THIRTY-NINE

31 December 1899

It was almost the new century.

In the previous year, a lot had happened, as Joshua Collins would no doubt tell me were I to attend his annual New Year’s party. As John would no doubt inform one and all, the writers and artists had made their share of contributions as well.

But did I really want to attend Joshua’s annual party?

Of course, I kept forgetting that with Maeve’s advancing condition, the location for the annual gathering would be moved to a new venue: the Larwoods’ austere table. Joshua, not one to sit home and hold his wife’s hand through any of her confinements, would no doubt be there. Regardless of venue or guests present, did I really want to attend anybody’s holiday party this year?

I would rather die first.

I wanted to spend this last night of the year, this last night of the century, thinking of what the morrow would bring.

I had not, of course, told John of Chance’s impending release. And, as he was no longer going to the prison, caught up as he was with his new race to beat Harry Baldwin to the publishing finish line, there was little chance he would learn of it. True, he would probably notice, via Timmins’s ever watchful eye, that there was no longer a steady trickle of letters between me and the prisoner he had arranged for me to correspond with. But I had an answer prepared against the moment when his inquisitive mind might question me about it.

I would tell him a year was quite a long time for one to work at becoming a better person; that, in my case, I thought it had been going on long enough. I would lie through my teeth and say the prisoner and I no longer had anything to add to the dialogue between us.

Perhaps it would be enough. Perhaps John would attribute it to the flighty inconstancy that is woman, the whim to take up a cause and leave it just as abruptly. I did not see it as presenting any great problem. I only knew that this year, of all years, I did not feel up to merriment.

In truth, I had become, even to myself, somewhat blurry around the edges. It was as though I had been drawn in pastels and then someone else had come along with an eraser, smudging the outline between me and the concrete world.

Between worlds—that was where I was—waiting for one century to tick over into the next, so that my old life could end and, with a single release, my new life begin.

“I do not feel well,” I told my husband, when he came upon me in front of my vanity and inquired as to why I was not dressed yet. “I am not feeling quite myself this evening.”

His face showed concern. “Do you wish me to call the doctor?”

“Oh, no. I am sure all I need is a little rest. You know, each year the holidays seem to absorb so much more energy. I think just a little time apart from everybody is what I need.” I had a sudden inspiration. “You could go yourself,” I suggested brightly.

“Oh, no,” he declined. “I could never do that.”

He seated himself on the edge of the bed behind me, watching me in the mirror as he removed his coat.

“Very well,” he said, removing his tie as well. “If we are to stay in and be homebodies, what shall we do to amuse ourselves?” He rose and took a few steps forward, filling the mirror behind me, as he placed one hand on my shoulder. “It is, after all, a significant New Year.”

Well, I might have supposed it would come down to this, I thought, keeping my mind and body separate as the latter endured the piston thrust of my husband as he moved above me, his eyes shut on some experience wholly different in every way from what I was experiencing.

I did not want my body to be there, promised myself that, somehow, this would be the last time.

But tonight it had been unavoidable. True, having pled myself too sickly to go to the party, I should have been able to escape this as well. But avoidance would have meant being required to keep John conversationally satisfied all night, and that I could not do.

I marveled that there had been a time when I fancied I enjoyed these couplings, even when there had also been times when things had been a little stale. Was it possible my feelings could have changed so, the feelings of nearly half a lifetime, after one relatively short year?

Oh but they had changed.

How I longed to have the person above me be he whom I had never seen before. How I longed to know what that would be like. Would I feel differently, were I to be performing this same act with a different man?

My mind wanted to be in the next year already, did not want to be where it still was, and anything that kept me there was an agony. It had taken all of my resources when, earlier, over a light supper John had asked Timmins to bring up to our room, he insisted we play the resolution game.

“Come,” he had said, tilting his wineglass at me when I tried to demur, “if we were out this evening you would. Feeling slightly ill is no excuse for a weakness of resolve,” he added, his own pleasure in his play on words evident.

“Very well, then,” I said. “But why don’t you go first?”

“All right.” He set his glass down, reached for my hand. “I know that, in the last year, I have been too preoccupied. I have not lived up to my resolution of last year. Therefore, I hereby resolve to redouble my efforts to make my wife the happiest woman in the world. In short, my dear, I am stealing your resolution from last year: I will be a better person.”

I was touched by his words, but surely not in any way he could have imagined. They frightened me, taunting me with their abject goodness.

Of course, no evening could be complete, certainly not such a momentous one, without a lesson from my husband.

“I have been doing some research into this wonderful thing we have each year, the New Year. Did you know, my dear…”

I did not, I thought, nor did I care, my mind retreating from his wearying recitation on the history of New Year’s, returning only as he was finishing up with…

“And on the previous turn of the century, when 1799 became 1800, no less than Josephine Bonaparte wrote that for two whole years the fortune-tellers in France had been making predictions. And, you know, Josephine set great store by fortune-tellers, given that one did predict, after all, that she would one day both lose a husband and be queen.”

“How fascinating,” I said, hoping his sharp eye did not catch my yawn.

“Do you not see, Emma? Historically speaking, people have superstitiously believed the dawning of a New Year brings with it momentous change; a new century, even more. God knows what people will do at the next millennium.”

“So, you are saying people are superstitious and silly?”

“No. I am saying they are right.” There was a gleam in his eye. “When we wake up tomorrow morning, everything will look the same and yet nothing will be. But it is only with the passage of time that later generations will look back and mark just how great those changes were. Of course, it is all ironic,” he went on with a shrug, “since in truth the first day of the new century, its turning, will not technically occur until 1901.”

I could not conceal a second yawn.

“I am sorry, my dear. I am tiring you.” He raised his glass again. “And you never did say: What is your resolution to be?”

Reflecting on the goodness of his resolution, and my inability to match it in kind, I did the only thing I could do:

I seduced my own husband.

“Are you sure?” he asked, with the appearance of sensitivity, but more out of form, I suspected, as he initially rose above me.

But it was a way to avoid having to speak myself, having to commit to a single path.

In my own mind, however, I did wonder at what my resolve might be. There was still time to change, I told myself, time to switch everything around so my prospects lay in a different direction than the one I had set myself on. Would I do it? Could I do it? After all, I had a whole life here, a life that had taken me, well, a lifetime to build. Surely, I would not risk throwing that all away—throwing Weston away—for something that felt to be as great a part of creation, of imagination, as it was of reality.

Would I?

As my husband continued to thrust into me, I did something I had never allowed myself to do before: I pretended he was someone else.

Once Chance was free, what would my life become? When would we first be together? How often? What would it be like?

I couldn’t even imagine.

Later, as John was drifting off to sleep, he drowsily asked one last time, rolling over: “You never did say: What is your resolution for the New Year, the new century?”

“Never mind that now.” I patted his shoulder. “Sleep.”

I rolled over in the other direction.

Tomorrow, the prisoners would be freed.