To Make a Marriage

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Into the quiet that had descended on the three of them … Spencer exchanged a glance with Edward and saw his cousin’s expression to be every bit as sober and apprehensive as his own must be … Victoria suddenly spoke. “I suppose the best way to begin is for you to read the letter for yourselves.”

  “Then I take it you have it with you? Here. Today.”

  “Yes. I always have it with me. I find myself reading and rereading it, sometimes several times a day. I suppose I simply don’t want it to be true. And I keep hoping I’ve misread it or made too much of it. But I can’t see how I could. It’s very straightforward.” With that, she worked a hand into a pocket of her skirt. She pulled out, to his utter shock, not one letter, but perhaps as many as three or four others and sorted through them, apparently looking for the correct one.

  Spencer prided himself on his cool control, but it failed him at this moment. His voice, high and loud, revealed the depth of his concern. “Victoria, what are all these letters? I had no idea.”

  “I know. It’s been very frightening for me, but I couldn’t tell you. I just couldn’t.”

  “Why couldn’t you tell me?”

  She exhaled slowly, deeply. “Because I feared for your life, if I did. But then you were attacked, and I realized I had no choice but to tell you. And Edward, as well. We’re all at risk.” She again bent her head to her task, shuffling the letters over and under each other, glancing at each, until … “Ah. Here it is. The first one. The one that started it all.”

  Without ceremony, she handed over the letter. Spencer held it, staring at it. A single sheet of common, ordinary writing paper. But this sheet of paper had already changed his life and hers and their life together forever and in ways he suspected they had yet to realize. He half expected the damned thing to burn his fingers or suddenly disintegrate into ashes as if it had been burned. And to simply hand over such a prized and fought-over treasure, as it were, with no due pomp and circumstance was, ironically, startling. Staring at it, he turned the folded sheet of paper over and over in his hands.

  “Aren’t you going to read it, Spencer?” Victoria’s question had him staring her way. She sat so close to him he could feel the heat from her body. She smiled. “I expected you would rush to do so.” Of course, he had expected he would, too, so he couldn’t really explain his sudden reticence. “If nothing else,” she added quietly, “I supposed you would look first at the signature.”

  With the letter of contention now in his possession and the emotion of the thing tightening his chest, Spencer stared at his wife. “I’m not certain I want to see it, Victoria.”

  Had that hollow voice really been his? It must have been because she smiled a sad, understanding smile and reached over to squeeze his hand. The intimate gesture took Spencer’s breath away and made it hard to capture his next one. Looking directly into his eyes and holding his gaze locked with hers, Victoria said: “It’s not from Loyal Atherton. And it’s not a love letter. Far from it.”

  She knew his fears. Spencer searched her blue eyes and saw only their intrinsic clarity and sincerity and a melting warmth that surprised him. His heart turned over helplessly. Fearing a shameful display of undone emotions, he sniffed gruffly and frowned and cleared his throat. “I never thought it was.”

  Though she raised her eyebrows in surprise, and though Edward gave a wordless cry of disbelief from his side of the room where he sat, Victoria evidently chose to take Spencer at his word. “Good. I’m glad you didn’t.”

  Once she let go of his hand and sat back, giving him room, Spencer wordlessly opened the letter. He glanced at the signature, didn’t recognize it as anyone he knew, and then read the first line to himself:

  If you are reading this, Victoria, then I am dead.

  The shock of the words had Spencer jumping to his feet and brandishing the letter at his wife. “Good God, Victoria! This is absolutely monstrous! Is this someone’s idea of a joke?”

  Wide-eyed, startled, she shook her head no and opened her mouth to speak—

  “What is it? What does it say?” Edward, too, had come to his feet and was obviously upset as he looked from Spencer to Victoria and back to his cousin. “Tell me!” he demanded. “Read it aloud.”

  “I don’t think I can,” Spencer cried. He turned to his wife. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would have helped you. I would have done anything—”

  “You can’t, Spencer. You couldn’t. Read it!” She pointed to the letter he held. “Read it, and you’ll know why. I’m taking a great chance right now by just showing it to you. In fact, with the windows open and the servants about, we should keep our voices down. Edward, if you would, please carry your chair over here. I don’t want anyone to overhear our conversation.”

  “As serious as all that? Very well.” Turning, he easily picked up his chair and brought it closer to the sofa. Once he’d set it down, he said, quietly: “Now, will someone please tell me what the letter says?”

  Spencer held it out to Victoria. “Here. You said you read it all the time. So surely the words have lost some of their horror for you.”

  “They haven’t, but I’ll read it,” she all but whispered, “and then you tell me if the horror will ever leave you.” She held her hand out for the letter. “Give it to me. And please don’t stop me or say anything until I am done. I’m not certain I can get through it, if you do.”

  “As you wish.” He handed her the letter and sat down as she had requested, but he sat heavily, as though his legs had simply collapsed.

  She waited, also, until Edward sat. Only then did she begin to read:

  “‘If you are reading this, Victoria, then I am dead.’” Edward’s gasp of shock had Victoria looking at him. Spencer ached for her obvious hurt. He wanted, with every fiber in his being, to slide across the sofa’s cushions and take her in his embrace and shield her from her own reading of the monstrous letter she held in her hand. But he didn’t dare. He feared she would shatter like a crisp autumn leaf if he touched her. He feared also, that he would, too.

