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May 1865
Saint Paul, Minnesota
“Where are you going?”
James tossed undergarments into his red brocade carpetbag. “South.”
“I’m not going with you?”
“No, you’re not. You’ll only get in the way. Besides, with the destruction down there, I’m not sure where I’ll be staying.” His shaving kit was dropped in next. “Even with the war over, from what I hear, tensions are still strong between the North and the South.”
“Then why are you traveling there?” She had an excellent idea of why, but she wanted him to say it. And if he thought she would miss him, he had another thought coming. If anything, the past five years taught her not to question his business dealings and never to say no when he was in the mood.
“I know you’d never understand such things, but the bank had a downturn in finances, and I need to re-coup our losses.” He tossed three shirts on the bed. “Fold these.”
Since he considered her brainless, it had been easy to sit quietly and listen to him and other bankers who supported the South. What hadn’t been easy was not putting in her two cents’ worth. There were times she wanted to jump up and shout at them for supporting slavery only to make money. With the South losing, those bankers who’d sent money in support of the Confederacy were now in dire straits.
Since the banks his family owned kept them in the lifestyle James wanted and she abhorred, rejoicing in the banks’ failures would be quite inappropriate. But rejoice was what she wanted to do. She handed him the folded shirts.
“How will going to the Southern states help your banks?”
James sighed and placed the shirts in the bag. “That’s none of your business. Your job while I’m gone is to keep the staff working and the house running smoothly.”
That was no surprise. Ever since they’d married and moved into the over-sized monstrosity with its gables and turrets, all she was allowed to do was tell the servants what to do. Even then, the housekeeper, a stout, dour, woman of indeterminate age, did what she wanted. No young girl was going to tell an experienced housekeeper what to do. So, except for embroidery and knitting, her days were filled with —nothing.
“Yes, sir.”
“And no visiting your grandmother.”
Of course not. And as she had learned in the past, the staff reported everything she did to him. “May I at least visit my parents?”
James folded a dark suit, placed it in the bag, and tied it shut. “That would be acceptable. You may also have a few of your women friends over for tea.”
Ha. What women friends? Since James was so much older than her, the wives of his friends considered her too young for them. Even though she was now five years older, in their minds, she was still a youngster, having married an eligible bachelor who one of their older daughters should have. How many times in the past five years had she wished one of them had?
Letty was married and ready to give birth to her second child. At least if she were to get with child, she’d have something in common with Letty and something to keep her busy. But then, James would probably hand the child off to a wet nurse and then a nanny. She could hear him now. “No wife of mine will take care of our children. Why, people would think I can’t properly take care of my family.” But so far, and for not want of trying on James’s part, she had failed to produce an heir, something her husband hadn’t let her forget. Another failure on her part.
James snapped the bag closed. “I have a train to catch.”
“How long will you be gone?” A year would be wonderful.
“I’m not sure.” He bussed her cheek. “Just make sure you miss me.”
When he left the bedroom, she dropped to the edge of the mattress and wrapped her arm around a bedpost. Why hadn’t she been strong enough to defy her parents? And why did they still believe the sun rose and set on James Woods? Thankfully, her father hadn’t combined his bank with James’s family, so at least her parents were still financially solvent.
While James believed she didn’t have a thought of her own, what he didn’t know was every morning before the housekeeper had a chance to pick up the mess he’d made with the daily paper in the front room, she scooped up the papers and took them to the parlor where she locked the door and read every article. So, she was as aware of the goings on in the world as he. Based on what she’d been reading, she had a hunch about what he was up to. His business dealings in Saint Paul often sounded a bit shady and his going to the Southern states could only mean he was up to no good. But, at least for however long he was gone, she was safe. Safe from his words. Safe from his fists. Safe from his body.
****
Bertha raced into the farmhouse. “Mamaw. Where are you? We’re here.”
Arms outstretched, her grandmother entered the foyer and wrapped Bertha into a hug. “Bertie, my girl. It’s been so long.” She stood back and gave Bertha a once over. “I’m so happy to finally see you. You’re as beautiful as ever.”
“What about me, Ma?”
“Oh, goodness, Frieda.” Mamaw hugged her daughter. “Of course, I’m happy to see you, but I saw you just last month when you came to the farm.”
Mother had come to the farm and hadn’t told her? Mother knew how much she loved Mamaw, Papaw, and the farm. She raised an eyebrow at her.
“It was a quick trip, Bertha Mae, and you and James had that party to go to for his business clients.”
“Well, let’s not stand here in the entryway. Come to the kitchen. I was just making an apple pie from the remainder of last year’s apples. They’re so shriveled up, it’s hard to peel them. Frieda, grab a knife and give me a hand. Bertie, you can roll out the pie crust.”
Bertha blinked away tears. She’d missed her grandmother so much and being called Bertie again brought back memories of staying here for her summers. In the past five years, she’d only seen her the three times her mother had hosted Christmas in Saint Paul. Peace washed over her, something she hadn’t felt since she’d said, ‘I do.’
Nothing had changed since the last time she’d been on the farm. It was as if time had stood still. Why she thought Mamaw would have changed things was beyond her. Maybe it was because she had changed so much. She’d gone from a seventeen-year-old, wide-eyed, hopeful for the love of a good man girl, to a twenty-two-year-old, heartbroken woman. Maybe spending some time with her grandmother would bring some of that happiness back again. Though, with her mother along, the chances of that were as remote as a Minnesota winter without snow.
The familiar push and pull of the rolling pin against the pie dough made her yearn for her own kitchen, one where she was in charge of choosing meals and preparing them. What use was her knowledge of cooking, cleaning, and sewing if she wasn’t allowed to use them?
“So, Bertie, how is life as a married woman?”
