Chapter 14

Palmyra: May 1829

I was there with Georgie, on a fair May morning when the flowers were lifting their heads and reaching jauntily toward the warm sun that flooded the whole world with its light. It seemed nothing unwholesome could live in such an atmosphere. Yet, when we approached her doorstep, where a bright pot of primroses had been planted, I saw the rock that had aimed true and shattered the pot to pieces, scattering the fragments, dirt, and bits of bruised blossoms all over the porch.

Georgie leaned down with a sigh and with her hands swept a pathway for us through the debris.

“What is this?” I asked. “Who would do such a thing, Georgie? Is it a schoolboy prank?”

“I wish it were.” I followed her in to the cool sitting room and began to remove my hat. “You won’t believe me when I tell you,” she promised, placing her hat and gloves on the table and heading back to the kitchen. I followed, my interest well piqued.

“Since his arrival in Palmyra, Nathan has become good friends with the Smiths,” she began. “In fact, he greatly admires their family, and has made no secret of it.”

“And that is the problem.” Her words had chilled me. “Still, Georgie?”

“Apparently so.”

“But what have they done to offend anyone, especially of late? And what is your husband’s offense?”

“Being their friends and speaking well of them to others.”

“It cannot be as bad as that!”

“You would not think so, would you?” Georgie lit the fire under the kettle and stood on tiptoe to reach her best teacups.

“Have you any chocolate cake left?” I asked. No other cook in the whole village can touch Georgie’s chocolate cake.

“I saved a piece for you.” She smiled. “Don’t worry about this, Esther. It is nothing but petty things, such as you saw.”

“You mean this has happened before?”

“Several times. I suppose, if I think about it, we have done more to offend than merely be friendly. Nathan has asked Mr. Smith’s advice on several matters and paid him to do some little carpentry jobs for him. Why, we even had them over to share a meal one Saturday evening.”

“Stop it,” I implored, sticking my fork into the moist cake Georgie had placed before me. “You will truly spoil my appetite.”

“I know. Such behavior is disgusting as well as disgraceful.” She sat down beside me, her chin propped in her hands. “But I am still the most popular teacher in Palmyra.” The mischievous lights were beginning to dance in her eyes now. “And there is not a student, as well as most of their parents, whom Nathan has not won over entirely.”

“Nevertheless, you ought to take care.”

“Take care?” Georgie’s grin widened. “What a dismal prospect that is.”

“Georgeanna!”

“Esther, do not fuss and fret so. You’ll wear yourself out.” Georgie’s voice was tender, so I could not refrain from smiling back at her and attempting to do as she said. I knew the wisdom of her words. I finished my cake and talked babies and patterns for new spring frocks, forcing thoughts that were distressing far out of my mind.

“We came to tell you ourselves. We wanted you especially to know.”

Latisha and her Jonah stood in my kitchen fairly bubbling with excitement. “You are going to have a child!” Good news at last! “I am so happy for you.”

I hugged them both and sat to hear all their dreaming and planning.

“We want a girl—even Jonah says he prefers having a daughter first!”

“And ’Tisha has not been sick, not one day.” The proud husband beamed at her.

Would that it had been so with my Tillie! “When do you expect this happy event to take place?”

“The end of November or early December—sometime before Christmas.”

She seemed very young to me, her face lit with anticipation. And this awkward fellow so in love with her!

“There is more news,” Latisha chirped, remembering. “Georgie’s brother, James, is courting Phoebe’s sister, Lena.”

“Oh dear,” I replied, without thinking. “They are not at all suited for one another.” Latisha nodded agreement, as solemn as any old wife.

“Folk say we are not suited,” Jonah volunteered, scratching at his whiskers. “But they know less of the matter than they think.”

He did not mean it as a rebuke, I knew. Besides, I had come to be quite fond of him. “Yes, you are right,” I responded amicably. “And what’s more, when young people have their minds set, what can anyone do?”

They caught the implication in those words and Jonah grinned back at me. “But for you two I could not be happier,” I said.

They stayed a few minutes longer, before veritably floating off together. How impossible it is to judge people and situations accurately, I mused. Yet we seldom let that little truth get in our way. I had wanted to ask Jonah if he had heard any news lately of Randolph. Being on the canal, as he was, he had sent the word out for his friends to keep watch for the boy all along the route, east to Albany and west all the way to Buffalo on the shores of Lake Erie. Such a distance, with so many places where a lad alone might disappear! But he knew of my concern; surely if he had heard anything he would have contrived a way to tell me. If not, I had not wanted to dampen or in any way mar the joyous excitement they shared.

