Yet Latisha corrected my thinking—which she could read on my face most clearly—by the explanation she gave.
“The men who walk the path are usually the skilled and trained ones, the same who dug the channel and made it work in the first place, and Jonah is one of these. He knows more than anyone else, so he checks the locks and aqueducts for the least sign of cracks or erosion. Anything important, or really life-threatening, is referred to Jonah and the other walkers.”
“A domain of ten miles, every inch of it mine,” Jonah beamed at me. “Day or night, it’s up to me to keep everything safe and shipshape.”
We three were in the parlor when this conversation took place. I excused myself on the pretense of fetching some tea. In reality, I needed a few moments alone to compose myself. I was ashamed. Of both my thoughts and my behavior. As I listened to these two simple people it had struck me how much Latisha wanted my approval, wanted me to like her beau, to be happy with her. Why do I have to be smug and hold myself distant from them? I asked myself. In truth, that makes me no better than her father, in his bleak, judging ways.
When I returned I brought the tray, laden with the teapot, the best china, and bowls of peach cobbler, which I had baked that morning, swimming in cream. I was ready to listen now and make up for my earlier coldness. During the remainder of the time they were here we spoke of nothing unpleasant—certainly not of the consequences of stepping so far out of her social class by keeping company with such a man. If she was brazen, she was also much more innocent than I had imagined. I think she truly believed that all would work out well for her in the end because she wanted it so.
The second week of August, Georgeanna announced that she was marrying her Nathan Hopkins. When we did little more than stare in amazement she giggled like a girl.
“I know what I want,” she explained in her simple way, “and Nathan is it. We want to be settled before the new school term begins. There is no good reason to wait.”
Georgie’s father owns the hardware store. He is solidly successful, solidly respected. Georgie is the oldest of the children and the only daughter. Her father would see to it that she had as fine a wedding as anyone and a decent send-off into life.
Judith Sexton, Georgie’s mother, is even more practical than her daughter, so there would be nothing fancy or frivolous here. I noticed in all our discussions that Georgie did not ask Phoebe to sew a wedding gown for her. I knew, of course, why she declined. Phoebe has been bent over stiff with thread and needle for several months, crafting other people’s happiness into things of tangible beauty that they could touch and take delight in. More and more of us, a constant stream, turning to her, cooing over her lovely creations—heedless of her state—as she is forced to observe joy and fulfillment from a distance, smelling the fragrance of it, but never having any of the luscious stuff, like sweet flowers, piled into her empty, aching arms.
Josie would say I exaggerate. But I saw Phoebe’s eyes when she thought no one was looking. I saw the haunting loneliness there. And a longing that drew my heart out from me.
So. Our plans all went forth: Tillie’s approaching confinement, Josie’s blossoming pregnancy, Latisha’s wedding (if she had her way about it), and now Georgie’s wedding too. I did not speak of any of this to Eugene when I saw him. He would only remind me glumly that there was still no room for the two of us to fit our plans in. His father was doing well, thanks to Eugene’s help. And, with so much work to occupy his hours, the days passed quickly—more quickly for him than for me. I turned my hand too often to things that required little mental attention, and that left me with too much time to think. And, in all my thinking and puzzling and protesting, this longing inside me continued to grow. I wanted to be with Eugene! I wanted the life together, which we had planned so carefully, to take root and begin. I felt I was wasting precious time—and to what purpose? I knew where my happiness lay, but I was saying, “No thank you. I shall stay where I am for a while.” Georgie knew better. She did not concern herself with style or social expectation. She seized with gratitude and delight the gifts life brought to her. While I sat alone in my garden to wonder and brood.
Simon came one morning to ask for herbs for Emily. Before he got the words out, I, of course, guessed why.
“A child due already?” I attempted to smile. This was happy news, surely. I prepared my little cheesecloth bags of clove, chamomile, chervile and lemon balm, and a little marjoram for good measure, then tied them up with thin twine. “This should do for a while. I’ll drop over myself in a few days and see how she does.”
