Eternal Deception

by Jane Steen

  My head was pounding, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew I was being unreasonable. All I had to do was to explain to Martin that I was afraid to show Judah my hand too soon. But he was being unreasonable too, and I didn’t see why I should let him get away with it.

  “Quite apart from the fact that you’ve made your wife suspicious about your feelings for me.”

  “I have?” Martin’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “And what makes you think that?”

  “She talked to me last night. She reminded me—not in so many words, but I took her meaning well enough—that you’re hers. That you’ll never be mine, no matter how many fine speeches you make to me about how I have to wait to see what you’ll do. You see, there’s the problem, Martin.” I was trembling, my hands pressed against the smooth paint of the wall to steady myself. “I’m free to make my own decisions. You have ties—“

  “Yes, I have ties.” Martin’s hands, long-fingered and strong, closed around my upper arms. “I’m tied to you, heart and soul, and you don’t seem to give a damn about that.”

  I pushed hard against his chest. To my satisfaction, just this once I caught him off guard, and he took a step backward, releasing my arms.

  “You’re tied to Lucetta.” My voice sounded cold and hard. “There are three of us in this situation, Martin—five, in point of fact, because whatever I do affects Sarah and Tess.”

  “You think they’ll be better off if you marry Poulton? He’ll send Sarah away to school and Tess to a home for defectives, you see if he doesn’t.” Martin raked his hands through his hair and then let them drop to his sides in a gesture of hopelessness. “He’ll isolate you and control you. You love me—you know you do—you can’t do this. I won’t let you.”

  All the rage inside of me seemed to catch fire at once, an uncontrollable blaze that made it hard to speak coherently.

  “You won’t let me?” I shouted, heedless of who might hear us. “You have—you have nothing—no control—you cannot presume to tell me what to do. Yes, you made me rich”—a pang of guilt assailed me with that recollection, but I pushed it firmly to the back of my mind—“and it was generous of you to work so hard on my behalf, I’ll grant you that. But it gives you no rights over me. You’re not my father or my brother or my husband—you’re someone else’s husband—and just because you act toward me as if you love me so that you can kiss me and—and—you never said you loved me after all—I’m—I’m sick of men thinking they can tell me what to do.”

  I pushed the heels of my hands into my forehead, trying to still the sickening pounding in my head so I could think. There didn’t seem to be any point in saying any more, since what was coming out of my mouth was so disorganized that it was worse than useless. A small voice inside me said I should simply explain to Martin that I no longer had any intention of marrying Judah, but I ignored it.

  “Go away, Martin,” I wailed. “Leave me alone. Go back to your wife.”

  The silence that fell between us seemed to stretch on and on, and I closed my eyes so I didn’t have to see the bleakness in Martin’s. He took two or three steps in the direction of the stairs and then turned back to face me.

  “I do love you,” he said. “I’ve always loved you—I just wish I’d realized it sooner. And working to increase your wealth was part of that love, I suppose. I wanted you to have the freedom you’ve always craved. And now you have it.”

  He spoke the last words in a whisper, but then his voice hardened. “And you’re going to throw it away on a man who doesn’t love you—for what? Respectability? Because despite your grand pronouncements about not wishing to marry, you don’t have the courage to live up to your convictions. You’re scared to take your life in both hands and do what your head and your heart tell you to do.”

  “Which is what?” I swallowed painfully, my throat dry. “To follow you to Chicago? To become your mistress? To live in the demimonde while you strut around in society enjoying all the respectability you say I want? And what happens to Sarah then?”

  “That’s not what I want.”

  “What do you want, Martin?”

  “You.” The word dropped into the space between us like a stone, and suddenly I wanted to cry. I wanted to fling myself into Martin’s arms.

  I did neither. I let the anger and indignation I had been stoking for days sustain me, bolstering me up so I could give the only possible answer.

  “You can’t have me.”

  My treacherous voice broke on these words, and I turned away, fumbling blindly along the wall until I found the doorknob to our room. I slipped inside before I could say or do anything that would betray how much I wanted Martin in return, shut the door with a bang, and turned the key in the lock.