I had my own growing excitement to contend with as my wedding day drew near! Everyone shared in my happiness, except, perhaps, my mother, who was frightened at the idea of losing me, of being the only woman in her own quiet house. To do her justice, even Josephine tried to enter into the spirit of celebration. Phoebe came through for me in that sweet, quiet way of hers, creating delicate masterpieces I already cherished and hoped to hand down to my great-grandchildren. We had not spoken of Emily’s death, not once, she and I. Even Georgie thought I ought to broach the subject with her. “If she will open up to anyone, it will be you,” she said. Yet I could not do it. Something always seemed to stop me, something I could not put my finger on. So I respected her silence, enjoyed her company, and waited.

Through Eugene I knew that Maggie Wells, who had come through for us so splendidly when the twins were born, had found a wet nurse for the baby, and Simon was keeping her with him, though his mother had offered to take over the care of the child.

“What about your mother?” I had asked Eugene.

“She is getting on,” he reminded me, “older than Simon’s mother by ten years or more. Besides, I do not think she could bear it—a little girl who looks just like Emily.”

“I would think that could prove to be of comfort.”

“With some women it might.”

Mrs. Thorn is not my favorite person; in fact, I find little in her that speaks to me in a comfortable, intimate way. But she is Eugene’s mother, and my heart went out to her for the loss of her only daughter, the pain of which I could not even imagine.

“What is Simon naming his daughter?”

“I do not believe he can make up his mind about it,” Eugene hedged. “For a time he considered calling her Emily, too, after her mother, but he has decided against that.”

“And for something else?” Eugene was behaving a bit strangely.

“There is the name Emily had chosen for a girl,” he replied. “I do not know what you will think of it.” He continued to eye me a bit nervously.

“Well, tell me,” I urged.

“She claimed it was her favorite name, as well as . . .”

“Eugene!”

“Emily wished to call her child Esther.”

I was silent. I could not believe it. Myriad feelings washed over me, leaving me with sensations of sorrow I could not mitigate, so that the following morning I rose early and rode into Palmyra, and climbed the steep hill to the burial ground where Emily lay. I knelt beside the fresh grave, still sweetened with bunches of flowers, and spoke out loud.

“I am sorry, Emily, that you have been separated from your little one and denied the joy of rearing her. I wish . . .” Oh, how useless wishes and regrets are! “I failed in life to be all to you that I should have been. I will not fail her. You have my word on it.”

After a time I rose and moved to the familiar spot where my little Nathaniel was buried. I could still remember with ease the aching tenderness of the tiny, fragrant weightlessness of him cradled in my arms. Without closing my eyes I could still see his eyes, deep as pools of eternity, gazing quietly, patiently into my own. I experienced again that powerful sensation, half anguish, half comfort: there is so much about life that I do not understand. So much beauty, so much purpose and endurance!

After a long while I turned and walked away, renewed and reconciled once again.

If there was one thing that stood out about my wedding, it was the abundance of flowers! Blossoms in the church, woven round the posts and railings, standing in large, overflowing vases: daisies, daffodils, ladies smock, wild hyacinths—a sweet, abandoned array: campion, buttercup, yellow heartsease, and even long, trailing branches of the flowering crabapple. There were wreaths of blossoms gracing the shining, braided hair of my maids of honor and my own bridal veil. I placed small bouquets of fragrant tussie-mussies in the arms of every woman and girl I could think of; the tables were lined with blossoms and the bower set up in my father’s sweet meadow where we sat amid the abundance to welcome loved ones and guests.

I was surprised that I could think of anything outside myself and Eugene, that I could view the beauty and affection of my dear friends with such delight. But somehow I was able to see them with a clarity of love I had never experienced before—see each for her own distinct graces and gifts. How my heart ached with affection for them!

My poor mother. At one point she bent over me and whispered, “What will happen to your gardens, Esther? I cannot bear to think of them running to seed and ruin.”

“I will not let them do that!” I leaned up and kissed her cool cheek, still white-skinned and unwrinkled. “I shall keep them myself if I have to, as I’ve done in the past!”

