Chapter 5

Palmyra: Early September 1827

As my mother’s health improved, her obsession with Jonathan increased, whereas I would have expected it to work just the other way round. She was protective of the child to the point where Josephine and I could barely endure it. She wished never to let him out of her sight, trusting no one. Could he sit on a blanket at the edge of the gardens with me while I harvested the ripe squash and tomatoes? Certainly not. A bee might sting him, or flies annoy. Could Josie mind him while she sewed on her trousseau? What if she forgot to keep her eye on him and he rolled over and—what? harmed himself somehow, lying on his tummy? It was sadly pathetic to watch her. No, thank you. She would keep the child by her side. She could scour the pans, churn butter, and bake bread while she looked out for his safety and comfort. Any task that would take her attention off the infant for any length of time more than minutes was allocated to me. I did not mind much. But I worried about the future—the days when Jonathan would be crawling, then walking and wanting to fend for himself, explore his new world a bit. Would she grow worse? Would her attentions smother him—would her fears fester into an appalling obsession? I dearly hoped not.

In truth, I had other, weightier matters that concerned me. Scarcely had August shook out her flowery skirts and departed than Theodora came calling one morning, bright and early, hoping to catch me, I knew, before my gardens drew my attention.

“Will you drive with me, Esther?” she asked. “For only a few minutes.”

“Of course,” I replied, wiping my hands along my apron, then untying it from about my waist.

“Where is Josephine?” Tillie whispered.

“In the back room cutting dress patterns,” I said, just as quietly.

“Must you announce your going—off with me?”

I realized, with those words, that her voice was tense, her manner nervous. “No, they’ll assume I’m out in the garden and not worry, not for a while at least.”

“Good.” She tugged at my hand. “Come, quickly.”

She was driving her mother’s town carriage; a most rare occurrence. I climbed up beside her, even as the wheels began turning and she clucked to the horse. She said nothing, and I ventured no questions, until we had cleared our farm and topped the ridge to where the road turns into a cool copse of birch and hemlock through which a thin stream meanders and sings. She steered the wagon in as far as it would go and dropped the reins so the mare could graze. I heard grackles scolding from the high branches and saw a cardinal, like a streak of flame, dart across our path.

“Gerard has spoken to my father, without even approaching me first. They two have agreed. I am affianced to him—the marriage date is set, Esther! For six weeks from now!”

I am so quick to anger! I felt indignation sweep through me with all the aggravation of finely ground sand, like sharp bits of glass, pelting one’s face and arms in a windstorm. “My dearest! Have you no appeal? What of your mother?”

She shook her head. “They are both angry with Peter, you see. He has left his position on the canal and run home, complaining that the work is too hard for him.”

“It most probably is, Tillie. He is young for such rough company, anyhow.”

“Yes, I agree, but they do not! And they need something to lash out at. You know how it works. Thus they are aligned together in this matter of my marriage.” She put her cold little hand on my arm and grasped it tightly. “Esther, I am not ready for marriage yet!”

“Not to this man, in particular.”

She hesitated, but I would not mince words now. “Come, dear, with me of all people you can speak honestly. There is no danger here. Only comfort, and the courage to endure. This is what we must provide for each other, now that Life is staking her claims on us.”

With a shudder she moved toward me and buried her head in my shoulder. “What shall I do, Esther? I am frightened! Sometimes there is an expression in Gerard’s eyes when he looks at me that is appraising and cold. Perhaps my fears are unfounded . . . but we are not like enough in many ways I feel are important.”

And he is to have in his safekeeping this precious soul! I seethed inwardly. “Can you get it postponed, even for a while?”

“He is as eager as my parents are! I do not think they will listen to me.”

We sat in silence. I stroked her hair, soft, like the fine filaments of spun cotton. I could hear the thin sounds of the water moving over its stony bed. I could hear the chatter of sparrow and jay overhead. I fancied I could almost hear the painful throbbing of Tillie’s heart.

“Will he take you away?” I ventured at last, having to ask it.

She sat up, wide-eyed with consternation. “I have not even thought about that! I came to you directly—not having anywhere else to turn.”

“You shall always have me,” I assured her stoutly. “I’ll watch out for you, Tillie. There is no man alive who can prevent me from doing that.”

She smiled weakly. No further words were needed between us. After a little while she drew up the reins and turned the mare round. I could feel her reluctance. The weight of it was as odious as if it had been my own.

We parted at the foot of the narrow lane leading up to our house, and she drove on. I stood a long time looking after her, wondering about life, feeling the confinement of a woman’s role, a woman’s relative lack of personal determination, more keenly than I had ever before in my life.

There must not be many men such as my father, I concluded, who offer the same freedom and respect to a woman as they claim for themselves. Why is this? Why? I could not answer the question, not at the moment. I turned and walked up to the house, with a weariness upon my spirit more draining than any exhaustion of muscle and flesh.

When Tillie’s announcement was made public, Josephine could not hide her displeasure.

“Do you think she has done this to spite me?” she asked.

I grabbed at her arm and turned her to face me. “Do not ever say that—not to myself, not to anyone—ever again!”

Josephine froze. She could feel the resolve that blazed in my eyes, that made my voice shake. “From this moment forward you ought to think of what you can do for Tillie, not anything different, not anything less.”

She answered nothing; and when Josephine answers nothing, that is a victory of sorts. But my heart was nonetheless heavy within me as I went out to my chores.

I saw Peter again before I saw his sister, so I hailed him as he walked past the dry goods store. “How goes it, my man?” I asked. “Has your father forgiven you yet?”

He hung his head, truly ashamed for his weakness. I came up closer and said gently, “Now, Peter, really, I have heard stories of how bad conditions on the canal are. Surely you found them all to be so.”

I was saying, Tell me about it, and I was glad he took up the invitation.

