Palmyra

by Susan Evans McCloud

  So, Georgeanna was drawn to him. If he was what he appeared to be, I could understand why. At times I envy her ability to take life as it comes, make the best of things, and move on. She does not torture herself with trying to understand, the way I do. Nor does she foolishly attempt to change what cannot be changed. Such practical wisdom I lack. If it had not been for the peace of my gardens and my books, I would have been a sorry jangle of nerves and frustration!

  As things turned out, we girls, in deference, stayed a bit on the periphery of this particular wedding. Emily felt ill at ease when we were around, and I understood that. How could she rejoice openly and freely with our presence, our composed faces, a constant reminder of the awkwardness of her joy? Enough to let her know that we supported and did not resent her. Enough for the future to build upon.

  Simon was just as bad. He could not look any of us in the face. Quiet, gentle Simon, with his narrow boyish features, with the somewhat perplexed, somewhat watchful expression he always wore on his face! He had done nothing disgraceful. And it was true: sooner or later he had to make a choice that was incapable of making both women happy, or, for that matter, of making him entirely happy. I believed he would always cherish deep feelings for our Phoebe; though this was not to say he would not make a very good and faithful husband to Emily. Of that I had no doubt.

  Though not lavish, by any means, the modest wedding seemed to capture a beauty and dignity that touched my heart deeply. I was closer to the event than the other girls, because Eugene is Emily’s brother, and I was there on his arm—there with his eyes saying every time I looked up at him, Very soon now our turn will come. And there will be no wedding like our wedding, Esther, no love like ours!

  I found myself inclined to agree with him! I found myself longing for him, in every sense of the word: reluctant to be removed from his presence; feeling flat and peevish and at loose ends when our responsibilities drew us in separate directions, shattering the harmony which seemed to exist only when we were together, moving and thinking as one.

  Chapter 9

  Palmyra: July 1828

  Josephine waited until the wedding was over to tell her news; I am sure she did not wish the simple little event to eclipse her in any way.

  “I, too, am with child,” she announced, her creamy cheeks glowing.

  “You are keeping right up with Tillie,” Georgeanna teased; then, seeing her face, ran to hug her. “I am pleased for you, Josie! When do you anticipate the new arrival?”

  My sister appeared studied for a moment. “ ’Tis difficult to say yet. Perhaps January—perhaps a little earlier, to celebrate Christmas and our wedding anniversary and the birth of our first child all at once.”

  How she does love celebrations, I thought—and herself the center of the festivities!

  Her generally sedate and somewhat taciturn husband received the news with an anticipation that was irresistible. This was an experience I do not believe he had truly expected. He had remained unmarried for such a long time that he had put thoughts of fatherhood away from him, as a state obtainable for others but not for himself. Oh, how he did try to conceal his almost child-like pleasure at this wonder which had been laid at his feet! Watching him, one had to smile in response to his pleasure.

  Of course, Josephine glowed—as though she had done something incredibly unique and clever already, which, perhaps, in a way she had. Conception—birth—the coming forth of new life is, indeed, a mir-acle. Perhaps it was merely the way she seemed to take personal credit for it that was a bit galling to me.

  Excitement in the air. Change. Constant change. I suppose that is what life is: a constant sifting, readjusting, redefining; nothing ever static and predictable.

  Except, perhaps, Nature. Here the same flowers grow each year from the same seeds: the nurturing cycle, the ripening, the bearing, the reaping—these, thank heaven, remain timeless and true.

  The long, sultry summer is upon us. I enjoy it. I am content in the little things, in the slow, languid hours, in the quiet places where bees hum and the lazy cat stretches herself in the sun. I know that here there is little change. I know that I avoid change whenever I can. My little brother has changed. He patters barefoot among the rows of my gardens, careful to avoid stepping upon the growing plants. He ex-amines the caterpillars and potato bugs that roll up like tiny gray pebbles against the palm of his hand. He is a sweet child. Sometimes I look into his eyes and think of the other one sleeping on the hill above the city and wonder what he would have been like—what the two of them would have been like together. Does Jonathan, in some manner he cannot yet define, miss the brother he never knew? The bond between twins is a very real thing. Is there some part, however small, missing in this perfect little boy digging in the dirt at my feet?

  Solemn thoughts. Jonathan holds up a bit of bright-colored glass for me to examine. There is wonder in his eyes, like a glow shining outward. It is the same wonder I feel, but cannot express as openly or innocently. This is certainly one of the reasons why children are so essential to the balance and well-being of life.

  I was there to see for myself. Tillie and I had been to visit the milliner, and she had asked me to drive home with her to examine some baby things one of her neighbors had sent over. We were in a fine mood, in keeping with the fair, gentle morning which was unfolding around us. Was it happenstance only that we decided to walk round the grounds to pick grapes from the sagging vines that grew along her father’s back fence? Was it chance only that took us there at the moment Randolph stumbled out of his mother’s toolshed, clothes rumpled, face mottled, and breath soured with the effects of too much cheap whiskey?

  When I saw Tillie’s face I made her sit on one of the long, cushioned benches scattered throughout the grounds, and ran to confront the lad myself, before he could slink away.