Change, constant change. But for the first time it seemed glorious, desirable to me. I could smile at everyone and see nothing but the best of whatever was before me. I suppose love has the power to do that, if anything has.

Oh, the kind words and well-wishing, the music and dancing, the food and the laughter, the moonlight, spilling silver and soft all around us, and Eugene’s hand warm in mine—his green eyes gentled with incredulity . . . and me feeling truly beautiful for perhaps the first time in my life . . .

“Heaven help us, Esther’s a prettier bride than the rest of us put together!” Josephine speaking the words out of laughter, but with tears in her eyes.

Tillie squeezing my arm and whispering, “Be happy for both of us, Esther. I will be so glad if you do.”

Georgie, smelling of mint and fresh lavender, kissing my cheek and saying, a bit strangely, “You will come into your own now, dear Esther. Just wait and see.”

Phoebe gliding close, like some lovely wraith materializing out of the moon’s glow, pressing her thin, capable fingers against mine—no words spoken, only that terrible tenderness that no words can convey.

My mother crying, angry at her own vulnerability, holding Jonathan up to be kissed. My father, so solemn-eyed, embracing me gently, saying, “Do not forget to come home, my Esther, every now and again . . .”

Oh, the sweet, poignant pain and bliss of it all!

And at last the flower-draped carriage, Tansy with blossoms woven into her thick mane—my father handing me up. A mist of tears, of voices echoing and re-echoing, like music inside my head. Then silence, gathering sweet as fragrance about us, bearing us out of the common . . . weaving magic, like the night air, in streamers about our heads.

Eugene’s family lives near the edge of Palmyra, yet close enough to the bustle of things so that the blacksmithing business can thrive. We chose for our own a small house I looked upon as a compromise; a bit out into the open country, so as to be close to my own home, but still close enough in to be considered a part of the town.

I had already planted my gardens—herbs and vegetables and flowers—and Eugene had outfitted the toolsheds and barns. My father gave me Tansy as part of my dowry, and one of our freshest milk cows. Alexander had presented us with an exquisite rosewood bedroom suite, so that I could leave my old bed at Mother’s, where I believed it belonged. Tillie, unbeknownst to me, sent away to the city for exorbitantly rich bed coverings and fancy curtains for my windows. People’s generosity overwhelmed me, and I felt as spoiled as a princess in a dream from which I did not wish to wake.

But Eugene was the quiet, living center of this magnificent dream. He was flesh and blood, less than perfect, but the most overwhelming gift I was given that night. A living legacy—this life that desired to merge itself with my life, desired to care for me—was willing to open the core of its being to my seeing eyes. I was overwhelmed by the joy of desire, of selflessness—by the delights of love which I had never imagined—by the wonder of two people merging, in so many ways, into one. Nothing I had hoped for, nothing I had wondered at, could ever come close to this joy.

I awake in the pre-dawn and stand at the gray square of window and watch for the day. The first day of my life, I think. The first day of my new life as woman and wife. This is more than change; this is a sort of metamorphosis, slow though it may be. This is a glory—putting on a new self. This is a weaving together, a reaching inward, a reaching outward—this is seeing through eyes that are not my eyes. This is life. For the first time I know this and am content in the knowing.

Eugene stirs on the bed. He is no longer a stranger to me, but in a sense part of myself. I feel a hunger for this existence we are creating together—an eagerness, a sense of purpose I have never before felt in my life. I want to sing. I want to laugh. I want to open my arms and hold the whole world close to me in an embrace of gratitude and wonder.

I pick up the slender volume where I write notes on the daily occurrences of my life, where I jot down favorite verses and thoughts I have had. I go to the little desk in the corner that I brought with me and search for my pen. I must at least attempt to preserve some of this wonder and beauty before it filters into the ordinary and I forget the intensity of it, the clarity of vision it lends me.

I curl up on my chair like a cat and begin writing. The morning comes in on soft kitten feet, so as not to disturb me. I feel its breath on my neck. Sweet and cool; it is in no hurry. Nor must I be. Each moment is precious, a pearl of beauty that will never repeat itself and, once lost, never be regained.

For a moment I set my pen and paper aside and move, with the same morning feet, to stand beside the bed, lean over my still, sleeping husband, and press my lips, ever so lightly, against his forehead. He does not move, does not stir.

The first act of the first day. A prayer, a caress. I smile at my own foolishness, and return to my desk.