Tilda couldn’t believe the change in Jeffery since he’d learned the true value of her inheritance. She’d presumed it would create some difficulty, but to find him so defensive at her insistence that he earn her trust—that she didn’t expect. Prior to Reginald’s visit, they’d been learning to quietly exist together in the same house. She found herself dreaming of the possibility they might celebrate their marriage as a true husband and wife. There were even conversations about having children, possibly several, as they opened up with each other about growing up as an only child.
At least, that’s where she had thought things were headed. Now, she didn’t know. Jeffery had become distant, coming home late from the office again, always with the excuse that he was too busy with work. And she wanted to believe him.…
Tonight was no different.
“Tilda, where’s my supper?” Jeffery demanded.
She came into the kitchen and watched him remove his coat and hat. “I thought we might go out tonight.”
“If I wanted to go out, I would have told you. I never realized you were so spoiled.”
“Fine.” She stomped out of the room. “I’ll pack my bags and file to have our marriage annulled.”
“Fine.”
She turned before she left the kitchen and addressed him on his accusation. “How can you say such a thing to me? I’ve been nothing but thoughtful and considerate to you and your horrible hours. I’ve never once asked you for a thing. Have I gone to the finery and ordered a dozen dresses? Have I gone to the store and ordered all new furnishings? When, pray tell, have I done anything to indicate I desire a life of pampered indulgence? Even though it’s obvious now I don’t need your money to do any of those things. And I certainly don’t need to put up with your childish jealousy over the fact that I happen to hold more assets than you.”
“I never said anything about you having more assets than me,” Jeffery barked back at her.
“No, of course not. You communicate your feelings just fine without dropping a single word! Do you think for a moment I don’t see through that ‘gentleman’ facade? There’s a reason I didn’t tell you right away, Jeffery Oliver. I wanted to. But I didn’t dare until you and I were committed to one another unconditionally. Well, that obviously isn’t going to happen.”
“You never told me how your parents earned that kind of money. I’m no fool. I know professors don’t earn that kind of wealth.”
“As I told you before, you are correct, they don’t. Father was a writer as well as a professor. He taught abroad and lectured during the summer months on his books. And as I’ve also mentioned before, I speak fluent French. We spent a couple of summers in France as Father and Mother toured. Mother was an accomplished painter. Politicians, university officials, and other well-known people paid quite well to have their portraits done by her.
“We never lived as if we were wealthy. In fact, I didn’t know myself until after they died. And now you know—not that it concerns you.” Tilda turned and headed back toward the stairs. “I’m leaving, Mr. Oliver. I’ll be leaving on the five o’clock train this evening.”
“Don’t go, Tilda,” she thought she heard him say, but it was too little too late. She couldn’t continue to live like this. She thought she could be patient and wait for her husband to warm up to the idea of having a wife. What man would not want to fulfill his conjugal rights? They’d been married for a month. They had been growing closer, little by little—or so she thought. They had kissed more than once, the heat of passion certainly overcoming her more than once. Apparently, not so with Jeffery.
“I can’t stay where I’m not loved, Lord,” she sniffed and pulled out her carpetbag.
Jeffery slammed his fist against the counter. Tilda couldn’t leave. He’d been working late to allow himself a month away from his business. Most of his investors understood his need for some time away, but he’d lost another just this evening.
An insistent knock rattled the back door. “Jeffery,” his father called as he knocked. “Jeffery, open up, we need to talk. Richard Thompson came by and said he was leaving your firm.”
Jeffery rolled his eyes and opened the back door. “Yes,” he said and led the way back into the kitchen. “Apparently, he doesn’t believe I am allowed to take a trip with my wife.”
“A trip?”
Jeffery blew out a pent-up breath. “Father, I’ve made a mess of my marriage, of everything. There won’t be a trip now anyway.”
“What’s the matter, Son?”
“Tilda’s leaving and will be seeking an annulment.”
“Annulment? Not a divorce?”
“Yes, an annulment. I wanted us to get to know one another before we… You always said to treat my wife as if she were fine china.”
“Son, you haven’t?”
