Chapter 8

Palmyra: Early April 1828

Tillie is home! I saw them coming from the canal in her father’s carriage. And, Esther, there were two wagons behind them filled to the gills with their things!”

In my pleasure over her news I laughed at Josephine’s silliness. “How soon do you think she will call on us?”

“Why don’t we call upon her?”

Her words burst my bright bubble. “We must give her time to settle first, Josie.” Already my thoughts, grown suddenly uneasy, shifted back and forth, trying to guess at facts I did not know yet. “Do you suppose they will stay with her folks for a while?”

“I’ve no doubt of it. That house can accommodate more than two families without them running into one another for days on end!”

Josephine was happy still. She had fallen into a routine with her new husband which pleased them both. He worked long hours overseeing the work in both his mills and all the details that go with operating a large, growing business. She had her days free to do very much as she pleased, for Alexander maintained the services of the woman who had done housekeeping for him when he lived alone. Josephine could sleep late, go shopping, daydream away her hours—and her salvation was that she knew how to cook! The old adage “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” has much truth in it. She kept him well fed, with mouthwatering dishes, and her companionship through the long evenings was enjoyable, making him feel vital and young, I would suppose.

I was much surprised the day following Tillie’s arrival to see her mother’s fine carriage coming up our long drive. I ran out to meet her, unable to suppress my excitement.

“So soon?” I cried. “I had not dared hope for this.”

“Mother sent me,” she confessed. “They will let me do nothing to help.”

How thin and pale she looked, her almond-shaped eyes too big in her face, the length of her nose accentuated by this unnatural gauntness. I knew at once.

“You are with child! How soon—when is the baby expected? Come inside and tell all.”

I insisted on settling her in mother’s rocker with a nice cup of tea, however, before I would let her begin.

“It happened almost at once, Esther, I fear,” she confided. “And I do not want to be a mother—so soon.”

I understood. I entertained insecurities of my own concerning that role; not aggravated, as hers were, by a husband I could not trust.

“You are here now, sweetness,” I assured her, “and we shall all pamper and care for you, and make it all right.” I watched as tears filled her eyes. “Is it more, Tillie?” I asked gently. But she shook her head and lifted her cup to her lips.

Not yet, I thought. She is not ready to confide in me yet. Stating a sad truth outright to another person makes it all the more perilous. Then where is there to hide?

Ills never come singly, but in twos or threes. So it happened with us. The same week Theodora returned to Palmyra, Phoebe appeared at my door. I thought she had come to collect some fabric remnants I had said I would give her to use in making clothes for Tillie’s layette. But it was not that at all.

“Sit down and cut yourself a piece of this ginger cake,” I said, “while I gather them together for you.”

She put her hand on my arm. “I had a visit from Simon last evening.”

I stopped and sat down beside her. I could see the veins, thin and purple, beneath her high, broad forehead; with Phoebe a sure sign of distress. A visit from Simon, spoken like a death knell. “He is marrying Emily, isn’t he?”

“He came to tell me himself, so that I might not be unkindly surprised by someone else blurting the news of it to me.”

“That was generous of him.” I tried to keep the biting edge from my words.

“I have long expected it.” Softly spoken. “In some ways, it is even a relief—just having the thing done and settled, you know.”

To be sure. But you have never loved anyone besides Simon, I thought to myself. And I doubt if you ever will.

“Life goes on.” She sighed and reached for the gingerbread, then let her hands fall back in her lap. Even her long, glossy ringlets seemed to droop with the general air of despondency.

“Oh, Phoebe. Why must it be like this? Why must life hold more disappointments than it does pleasures?”

“Esther, you know that is not true. You—of all people—seem to know how to look for the good and find it.”

I shook my head. “Not really.”

“You feel others’ sufferings too deeply—and believe that it is, somehow, up to you to cure all of them.”

We smiled at each other then, and I went in search of the fabric, and at length sent her on her way. But a helpless feeling, the keeness of her deep disappointment, accompanied me like a clinging, mocking shadow which I could not dislodge or send scampering away.

The third trouble showed itself soon after.

On Sunday morning, following the service, Eugene asked if he might drive me home. There was something subdued about his manner, and he remained quiet even after we had left the busy streets of the village behind.

“What is it, Eugene?”

“Nothing much, except that you have come off victor and shall have your way after all.”

“You are talking in riddles. Pull off up ahead into that little copse of plane trees where we can talk.”

