With tongues dancing, they wooed disaster, letting their feelings build. His hands shifted-one to a slim shoulder, one to a round buttock, where her heavy coat hem gave way to lighter cotton. It slipped between the two garments … glove over nightgown … thick over thin … leather over cotton … drawing patterns on her firm flesh while he pretended the hand was bare. When their heartbeats and breathing grew taxed, they ended a kiss out of common frustration.
"Oh, Emily…" He whispered, tortured.
"Why didn't you ask me earlier?" she despaired, closing her eyes.
"Because I didn't know until I kissed you."
"Then why didn't you kiss me earlier?"
"You know the reasons—Charles, Tarsy … even Julia. I thought I was through with women for a long, long time. I was afraid of being hurt again. Now this hurt even worse. Emily, please … you have to marry me." He lifted his face but she avoided further kisses.
"Thomas … please, the answer is still no."
"But why?"
Heartsore, she looked into his eyes and decided to tell him the truth, and in telling to remind herself as well. "I'm going to tell you something that I trust you'll never repeat. I'm telling you because it seems the only fair thing to do." She drew a shaky breath and began. "The morning after I went to your house I walked into our kitchen and found my father kissing Fannie. I mean, really kissing. You can't guess what it was like, Tom. I felt … sick and betrayed … and angrier than I ever remember being. For myself, and for my brother, but mostly for Mother, who doesn't deserve all the unhappiness and pain that life is throwing at her right now. It isn't enough that she's in constant pain and dying at such a young age. Her husband is carrying on right under her nose! Right under her own roof!
"It made me take a second look at myself, at what I was doing to Charles."
"But your father is—"
"I won't be like him, Tom, I won't! Charles is a fine and admirable person who doesn't deserve to be deceived by his fiancée and his best friend. Just listen to that—his fiancée and his best friend. That's what we are, you know. When we're together we tend to forget that."
"So you're marrying Charles to atone for your father's sins? Is that what you're saying?"
It sounded too much like the truth, and she had no reply.
"What about how we feel?" Tom insisted.
"What I feel might very well be panic, which I think every bride feels at the last minute before getting married. But I can't cope with one more crisis right now. The past three days have been terrible. When I walk into Mother's room, I feel guilty. When I look at Charles, I feel guilty. I see you and I feel confused, Papa and Fannie make me so disgusted I can scarcely tolerate being in the same house with them. What I crave is peace and I think I'll have that with Charles, I'm going to marry him and move into his house and start living my own life. That's what I'm going to do."
"You're going to disregard what you feel for me? What we feel for each other?"
"Emileee?" It was Fannie calling from the house.
Behind the shed, Tom and Emily tensed, holding their breaths.
"Emily, are you all right out there?"
"Don't answer her." Tom gripped Emily's wrists, holding her still while their hearts clamored.
"I have to go in," she whispered, straining to rise.
"Wait!"
"Let me up! She's coming!"
Fannie's voice came again through the crisp morning. "Emily?"
Emily raised her voice and called, "I'm fine. I'll be in in a minute!" Struggling to rise, gracelessly disentangling themselves, Emily half fell off Tom's lap. Her ankles and one wrist sank into the icy snow. It fell into her slipper tops in cold, wet clumps. It climbed her cuffs and chilled her wrists. It clung to the bottom of Tom's jacket and burned a frigid ring where it melted on his hindside. Embroiled in emotions, neither of them noticed. He gripped her wrist, straining to hold her while she strained to flee.
"Don't do it, Emily."
"I have to."
"Then don't expect me to stand there and witness it! I'll be damned if I will, whether I told Charles I would or not!"
"I have to go in."
"You're so damn blind!"
"Let me go … please."
"Emily…"
"Goodbye, Thomas."
She ran as if a prairie fire were at her heels.