  “Nell!” Martin was outside the door in an instant, his voice muffled by the wood. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m being perfectly reasonable,” I said unsteadily. “One of us has to be. Go away, Martin.”

  And, much to my chagrin, he did. I heard the sound of his retreating footsteps, and then the corridor outside my room shook with a resounding bang. He must have taken his temper out on a door, or a banister, perhaps. For a fleeting second, I hoped he hadn’t hurt himself, and then the sobs I had been withholding forced their way to the surface, and I flung myself on my bed, my fist pressed to my mouth to stifle any sound. I cried until my head felt ready to explode; and then at last I undressed and crawled under the bedcovers, pulling them up over me to shut out the world.

  I awoke early the next morning, lightheaded and aching in every limb. Tess and Sarah, who must have thought I spent the entire afternoon in bed, slept peacefully. Tess was deep under the covers while Sarah lay sprawled on her back, her breath whistling through the gap in her teeth.

  I dressed quickly and quietly, grateful that someone had filled our washing jug and the large stoppered bottle that held our drinking water. I drank half the bottle, filling my glass again and again and sighing with relief as the cool water soothed my parched throat.

  After bathing my eyes to remove some of the puffiness from crying, I made my way to the kitchen, too impatient for coffee and food to wait for breakfast.

  The kitchen was in more of a bustle than would be usual that early in the morning. The Rutherfords’ maid, whose name was Trudy, I thought, was there supervising the loading of a tray with breakfast items. She clearly regarded our servants as beneath her because of their race, and her manner of speech to them was disdainful.

  “The Rutherfords are leaving early, then?” I asked as I settled myself at one corner of the table with a cup of coffee and a freshly made biscuit liberally smeared with butter and honey.

  “They are, to be sure.” She had a faint Irish accent—no doubt her parents had been immigrants. “And not before time neither,” she added under her breath.

  She looked hard at me, evidently trying to judge whether I was servant or mistress. Yet she must have seen me dining at the head table during her stay, and her gaze didn’t linger for long on my practical shirtwaist and plain gray skirt.

  She placed the sugar bowl on the tray and bobbed a tiny curtsey. “Begging your pardon, ma’am—this being where you live and all. But I find it a terrible dull place, being used to Chicago.” Her small freckled face screwed up in a frown as she stared at the tray, one finger upraised in an apparent attempt to remember if she had included everything. “And idleness and dullness lead to wickedness, as my Gran always said.”

  “I’m never idle.” I smiled at her, although a strange qualm made my heart beat a little faster. “And neither are you, I’ll warrant.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean you, miss—ma’am.” The maid sounded shocked. “To be sure, I haven’t had enough to do, seeing as how mistress don’t have society visits as usual. I’ve never written so many letters in my life, having all that time on my hands. No, I meant—well, in general, you know, as a rule of things.” She hefted the tray, making sure it was balanced right, and then hesitated as if she wished to
say more.

  “You’re an old friend of the master’s, I hear?” she asked tentatively.

  “I am.” I took a sip of my coffee, bitter and strong against my tongue, and waited with what I hoped was an encouraging expression on my face.

  “Perhaps you could tell him—in a general way, if you take my meaning—that it doesn’t do to leave the mistress alone so much. I don’t want to speak ill, ma’am. But I’m a respectable girl, and I think them as is married should cleave to each other, like the priest says. Not leave the way open for the Evil One to come calling—it ain’t right. I don’t mind telling you I’ll be looking for a new place once we’re back in Chicago.” She dropped her voice even lower. “And those as serves here shouldn’t give themselves airs about who they’re working for neither. There’s been wickedness done this last fortnight.”

  I watched her retreating back as she maneuvered the tray through the doorway, suddenly far less keen on the food in front of me. Was she making trouble? Tess had hinted that she had already spoken to Mrs. Drummond, so why did she find it necessary to direct her veiled allusions at me?

