Palmyra

by Susan Evans McCloud

  “I am sorry, Emily, that you have been separated from your little one and denied the joy of rearing her. I wish . . .” Oh, how useless wishes and regrets are! “I failed in life to be all to you that I should have been. I will not fail her. You have my word on it.”

  After a time I rose and moved to the familiar spot where my little Nathaniel was buried. I could still remember with ease the aching tenderness of the tiny, fragrant weightlessness of him cradled in my arms. Without closing my eyes I could still see his eyes, deep as pools of eternity, gazing quietly, patiently into my own. I experienced again that powerful sensation, half anguish, half comfort: there is so much about life that I do not understand. So much beauty, so much purpose and endurance!

  After a long while I turned and walked away, renewed and reconciled once again.

  If there was one thing that stood out about my wedding, it was the abundance of flowers! Blossoms in the church, woven round the posts and railings, standing in large, overflowing vases: daisies, daffodils, ladies smock, wild hyacinths—a sweet, abandoned array: campion, buttercup, yellow heartsease, and even long, trailing branches of the flowering crabapple. There were wreaths of blossoms gracing the shining, braided hair of my maids of honor and my own bridal veil. I placed small bouquets of fragrant tussie-mussies in the arms of every woman and girl I could think of; the tables were lined with blossoms and the bower set up in my father’s sweet meadow where we sat amid the abundance to welcome loved ones and guests.

  I was surprised that I could think of anything outside myself and Eugene, that I could view the beauty and affection of my dear friends with such delight. But somehow I was able to see them with a clarity of love I had never experienced before—see each for her own distinct graces and gifts. How my heart ached with affection for them!

  My poor mother. At one point she bent over me and whispered, “What will happen to your gardens, Esther? I cannot bear to think of them running to seed and ruin.”

  “I will not let them do that!” I leaned up and kissed her cool cheek, still white-skinned and unwrinkled. “I shall keep them myself if I have to, as I’ve done in the past!”

  Change, constant change. But for the first time it seemed glorious, desirable to me. I could smile at everyone and see nothing but the best of whatever was before me. I suppose love has the power to do that, if anything has.

  Oh, the kind words and well-wishing, the music and dancing, the food and the laughter, the moonlight, spilling silver and soft all around us, and Eugene’s hand warm in mine—his green eyes gentled with incredulity . . . and me feeling truly beautiful for perhaps the first time in my life . . .

  “Heaven help us, Esther’s a prettier bride than the rest of us put together!” Josephine speaking the words out of laughter, but with tears in her eyes.

  Tillie squeezing my arm and whispering, “Be happy for both of us, Esther. I will be so glad if you do.”

  Georgie, smelling of mint and fresh lavender, kissing my cheek and saying, a bit strangely, “You will come into your own now, dear Esther. Just wait and see.”

  Phoebe gliding close, like some lovely wraith materializing out of the moon’s glow, pressing her thin, capable fingers against mine—no words spoken, only that terrible tenderness that no words can convey.

  My mother crying, angry at her own vulnerability, holding Jonathan up to be kissed. My father, so solemn-eyed, embracing me gently, saying, “Do not forget to come home, my Esther, every now and again . . .”

  Oh, the sweet, poignant pain and bliss of it all!

  And at last the flower-draped carriage, Tansy with blossoms woven into her thick mane—my father handing me up. A mist of tears, of voices echoing and re-echoing, like music inside my head. Then silence, gathering sweet as fragrance about us, bearing us out of the common . . . weaving magic, like the night air, in streamers about our heads.

  Eugene’s family lives near the edge of Palmyra, yet close enough to the bustle of things so that the blacksmithing business can thrive. We chose for our own a small house I looked upon as a compromise; a bit out into the open country, so as to be close to my own home, but still close enough in to be considered a part of the town.