* * *
Josephine Walcott lay at death's door, but she wasn't dead yet. Quite the contrary. During the last twenty-four hours her condition had undergone a peculiar turn-about. She had coughed less, felt stronger, and her perceptions had grown uncommonly keen—as she'd heard was often the case during one's last hours—keen enough to ascertain that something was radically wrong in this house.
Emily had grown icy and brusque with Fannie and Edwin. Edwin walked as if on cinders. And Charles hadn't come to announce his own wedding plans. Most peculiar, yet understandable in light of recent outbursts that had filtered up from below.
Josephine awakened well before dawn on the day preceding Emily's wedding and listened to the sounds of the family coming to life. Doors opening and closing, stove lids chiming, the pump gurgling, bacon frying, muffled voices.
From below came the sound of Fannie, speaking quietly to Edwin.
Then Edwin's deeper reply.
Then Fannie again, outside, calling Emily's name worriedly. Twice. Three times.
What on earth?
The fire roared up the stovepipe as if from too much draft, the back door slammed shut, and Edwin inquired, "Emily, are you all right?"
Emily's voice, brusque and rude, came up clearly from below: "Don't set breakfast for me. I'll eat with Mother," followed by her slippered steps pounding up the stairs at breakneck pace.
Fifteen minutes later she appeared with Josephine's breakfast tray, brought it in, and closed the door that during the day had remained steadfastly open until two days ago when Emily had peremptorily begun closing it.
"Good morning, Mother."
Josephine caught Emily's hand as it deposited the tray on the bed. She gave her daughter a smile and reached up to lay her knuckles against Emily's red cheek.
"Are you ill?" Josephine inquired in a whisper.
"Ill? No, I'm … I'm fine."
"I heard Fannie calling you. Your cheek is cold."
"I was outside. It's only ten degrees this morning."
"And so red."
Emily busied herself with the breakfast trappings, avoiding Josephine's eyes. "Oatmeal and bacon and eggs this morning. Here, let me pull your pillow up. I hope you're hungry again. It's so heartening to see you eat like you did yesterday." She rambled on—superfluous chatter clearly amplifying her edginess. Her hands flew nervously from one thing to the next—sugar, cream, salt, pepper—superabundant efficiency further underscoring her jumpiness. "I thought I'd clean your room today and wash your hair. I think we can manage it with some oilcloth over the edge of the mattress while you lie across the bed—would you like that? And press your favorite bed jacket and my own blue dress. And, of course, I've got to wash my hair, too, and pack my things to take to Charles's house, and—"
"Emily, what's wrong?"
"Wrong?" Emily's wide eyes contained a hint of terror.
"You needn't protect me from everything," Josephine whispered. "I'm still very much alive and I want to be part of this family again."
Josephine watched her daughter struggle with some hidden turmoil. For a moment she thought Emily would relent and confide, but in the end Emily shot to her feet, turning away, hiding any secrets her eyes might divulge. "Oh, Mother, you've never stopped being a part of my family, you know that. But please don't worry about me. It's nothing."
Yet Emily scarcely ate any breakfast, and when Edwin stepped in before leaving for the livery barn she coldly snubbed him, turning to the bureau and fussing with things on its top, offering not even her usual good-bye.
Soon after Edwin left Fannie appeared, offering to clean the room, but Emily alooftly infor
med her that she'd do it herself and that she'd also take care of getting her mother ready for tomorrow. The tension in the room was palpable as Fannie looked across the foot of the bed at Emily, then resignedly turned toward the door.
"Fannie!" Emily snapped.
"Yes?" Fannie turned back.
"It won't be necessary for you to prepare a wedding feast, in case you were thinking about it. When the service is over Charles and I will be going directly to his house."
Emily spent the day as she'd spent the preceding one, lavishing time on her mother, doing all the chores she'd outlined for the day. But as it progressed her busyness came to contain an almost frenetic quality. Distressed, Josephine observed and worried.
It was late in the afternoon before the hair washing began. It turned out to be an awkward process, but by its very awkwardness and the reversal of their roles, it brought mother and daughter closer than they had been in years.