  I forced myself to take a few bites of the biscuit. I had gone a full day without eating, and it would be no good if I fainted from hunger. I knew from the conversations around me that the hired carriage was already at the door, and that they were loading Martin and Lucetta’s trunks. I would have to make an appearance at their departure, if only to forestall Martin from seeking me out to say his good-byes in private. But I now had several reasons for wishing I didn’t have to look him in the face.

  Tess and Sarah made an appearance by seven-thirty, the time set for the Rutherfords’ departure. Sarah clung to me a little more than usual. I wondered if she was able to sense the misery and confusion I hid behind a painted-on smile as I watched Martin check the trunks and boxes loaded onto the old-fashioned carryall. He had greeted me with a cautious “good morning” and a tentative smile, which I had returned. So we were not parting on a note of ill-feeling, but I could feel the tension between us, as brittle as a glass bridge.

  I shook Lucetta’s hand and made a few conventional remarks of farewell, then watched as Martin handed her into the carriage. She leaned out of the window, talking to both of the Calderwoods, who wore their Sunday best, all smiles. What, I wondered, was the extent of Mrs. Calderwood’s complicity in the “wickedness” Lucetta’s maid had referred to? Was she really ignorant of the dalliance that had, I could only assume, been going on under her nose between Lucetta and her husband? Or—a cold sweat bedewed my brow at the thought—had she encouraged it, thinking to turn the situation to her own advantage? Blackmail, my own inner demon whispered in my ear, and I shuddered, my eyes on Martin as he took his leave of the Calderwoods and turned toward Tess, Sarah, and me.

  “Well, Nellie.” Martin straightened up from hugging Tess and replaced his hat. “Look after yourself until I come back.” His face was inscrutable, but the shadows under his eyes told me he hadn’t slept well.

  “You’re coming back soon, aren’t you?” Sarah, who was holding tight to my hand, tugged at Martin’s jacket to get his attention. He lifted her into his arms and held her so that their eyes were on a level.

  “I do have a business to run,” he said almost apologetically. “I have to spend most of my time in Chicago. But if you want me to, I’ll come back and visit the very next time I head west.” He smiled at her, fingering her bright copper hair. “I don’t want to wait another four years to see how you grow—you’ll forget me entirely in all that time.”

  “I won’t forget.” Sarah’s eyes glowed green in the sunlight as she smoothed a hand over Martin’s freshly shaven cheek. “You’re nice. And I wish I could go to Chicago and see your horse.”

  “I’d like that.” Martin kissed Sarah, his lips lingering for a split second. He really would like a child of his own, I realized, and the feeling of desolation that gave me was nearly unbearable. “Be good to your mother, Sarah.”

  He put her down and turned in my direction, kissing my cheek just as gently as he’d kissed Sarah’s. “Good-bye, Nell.” He did not wait for me to answer but stepped back, turning toward the carriage and pulling open the door.

  I closed my eyes for a split second, feeling the warmth of his mouth on my skin and the sense of loss that followed immediately after. “Good-bye, Martin,” I said under my breath as the driver shook the reins, setting the carryall in motion.

  For once, Sarah didn’t run after the carriage, but turned to me and held up her arms, a gesture she had not made for some time. I picked her up, and she wound her arms around my neck.

  “I’m sad he’s going away,” she whispered. “Why am I so sad about that, Momma?”

  “I don’t know, darling.” I tried to laugh, but the attempt didn’t succeed. “I guess I’m sad about it too.”

  “I hope he comes back soon.” Sarah rested her head on my shoulder, fiddling with the jet brooch pinned to the collar of my shirtwaist. “But he doesn’t have to bring the pretty lady back. Her dresses are beautiful, but I don’t like the way she laughs. And she doesn’t like Tess. Is it breakfast time now?”

  “I suppose it is,” I said, torn out of my reverie. “We’d better go inside.” I turned my head to catch one last glimpse of the carriage, a moving speck in the bright sunlight, and then I followed the Calderwoods indoors. I wished with all my heart I could ravel back the last two days and start them all over again.