“The work is hard,” he began, “we hoggees being at the bottom of the order, driving the mules and horses. And the wages is low, ’specially when you consider we work in six-hour shifts and get no time to ourselves.”

“How is that?” I asked, taking a seat beneath a shady oak and motioning him down beside me.

“Why, we’re expected to feed the animals and take care of their wants during off hours, as well as mend harnesses—that be no small task!—and cook our own food.”

I nodded and handed him a biscuit from my parcel. He took a hefty bite before continuing. “There was never enough food, Esther, and never enough time to sleep. I felt dead on my feet most of the time. Why, we slept in the stables with the horses when we did get a wink!” I saw the expression on his face tighten and alter. “But that wasn’t the worst of it.”

“What was the worst of it?” I sat for a few moments in silence, waiting, while Peter struggled with something inside himself.

“If some poor hoggee like myself—some frightened, skinny little orphan boy with his bones stickin’ out of his clothes—couldn’t control them big mules when they got tangled or frightened, he’d get beaten awful by the captain, ’specially if one of the animals died.”

I shuddered. “Have you told these things to your father?”

“Naw.” He looked down again and finished his biscuit in a single bite.

I handed him another. “What about Randolph?”

“He don’t mind the drinkin’ and fightin’ the way I do. I can’t sleep for the sound and the smell of it.” He glanced up again, his blue eyes as open and innocent as a summer sky. “Some of them fellows is big and mean, Esther, and they do awful things.”

I shuddered again and reached out to put my hand on his shoulder. “You did the manly thing, Peter,” I said firmly. “I’m proud of you.”

Those words gave him pause. He blinked, uncomprehending.

“A real man avoids that which is low and crass—especially that which is evil. And, nine cases in ten, he pays the price of ridicule and misunderstanding for his stance and his principles.” I could see comprehension creep into his gaze. “It is not merely your father and your youth, you know. It will ever be thus, Peter, even when you are grown. True courage is shown when a man embraces that which is just and noble and holds his place—no matter what other men think of him or do to him.”

The blue eyes smiled, as soft and unsullied as a kitten’s. “You know what to say, Esther, to make a fellow feel better—you always did.”

“Truth is truth. If I can recognize some little bit of it, then I am grateful,” I said. A slow grin spread over his relaxing features. “Stick to your guns, Peter. Do not let anyone distress or discourage you. In the end you will make your father truly proud of you—and be able to hold your head up as well.”

I walked to the corner of the family lot with him. Before we parted I placed my hand on his shoulder again and made his eyes meet mine. “I have a favor to ask you, Peter.”

He nodded, sober and willing.

“Be kind as can be to Theodora just now. She needs kindness more than you know. And . . .” I hesitated. “Watch out for her. If she needs me—even if you only sense it—will you come for me, day or night, no matter what?”

He nodded, his eyes wide.

“Give me your word on it.”

“My word, Esther. My solemn word that I will do as you say.”

I hugged him then, unable to help myself. “God bless you, sweet Peter,” I murmured, then hurried off in a flurry, disconcerted, confused by what I had said to him. God bless you. Why had I used that phrase? I had not felt that sentiment much, not spoken it freely—not, I realized suddenly, until Nathaniel died.

But that makes no sense! I reasoned with myself. My faith has but faltered and questioned since that day. But I saw, too, that my heart had been more tender, more aware, for want of a better word, than it ever had been.

More vulnerable to suffering, I thought, rather bitterly. More able to recognize and feel it, even in others. I was not pleased about that. If this meant growth and maturity, I wished for a moment, with all my soul, that I was merely a girl again, skipping off to school with my friends, thinking only of the needs and delights of the moment, pleasured by simple things, unaware of the underlying layer of tragedy, perfidy, and heartache that lay so close beneath the calm surface upon which childhood treads.

I could have scratched it away with my fingernails, I thought, and revealed the black decay and disease of it—there, beneath the sweet grass and the blossoming flowers. That was a grim thought, indeed. I lowered my head and hurried onward. Work was my most sure diversion from painful thinking—and there was surely enough of it waiting at home for me.

Josephine and I settled upon a gray kitten, fluffy and green eyed, with mottlings of rusty red streaking the tips of her long fur; she was handsome, indeed. From the first moment we brought the little beast home, Jonathan was enamored of her. A toy that could move and make sounds, brush against his soft cheek to tickle him, jump and pounce and play in the ways he understood.

Mother was skeptical. “Kittens can do damage without meaning to. What if she scratched at his eyes?”

“We’ll keep her basket in our room nights,” I suggested, knowing it was futile to argue the point with her.

“It is not nights I’m concerned about,” she rejoined. “I can’t keep an eye on that kitten all day.”

“She sleeps by the stove for hours,” Josephine soothed. “When she’s awake I shall keep her with me and only allow her to play with the baby when I am around.”

“Kittens grow. And cats are even less to be trusted. She ought to be put out in the barn.”

We said nothing. The more we labored a point, we were learning, the more stubbornly she adhered to her unreasonable premises and conclusions. And the little lad took such delight in his pet.

When we were alone together, Josephine turned concerned eyes at me. “It will be worse when I’m gone,” she said. “Mother will give you no peace.”

“We’ll deal with that when it comes,” I said, a bit surprised by her comment.

“Which will be sooner than we realized.”

There was a musing behind her words. Was Josephine entertaining second thoughts? Or just realizing a bit of what it would mean to go from home and forever leave the world of her childhood behind? It struck me then how seldom she let me inside that pretty head of hers, how seldom she spoke of thoughts and feelings, rather than opinions, desires, and needs.

It seemed we made an unspoken pact that morning to be united—gently and firmly, but nevertheless united—against our mother whenever necessity required it.

Against. There were sad implications in that word which I did not like to think about.