“Emily would like that. I believe she is just a little . . . frightened.”
He spoke the word with a tone of apology. “I can understand that,” I assured him, thinking of my own mother—thinking offhand of a dozen others whose health, as well as comfort, was endangered by this condition so natural to women. “Tell her to try not to worry. Worry will not help one bit.”
Kind, gentle Simon, I thought, as I watched him mount his horse and I waved my hand to him. You have neglected them both shamefully! I scolded myself and determined right then to follow my promise up by a visit within the fortnight.
It is the most lovely morning of the month, pale and cool, with a promise of fall in the air, and the little brown thrushes are competing with the bright wheeling bluebirds to sing their praise to the day.
Alexander appears at the door; not Josephine, but Alexander, with a pinched face. He says, in an unnatural, rasping tone, “We have lost the baby, Esther. Josie’s in bed, and safe, Doc Ensworth says, but the baby . . .” His voice cracks and he buries his head in my shoulder.
I stroke his hair, and think of my sister lying in this man’s arms, loving him. “I am sorry, so sorry,” I croon, “but there can be others.”
“I do not want others!”
“I know . . . I know.”
After a few moments he lifts his head and pulls me to my feet. “Will you come with me, Esther?”
“Of course. Let me get a few things together.” As I pack my satchel I wonder about Mother, who happens to be churning butter, Jonathan helping her. I glance up at Alexander. He knows what I am thinking. “Would you like me to tell her, or—”
“Please, Esther, will you? I’ll wait in here.”
I want to shout at him. It is not my job to do this, and I tremble at the very idea. But he is at the moment simply incapable; one good look at him tells me that. I resent having to be the one. I try to march out, firm and resolute. Mother looks up when she sees me, and senses something.
“Is that Alexander’s horse tied out front?” She wipes her hands along her apron. “Is there some kind of trouble, Esther?”
“Josephine has lost the baby, Mother. He wants me to go with him at once.”
She says nothing. She sinks back to the low stool, as if suddenly deflated; no breath, no substance left to her. I put my hand on her shoulder. “Try not to worry, dear. I shall take good care of her, and be back as soon as I can.”
“I should be the one to go.” She stands up, though not very steadily.
“You have Jonathan to look after, and I am the one skilled in nursing.” Unspoken between us is the memory of her ordeal—her loss, her hovering between death and life. I move and press my lips against her cheek, which feels soft and cool to my touch.
Tansy is saddled and waiting for me. This man and I move out together. Less than a year ago he was little more than a stranger to me. Now our very souls are woven together by shared love and shared pain.
“Stop fussing, Esther! You are making my head ache.”
Josephine’s eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, but she would not cry before me.
“I was not so far along, after all. Better it happen now than later.” She sighed and sank back against the pillows. Her curls looked like damp, shining tendrils of corn silk.“I shall have my figure back in time for the harvest dance.”
“Josie, stop it.” I sat down beside her and took up her hand. “Do not pretend
with me. Or with your husband, for that matter. He is taking this very hard.”
“He is, is he?” Her full mouth began to pout a little. “As if this business has anything much to do with him! He just wants a son.”
“And you? You just want a daughter to dress up like a princess—a daughter as pretty as yourself, to make all the other girls jealous.”
Because I spoke the words kindly, Josie smiled with me. “There will be other times, won’t there?”
“Of course.”
“And I am young yet.”
“You are very young yet.”
“But Alex isn’t.” She knitted her white brow in a consternation I felt was more assumed than sincere.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
“I am thinking that he keeps telling me he wants as many children as I will give him.”
“Really?” It pleases me to know that. “You are certainly young and healthy enough to satisfy that request, dear.”
“But I do not want an old, doting husband who dies with my children half-raised.”
“Alexander is not so ancient that you need concern yourself!” I laughed. But her face was screwed up still. “We shall see. Must I wait a good while before trying again?”
“I believe the doctor would say so.”
“I do not want to be too far behind. I do not want you to be a mother before me, as well as everyone else.”