When Josephine was again sitting, with the pillows bolstering her back, Emily combed her hair slowly and said, "It won't take long to dry."
"No, it won't…" Josephine said sadly, "not anymore."
The words went straight to Emily's heart. Less than a year ago Mother's hair had been dark, thick, and glossy, her greatest asset, her pride. Now it lay in thin strings, faded to the color of beeswax, with her pink skull showing in spots. Josephine herself had lopped the hair off at collar length to make its care easier during her illness. Her semi-baldness seemed a final insult to the deteriorating body of the once-robust woman.
Josephine sensed Emily's sadness and lifted her eyes to find her daughter indeed forlorn.
"Emily, dear, listen to me." She took Emily's hand in both of hers and held it, comb and all, while speaking in a whisper to keep from coughing. "It doesn't matter what my hair looks like now. It doesn't matter that your father sleeps on a spare cot, and that he must see me looking more and more like an old dried apple. None of it matters. What matters is that your father and I have lived together for twenty-two years without ever losing the immense respect we hold for one another."
With downcast eyes Emily stared at her mother's withered hand, the fingers too thin to show a mark where her wedding band had been.
"You've been very troubled the last few days, and I believe I know what's brought it on. I appreciate your loyalty, but perhaps it's been misplaced." Josephine's thumb brushed across Emily's bare ring finger. "I am sick, Emily, but I'm not blind or deaf. I've seen your sudden aversion to your father and Fannie, and I've heard things … through the floor. Things that my ears were not meant to hear, perhaps," With a sigh Josephine fell silent, studying her daughter's dejected expression.
"We've never been particularly close, have we, Emily? Perhaps that's my fault." She continued holding Emily's hand, a familiarity she had never promoted in eighteen years of mothering. It felt unnatural, even now, but she forced it, admitting her own maternal shortcomings. "But you were always so taken by your father, trailing after him, imitating him. I can see that you're hurting terribly each time you shun him … and Fannie, too. You have become very close to Fannie, haven't you?"
Emily swallowed, refusing to lift her eyes. Two spots of color rose in her cheeks.
"I think it's time you were told some things. They may not be pleasant for you to hear, but I trust you to understand. You're a mature young woman, about to embark on marriage yourself. If you're old enough for that you're old enough to understand how it is with your father and me."
Emily's troubled blue eyes lifted. "Mama, I—"
"Shh. I tire so easily, and I must whisper. Please listen." Oddly enough, though Josephine had not spoken this long or this uninterruptedly in months, she neither flagged nor coughed, but went on as if some all-caring benefactor had lent her the strength to speak when she most needed it.
"Your father and I grew up much as you and Charles have, knowing each other from childhood. Our parents told us when we were fourteen years old that they had agreed upon a marriage convenant, which they expected the two of us to honor. It had nothing to do with the joining of lands, or of business, which has often made me wonder why they wanted so badly for Edwin and me to marry. Perhaps only because they were friends and knew what kind of children they had turned out—honest Christian children who would grow up to be honest Christian parents, and into whom the Fourth Commandment had been drilled.
"Our betrothal became official when we were sixteen—the same spring that Fannie came home from two years of studying abroad. Her parents threw a party right after she got back, and I recall the night clearly. It was April and the lilacs were blooming. Fannie wore ivory—she always looked stunning in ivory, with that blazing orange hair of hers—rather like a holiday candle, I always thought. I guess I realized from that first night that your father had eyes for Fannie. They danced a quadrille, and I recall them spinning with their arms linked, studying each other with flushed faces and smiling the way I'd never had Edwin smile at me. I suspect he took her outside and kissed her later in the herb garden because I could smell crushed basil on his clothes when he returned.
"I knew after that that I should free him from his betrothal vow, but I was not the most marriageable girl in Boston, nor the prettiest. I could not flirt like Fannie, or … or kiss in the herb garden … or carry on idle banter the way young swains like a girl to do. But more importantly, I had been raised to believe I must honor the wishes of my father and mother."
