by Sara Dahmen
“Was he the man you’ve pined for all these months?”
“What?”
She juts her strong chin. “You were seen on the beach last week in the arms of a stranger. From the sound of it, I’d guess he was the one you’ve been remembering so desperately.”
I close my eyes briefly. So that is perhaps why Andrew looks angry. I am suddenly grateful it is busy today, that holiday groups and families are out strolling, filling the market so my voice is not audible.
“Yes.”
“Who was it?”
“A doctor, from the Dakota Territories.”
“He came to take you away?”
“Not like that,” I say, shaking my head. Jean comes out and stands behind her mother, listening hard, a small smile on her face. I do not mind finally explaining to her either, and I wonder how much Aunt Mary has already heard. Surely, she will be able to put it all together. She’ll know I have fallen for my employer out West.
“He . . . he is wooing another woman in Flats Junction, and he wants me back as a housekeeper. I decided not to go.”
Jean leans forward. “What about you? Don’t you want to be near him?”
“Of course I do!” I am surprised at how vehement I sound, and take a breath. “But I could not do it, could not watch him marry another. What kind of life would that be?”
“So you won’t be saying yes to Andrew when he asks for your hand?” Jean asks.
“I’m destined for a life apart, maybe.”
Ada’s eyes grow soft. “I doubt that, Janie.”
Her kindness threatens to make me weep. Jean comes over, the small smile still on her face. She is trying her best to cheer me up.
“I’m sure it will all work out, Jane.” It is an easy and trite thing to say, especially by one who is heady in love with a man who has asked for her hand. She weds Clark in a few months, so I turn the conversation to that wedding, deflecting talk away from the workings of my heart.
Chapter 41
22 October 1882
Andrew visits Aunt Mary’s parlor as expected. His hat in hand, he sits on the edge of the plush chair with sharp elbows on broad knees. He is tall and strong, and his blond hair is combed back from church. We are quiet, and I pour some tea out for us, but we don’t touch it.
He sighs, and then looks up at me.
“As you know, I have been courting you, hoping we might grow fond of each other, and maybe decide to marry.”
It is this fairness that draws me to him, the way he speaks as if we would decide everything together.
I smile sadly at him. I’ve ruined it all without having to refuse him. His tone gives away his mind, but he plunges on.
“I thought we might reach a reasonable understanding. I like you, Jane, and I was thinking you felt the same.”
I put out a hand, but stop halfway. As is proper, we rarely touch, and to put my hand in his now would be misleading.
“I do like you, Andrew.”
He nods, as if expecting that. “But we are not in love, are we?”
I am surprised he includes himself in the comment, and I agree. “No, you’re right. We are not. I don’t think you should ever love me the way you loved Elizabeth.”
He gives a little smile. “You’re right, too. I was hoping I might learn to love you, though. Or at least, be happy together so that I am not alone, and my children have a mother.”
“Your children are dear.”
“And you still love the man you left out West,” he states, and straightens up to look at me fully. The gossip has indeed reached him, then. “I don’t think it’s fair to ask you to care for me when you are still pining away for another. You are only luckier, in that your heart’s desire still lives.”
“Is that easier?” I ask painfully. “When he is as good as dead to me? I doubt I will see him again. Besides, he is off to marry another.”
Andrew gives a rueful laugh. “He is a fool to have even looked at another woman if you were offering yourself.”
His compliment clatters through my mind, then breaks apart and dies.
He stands, and I go with him.
“I should like us to be friends,” I tell him.
“That would be very nice, Jane. I don’t think we ought to hold out hope for anything else.”
We walk to the door, and he leaves after giving me a little bow. I turn around. Aunt Mary stands on the threshold of the kitchen. She knows we will not be marrying, and gives me a sad little smile, understanding all.
Chapter 42
22 October 1882
My Sunday afternoon is quiet. Jean was supposed to come for tea, but that time has passed, and I decide she must be with family, discussing wedding details or making bows. Weddings here are prettily done. I enjoyed Rose’s nuptials, and I look forward to Jean’s as best I might. As much as I wish I could join their ranks and marry as well, I’ve made my choices. Do I really think I should have happiness after all the ridiculousness of my past?
Another October storm is rolling in from the east. The clouds swell, slowly stalking the beach, which turns grey and tan and black. It smells wet, heavy, and salty, like tears and rain mixed. As it picks up, I close my eyes, thinking about what I can do to keep some semblance of reason in my life.
I will be a good cook, and perhaps I might take in some classes to learn more delicacies. There are places Mrs. Chester could send me should she wish for fancier dishes. I’d like that. I’d like the challenge and the education. And I will teach Beth, and be like a little mother to her. I will have lonely days, I’m sure, but my cottage is cozy, and it is really all I need.
As the afternoon darkens, I go in to light the lamps so I can see when it is time to make supper. Finally, I’m used to cooking for one person. It is a talent in itself. But I am glad I have had time alone; not many women have this type of freedom. Instead, they go, like me, from parents to husband. I might regret this freeness someday, when I am old and wish for a partner or children or grandchildren, but if I am still employed by the Chester family or some other great house, I will be busy enough.
