Leaving Sangamon County

Francis Smalling, Smalling Apple Farm, Sangamon County

June 1^st, 1867

 

As I twisted in my saddle, and looked back along the avenue of trees, my sister looked far better than I’d seen her in years; standing arm in arm with David Grantham, a huge grin on each of their faces.

“At least they’ll get some privacy now.” Emily said, her gloved hand covering her grinning mouth.

“Privacy?” I asked. “Privacy for what?”

“Francis, you know damn well what for!”

I know I reddened, I could feel the heat under my collar. “Emily Bradford Hettinger!” I laughed and made to punch her shoulder, but she rode just out of reach. “You should wash your mouth out with soap!”

“I’d like to meet the man who thought he could do that!” she spurred her horse into a trot, and took away from me.

I looked at her, her hat with her tinted goggles cocked to one side, and remembered her slight waist billowing into thighs of milky white. I had seen her naked, and to be honest I was glad to be marrying her, as the images of her naked pale flesh still burnt clear in my mind. We’d never spoken of it, but I’d seen her glances at me, at my groin, and wondered what she had been thinking, yet felt far too afraid to ask.

Before I could let these thoughts linger, I spurred my own mount forward, soon catching up.

In Springfield, I paid a visit to the bank, drawing some money from the farm account, and at the post office, gave notice that all my mail be re-directed to Harvard, directly to Professor Ernest Wattles.

With my business taken care of, we set off again, arriving in Mattoon near nightfall, and were able to get a room at the best hotel before setting off the next day to Cambridge. With Emily back into a skirt, I found I missed the form-fitting jodhpurs she rode in, yet held illicit longings for the days when we’d both wrestle in bed naked together.

“Penny for your thoughts.” She suddenly intruded, leaning into me on the railroad carriage bench.

“Oh, a penny is far too cheap a price to put on information of such a weighty matter.” I laughed, trying to cover my embarrassment. “You’d need to raid your uncle’s bank account for those precious ones.”

“Come on,” she chided. “Cough it up, boy.”

Oh, she did the ‘boy’ thing again; that always irked me, and perhaps she knew it. I felt I had to turn the tables on her always finding a way to embarrass me. “In the room,”

I could see the question I her eyes. “What room?”

“The bedroom, that night,”

To my utter annoyance, she still didn’t seem to get it. “Room?”

I thought about my reply for a moment, choosing my words carefully. “When Frederick put you in the chair.”

She gasped, lifting her hand to cover her mouth. “Oh, Francis!” and she turned away.

Satisfied I’d turned the tables, I turned to look out the window. Glades of trees and lakes passed by in silence. When I turned back to Emily, she was reading a journal; reading it very intently. It took her many minutes of travel to say anything. When her remarks got whispered into my ear it was my turn to redden. “You have both a fine body and mind, Francis. When we are married, I intend to take every advantage of both, but perhaps not at the same time.”

I grinned out of the window, stifling a laugh.

When we arrived in Cambridge, and met her uncle, we had a host of stories to recount, which lasted us through dinner, and a few hours afterwards. When we retired for the evening, I found myself alone in a guest bedroom, the first night I had spent away from my Emily since she’d left Cambridge in March. I found it difficult to get to sleep at first, then exhaustion from our travels took over and I fell into a deep sleep.

“Come on, lazybones!” I felt Emily shake me hard by the shoulder. “It’s almost eleven o’clock!”

I soon found out that getting married meant more than looking forward to the increased intimacy; we became enmeshed in visiting one relative, then another, taking notes of family ties, family feuds, and other such hum-drum.

Then the choice of venue became a slight problem, as Emily turned out to be Puritan in origin, and I had been raised Methodist, but after a quiet interview with the local minister we ironed out any potential problems. We settled on the First Parish Church, which sorted out any ecumenical problems and had deep connections to both Harvard University, and the town of Cambridge.

Soon July beckoned, and we hadn’t even got a date sorted out, and my frustration to be married to the girl was reaching fever proportions. Then, after my most recent protest, suddenly August 18^th became available. It meant we’d be getting hitched in Harvard’s summer recess, which meant no conflict with school scheduling, and since Uncle Ernest had already suggested a semester at Harvard under a local grant, this date become set in stone.

As we slipped from June to July, summer hit Massachusetts with a vengeance; it became abruptly hot, and stiflingly humid. I sent telegrams and a letter to Margaret regarding the wedding date, read my mail, and kept up with my scientific correspondence whenever an occasion presented itself.

I immersed myself in my work, spending most of my hours either in the laboratory or University library, with Emily at my side for most of it.

As I bathed in the knowledge that we’d both be joined soon, Emily and I discussed the new scientific developments in the journals, and the direction we’d like our own experiments to take. As well as the imminent wedding, a new semester beckoned, and we’d decided to hit the ground running, delaying our honeymoon until spring at the very least.

Electromagnetism seemed to be the newest term for our prospective field, and we took the name and reveled in our evening theoretical musings. Professor Wattles’ house became my new home, a temporary guest until we’d tied the knot and made our union official.

Ernest’s wife, Harriet, became my new mother, fussing over me, feeding me when I’d had enough, always there to give a word of advice when she thought I needed it. She was a thin woman, with no children of her own, and in a way seemed to live her life through Emily and I. She would be the questioner at the dinner table; she’d be the one to keep conversation going, when it dropped between us all. Considering the length of their marriage, and the Professor’s obvious neutrality towards her, I pitied her life, and determined that Emily and I would never descend to such depths.

