“Women know these things, Tom. Louisa forced her hand when she introduced us. For her, it was sink or swim with you. If you refused to seek my hand, she’d have another chance. Or, if I rejected you, she would have been in a better position than ever to pick up the spoils. At least she got you excited about the subject of marriage.”
“She did no such thing. Subject? Marriage isn’t a course you study in school. I think you give Louisa entirely too much credit. She’s snobbish, wrapped up in her Boston circle, and is as creative as a freshly hewn oak plank—entirely the opposite of you. But if nothing else, she’s pragmatic . . . and all she’s ever been to me is a very dear friend.”
Emma leaned back on her elbows and picked at the white flower blossoms that had been blown near her hand by the wind. “By your own admission, she’s a matchmaker. However, I will ply her with kindness, and she will, of course, be my maid of honor. As our marriage matures and we grow old together, I will continue to smother her with kindness because of her influence upon our lives.”
Tom laughed. “Sometimes, my dear, you can be wicked, whether intentional or not.”
At that moment, the light struck him in a peculiar, unearthly way, as if a halo surrounded his head. She took in his profile from the hairline, past the searching blue eyes, the neatly trimmed mustache of recent days, and the moderate chin. There were moments, such as these, when he was serene, if not handsome.
She touched his face, hoping that her pulse would quicken, some spark to shoot through her; instead, her hand was as calm as if she were petting Charis. Touching him was oddly unsettling—something was off kilter. She quickly pushed that distressing feeling from her mind in favor of a practical one.
He is right for me and I am right for him. This will be the best course for both of us, considering what happened to me. He must never learn my secret. I’m very lucky to meet a man like Tom—lucky a man will have me at all.
* * *
On a snowy afternoon in January 1914, Emma and Tom were married in an Episcopal chapel in Boston. The event was a small affair by choice. They had agreed not to spend money on a lavish wedding, instead saving for the home they were to move into at the bottom of Beacon Hill near the Charles River. The purchase had been aided by Tom’s parents and the funds he’d been able to pull together.
Louisa was indeed Emma’s maid of honor, while Tom selected a doctor with whom he’d studied as his groomsman. The audience consisted of a few of the couple’s friends, Mrs. Livingston, Tom’s parents, and Helen and Matilda. Mrs. Livingston and Louisa arranged a reception in the chapel, but the proceedings were rather dull, Emma thought, particularly for a day that was to be the happiest of her life. Perhaps the snow, the gray sky, the cold seeping through the stone chapel, the feeling that Boston would never emerge from winter, smothered any joy the wedding dare presume. Emma also kept an eye on Louisa, impeccably dressed in a white gown and matching fur coat, who managed to maintain a reserved smile through it all.
The anxiety generated by the day carried over to the honeymoon night on Beacon Hill. Tom had never asked her if she was a virgin and Emma had never broached the subject, preferring to stay as far away from her first lover as possible. She’d half-expected Kurt to show up on her wedding day seeking to derail it—after all, the marriage of Emma Lewis and Thomas Evan Swan did make the newspapers’ society pages. She needn’t have worried, he never presented himself.
She considered virginity would never be an issue with Tom considering the varieties of physical experience a woman might go through from birth to her wedding night. As a doctor, he understood the human body.
At the house, they undressed in the cold bedroom and slid under the blankets, huddling against each other for warmth. The mechanics of sex that evening were like starting the Model T on a frigid day. Eventually, some warmth grew between them, but the lovemaking was perfunctory and Tom’s body felt like a marble slab on top of hers. At one point, as she eased into a rhythm that might as well have been played on a drum, she saw Kurt’s face instead of her husband’s and her ardor increased, clawing at Tom’s back with gusto.
He withdrew as soon as he had climaxed, disposed of the condom, and fell asleep within minutes, leaving her unsatisfied and restless. This was the pattern of their lovemaking for many months before Emma finally guided him to her like a patient teacher, but by then she had little inclination to be an instructor because their sex had become perfunctory and devoid of sensuality. Sometimes they talked of having children, but the subject never went far, Emma thinking of her painful past, Tom thinking of the future. They agreed that the time was “not right” for a child—that they should focus on his practice and her art. Too little time and too many early marriage expenses would make for a worrisome pregnancy.
* * *
War broke out at the end of July, and, for a time, no one in Boston seemed affected, other than to mouth the shallow words to pity the “poor Europeans.”