“No, we haven’t. When I met Tilda, I was overwhelmed by how attracted to her I was. I felt it best not to let my passion get the better of me, so after the ceremony with the judge I left her off at the house and I went to the office. I came home late. In fact, I made excuses to come home late that entire first week. She was about to leave the night you and Mother came to dinner, but we managed to work out a truce and decided to get to know one another. All was well until her father’s solicitor came from New York, saying her father had arranged for him to marry Tilda. Tilda made it clear she wasn’t interested in him. In fact, she believed he was only interested in her money. And now, knowing the true extent of her wealth, I believe she was correct. Her estate is far more substantial than I imagined.” Jeffery gripped the counter, his knuckles white. “I didn’t handle the knowledge well. I was hurt that she hadn’t confided in me. But I hadn’t confided in her, either.”
His father placed his hands behind his back and stepped back. “I don’t know what to say.”
Jeffery chuckled and looked away. “Tilda has pointed out some shortcomings in my upbringing. Do you know that her parents shared the same bedroom—the same bed—and that most married people do? That was not the case in our home. Mother had her room, you had yours, and I had mine.”
“But that doesn’t mean we were not affectionate, not intimate with each other. Your mother can’t sleep with my snoring. So we spent time together every evening before I retired for the night in my room.”
Jeffery looked up in shock.
“Son, perhaps our family is not as… tactile… as some, but I love your mother very much, and I know she feels the same about me. The question is, do you love Tilda? Do you want her to be your wife?”
Did he love her? “I have great affection for her… and yes, I do want her to be my wife.”
“Son, if you love her, let her know. Saying I love you—and meaning it—defuses a lot of anger. At least, that’s my experience with your mother.” His father tapped him on the shoulder. “Admit you’re wrong when you are. Listen to the words she’s not saying. Now go! Fix this.”
Jeffery closed his eyes. How do I listen to the words she’s not saying? He didn’t have a clue. I should have never buckled to my family’s wishes. I’m no good with relationships, and now I’ve hurt a beautiful woman who has had more than her share of heartache. Father God, help me. I don’t know what to do.
After a few moments to collect his thoughts and get a handle on his emotions, Jeffery went upstairs and faced the closed door to her room.
“Tilda,” Jeffery knocked on the door. “The train does not leave until Thursday for New York.”
He heard her sniffles. His heart cinched in his chest. “Forgive me,” he whispered.
“I’ll stay out of your way until I can leave,” she said.
He fought the desire to bust open the door and take her into his arms. “I’ll fetch us some dinner,” he said instead. She needed him, and he’d failed her, again. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled and ran away from her door, away from his commitment and his desires to love her the way she wanted. The way he wanted, he had to admit. She’d made it clear she wanted to become his wife, so why couldn’t he allow that to happen? What was holding him back?
Truth be told, he knew his parents spent time alone before his father left his mother’s bedroom each night. He’d never really thought about it. And all his growing-up years his father’s snoring could be heard down the hall. So it made sense his mother would want to get some sleep at night. But it was also true that his parents had never been openly demonstrative in their affections toward one another. He’d never once seen them hug or kiss in his presence. If he were to open up to Tilda the way she wanted—a smile emerged at the thought—he’d have her in his arms constantly. He’d kiss her every chance he got. Her kisses meant more than baiting passion; they were a seal of affection, a warm promiseof their love. Jeffery closed his eyes. He did love her. More than anything else in this world, he loved her. He loved his wife, and now it was too late. She was leaving, and he couldn’t prevent it.
He collapsed on a chair in the parlor, covered his face with his hands, and wept.
The next morning, Tilda waited until after Jeffery left for the office before opening her door and leaving her room. He never had returned with food, not that she could have eaten anything. She’d spent the night pacing, crying, and praying.
She headed down the stairs into the kitchen.
“Good morning, Miss Oliver,” Mercy called over her shoulder. Then she turned. “How can I—what’s the matter, child?”
Tilda collapsed in Mercy’s outstretched arms. “My marriage is over,” she bawled, surprised she had any more tears to shed. “I’m returning home on Thursday’s train to New York.”
“Gracious, child! You sit right there and let Mercy fix you a batch of Grandma’s tea. It will lift you right up.” Mercy ushered her to a chair at the kitchen table and hustled back to the stove, where she removed the teakettle, filled it with water, and returned it to the stove.
Tilda closed her eyes. She could get through this. God never gives more than we can handle, she reminded herself, as she had all night.
Mercy blanketed Tilda’s hands with her own. She felt the warmth and compassion from her new, old friend. “Now, why don’t you tell me what’s troubling you? It has something to do with that awful man from the North, doesn’t it?”
Tilda gave a weak chuckle. “You could say that. Reginald had it all worked out that I should marry him so he could have access to my parents’ funds.”
