”

  I am so quick to anger! I felt indignation sweep through me with all the aggravation of finely ground sand, like sharp bits of glass, pelting one’s face and arms in a windstorm. “My dearest! Have you no appeal? What of your mother?”

  She shook her head. “They are both angry with Peter, you see. He has left his position on the canal and run home, complaining that the work is too hard for him.”

  “It most probably is, Tillie. He is young for such rough company, anyhow.”

  “Yes, I agree, but they do not! And they need something to lash out at. You know how it works. Thus they are aligned together in this matter of my marriage.” She put her cold little hand on my arm and grasped it tightly. “Esther, I am not ready for marriage yet!”

  “Not to this man, in particular.”

  She hesitated, but I would not mince words now. “Come, dear, with me of all people you can speak honestly. There is no danger here. Only comfort, and the courage to endure. This is what we must provide for each other, now that Life is staking her claims on us.”

  With a shudder she moved toward me and buried her head in my shoulder. “What shall I do, Esther? I am frightened! Sometimes there is an expression in Gerard’s eyes when he looks at me that is appraising and cold. Perhaps my fears are unfounded . . . but we are not like enough in many ways I feel are important.”

  And he is to have in his safekeeping this precious soul! I seethed inwardly. “Can you get it postponed, even for a while?”

  “He is as eager as my parents are! I do not think they will listen to me.”

  We sat in silence. I stroked her hair, soft, like the fine filaments of spun cotton. I could hear the thin sounds of the water moving over its stony bed. I could hear the chatter of sparrow and jay overhead. I fancied I could almost hear the painful throbbing of Tillie’s heart.

  “Will he take you away?” I ventured at last, having to ask it.

  She sat up, wide-eyed with consternation. “I have not even thought about that! I came to you directly—not having anywhere else to turn.”

  “You shall always have me,” I assured her stoutly. “I’ll watch out for you, Tillie. There is no man alive who can prevent me from doing that.”

  She smiled weakly. No further words were needed between us. After a little while she drew up the reins and turned the mare round. I could feel her reluctance. The weight of it was as odious as if it had been my own.

  We parted at the foot of the narrow lane leading up to our house, and she drove on. I stood a long time looking after her, wondering about life, feeling the confinement of a woman’s role, a woman’s relative lack of personal determination, more keenly than I had ever before in my life.

  There must not be many men such as my father, I concluded, who offer the same freedom and respect to a woman as they claim for themselves. Why is this? Why? I could not answer the question, not at the moment. I turned and walked up to the house, with a weariness upon my spirit more draining than any exhaustion of muscle and flesh.

  When Tillie’s announcement was made public, Josephine could not hide her displeasure.

  “Do you think she has done this to spite me?” she asked.

  I grabbed at her arm and turned her to face me. “Do not ever say that—not to myself, not to anyone—ever again!”

  Josephine froze. She could feel the resolve that blazed in my eyes, that made my voice shake. “From this moment forward you ought to think of what you can do for Tillie, not anything different, not anything less.”

  She answered nothing; and when Josephine answers nothing, that is a victory of sorts. But my heart was nonetheless heavy within me as I went out to my chores.

  I saw Peter again before I saw his sister, so I hailed him as he walked past the dry goods store. “How goes it, my man?” I asked. “Has your father forgiven you yet?”

  He hung his head, truly ashamed for his weakness. I came up closer and said gently, “Now, Peter, really, I have heard stories of how bad conditions on the canal are. Surely you found them all to be so.”

  I was saying, Tell me about it, and I was glad he took up the invitation.

  “The work is hard,” he began, “we hoggees being at the bottom of the order, driving the mules and horses. And the wages is low, ’specially when you consider we work in six-hour shifts and get no time to ourselves.”

  “How is that?” I asked, taking a seat beneath a shady oak and motioning him down beside me.

  “Why, we’re expect
ed to feed the animals and take care of their wants during off hours, as well as mend harnesses—that be no small task!—and cook our own food.”

  I nodded and handed him a biscuit from my parcel. He took a hefty bite before continuing. “There was never enough food, Esther, and never enough time to sleep. I felt dead on my feet most of the time. Why, we slept in the stables with the horses when we did get a wink!” I saw the expression on his face tighten and alter. “But that wasn’t the worst of it.”

  “What was the worst of it?” I sat for a few moments in silence, waiting, while Peter struggled with something inside himself.

  “If some poor hoggee like myself—some frightened, skinny little orphan boy with his bones stickin’ out of his clothes—couldn’t control them big mules when they got tangled or frightened, he’d get beaten awful by the captain, ’specially if one of the animals died.”

  I shuddered. “Have you told these things to your father?”

  “Naw.” He looked down again and finished his biscuit in a single bite.

  I handed him another. “What about Randolph?”

  “He don’t mind the drinkin’ and fightin’ the way I do. I can’t sleep for the sound and the smell of it.” He glanced up again, his blue eyes as open and innocent as a summer sky. “Some of them fellows is big and mean, Esther, and they do awful things.”

  I shuddered again and reached out to put my hand on his shoulder. “You did the manly thing, Peter,” I said firmly. “I’m proud of you.”

  Those words gave him pause. He blinked, uncomprehending.

  “A real man avoids that which is low and crass—especially that which is evil. And, nine cases in ten, he pays the price of ridicule and misunderstanding for his stance and his principles.” I could see comprehension creep into his gaze. “It is not merely your father and your youth, you know. It will ever be thus, Peter, even when you are grown. True courage is shown when a man embraces that which is just and noble and holds his place—no matter what other men think of him or do to him.”