  “What nonsense have you been up to?” I demanded.

  Randolph sucked at his bottom lip and said nothing.

  “You spent the night in there?” I indicated the shed with a movement of my head, and he nodded. I knew boys well enough to skip over the obvious. “Was there more than a drunken brawl involved—is that why you could not return to your quarters?”

  I had looked into his eyes. I saw fear there, as well as dull misery. He stared back at me now; answer enough. “Was anyone hurt?” I pressed. “Are you in danger?”

  Randolph swallowed painfully. “Some was hurt, I do fear, Esther. Though it was none of my doing. They were after us from the start.”

  Tillie was leaning forward, attempting to hear us, catching only a word or two. I led him a few yards away to where the shading arms of an old apple tree served to partly obscure us. I did not want him to bolt and run.

  “What friends were you with? Who was after you, and for what reason?” Silence and a shuffling. “Randolph, speak to me. Have you not always been able to trust me?”

  With a sort of shudder passing over his face and along his thin frame the boy acquiesced. “I’ve a bunkmate and a couple of other chums. They sell cheap corn liquor and make a bit of a profit on the side. But it’s thrown them in with a rough lot.”

  “I am not surprised.”

  “Well, it’s a rough life for the most of them, Esther. Boys with no homes to go back to. Some with no folks at all. They have to make it on their own, one way or another.”

  “And what about you? That is their excuse. What reason have you for such stupidity?”

  “You don’t understand!”

  “Do not choose to misunderstand me and be offended,” I retorted. “You know better! And you have better awaiting you, Randolph. Don’t let the canal harden you like the others.”

  “The canal was my father’s idea in the first place. You know how he prides himself—and we must all fit the pattern of the hardworking Swifts, who can handle anything and roll up their sleeves with the best and the worst of men.”

  “I know this, indeed,” I replied.

  “I have to survive, Esther.” Randolph moved to lean aga
inst the cool roughness of the tree.

  “You look miserable,” I told him. “How much sleep did you get last night?”

  He shook his head and ran his hand through his tousled hair. “Don’t know. Don’t care. I have to hightail it and get back now, Esther, if I don’t want a tanning.”

  “Why don’t you give it up, as your brother did?” I suggested.

  The beginnings of a grin played at the corners of his mouth. “I like it too well.”

  “You like the roughness and the danger?”

  “Maybe. I like the adventure. I like answering to anybody rather than him.” He indicated with a black look the house that loomed a short distance off.

  “Be very sure of that,” I said, speaking the words slowly, with emphasis, and placing my hands on his arms. “Be certain sure, Randolph. For you may get exactly what you are now after, my dear boy—and no more.”

  For the space of a heartbeat he met my eyes, then slipped from under my fingers and, with a few deft movements of hand and foot, vaulted the fence and called out from the other side.

  “Do not betray me, now, Esther. You promised!”

  With a sigh I waved at his departing figure, then turned back to face Tillie, sitting white-faced and silent. “I do not believe he even noticed you here,” I began, seeing the disappointment that darkened her eyes.

  “He is in trouble, isn’t he?”

  “I believe he is,” I confessed reluctantly. “ ’Tis almost unavoidable considering the conditions and the company! Can you not speak to your father and get the boy out of there?”

  I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth. Her mouth tightened into a painful little line and she shook her head.

  “Talk to my father! That would never have been possible, but so much less so now that he is”—her eyes widened as her mind searched for the right words—“displeased with us.”

  “Us? Perhaps your husband, Tillie. But—”

  She shook her head again. “There is no difference in his mind.”

  “The baby. Is your father not pleased at the thought of a grandchild?” I was groping, as well as attempting to divert her.

  Her sad mouth lifted in a brave little smile. “More than he wants to admit—I hope. Once he gets us settled in a house of our own, and the image back in place as it should be—successful son-in-law, and all that—”

  “Gerard is not all your father hoped he was?” I offered tentatively.

  “You might say that.” The thin smile again.

  “But there is surely a legitimate place for him here? He can be of use to your father?”

  “I believe and sincerely hope so.” Theodora sighed. Her sweet almond eyes trembled with the emotion she was suppressing. “Father despises deception of any sort. There is now a coolness and a caution between the two men.”

  “Just what you need.” I tried to make light of it. There was no response from her. “Well, surely men have their place in one’s life,” I continued recklessly, “but they are not the whole of it.”

  “They need not be . . .” Tillie sat up a little straighter and re-garded me intently. “But it will be that way with you. When you marry Eugene you will give him your whole heart, Esther. For you it could be no other way.”

  I sputtered, taken aback by her blunt perception.

  “I wish . . . oh, well!” She shook her head as though to clear it of all thought, all feeling. “We cannot always determine our fate.”

  “But we can determine to be happy, despite it!” I cried, placing my arms round her and pulling her up to her feet. “And we have this to look forward to, don’t we?” I placed my hand on the swell of her stomach. She smiled back; a true smile, freely given. “Let us go in and see those tiny treasures now.”