He did so, silent still. I could see the muscles in his lean jaw working.

“Something has happened. Please tell me.”

“My father has need of me.”

A strange, disconnected beginning. “Your father has always had need of you, since you were a boy of nine or ten.”

It was true. Eugene’s father was a blacksmith, and Eugene his eldest son. He had run a modest establishment, with only himself to work it, until his son became old enough to train in the trade and be of some assistance to the father. Eugene was adept with riveter, sledge and anvil, but he had little heart for it. What he liked most—and what recommended him most to me!—was the written word, the smell of ink, and the clattering sound of the printing press hard at work. He had already served the better part of an apprenticeship in the local printing press, done reporting, and turned in copy for our daily newspaper. Modest beginnings; but most beginnings are modest. He entertained, as all creative minds do, extremely high hopes. Now, unwittingly, his father and I had combined to squelch and oppress those hopes and ambitions that were dearest to him.

“Well, now an opportunity has presented itself for him to buy out old man Simpson and step into an outfit worth having, with tools and equipment—and customers—he’s only dreamed about.”

I responded slowly, my own thoughts turning. “I am happy for him, Eugene, as I am sure you are, too.”

“I didn’t expect the news to distress you, Esther, the way it does me.”

If his voice had been angry or edged with sarcasm I might have reacted differently. As it was, I flung my arms round his neck. “I deserve such a rebuke from you,” I cried, pressing my lips to his cheek. “You have been patient with me and full of kindness and tenderness. My heart truly aches for you!”

He half grinned. “Too late. My luck, of course.” But he had relaxed a little, and my touch had soothed his feelings and fears.

“Has he the money necessary to lay out for a purchase?”

“Every cent he’s scrimped and saved over the past twenty years will barely do it. But that means he cannot pay labor until he gets on his feet again, until profits begin to come in.”

“How long, do you think?”

“He thinks six months to a year. I said I’d give him the six months, then six more to work for us—which means a spring wedding, Esther.”

“What I have always wanted.”

“Aye, spring, with your precious gardens all planted and starting to bloom.”

“May,” I breathed.

“May it shall be. But—I must have your word on it, Esther.”

This day—this very moment? I wondered. I looked into his eyes. The green lights in them were burning, and I knew my answer was yes.

“What are you saying—exactly?” I demurred, wanting a bit more.

“I am saying I love you with all the energy and devotion of my soul, Esther.” He put his hands over both of mine where they lay in my lap. “I want you to belong to me—and I want to belong to you. I want to be together for as long as the good Lord will grant us.” He stopped. His deep-set eyes, penetrating mine, softened. “Will you marry me, Esther?”

“Yes. With all of my heart, Eugene. I will be proud to become your wife.”

He enfolded me in his arms with such exquisite tenderness that I felt like a piece of fine Dresden he was afraid he might break. The reverence of that touch made this one of the most wonderful moments of my life. I leaned against him, feeling the lean strength of his body, and I reached up a finger to touch his hair where it curled at his neck.

We remained thus a long time. It seemed all eternity had stopped for us—held its breath at the wonderment of our joy.

I remember thinking, as we covered the remaining distance to my father’s homestead, How filled with surprises life is! What appeared as a difficulty, a setback, a denial, is really a spur to action, to the fulfillment of hopes and promises worth working and waiting for.

By mutual consent, we told no one of our engagement. It was enough that we each knew—and held the hallowed certainty in our hearts.

Plans for the May Day festivities were eclipsed by the frenzied planning for Simon and Emily’s wedding, of which we girls were determined to be a part. Eugene’s words still echoed in the back of my mind: If Emily marries Simon, you five will ostracize and abandon them both. I wanted nothing of that sort to take place. There is enough sorrow in this world of ours, heaven knows. I did not wish to live with such a weight of unhappy guilt on my head.

Phoebe understood. We had her tacit support. But I did not let myself think overmuch about the terrible cost her gallant heart paid. A six-week engagement! I believe they both were so nervous about it, they just wanted to get the deed done. So we four padded our heartache with good intentions and lent our efforts in support of the cause.

I should say, we three. Phoebe was, understandably, excused. But, by and large, so was Tillie. She had not the strength at present to do much of anything. Many an afternoon her mother, or one of her father’s employees, would drive her here in the carriage, and I would set the rocker out under the shade near to where I was working, preparing the soil to receive my first seedlings, and we would talk. Oh, we neither revealed nor uncovered anything earth-shattering. We merely let the sun seep into us, as healing as the unspoken affection that united our hearts.