  “‘I am being made to write this letter,’” Victoria read on. “‘As I do, a gun is being held to my head. They are watching every word I write. And when I am done, they will kill me because I know too much. But I am not afraid. I am sorry only that I will never see you again. I love you like a sister, Victoria. And I love Jefferson. You never knew it, but he was my lover and is the father of my daughter. I named her Sofie, after you, and she’s only five years old. But Jefferson would never acknowledge her, and he’s put us aside now as if we don’t even matter to him. But they have Sofie now, and they say you must come back to Savannah. They won’t tell me why, only that you must. Do not hesitate. And do not tell anyone why you are here. If you do, they will know, and they will kill Sofie—and you and whoever you tell. But if you come home and do everything they say and they get everything they want, then they will take her, unharmed, to my mother.

  “‘It breaks my heart to tell you this next thing, but Jefferson knows all about this, and he won’t do anything to stop them. Don’t trust him, Victoria. Don’t tell him why you’re here. It’s all up to you. My baby’s life is in your hands. You must come. When you do, they will get in touch with you. Do everything they say—or they’ll kill Sofie! Please tell my mother and my brother that I love them. Love, Jenny.’”

  With no emotion on her face, Victoria raised her head from the letter and slowly lowered it to her lap. She said nothing. She didn’t move. She just stared straight ahead. As she had continued to read, as the full extent of the horror had unfolded, and as the words she read warred with the sweet melody of her soft, Southern voice, Spencer had found himself dreading her coming to the end of the letter.

  He knew it was irrational, but he’d felt Jenny’s death could actually be staved off if Victoria did not finish reading her words. Maybe Victoria thought so, too, and that was why she made a point daily of reading them over and over to herself, as she’d said she did. Maybe she thought the strength of her attenti
on to Jenny’s words would keep her alive. But, clearly, Jenny was not. He’d seen no date on the letter, but judging by when Victoria had received it and how much time it would have taken to make its way to her in England, and factoring in how much time had elapsed between then and now, Spencer concluded Jenny had been killed as long as two months ago. About the same time he and Victoria had married.

  “I know this sounds ridiculous,” Edward said solemnly, breaking the silence in the room, “but I half feared I’d hear the report of a gun being fired when you completed your reading of the letter, Victoria.”

  She nodded. “I feel the same way every time I read it.”

  So they all felt it. Spencer lowered his gaze to the rug under his feet. He found he could not look another human being in the face. That he, that they all, could belong to a species capable of such heinous deeds was too mortifying, too shameful. He had never in his life felt so sick at heart. So hopeless. He swallowed convulsively. Once he felt more in control, he asked: “Who is Jenny, Victoria? Obviously, she’s a close friend of some sort?”

  A new, sadder emotion capped Victoria’s expression. “Not so obvious. Or so easy. As she said, we loved each other like sisters. In fact, we grew up together. I saw her every day of my life until … the war. But this letter is the first I’ve heard from her since then.”

  “How awful for you to lose contact like that with someone so close to you.”

  Victoria’s smile was one of pity and shame. “Yes. Awful. But for all the right reasons, I suppose.”

  Did she mean the war? “Were you on opposite sides in the conflict? I read that so many families in the North and the South found themselves in that awful circumstance.”

  “Yes. Opposite sides, but in different ways.”

  “Victoria, you’re being very mysterious.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be. I’ll try to explain. You see, my father owned slaves. In fact, he inherited them from his father. All of our slaves had been with our family for generations and knew no other life. You have to understand that when my father inherited, the plantation was the only business. Daddy was not wealthy as he is now. River’s End was all he had, and he felt the responsibility not only for his family but also for the slaves.”

  “Admirable.”

  “Yes. But no less troublesome to him. He hated the concept of owning people. Not everyone thought of their slaves as people. But it was how we were raised.”

  “I see. Not a very popular stance, I imagine.”

  “No. If our leanings had become public knowledge, we could have been burned out and killed. It was awful for my father. He knew if he went under, that he would have to sell the slaves into God knows what kind of awful life. He did the best by them that he could, but he still hated it. I think his not wanting that awful dependence on the wretched hardship of others is what drove him to find other ways to be successful.”

  “That explains the shipping and railroads and other investments.”

  “Yes. The moment he was no longer dependent on the income from the crops he grew, he wanted to free our slaves. In fact, he did, but very quietly. Any of them who wanted to go were given their papers and allowed to leave. Some did, but they mostly came back scared and hungry and begging for work. And Daddy gave it to them. Others were too afraid to go. Where could they go? What could they do? No one would hire them. And River’s End was the only home they knew. It’s a terrible truth that they have nowhere to go and such a hard time on their own because we’ve given them no other choices, really.”

  “An awful system. But a pervasive one, it seems. I mean across your country and in others, too. Even mine.”