I let the remark go. Josephine is Josephine. There was nothing I could do about it. But I did voice one warning. “Be kind to Mother when you see her. This is very hard for her.”
“Harder on everyone than on me, you would have me believe!”
“You know what I mean, Josie.”
She was silent, which, for her, was acquiescence. “I shall go boil up some water for tea now. And make you some of those mint and cucumber sandwiches you fancy.”
I took a plate in to her, and another two hours later. While she rested I looked at what work there was to do, but between them she and Alexander kept a tight house. I made a pitcher of lemonade and watered the row of house plants she had along the south window, then picked up the mending basket and began on the toe of a sock. I found myself dozing, and let my eyes close, the stockings sitting untouched in my lap.
My mother arrived just as Josephine called out for me, and I awoke with a start. “Go ahead, go in to her,” I urged. “I shall be right here if you need me.”
Idleness is not easy for me. I could hear the soft murmur of their voices, a good sign, from the next room. I decided to pour glasses of lemonade as a refreshment. The plate I was preparing was not quite ready when I heard a knock at the door. I was surprised to see Tillie’s face peering back at me.
“I stopped by your house and your father told me you were here. Is Josie all right?”
I nodded. “But I am glad you are here.” I held the door for her to enter, truly pleased and relieved to see her.
“I am so sorry this had to happen,” Tillie sighed, her voice betraying a struggle against the specter of insecurity and chance Josie’s miscarriage pressed home to her—especially with her own ordeal pending. “Well, I thought you might like some help, or at least some company. Besides, I have news.”
I ushered her to Josie’s amply cushioned rocker and put one of the glasses of sugared lemonade into her hand, and advised her not to make her presence known for the time being. “You will press home Josephine’s own loss too painfully,” I reminded her. After we discussed the state of the patient in the next room for a few appropriate moments, she leaned close. “I can wait no longer to tell you!” she hissed. “Jonah Sinclair has approached my father, requesting Latisha’s hand.”
I was as amazed as she wanted me to be! We exclaimed together. I guessed at the horrors that might have befallen the imprudent Mr. Sinclair. But Tillie shook her head, the wonder of it still unsettling her.
“Not a bit of it!” she assured me. “Just as Father stood and began clearing his throat for the onslaught, Latisha herself entered the room. She walked right up to him and said, ‘If you do not let me marry Jonah I shall run away with him, Father, and, his work being what it is, the disgrace of it would spread all over the state.’
“ ‘You wish to be a laborer’s wife?’ my father growled, his face turning a dull purple.”
“Oh, Tillie,” I breathe, “what I would give to have been there to see this! What did she answer him?”
“ ‘He is as good a man as any, and better than the son-in-law you now have! Besides, I love him.’ ” Here Tillie stopped and smiled bravely. “ ‘He has the means to take care of me, so you need not concern yourself on that count.’
“ ‘And when you come crawling back again, wanting new frocks and fancy things like your sister—wanting more than milk and potatoes?’ he barked.
“ ‘You may throw me out, if that ever happens, Father. But I do not intend that it shall.’ ”
I put my hand up to my mouth. “Aren’t you proud of her, Tillie? Perhaps someone should have tried standing up to the old man long ago!”
As soon as the words were out I realized the mistake of them, and the blood drained from my face. But Theodora took my hand up in her elegant slim one. “It’s all right, Esther. We have tried before, you know, both the boys and myself, but he was like flint to us.”
“It is partly the timing, I suspect. And mayhap he has learned something over the past little while.”
Tillie shook her head solemnly. “It is the threat more than anything, Esther, and the presence of the man there to hear it—who, if he did not marry his daughter, would spread the shame of the story abroad.”
I nodded, realizing she had the truth of it, but overcome by amazement still. “What do you think of this Jonah fellow?”
She shrugged her thin shoulders. “I have set eyes on him only twice. He does not seem to be a person Latisha would be attracted to.”