  I had already planted my gardens—herbs and vegetables and flowers—and Eugene had outfitted the toolsheds and barns. My father gave me Tansy as part of my dowry, and one of our freshest milk cows. Alexander had presented us with an exquisite rosewood bedroom suite, so that I could leave my old bed at Mother’s, where I believed it belonged. Tillie, unbeknownst to me, sent away to the city for exorbitantly rich bed coverings and fancy curtains for my windows. People’s generosity overwhelmed me, and I felt as spoiled as a princess in a dream from which I did not wish to wake.

  But Eugene was the quiet, living center of this magnificent dream. He was flesh and blood, less than perfect, but the most overwhelming gift I was given that night. A living legacy—this life that desired to merge itself with my life, desired to care for me—was willing to open the core of its being to my seeing eyes. I was overwhelmed by the joy of desire, of selflessness—by the delights of love which I had never imagined—by the wonder of two people merging, in so many ways, into one. Nothing I had hoped for, nothing I had wondered at, could ever come close to this joy.

  I awake in the pre-dawn and stand at the gray square of window and watch for the day. The first day of my life, I think. The first day of my new life as woman and wife. This is more than change; this is a sort of metamorphosis, slow though it may be. This is a glory—putting on a new self. This is a weaving together, a reaching inward, a reaching outward—this is seeing through eyes that are not my eyes. This is life. For the first time I know this and am content in the knowing.

  Eugene stirs on the bed. He is no longer a stranger to me, but in a sense part of myself. I feel a hunger for this existence we are creating together—an eagerness, a sense of purpose I have never before felt in my life. I want to sing. I want to laugh. I want to open my arms and hold the whole world close to me in an embrace of gratitude and wonder.

  I pick up the slender volume where I write notes on the daily occurrences of my life, where I jot down favorite verses and thoughts I have had. I go to the little desk in the corner that I brought with me and search for my pen. I must at least attempt to preserve some of this wonder and beauty before it filters into the ordinary and I forget the intensity of it, the clarity of vision it lends me.

  I curl up on my chair like a cat and begin writing. The morning comes in on soft kitten feet, so as not to disturb me. I feel its breath on my neck. Sweet and cool; it is in no hurry. Nor must I be. Each moment is precious, a pearl of beauty that will never repeat itself and, once lost, never be regained.

  For a moment I set my pen and paper aside and move, with the same morning feet, to stand beside the bed, lean over my still, sleeping husband, and press my lips, ever so lightly, against his forehead. He does not move, does not stir.

  The first act of the first day. A prayer, a caress. I smile at my own foolishness, and return to my desk.

  Chapter 15

  Palmyra: September 1829

  The summer passed in a long succession of happy days for me, and I am ashamed to admit that I involved myself far less than usual in other people’s affairs. My friends understood, I believe, and left me to my honeymoon idyll in peace—a peace disrupted, aptly so, by a quiet revelation so unexpected and so shocking as to at last divert me away from myself.

  Would Phoebe have told me if I had not happened upon her at the market and asked, quite boldly, if I could come to her home for tea?

  “Eugene is working long hours with his father. You know the demands on a blacksmith during the summer months. I will admit to missing him dreadfully,” I sighed. “And I must confess that my little house is in good running order,” I explained, “my garden is thriving, and some days I am bored.”

  Phoebe shook her head. “You do not know what the word means, Esther.” She smiled. “Let me guess. You bake good things for Eugene each mornin
g, right after you come in from the weeding you do very early, while the air is yet cool. If you have time on your hands in the hot, quiet hours of the afternoon, you read your loved books or write in that little journal I’ve seen you scribbling in. Then you freshen up, and perhaps pick fresh flowers for the table, so you are ready to greet your tired husband when he comes into the house.”

  Before she was through I was shaking with laughter. “What a picture you paint!”

  “Yes, it is lovely—mostly because it is so accurate.”

  I leaned over and gave her a hug. And we scurried like children to pour glasses of tart lemonade and bring out fresh cheese and crackers and little glazed poppy seed cakes. It was only after we were seated companionably together that Phoebe said, “Esther, Simon has asked me to marry him, and I have consented.”