  She led the way. I felt a bit of a hypocrite, spurring my dear friend on to gaiety and a courageous acceptance, when I was still miserable in my own heart, still trying to forget the pinched face and glazed eyes of the lad who had run so eagerly back into a world that was flexing its claws in its eagerness to tear and harm and weaken him—run pell-mell, with no one to stop or protect him at all.

  No rest for the wicked! Georgie came to tell me the news, and I did not believe her.

  “It cannot be true,” I said bluntly. “Her parents would never permit it.”

  “Her parents have no idea!” Georgie laughed.

  Tillie’s sister, Latisha, keeping company with a canal man! “Does Tillie know?” I asked. “Does anyone—who could do anything?”

  “I have no idea. Nathan Hopkins heard two of the women teachers talking about it—Ellen Thompson was always a favorite with the young girls. Perhaps Latisha confided in her.”

  “The girl has always been headstrong,” I stewed, “and after observing what marriage has done to her sister, perhaps more determined than ever to decide her own fate—while, truth is, she is merely doing to herself what her father did to Theodora!”

  “Do not fume so,” Georgie said soothingly. “We know nothing of the man in question. Perhaps he has much to recommend him.”

  “Oh, Georgie,” I wailed. “You shall make an excellent mother with your patience and wisdom. I run off like a house afire every time something sparks my emotions!”

  She smiled indulgently. “That is what we all love about you, Esther! You really and truly care.” She planted a kiss on my cheek. “Say nothing to Tillie or Josephine just yet.”

  “Of course not.”

  She was halfway down the walk before I hurried after her. “Georgie,” I cried. “School is not in session now. How is it you were in the company of Nathan Hopkins?”

  She turned her head and tossed me a bright smile. “He has been seeking my company of late.”

  “With no objections, I gather?”

  How pretty Georgie is when her black eyes are sparkling! “Absolutely no objections at all!”

  This has been a profitable summer for my father. His wheat is producing abundantly. He purchased a new mule for himself and lumber to frame in a room at the back of the house for my mother, with windows looking southeast so that the sun will slant warmly on winter afternoons—a room where she can spin and set up a loom without our constantly tripping over it.

  I find this most thoughtful of him. I believe Mother does, too, though she will not express such emotions in my presence. But now he goes farther than that. He has asked her to travel with him on one of the boats to the city—view the ocean and tall buildings for herself, eat in a few fancy restaurants, stay in a nice rooming house. I am amazed at this kind of generous proposal coming from my father. I am even more amazed by my mother’s response: she has flatly turned him down.

  “I could not think of leaving Jonathan for so long,” she tells us. “What would he do without me?”

  “Be just fine,” I assure her, biting my temper.

  “What would I do without him?” This is the crux of the matter, after all.

  “Try not to worry,” I tell her. “I am fully capable of taking care of the child. Think of it, Mother. Father has promised you new frocks and bonnets in the very latest fashions.” She is as vain of her person as Josephine is, and shares the same weakness for fine clothes.

  “Theodora’s sister-in-law lives in the heart of New York, remember. She has offered to send anything we ask for. She is very accommodating.”

  “Mother, please!”

  She lifted her great child-like eyes to mine, moist with fear. But my father had already turned and walked quietly from the room.

  “He doesn’t understand. None of you do!”

  I turned from her, too, not wanting her to see the look that came over my face.

  That was two weeks ago. My father did not pick up the boat tickets he had the agent set aside for him. He has not mentioned the outlandish notion again. When I drove to Tillie’s the day before yesterday I offered to take Jonathan along with me. Mother declined.

  “There is plenty enough for him to do here,” she said, “without letting him get unde
r your feet.”

  Even Josephine cannot cajole him away from Mother.

  “I shall soon have a child of my own,” she consoles. “Surely Mother will let Jonathan come then, to play, to help me care for the baby.”

  I nod, but I do not hold my breath. I have noticed that my father finds more and more projects to do of an evening after the dinner meal is eaten—things that keep him in the barn or about the yard until the late summer darkness at last nudges him inside. By then my mother has usually gone to bed and the house is silent. He either tiptoes back to join her, without the aid of a candle, or dozes by the fire long after I have kissed him on the forehead and gone to my own room.

  Chapter 10

  Palmyra: August 1828

  I encountered Latisha’s “gentleman in question,” not by accident, but because she had the audacity to bring him round on purpose to meet me! I believe she enjoyed my discomfort as I struggled with how to react to him, how to behave.

  Brazen! Latisha was barely seventeen and thought she knew enough about everything; and that ignorance was her worst enemy. She is, really, not much prettier than her sister, but she has more spirit than Theodora and a willfulness of which we girls—who used to mind her when she was still in nappies—had long been aware.

  Jonah Sinclair. That was a fine name, fit enough for a gentleman. The man who owned it did not look anywhere near that part. He was short and ordinary-looking, with so much hair growing on his head and face that he gave the appearance of being bushy and unkempt; in truth, he was not particularly clean. He must have been at least twenty-six or twenty-seven to Latisha’s seventeen, perhaps more; perhaps he carried his age well, as many men do. What was more, he worked as a towpath walker along the canal, and told me so with no more compunction than if he had said he was a cutthroat and highwayman.