I heat tea water and go to the window, watching the storm scurry into the bay.
It will have to be enough.
Oh God. It won’t be.
I know it, as much as I pretend otherwise.
How will I manage?
Will my insides stop shriveling?
I will write to Alice Brinkley and tell her goodbye. To hear from her will become too painful, and I do not think I can get any more letters to Widow Hawks now that she is gone to the reservation. Kate must be so pleased to have the last obvious token of her heritage gone, and to have a man who adores her.
The tea is not yet done and the storm has not yet hit, and my body thrums with some unexplained pulse. If this is heartbreak, I think it might slowly destroy me.
I suppose I can pretend, sometimes, that I was married to Doctor Kinney, and we had years of memories and passionate embraces. I close my eyes again to remember his arms around me on the beach, and his rough, large hands holding mine after my miscarriage. I can build on these memories. Many women do, and I am not unique among them. It’ll have to be enough.
Enough.
I’m still as foolish as ever I was. Such memories will never, ever be enough.
I sigh and bite back the convulsions in my chest and burrowing into my marrow. If I had more glass to break, I would.
There is the split skirt, I recall suddenly.
Destruction seems to live inside my muscles, giving me strength and power. Yanking out the clothing, I grip the long seam and pull, weeping as intensely as I tear the fabric. Though it is wasteful and nearly insane, I feel I must do this, must lash out this way, or go wild.
What woman can bury her sadness, her resignation, her futile hopes and efforts forever? It is too much to ask, and yet it must be. Will I rail against my lot more and more as time marches on? Will I finally descend into some unending spiral of madness, huddled in the corners of my own mind where I
can find happiness?
If I were brave enough, I like to think I’d walk into the ocean and never come out.
The stitches screech and snap, breaking apart with agony and resistance, but my hands do not let go.
Tear. Rip. Lash.
When the skirt is in pieces, the threads floating about my bedroom floor like whispers, I go outside for a moment to cool my blood. The sound of the surf worms into my hearing, dampening my emotions, drying the fine slick of sweat on my brow. There is a small measure of peace in looking out over the waves, taking in the slate color of them. I have the ocean, at least.
Soon it is time to go inside, even though the rain has not yet hit, but I am too sorrowful to stand here any longer, like a sailor’s wife wishing a husband home safely.
At first, I swing by the porch entry, knowing it is just my tiredness and my fantasy that he might come back, but I stop short.
He is there, in his dark suit, with one foot on the step, staring at me. How long has he been there? I was so caught up in the wind and my own thoughts that I did not even hear him.
I do not think I can manage this all over again.
I cannot say goodbye to him one more time. How strong does he think I am?
He comes toward me, solid and real and unstoppable. My first inclination is to touch him, reach out and hold him.
Instead, I grip the porch railing to keep from buckling.
“You came back?”
How many times must I refuse him?
He stops in front of me, smiling slightly, as if we had not just parted ways a week ago. I cannot understand him. The doctor is usually so patient and accepting of people’s choices. He must leave me be, must let me gather the shreds of happiness left to me.
“I had to come back. I had reason. What you said gave me hope.”
I think back to our conversation at the train station. I’m certain I didn’t tell him anything he might misconstrue to believe I would accompany him to Flats Junction.
I shake my head. “I think you’ve come all this way for nothing. My answer still stands.”
He takes another step forward, frowning, and I try very hard to hold my ground.
“I realized you did not know. Kate and I have parted ways. I am not courtin’ her—I have not been for many weeks. You need to know that.”
The wind gusts and his hair blows with mine. I forget to school myself with my practiced detachment. I reach up to brush the hair out of his face, but I stop the action halfway, and tuck my hand back in the folds of my skirt. I’m nearly certain this conversation is a dream. He is not here. This is a nightmare, slamming into the daytime. I will wake, and find myself on my bedroom floor, covered in scraps of cloth and thread, my destroyed Western skirt about my ankles.
It must be I am going mad.
“You should not have stopped courting her. You’ve cared for her a long time, Doctor. She was accepting your suit. You always wanted that.”
He reaches across the porch and captures my hand, holding it solidly in both of his. The touch is hard and true, and convinces me of the reality of this moment. I notice how his eyes are a cerulean blue against the softness of the clouds, the black and grey of the water, and the dullness of the sand behind him.
“No. Not always.” His lips tremble, the way they do when he wishes to say more, when he is intensely zealous about something. He hesitates, then brings my fingers to his lips, the way a gentleman would bid a lady farewell.
I rip my hand out of his, a physical tearing and an emotional one, too. I have gone months without his touch, and now the easy manner we have makes me desire him, even after such a small, simple show of affection, however innocent he means it.
“Please.” His voice is low, rough, his face lined with apprehension. “Come back with me. I will bring you here as often as I can manage it, I promise you. But I need you home. It is . . . it is not even home without you there.”
“You miss my cooking and cleaning? That makes it a home?”