  Victoria nodded. “I know. It’s not easy to live with a thing like that on your conscience. Mama was just as determined as Daddy, too. She made certain I could read and write, the same as Jefferson. She taught us herself. And right along with us, she secretly saw to it that as many of our slaves were taught to read and write—”

  “I say! And even during a time when this was against the law?” This was Edward cutting in, sounding proud of Catherine Redmond.

  “Yes. Laws have never stopped Mama from doing what she thought was right. And education was right.”

  Spencer added: “No doubt many owners feared education because with it comes realization and ambition.”

  Victoria faced him now. “You are very right. But you’d be surprised at how many owners did feel the same way, only privately. However, no matter how much I try to make it sound … acceptable, it isn’t. My arguments, even to myself, sound like excuses.”

  “Victoria,” Spencer said, thoughtfully, “where is all this leading? What are you trying to tell us?”

  “Oh, Spencer, can’t you see? Jenny is a former slave. So are her mother and brother. Sofie is a mulatto child.” Victoria squeezed her eyes shut and took a shuddering breath. “That poor sweet little girl. I never even knew she existed.”

  “Oh, my word,” Edward said quietly. “That’s why … your brother put Jenny aside, isn’t it? He can’t acknowledge her in any way. Or his own daughter.”

  “He can’t, and he won’t—for their safety as much as his,” Victoria corrected. “And right now that little girl is being used as a pawn against my brother for some reason. I have no evidence of that, but it’s the only reason I can accept for why he isn’t doing everything in his power to free her from whoever has her.”

  This was the most awful, heart-wrenching story Spencer had ever heard. Feeling suddenly too hot despite the open windows in the room, hearing but not listening to the happy, industrious sounds wafting in with the air from out in the street and the fashionable square across the way, he sat forward and rested his elbows atop his knees … and finally faced himself. What must Victoria think when she reads that letter every day? He meant apart from the tragedy of Jenny’s death, Victoria’s fear for the little girl Sofie, and her brother’s obvious involvement.

  What must she think of him, her own husband—a man so ready and willing to put her aside as this Jenny had been? And for essentially the same reason. A child. An innocent child.

  Spencer truly had never thought of it in this way. Always before he’d considered only his heritage, his name, his land, his pride—his, his, his. For God’s sake, man, think of someone but yourself for once. He swore to himself right then that he would. He would do everything within his power to get this little Sofie safely back to her grandmother. The woman had to be beside herself with grief and worry. And Jenny’s brother as well. Spencer wondered where the two lived and how they were holding up. Good Lord, did they even know?

  Spencer thought of the child Victoria carried. Not once, earlier on … before he came to care for her, before his decision had become so hard to live with … had he wondered about or considered what would become of Victoria and the baby if he turned them out. He supposed he had always assumed she would simply return here to her wealthy family and all her friends. And do what? Face their scorn and pity and gossip? What would it do to the child to face such heartlessness from the people around him?

  Spencer suddenly saw himself as a little boy slowly becoming aware of the world around him and of what was said about him and his mother living apart from his father. For how many years, though he had loved her tremendously, had he been ashamed and blamed his mother and been cool toward her? How many? They had only reconciled a few years before her death. And now, here he was, prepared to consign Victoria and her child to the same hateful and regretted existence he himself had lived. How could he do it? How?

  “Spencer? Are you all right?” Victoria spoke in a low, quiet voice, the comforting sort one would use with the bereaved at a funeral.

  Spencer turned his head to look at his wife. She was comforting him? He couldn’t believe it. Why didn’t she hate him? “How have you lived with this for so long? How have you stood it?”

  Looking bereft, she exhaled and seemed to turn her focus inward. “I don’t think about myself. I think about Sofie and her fear. I won
der where she is and who is taking care of her, if anyone is. I wonder how she’s being treated and if she’s afraid. She has to be. She can’t understand what’s happened to her. I think about those things, and I just want to die.” Suddenly, Victoria’s expression sharpened and she turned to him. “Oh, Spencer, you must believe me when I say I wrestled with this when I got the letter. I had no desire to endanger our—my—child in any way, but what else could I do but come here?”

  He hadn’t missed her changing our to my. It was so damned complicated. “There was nothing else you could do. You did exactly what you had to, and I could not be more proud of you. Or more ashamed of myself.”

  She pulled back. Confusion clouded her expression. “Ashamed of yourself? But why? What have you done to be ashamed of?”

  “Plenty.” The depth of his emotions propelled Spencer into action without further thought. He went down on one knee on the carpet and in front of his wife. He had startled her, he could see, and he didn’t care if he looked ridiculous to Edward, but he took the letter and the other notes from her, put them next to her on the sofa and then held both of her hands. He looked into her surprised and deeply blue eyes. “Can you forgive me, Victoria? Can you ever? I’ve been a horse’s ass—and a pompous one, at that—to you since our marriage—”

  “Here, here,” came from Edward, who softly clapped his hands together. “Bravo, old man. About time you owned up to it.”

  “Shut up, Edward,” Spencer warned. His wife’s tearful little bleat of a laugh incongruously lifted Spencer’s spirit. She couldn’t laugh at him and Edward if she didn’t forgive him, he reasoned—and hoped.