Lapeer County, March 1864
Not long after Nathaniel returned to his regiment, Mary had resumed writing him letters. For nearly three years she had written regularly, keeping him abreast of developments on the home front and wishing him a safe return. Now the renewed distance helped erase the resentment she had felt toward him when he was home. In January, she had added a new step to her routine. Once she signed off on Nathaniel’s letter, she began one to George.
Her first letter began with an apology for having taken so long to reply. She added some observations about the weather and a funny thing Angelica had done. She was just about to close with a line about her hopes that the war would soon end and Nathaniel would come home—almost identical to a line she had written in Nathaniel’s letter—when something stopped her. She did not want Nathaniel’s name in this letter. Instead, she wrote, I thank God every day that you came to this house and relieved my loneliness.
The moment she placed the period she wished she could erase the sentence. The sentiment was true, but much too forward. She considered crumpling it all up and starting again.
George’s voice from the door interrupted her thoughts. “I have to go into town. Do you have any letters?”
“Yes, I do.” She folded Nathaniel’s letter and slid it into an envelope. She wrote in the proper address and blew across the ink.
“What about that one?” George motioned to the sheet of paper still at the center of the desk.
“Oh, that’s—that’s not going just yet. I haven’t finished it.”
“I don’t mean to rush you. Take your time and I’ll come back when you’re through.”
“It’s nothing . . . I . . . well, actually, it’s for you, George.”
His eyebrows rose. “For me?”
“Yes. It’s quite late in coming, I’m afraid.”
He walked behind the desk and leaned over her shoulder to look at the small rectangle graced with fine script. Mary could smell the soap from his bath the night before.
“It looks like it just needs to be signed.”
“That’s what I was about to do.”
What could be the harm, after all, in that one sentence? It didn’t say anything inappropriate. A friend could relieve someone’s loneliness. She dipped the nib in the ink pot and let it hover a moment over the page. How should she close this letter? She signed Nathaniel’s letters with an automatic All my love, Mary. George must have noticed her hesitation, as he backed away from her chair. Finally she settled on Sincerely, Mrs. Balsam. She blew on the ink, folded the paper, and slid it into an envelope.
“There you are, George,” she said brightly to mask her nerves. “And I promise the next one will not take me six months to write.”
George responded the very next day, ending the letter once again with a question: Which is your favorite season? Mary responded the day after that, claiming to enjoy late summer the most and early spring the least, and asking him a question of her own: What is your favorite hymn?
Each day these notes passed between them. George learned that Mary adored the color green but disliked pink, that she preferred fruity desserts to chocolates, and that she harbored a secret love for reading novels that she kept under the bed. Mary learned that George enjoyed milking but not gathering eggs, that he liked building things, and that he wished they might someday plant an apple orchard on the farm.
Those first exchanges reminded Mary of carefree childhood days when her parents were still alive and she exchanged notes with schoolmates. It was not long, though, before the tone of the letters turned more serious. George asked about her family, and Mary relayed the sad tale of influenza claiming her parents and baby sister. Mary asked about the sister he had once spoken of, but he knew little of her current situation beyond the battles that raged nearby.
Then George asked a question Mary had not allowed herself to consider. What will you do if Mr. Balsam is killed in the war?
The letters stopped as Mary debated how to answer. George came to the library as usual to collect her other letters and left with an excuse from her. She had a headache. His letter would be written the next day. But it wasn’t. Nor the next, nor the one after that.
Then one evening when George and Mary found themselves alone in the library, he looked up from the newspaper and said, “I shouldn’t have asked that question, Mrs. Balsam. It’s none of my business.”
“It’s not that, George. It’s just a difficult question to answer.”
“You don’t have to answer it.”
She sighed. “The problem is, I don’t quite know myself. It’s not that I haven’t thought about it.”
In fact, she had lately thought of almost nothing else. She had known for some time now that she carried another baby within her, conceived when Nathaniel was furloughed. What would she do if he didn’t come home? With a child, she would have to remarry, despite the fact that she could run the farm by herself. She recalled the pricks of bitterness she had felt at Nathaniel’s comments and calculating expressions when he was home. What did it matter if he would have done things differently? She had managed fine in his absence. And what might a new husband think? Would he put her back in her place? Exclude her from decision making? Might Nathaniel do that as well when he was home for good?
With George, she felt an equal. They conferred about plantings, harvesttime, and pricing. They examined the finances together and made joint decisions on purchasing everything from a new plow to that month’s supply of flour and sugar. They looked to each other for wisdom and affirmation that they had made the right choice.
Finally she spoke again. “George, no matter what happens—if Nathaniel comes back whole, or without a leg or arm, or in a coffin—I want you to stay. That is all I know for sure.”
George set the newspaper down. “Good.” He held her gaze. “Will you write to me tomorrow?”