“Confound it, Jane,” he says irritably, shaking his head at my caustic attitude. “I am tryin’ to explain to you that I love you.”
The words come out, catch in the rising wind, and ring through my ears.
I am mistaken.
Surely, he does not love me like that.
His Irish eyes meet mine and I see he is in all seriousness. He seems to expect me to devastate him with rejection. When—how? How has he grown to care for me so strongly?
“You love me,” I repeat, daring him to confirm it. Because I do not resist him with words, the doctor takes my elbows, drawing me up against his body.
“Love of my life,” he says quietly, sincerely, and then he kisses me. It is—oh! It is what I have always dreamed of, and yet it is so much more than I had hoped for. The kiss is not tentative. It is full and heady and alive. His mouth tastes like a man, but more a man than I’ve ever known. I feel the strength in his hands as he squeezes my waist and captures my face. I do not realize I’m crying through our first kiss until his thumbs brush against my cheeks.
Finally, our lips break apart. He is flushed and smiling widely.
“I think you cry out of happiness, Janie?” he teases lightly, giving me a swift soft kiss on the lips again before resting his cheek on my hair.
I pull away to look up at him. Does he really mean this? That he loves me? Loves me enough to come, yet again, to fetch me? It is impossible. Improbable. This is a dream. I say it over and over to myself, if only to protect my swirling spirit. The questions pour from me, as if by asking them, I will know my reality.
“How did you think to return?”
He smiles again. “When you said goodbye last Sunday. You told me you couldn’t go back to watch me marry Kate. I realized you didn’t know—how could you?—that I had decided not to wed her. I had to come back, to see if you were truly pained with the idea of me marryin’ another. It may have been a hypothesis made of my own desires, but I believed the answer to be logical. If so, and my theory was correct, then likely the only reason my marryin’ could hurt you is if you cared for me yourself. Finally, I thought I knew your heart.”
“Then you didn’t know?”
“How could I? You left the Territory, in quite a storm of flour, if you recall. And then last week, when I saw how you’d torn into my wee attempt at a soft-hearted note, I lost all hope.”
“That was a love letter?” This conversation is ever more unbelievable, and my veins pump so hard I can’t focus well.
“Rather.” He shrugs, looking slightly uncomfortable. “It seemed a bit presumptuous to write more than I did, and then shortly after that, you pressed for me to dance with Kate. I started to wonder if I had a chance. I’ve near given up. Had given up.”
“I should have said something,” I tell him quietly, thinking of my blinding sorrow, and how I’d let it consume me when I was alone. Perhaps I should have let my passion spill out. “Then you might have known.”
“Known what?”
I blush, and admit to it all. “You didn’t know I loved you? That I do love you?” The admittance scatters the last sadness from my chest, leaving me empty and full at the same time. What is this? Is it acceptance? Love? Joy?
He looks pleased. Triumphant. “I have hoped for many months that you might, someday. I can hardly believe it’s true as it is.”
The rain suddenly hits, pelting the beach before it smacks the wood of my roof, and we turn as one to walk into the cottage, though the doctor—Patrick—does not release my hand. Inside, in the warm, dim glow of the lanterns, we sit side by side on the couch. Above, and at the windows, the hard rainwater drums, encasing us in a cave of privacy. It is highly improper we are, yet again, alone in my house with no chaperone. A beachside twirl, and now the same man in my home once more? It would be enough to damage my reputation. Still, I find I do not care. I won’t care. It doesn’t matter.
“So you’ve come in today?” The small talk feels safest for the moment. I think if we dive into anyth
ing more romantic than that, I will shatter.
“Aye. This mornin’.”
“And you waited all day?” Was he searching himself when he arrived, wondering if he loved me enough to return to my door?
He gives a little sigh and smiles sheepishly. “My mind had been playin’ our conversation many times over while I was at the lectures. I borrowed a bit of money from a colleague—from Bobby MacHugh—and came back as soon as I could. But I wasn’t sure your work—if you had to work today. I went up to the Chesters to ask the help there, and was told you were home.”
I put a hand on his cheek, battling my old hopes, still not completely believing this all comes together now.
“How long have you loved me?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “A long time.”
“But you didn’t want to court me,” I tell him, trying to sort out his actions from his words. He places his hand on my shoulder and looks at me directly.
“Jane. Believe me when I tell you that you took my breath away the first time I saw you, standin’ at my door. I could not believe you were to be my housekeeper, that you would be in my home, at my table, every day.”
I take his fingers, wishing to get more of his earnest honesty. “But you still pined for Kate, Patrick.”
“Ah, aye,” he sighs honestly, and drops his hand. “Yes, I did in a way. I had spent so long rememberin’ her for the spirited young woman she was when I first met her that I think I refused to see how hardened she had become to her own roots. She would turn her back so entirely on the mother who loves her . . . She will do most anythin’ to be seen as non-native, even at the cost of her family . . . It is a fundamental difference I cannot overlook.” His eyes meet mine. “I cannot love a woman who will do such a thing, who will be so intolerant.”