At such times, what can one person do for another, save hold forth the sacred offering of love? If I had probed and learned of my friend’s deepest secrets—uncovered her fears and revealed them—what good would that do? Only love has power to strengthen or alter—I was beginning to understand and believe this as I never had done before.

May Day came, however, three weeks before the wedding. But the magic was not there as it had been the year before. A fine drizzle of rain subdued the ardor of the celebration, shortening the frolicking of limp-frocked women and their ardent companions. Even the food had to be served inside the cramped, steamy church house rather than out-of-doors.

Happiness can never be repeated or replicated the way we want it to be, I realized. We five girls, shimmering with youthful hopes only one brief year ago, had perhaps made a pretty picture. But the components had changed. The image would never again be simple and picture-perfect.

Life offers compensations, I told myself. The real thing is better than the shallow illusion. So I told myself over and over again.

I forget at times that Georgie is what is commonly called “a sleeper.” There is much more to her than the pleasant, congenial surface that meets the eye. How many times had she said during the past weeks, “I am not in a hurry to find a husband. I have my teaching to challenge me and my cats to comfort me; I am content.”

Yet here she was, I noticed, on the arm of a young man—leaning close to speak something into his ear, laughing at his witticisms, vibrant in a manner I had never seen in our Georgie before.

The young man, whom she introduced as Nathan Hopkins, was the new teacher who had been hired and brought in to replace old Isaac Rogers, who must, by all means, hold the record for the most elderly teacher in the entire state of New York.

“Remember, I told you,” Georgie prompted. “The school board had agreed to let Isaac finish this term, but his eyesight kept getting worse. He could not read the words the children wrote in their composition books—could not see enough to do the necessary writing or correcting of assignments himself.”

“That is too bad.” I recalled now that she had told me about it.

“Yes, he was a true teacher, and served well. The children will miss him for a long time to come, and that is how it should be.” She patted the arm linked through hers, entirely at ease. “But we, and they, have been fortunate in his replacement.”

“Mr. Hopkins came highly recommended, I remember.”

“Yes, and beyond recommendations, he is a good man. And sincerely interested in his students’ welfare.”

Nathan Hopkins was not as comfortable with this interchange as was his companion, but he smiled amiably. He was a large-framed man; nothing slender or scanty about him. There was a kindness and openness to his features I liked. Indeed, I would almost call him handsome, with his round smooth cheeks, his round brown eyes—even his head was round with its crown of brown hair. He spoke in the same manner; his words were softly rounded and pleasing to the ear, not sharply clipped or sloppily muttered.

So, Georgeanna was drawn to him. If he was what he appeared to be, I could understand why. At times I envy her ability to take life as it comes, make the best of things, and move on. She does not torture herself with trying to understand, the way I do. Nor does she foolishly attempt to change what cannot be changed. Such practical wisdom I lack. If it had not been for the peace of my gardens and my books, I would have been a sorry jangle of nerves and frustration!

As things turned out, we girls, in deference, stayed a bit on the periphery of this particular wedding. Emily felt ill at ease when we were around, and I understood that. How could she rejoice openly and freely with our presence, our composed faces, a constant reminder of the awkwardness of her joy? Enough to let her know that we supported and did not resent her. Enough for the future to build upon.

Simon was just as bad. He could not look any of us in the face. Quiet, gentle Simon, with his narrow boyish features, with the somewhat perplexed, somewhat watchful expression he always wore on his face! He had done nothing disgraceful. And it was true: sooner or later he had to make a choice that was incapable of making both women happy, or, for that matter, of making him entirely happy. I believed he would always cherish deep feelings for our Phoebe; though this was not to say he would not make a very good and faithful husband to Emily. Of that I had no doubt.

Though not lavish, by any means, the modest wedding seemed to capture a beauty and dignity that touched my heart deeply. I was closer to the event than the other girls, because Eugene is Emily’s brother, and I was there on his arm—there with his eyes saying every time I looked up at him, Very soon now our turn will come. And there will be no wedding like our wedding, Esther, no love like ours!

I found myself inclined to agree with him! I found myself longing for him, in every sense of the word: reluctant to be removed from his presence; feeling flat and peevish and at loose ends when our responsibilities drew us in separate directions, shattering the harmony which seemed to exist only when we were together, moving and thinking as one.