  40

  Drowning

  November 10, 1875

  Nell,

  I barely know what to write to you. Within the confines of my own mind, I talk to you constantly, asking for your forgiveness, your patience, your—yes, your love, although I believe I already have that. Yet as soon as I’m confronted with this blank sheet of paper, almost every topic becomes a dangerous terrain beset with pitfalls and prickling with mines that will explode at the slightest movement.

  I fear I’ve touched off one of those mines already, angered you by talking of love. You’re perfectly correct; I have no right to make any demands on you. I have no right even to advise you, save the right of an old friend who wants only to see you safe and well and happy. You, and the child and sister—for Tess is your sister of the heart, is she not?—whom you hold dearer to you than your own self.

  I’m afraid for you. There, I’ve written it. I sit here at my desk, late in the evening, with the day’s correspondence to hand—which I must be ready to discuss with Salazar in the morning, as there’s always more to follow. I, who am not given to worry, as you know, find myself fretting like a mother hen over a single chick, and as a result, falling behind on my work.

  I was too preoccupied with my jealousies and simply with your presence to talk to you sensibly, so you may not realize that my trip to the frontier was fruitful in the business sense. I’m in daily correspondence with Fassbinder, whose ideas for making a fresh fortune out of the frontier trade now strike me as worthy of immediate investment—by both of us, if you’ll allow me to continue to act on your behalf until such a day as—

  And now I’ve wandered into the dangerous terrain again, haven’t I? You know what my fears for you are, my dear. You know what my hopes are too, perhaps—that I can find a way out of the mess I’ve put myself in and offer myself to you honorably. I know that there’s no other way.

  Yours ever,

  Martin

  I could feel Martin’s letter, folded in quarters, in my skirt pocket as I bent over my task. Its words whispered in my head as a counterpoint to the dull thudding of the wind against the panes of the workroom windows.

  His letter, the longest I’d had from him in over a year, both elated and dismayed me. What could I possibly write in return?

  The answer came more easily than I expected: the truth. I could at least give Martin a truthful account of my intentions and feelings with regard to Judah. It would help, of course, if I could decide exactly how I intended to go about freeing myself from Judah and how far I would have to run t
o do so. I would hand the letter to the postmaster myself—and remind Martin to write less freely of his feelings. Dangerous terrain indeed.

  I returned my attention to the fabric spread across my cutting table. Another dress for Mrs. Addis. It was a deep lilac color, opulent and yet muted in the light of a November day, with sky the color of pewter, flashed with an occasional patch of silver or white as the great mass of clouds shifted and roiled.

  I would have to light the lamps in the chandelier soon, I realized. Then the fabric would change hue in the yellow light, becoming the dark, sullen purple of a bruise. I needed to trim the dress—in the conventional black—to avoid that purple color coming into direct contact with Mrs. Addis’s skin, which was a touch sallow.

  “Are you ever going to do anything with that stuff besides look at it, Nell?” Tess took her feet off the paddle of the sewing machine with a sigh of relief. She was a little too short to sit comfortably at it for a long time.

  In the sudden quiet, I heard Sarah chanting, “Man-hen-mop-pig-pan-ten-top-gig,” as she conscientiously worked her way through her primer. She loved to learn and was so absorbed in analyzing the magic by which the marks on the page became words that she had read the simple book ten times already. She’d barely looked up from her page the last hour.

  “I’ll begin pinning soon.” I hoped I didn’t look as sheepish as I felt—I knew my thoughts had been straying. I slipped my hand in my pocket, feeling the paper’s edges against the ball of my thumb. “But I want to get this right, and this won’t be easy stuff to work with. It’s so new to me and so very expensive.”

  “I think Mr. Addis will have to make lots of money with his hotel,” said Tess. “Is this really silk?” She crossed the room to stand beside me, fingering the warm yet wonderfully light silk crêpe de chine.

  “Yes. But it’s a new kind of fabric, and I want to be sure I think through all of its possibilities before I cut.”