“Fine.” With her mother present, there was no way she could explain her life with James. Even if she were alone with Mamaw, she probably couldn’t describe it anyway.
“How do you spend your days?”
Bertha glanced at her mother, who was smiling as if she thought her daughter’s life was perfect. But what else could she think since she didn’t dare complain about her marriage? When the crust was the correct size, she folded in in half, then folded it again, made a few cuts at the edges, placed in the pie tin, and unfolded it. “I help my housekeeper, Mrs. Fritz, decide which rooms need to be cleaned. Cook and I meet to work on the menus. That takes care of my mornings. In the afternoon I do my knitting. Sometimes I meet with the ladies on a couple of committees I’m on.” And she was bored, bored, bored silly.
“All she needs now is to have a baby.”
Bertha’s heart clenched. “Yes, a baby would make life perfect.”
Mamaw’ gave her a sharp look. “Are you sure you’re trying enough?”
“Ma. Proper women don’t talk about such things.”
“Well, then, Frieda, I guess I’m not a proper woman.”
Bertha pressed the dough for the pie top with the palm of her hand and moved the rolling pin across it. If James lying on top her every night— and often in the morning— huffing and puffing was trying enough, then yes. She smacked the rolling pin across the dough in the other direction. But, on this, she could agree with her mother. It was something she didn’t— couldn’t— discuss with anyone. She put her weight on the rolling pin and stretched the dough. Discuss how much her body ached to have a child growing inside her? Smack. She hit the dough with the rolling pin. How her arms hurt from wanting to hold her own child in her arms. Smack in the other direction. Of course, James blamed her for their lack of having a child—and he was probably right. The smack of the pin on the dough filled the room. She bit her bottom lip to keep from sobbing.
Mamaw poured the apple mixture over the bottom pic crust and added a few dollops of butter. “Are you almost done with the top crust, Bertie? It seems a bit thin. Are you trying to kill it?”
She glanced down at the top crust rolled so thin, the dark top of the table showed through. “I’m sorry, Mamaw.” She slammed the pin on the table and ran out the back door, ignoring both her mother’s and grandmother’s yells. She didn’t stop running until she reached the crossroads. If she turned right, would she be welcomed at Sy’s? If she turned left, would she find Becky at home? Probably not, as she and Les had married and moved to their own farm several miles away.
What if she went straight? Straight to her favorite place to be. Would she find Sy there? And what if she did find him? What would she say? What would he say? She was a married woman. Even thinking about another man was a sin, but in the darkest moments with James, Sy’s face crept into her consciousness. At least it was one place her husband couldn’t control.
Needing to know if he still thought of her and if he still fished in their spot, she took a deep breath and moved her feet forward. The closer she came, the louder her heart pounded in her ears, the harder it banged against her chest. Was it relief or disappointment going through her when no one was there? Maybe a bit of both. She sat on the log facing the bubbling creek and cried.
****
It was as if time hadn’t moved one second. Here he was hiding in the bushes again, watching a girl. Only this time he knew who she was, how she felt in his arms, and what her lips tasted like. Why had she come back to the farm? As far as he knew, she hadn’t been back since that fateful Christmas dance when his heart had broken in pieces, never to be repaired. And why had she come to this specific spot? Hoping to see him? If she was, she’d be disappointed. A married woman didn’t meet an unmarried man.
Oh, but how he wanted to see her face. Touch her soft skin. Kiss her lips. Or at least find out how life had been for her the past five years. Had they been as depressing as his? At the ripe old age of twenty-four, his parents were pestering him to find a girl, marry, and give them a passel of grandchildren. He wished he could, but the available girls in the neighborhood or within a ten-mile radius didn’t pique his interest in any way, while simply seeing Bertie sent his heart rate spiking so high, he thought he’d pass out.
A sniffle came from Bertie’s direction. Was she crying? Was she remembering how they’d met? Was she wondering if she would have been happy if she had said no to that guy? Not that her mother had given her a choice. Had the stricken look on Bertie’s pale face meant she hadn’t wanted to marry the guy like she’d tried to tell him?
Heck, they had just been talking about a life together, or anyway, he’d been thinking about it when the moron showed up and proposed in front of a hundred people. How could she have said no? For the past five years, as he tried to fall asleep in his lonely bed, he thought of the many ways he could have stopped her. Punched what’s-his-name in his over-large nose. Stand in front of him and profess his love for Bertie and tell him he couldn’t have her. Grab her by the hand and run off with her until they found a preacher to marry them. Anything to stop the proceedings.
He’d even contemplated traveling to Saint Paul and showing up at her house. Knowing how her mother felt about farm boys, he certainly would have had the door slammed in his face. He would have climbed the rose trellis, if she had one, to her room and whisked her away in the dark of night. All dreams of a foolish, lovesick man.
Then he’d toss and turn worrying about how her husband was treating her. Did she have a big house? Servants? A personal maid? Did they have children? Did he love her? But the biggest question was whether or not she was happy. Even though he was broken and vowed to never love another woman, he prayed nightly for her happiness.
Bertie picked up a twig, broke it into pieces, and tossed them into the creek. She sniffled again. What would she do if he stepped out from his hiding place? Throw herself in his arms? Should he find out or leave things as they were?
She stood facing his hiding place. His breath caught. She was every bit as beautiful as he remembered, maybe even more so. She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. She had been crying. His arms ached to comfort her, protect her. He held still as she passed by. He reached out to stop her, but at the last second pulled his arm back and simply stared as she retreated down the path to her grandparents’ farm.
He blinked back tears. There was only one thing to do. He needed to leave the farm. Leave the area. Leave Minnesota and start a new life elsewhere. Maybe sign on with a wagon train heading west. Anywhere but here where the memories of Bertie were too strong. He trudged back to his family farm, vowing to never fall in love again.