On some evenings, we would read from the writings of Boston’s ‘Fireside Poets’, and took great pleasure in the discussions that followed such readings.

The day of the wedding neared, and from a distant probability, it now loomed just over a week away, and still sister Margaret had neither written, telegraphed nor arrived in Cambridge, and her delayed arrival started to cause me some concern.

“Perhaps I can go home, and get back in time.” I suggested.

“There’s eight days until the wedding.” Harriet shook her head. “I’m not sure you would have time to make it back.”

Emily nodded in obvious agreement. “And if you were delayed in any way, the arrangements would tumble like dominoes.”

I nodded, and ate the speared contents of my fork. Of course I had no time to travel home. I pondered the possibility that I’d consciously left it too late to chase Margaret. Perhaps she had already married David. I thought of Whiteman’s accusations to their sexual trysts, and came to a perverse conclusion that my sister’s absence was her blossoming pregnancy, although I could not tell the Wattles household of my theory.

I decided to send her a letter.

 

Dearest Margaret.

It is eight days until our wedding, and you have not yet arrived in Cambridge.

I assume you are in transit to us, and look forward to seeing you on your arrival.

If by some circumstance you cannot attend the wedding…

 

Then I stopped, as the realization dawned that her written reply would not arrive in time.

Making my apologies to my adopted family, I rode to the Western Union depot in town.

 

To Margaret Smalling, Smalling Apple Farm, Springfield, Illinois

Please send details of your situation.

I need to know if you will attend our wedding.

We are both quite distraught.

Francis.

 

I had written the telegram so many times, I decided just to be blunt and ask the pertinent questions.

Then we sat back and waited.

We were in excited mood, on the day before the wedding when I received my answer. I looked at the folded piece of paper in my hand, almost dreading what lay before me.

 

To Francis Smalling c/o Ernest Wattles, Harvard University, Cambridge, Mass

With considerable regret I cannot attend wedding.

My love goes to you both.

I will see you soon.

Margaret.

 

I read the words for a second time, trying to read between the lines, trying to squeeze any modicum of additional information from them, then handed the sheet to a waiting Emily, who stood flanked by her aunt and uncle. “She will not attend.”

I turned and walked outside into a sunset of such brilliance; it could not help but mollify my darkening mood.

“Penny?” Emily asked, sliding her hand onto my arm. I had not heard her approach, and startled a little at her touch.

“I am a little saddened, but since I cannot know her circumstances, I cannot make decisions for her.” I did not reveal my darkest thought of all; my sister’s distended belly, holding David Grantham’s bastard child. I wanted to run all the way to the farm and pistol-whip the man.

 

 

Francis Smalling, First Parish Church, Cambridge, Massachusetts

August 18^th, 1867

 

I must say that despite the absence of my own family, in the small group of people that gathered at the church, I did see some familiar faces. I had made some friends at the University, and of course met Emily’s aunts and uncles in recent times.

Other faces remained strangers to me, although their smiles in my direction indicated that they appeared to be happy with Emily’s choice.

At my side stood Paul Chapman, looking by far the most presentable I’d ever seen him. I felt quite certain that the presence of a certain Anna Jenkins on the second row of pews had something to do with his appearance.

With the absence of a father or brother, or indeed any other male persons from Emily’s side of the family, Paul had been the obvious choice for Best Man.

The First Parish Meeting House proved to be quite an imposing building. A tall spire, flanked by four shorter spikes rose up into the warm morning skies. Behind the spire lay two large sets of pews, far too big for our small congregation, and yet the interior somehow managed to feel refreshingly simple at the same time.

A large pipe organ sat behind the altar, and its puffing and wheezing mingled with its echoing notes.

“You’ve came a long way since we met.” Paul’s voice rose above the hymn, yet his words met only my ears.

“Yes. Sir,” I replied, my eyes on the back of the room, looking back along the mostly empty rows of pews. Despite the late hour, I still had not given up complete hope of my sister joining us.

Then suddenly the organ fell silent, and all I could hear were the shuffling of my own feet below me.

With a great opening chord, Mendelssohn’s Wedding March assaulted me, and I felt Paul’s elbow in my side. “Face the front kiddo.”

I turned to see the minister before me, and gasped at his silent arrival. Then in spite of the noise from the organ, I swear I hear Emily’s approach, and the clip of her Uncle’s shoes on the wooden floor.

The rest is lost to me, and still only comes back in solitary vignettes.

Emily’s face as she lifted her thick veil.

The echo of the minister’s voice as he made proud declarations of our love for each other.

My fleeting kiss, too embarrassed to linger in front of so many people.

The hymns and the pathetic attempt of the small crowd behind me to drown out the organ. I remember just reading the words on the hymnal in my hands, my words just a toneless mumble. Stealing glances at my wife beside me, and feeling guilty that in the house of our Lord I remembered her upturned breasts, and the way her nipples looked in yellow lamplight.

And the confetti and laughter as we walked down the aisle.

Despite the small number, we managed to dance until night fell, and with trembling fingers, I remembered waving goodbye to our wedding guests, the wine consumed making the scene slightly hazy.

But my eyes soon sobered up when we retired to Emily’s room for the evening, and she appeared from her dressing room in a long shimmering, almost invisible gown.

I could have died that night, and yet still have gone to my maker a happy man.