I agreed. “But there may be more to him than meets our casual, critical eye.” I was thinking of my own rather awkward experience.
“You are sounding like Georgie now!” she fondly accused.
“Do they intend to marry soon?” I asked.
“Soon enough that I shall still be looking like this when she sweeps out in her bridal gown!” Tillie lamented. “But I suppose it cannot be helped.”
“You have the blush of motherhood,” I told her honestly. “And there is no greater beauty. Try not to mind all the rest.”
We talked a bit longer, while I listened with one ear to the sounds coming from the adjoining room. I was relieved when she rose to leave; I did not relish an encounter or any sort of a scene just now.
We walked to the buggy together, and I was surprised to see Peter dozing on the driver’s bench. “Why did you not come inside and say hello to me, young man?” I chided him, and held my cheek up for a kiss.
“Orders from headquarters!” He stole a glance at his sister, then grinned shamefacedly. “She wanted you all to herself.”
“Whatever is this, Peter?” I reached out and touched the large ugly bruise that had discolored his left cheek and puffed out the skin under his eye.
“Bit of an accident,” he replied offhandedly.
“Watch yourself, lad. You don’t want to scare the girls away.” I made light of the matter. But, in truth, I was thinking of his brother and drunken brawls and men with large fists, some even with knives. I was so lost in my imaginings that I jumped when Alexander came up beside me and waved to the departing visitors.
“I overheard you ask young Peter about his swollen face, Esther. I can tell you how he came by it.”
I shrunk, instinctively, from his statement, though I forced my eyes to meet his.
“He’s an errand boy for his father’s bank, you know.”
I nodded, thinking, Gerard Whittier runs that bank now. I believe Alexander read my thoughts, because a sadness came into his eyes as he continued.
“Tillie’s husband’s the culprit, I fear. He drives the boy something fe
arful.”
“You mean—Gerard struck him?” I gasped.
“Saw it with my own eyes, though the man’s cruel ways are not a secret.”
My knees turned to water and I had to sit down or simply crumple.
“I’m sorry, Esther. ’Tis indeed a bad business. But I thought it better coming from me than—”
“Yes. Yes, thank you.” I put my hand on his arm and leaned gratefully for a moment before returning inside.
Mother was still with Josie. I sat in the rocker and waited impatiently, because my prickly mind was in a rage again and would give me no peace! It is this awful man’s child who should have aborted! I fumed, unable to stop the shameful thought from coming. He will be a mean, demanding father, and my poor Tillie an anxious, overly protective mother! While this gentle man here—I let my eyes rest on the sparse, tidy figure of Alexander, who sat patiently beside me. He will be a wise father and raise his sons to be good, noble creatures. Does it make sense that he be denied while men like Gerard Whittier strut about in their pompousness and pride!
I felt tears in my eyes. They were more than tears of frustration. They were tears of protest at the pain people can cause one another simply by living their lives.
Chapter 11
Palmyra: October 1828
Tillie’s father had his revenge, of a sort. The wedding he orchestrated was far from lavish, the guests he invited were few, and the dowry he settled upon Latisha much reduced from its original proportions. None of the groom’s friends were allowed access to the festivities.
“I will turn them all out on their ear,” Mr. Swift promised, and Latisha did not force the point.
Indeed, she cared little for his machinations. After all, she had won the day. She was the young, vivacious bride, parading on the arm of the man she wanted. Theodora took it with excellent grace—big, miserable, and unhappy as she was—while her sister fairly glowed.
I had a chance to observe Gerard Whittier at close quarters and was surprised by his affable manners. As the afternoon progressed I even found myself thinking, Perhaps people, myself included, have judged him wrong. I forgot for a few moments the smooth, persuasive power of the hypocrite. My unrelenting diligence, however, paid off at length, for I caught him in an unguarded moment scolding Peter roundly for some previous offense of his. The boy’s face went white. He took a few steps backward, but Gerard grabbed him by the collar, for they were in a somewhat sheltered cove set into the gardens. But just then I stepped up.
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