Mercy nodded in understanding. The laws were the same in the North and the South. A woman owning property was a rare thing, and while she could own property, her husband possessed legal oversight of all assets. He couldn’t sell the property without her say-so, but he could use up all the funds, leaving the woman with nothing, forced to sell her home as a last resort if she couldn’t find a way to make those assets work for her. Tilda had heard several stories along those lines over the years.
Oddly enough, Jeffery had made no attempt to gain access to her funds following Reginald’s visit.
“I hadn’t informed Mr. Oliver of my inheritance,” she explained to Mercy, “or rather, how substantial it is, prior to Reginald’s inappropriate visit.”
Mercy held her tongue. The kettle whistled. She tapped Tilda’s hands and stood up, somehow not scraping the floor with her chair—a curious mystery to Tilda since day one—then went to the stove and poured the hot water into the awaiting teapot. She dunked the silver tea ball into the pot and let it steep, then joined her back at the table after setting it for tea. “What can I do to help?” she asked.
“Nothing. Mr. Oliver does not want me as his wife, and I will not stay in a marriage where I am not wanted.”
“I think, if I may say so, Mr. Oliver does want you. He looked horrible when I passed him on the street this morning.”
Tilda made no comment. She wanted to hope but couldn’t. There was nothing left. She’d put everything into trying to make this courting marriage work. Jeffery simply wasn’t interested in having a genuine wife, only someone to bear the title. He didn’t want to open his heart and let someone in.
Mercy sat in silence and poured them cups of tea.
Tilda’s fingers wrapped around the fine bone china and savored the warmth the heated cup offered. She took a sip. The refreshing liquid touched her lips and awakened her hunger.
“How’s ’bout I fetch you a biscuit to go with the tea?” Mercy asked.
Tilda nodded. She ate the biscuit, still warm from the oven and lathered in melted butter, but it brought no joy. Life had lost its flavor. “Thank you for the tea and biscuit, Mercy. I’ll be upstairs packing.”
Tilda spent the rest of the day and the evening in her room. The next morning, her trunk already packed, she put the last few items in her bag, having decided to leave her corset off. The trip south had bruised her ribs, and she didn’t need any more pain in her life. Last night, Jeffery had made one more attempt to speak with her, but she had refused to answer. She had reached her limit. The five o’clock train could not come fast enough. The cab came at noon. She wasn’t going to risk having Jeffery come home and stop her from leaving again. She’d tried. She really had. Fresh tears welled in her eyes.
The taxi took her on a slow route around the city. She saw the sights she never had enough time to see. It wasn’t much of a trip, a few mentions of various places. Where Sherman made his headquarters, the various houses that hosted many of the social balls. Oddly enough, history and historic homes often piqued her interest. Today she could do little more than quickly scan them. She had no desire to know the ins and outs, to feel the polished stonework, the rough stones. She wanted to go home. She wanted her parents back. She wanted her life back.
She arrived at the station. The cab driver dropped off her trunk. She handed him a dollar, then headed toward the ticket office.
The man behind the counter looked at her for a moment then asked, “Y’all wouldn’t happen to be a Mrs. Oliver, would ya?”
“Yes.” Fear gripped her heart. Had Jeffery told them not to sell her a ticket?
He smiled and handed her a boarding pass. “Here’s your ticket, ma’am. The train will be leaving in thirty minutes.”
“My ticket? I haven’t paid for it yet,” she protested.
“Ah, but your husband did.” He smiled. “Next.”
A porter came up. “Is this your trunk, ma’am?”
“Yes.”
“You leaving on this train?”
She nodded.
“I’ll take care of it, ma’am.”
She nodded again as he lifted the trunk and headed for the train. She looked at the sleeve for the ticket: Pullman 526. She followed the porter to the caboose, where he carried her trunk through the door at the back into the car. He reappeared shortly after and exited the train. “Have a pleasant journey, ma’am,” the porter said with a tip of his hat.
She felt numb, her feet momentarily glued to the platform. How could her life change so dramatically in such a short period of time? She looked back toward the beautiful, bustling city of Savannah. It would have been nice to get to know the town.
With a sigh, Tilda took the few steps up into the car and glanced once more at her ticket. To her left was the necessary room, to her right, storage. She walked down the hall, checking room numbers on the doors. The first was not hers, the second—No, not this one—and stopped in front of the third. Yes. She opened the door and stepped inside.
“Jeffery? What are you doing here?”