  I answered nothing at all, but leaned back against her plump soft pillows, quite out of breath.

  “Come, dear friend, you must have some opinion on the matter. Surely you must have thought of the—possibility.”

  I shook my head. “Phoebe, did you?” That was an inane, silly question! I quickly added, “I have been most consumingly diverted, you remember. I have not been thinking, really, of much at all.”

  “I have been thinking of little else.” She spoke the words simply, in a low tone, but the emotion behind them thrilled through me.

  “My dear—”

  “I have never stopped loving Simon, you know.”

  “I did not think you had,” I replied honestly. “I know you too well.”

  She stood and moved about the room in a somewhat distracted manner. “We have discussed the matter in detail.”

  “Already?”

  “Well, there is much to consider—not least being the soonest we dare set a date to be wed.”

  “Yes, well, there will always be those who will criticize, no matter how long you wait.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “And what is considered ‘proper’ must be seriously amended, since there is a child in the picture who is in need of a mother’s care.”

  “I hope people will see it that way and be generous.”

  “Most will, I believe.”

  We both paused. We both were thinking of the same thing. “Do you know what Simon has named the infant—well, the choice was Emily’s, really.”

  “Eugene told me what he thought it was to be,” I said honestly.

  “Yes, it is Esther.”

  “I am deeply moved.”

  “So am I. It seems fitting, somehow.”

  “And will perhaps make it a little easier for you to love this child as your own, dear heart.”

  “I truly pray, Esther, that I will have no difficulty there.”

  “And the mother’s shadow, everywhere about you in the house?” I felt I had to say it.

  “Trust you to face the hard issues head on!” Phoebe sighed, and the sound shuddered all through her system. “He loved me, you know he did. But he chose her before me. I cannot forget that. I have had to live with it this past year and more.” She drew her breath, as though the very speaking of the words had been painful. “But I never despised Emily for it. She had no more control in the matter than I did.”

  “I believe that is true.”

  “So heaven has ordained that her happiness was short lived, but that I should not be cheated out of mine. How can I not be grateful, Esther—and happy?”

  How can you not be—angel that you are! “Does Simon know what a prize he has?” I cried. “Does he love you sufficiently, Phoebe?”

  “He will. He is still mourning, and he turns to me in need. But the love is there, too. If I did not feel this, if I did not know this, I would have refused him.”

  “Your wisdom is sufficient,” I said, reaching for her hand. “It satisfies me.” Her face lit with a gentle glow. “And when you are married, I shall sew your dress, as you sewed all of ours, and it shall be the plainest, most ill-fitting gown any bride in Palmyra has ever worn!”

  We were giggling again, like girls. And I realized what a long time it had been since I had seen Phoebe truly at ease, and happy—and it made my heart sing.

  Eugene’s mother was unrelenting. She would not believe it; she would not countenance it! She would give Simon no peace.

  “You must do something!” I pleaded with my husband. “You are one of the few people she will listen to.”

  “She will listen to no one in this matter.”

  “Will you not at least try?”

  He opened his mouth to refuse me, but I think he saw the misery in my countenance. I watched him struggle within himself. At length he said shakily, “Yes, it is right that you ask me, Esther. I will try, for your sake.”

  How good a man you are, I wanted to say. But the words would have embarrassed him, so I merely kissed him instead, and tried to be especially kind over the following days to compensate for the sacrifice he was resolved to make.

  It was in vain, however. His mother was intent upon being miserable and could entertain no view of things but her own. Eugene was frustrated; Simon was hurt; I tried not to think about it. But Phoebe was calm and serene.

  “You cannot expect more from the woman right now,” she defended. “She is terrified to let go of her pain—I know how that feels. If the pain goes, her daughter will go with it, or so she believes.”

  She soothed us all. Simon wanted the marriage to take place as soon as possible; a quiet ceremony with no one in attendance but the necessary parties and witnesses.