Josephine drew a sigh and fell back, fixing her eyes on the ceiling. "Unfortunately, so had Edwin. I knew that he was falling in love with Fannie, and I saw the strain it put on him. But I suspect his parents put him out of mind of breaking off our betrothal. So when the time came, he dutifully married me.
"I want you to understand, Emily…" Josephine still held her daughter's hand loosely on the coverlet. "Our marriage has not been intolerable … not even bad, but neither has it been the splendid thing it might have been had we shared the feelings that your father and Fannie did. We understood the limitations of our love. Call it respect, that's a truer word, for I always knew that the one Edwin truly loved was Fannie. Oh, he hid it well, and he never guessed that I suspected. But I knew the reason we left Massachusetts was to put distance between the two of them, to put temptation out of his reach. And though she always addressed her letters to me, I knew they were meant to let Edwin know how she was and where she was, and that she never forgot him.
"Did you know, Emily, that I brought Fannie here against your father's will?"
Emily's startled eyes lifted to her mother's as the older woman continued. "He was very angry when I told him she was coming. He shouted at me, one of the few times ever, and said, no, he absolutely wouldn't have Fannie here, which, of course, only confirmed my suspicions—that the memory of her had not dulled over the years, that he still cared deeply for her. But I had taken the choice out of his hands by withholding the news about Fannie's coming until she was already underway."
Josephine smiled at their linked hands, her own thin and transparent as bone china, Emily's strong and marked from hard work. "You think me a little fetched, perhaps, to throw them together like that?" Her whisper suddenly gained vehemence as she gripped Emily's hand hard. "Oh, Emily, look at Fannie, just look at her. She's as different from me as sea is from earth. She's vivacious and spirited, laughing and gay while I'm helplessly staid and Victorian. I've never been like Fannie, never been the things your father really needed. He should have had her all these years, yet he remained loyal to me and honored the vows we made. He should have had the warmth and affection and the demonstrativeness of a woman like her, but instead he settled for me. And now she's here, and unless I miss my guess you discovered them—what? Kissing? Embracing? Is that it?"
From Emily's downcast eyes Josephine knew she'd guessed right.
"Well, perhaps they've earned the right."
"How can you say that, Mother?" Tears glistened in Emily's eyes as she lifted her head. "He's still your husband!"
Josephine released Emily's hand and studied the ceiling again. "This is very hard for me to say." Moments passed before she went on. "I … I cannot say I ever relished the marriage act, and I cannot help but wonder if it wasn't because simple respect for your father wasn't quite enough for me either."
In eighteen years Emily had never heard her mother speak of anything remotely bordering on the carnal. Hearing it now made Emily—as well as Josephine—distinctly uncomfortable. Endless seconds ticked by while they struggled with their private embarrassment, then Josephine added, "I only wanted you to know it wasn't all your father's fault."
Their glances met, then strayed to impersonal objects in the room before Josephine found herself able to continue. "Another thing I want you to remember—in all the time Fannie has been here she has never distressed me, never once hinted that I'd done her a grave wrong by marrying the man she should have had. She has been the soul of benevolence—good, kind, and patient. And honorable to the teeth, I'm sure of it. She has made my dying days more bearable, Emily, just by being here."
The shock of hearing her mother predict her own death brought a denial from Emily. "Mother, you're not dying, don't say that!"
"Yes, I am, dear. And soon, I'm stronger today, but it won't last. And when I'm gone I want you prepared. Oh, you'll mourn me, but please, Emily, not for long. And, please, dear, you must give Edwin and Fannie the right to their happiness. If I can, surely you can. When he marries her, and I'm sure he will—he must!—you must be as benevolent to Fannie as she's been to me. And your father—well, surely you can imagine the anguish he's suffered, being married to the wrong woman all his life. Doesn't he deserve some happiness?"
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