  “That is not fair to Phoebe,” I protested. “Every girl deserves a wedding of some sort, and Phoebe has certainly earned hers.”

  “She does not desire it,” Simon and Eugene assured me, sitting on my porch one late summer evening. “She feels it would be unseemly.”

  “It is not unseemly!” I retorted. I had both husband and brother before me! “It is not Phoebe’s fault that Emily died. You are the most fortunate of men, Simon, and you will be for the remainder of your life if you have our dear girl. Can you not think of something to do for her?”

  I think my words smote through his fog of loneliness and self-pity at last. I could see his mind thinking behind the shy blue eyes.

  After that, I left them to make their own decisions, and the date for the marriage was set.

  “What of your parents?” I asked Phoebe. “How do they feel about this?”

  “They gave up on me long ago.” She said the words with one of her kind smiles. “I am not like them, and they cannot understand me. Lena and the boys, happily, do not give them such woes. Whatever is decided, they will agree with. I believe they will be relieved just to see me married and no longer a concern to them, you know.”

  So there were less than a dozen of us in the nave of the chapel that Friday morning: Phoebe and Simon, his parents (who were relieved and grateful for this propitious turn of events), her parents (a little less enthusiastic), myself and Eugene, Tillie, Josie, and Georgie.

  “All the beauty of the village gathered in one place,” Eugene teased me. “It is truly a feast for the eyes.”

  But it was, in fact. We girls were dressed in a manner that had been customary on May Day mornings through the past ten years or more of our lives—ever since Phoebe discovered how gifted she was with a needle and thread! I had made sure there were flowers in abundance. And Phoebe, in a creamy gown trimmed sparingly with lace and embroidered lilies-of-the-valley in pale yellow and green, was as elegant a bride as I’ve ever seen. Her plain features, the straight lines of her face, the high forehead—all were softened by the beautifying effects of her happiness, which permeated us all.

  And there was a surprise in store, influenced perhaps a little by my counsel to Simon. He had arranged a short boat trip on the canal; just a few stops, two nights away. But alone together. Just what they needed. I nearly cried at the happiness that came into her eyes.

  We watched them go off together, waving and kissing our hands to them. Arrangements had been made for little Esth
er; the wet nurse would keep her. But when Phoebe returned they would wean the child onto goat’s milk, and she would be in the care of a mother every bit as good and tender as her own would have been.

  That night, alone in bed with my husband, I snuggled close to his warmth, wondering what Power ordained this merging of man and woman into something inexplicably good and meaningful—something neither could hope to achieve on their own. It pleased me to think about people making each other happy. It pleased me to think about love—to relax and accept it, with all its limitations, as the most precious thing we possess.

  Few men are as patient as Josie’s Alexander; perhaps he was too patient with her. During the long summer months, when time dragged on her hands, my sister took to dressing up and sallying forth in search of adventure. None of us could do such a thing; we would not even know how. In the afternoons she would visit the shops and establishments of business, sometimes upon the most flimsy excuse. There were several young men of our age upon whom she practiced mild flirtations—had not Josie always indulged in such ways? The difference was, of course, that she was now a married woman and dared not fly in the face of convention. When I mentioned my concerns to my mother, I was not surprised by her reaction.

  “Josephine is bored and unhappy. You know that, Esther.”

  “Why should she be unhappy? And, for that matter, why should she be bored?”

  “Alexander has provided her with help, so she has little to do in the running of her household.” My mother glared at me in the old fashion. “She wants a child, Esther! It is so tragic that she cannot keep her babies, that—”

  “She must not run away from it, Mother! We both know this is what she is doing.”

  “What would you do in her place?”

  “Appreciate the good husband I had and the many advantages he had given me. At least, I like to think I would.”

  “You cannot judge.” Mother pushed her hair back from her forehead and looked around for Jonathan. “Will you check on the child, Esther? He went out the door while we were talking.”