“It’s a total scandal,” Frances said one August day when Emma, Tom, and Louisa met for lunch at a Newbury Street restaurant. “I would have had you over for tea, but I felt the need to get out of the house, and, if you don’t mind my saying so, not trouble my staff on a Saturday. One tends to fixate on bad news when one is alone with the help.” She popped open her black lacquer fan and swung it vigorously near her face. “The heat is terrible today. Perhaps we should have lunched under an umbrella in my garden.”
“Quite right,” Louisa added. “Everyone is shocked by the war news, but I suppose it will blow over soon.”
Tom looked at his plate of cold fish and put his fork down beside it. “I hope you’re right, ladies, but I don’t hold such an optimistic view.”
“Tom, no one wants to hear bad news,” Emma said.
Louisa leaned across the table and gently slapped Tom’s hand. “Emma’s right, no one wants to hear it. And besides, America’s not in it. Let the Europeans sort it out for themselves—far away from us.”
Frances sipped at her wine and then frowned. “Restaurant vintage is atrocious—and at such prices! I should have brought my own bottle.” Her face soured as if a horrible thought had struck her. “French wines may become more expensive. How terrible!”
It was Tom’s turn to frown. “You’re overlooking the terrible human tragedy, Frances.”
“Not at all,” she said. “Like most Americans, I know it’s there but prefer not to think about it.”
“How is your sculpting coming along?” Louisa asked Emma, bringing about an obvious change of subject.
Emma leaned back in her chair, keeping an eye on Tom, whose frown still registered his displeasure about the war. “I’ve started a new work—Diana—after the huntress. Of course, it’s up to me to get it done and make it work, now that I’m no longer in school. It’s a smaller bronze, one that will fit on a table, but still of moderate size.”
“It sounds exciting,” Louisa said and beamed at Emma.
“I can always count on you, my zephyr,” Emma said.
“Why do you call her that, my dear?” Frances chimed in.
“Because, like a gentle breeze, she has always been there to lift my spirits, and often guide my way. . . .” She patted Louisa’s hand.
“Don’t forget me,” Frances said. “I’ve always been your supporter . . . and you must let me have the first look at your new creation once it’s finished. There’s a place in the music room that might be perfect for it.”
Emma tamped down her enthusiasm, not used to praise being heaped upon her. “Yes, of course.”
Tom picked at the fish with his fork and then covered the dish with his napkin.
“Is something wrong?” Frances asked. “If the catch isn’t satisfactory, I’ll send it back. I’m picking up the bill—my compliments for dragging you out on this hot day.”
“No, everything’s perfect,” Tom said. “I’m not that hungry today.”
Emma knew he was lying. Concern blazed in his eyes, a look that had developed when Frances beg
an talking about the war. They left the restaurant and escorted Louisa to her home before returning to theirs.
On more than one night after that, Emma dreamed of Kurt holding her in his arms, followed by the cooing sound of a baby. She awoke in a sweat, before seeing the child’s face, to find Tom lying next to her in his usual state of exhaustion from his practice. He was kind, generous with money even to the point of getting her a dog for company during the long days and evenings of his absence. Emma named the black Labrador Lazarus, feeling the name somehow appropriate for a resurrection of their relationship. Tom even hinted that it might be necessary to hire a maid to run the household so Emma could concentrate on her art.
In many ways, her husband was perfect, but during those dreams of Kurt, which expanded to unknown men who made love to her in ways Tom never dreamed of doing, she knew the foundation of her marriage had settled like an old building. Was Kurt the love of her life? Had her former lover mortally wounded her heart to the point she could no longer love any man?
* * *
For two years, life went on as normal, a gray page on which the same lines were written every day.
The only friend she could talk to was Louisa, although Emma was never sure how much to disclose, how much might get back to Tom because of their closeness. “Tom seems so distracted by his work,” Emma admitted one day. They sat in Louisa’s sitting room during a purple afternoon as the sun began to set. Lydia came in to light the fire.
Louisa chuckled. “All men are consumed by work . . . would you like some tea?”
Emma shook her head. “I must get home soon to feed the dog . . . I felt the need for a walk.”
“You mustn’t worry too much. After all, Tom is a good man, a good provider, loyal beyond belief to those who are likewise to him, and one who is building his own fortune for his family. I’ve always known and admired those qualities about him. Out of all the fish in the sea, he’s a catch.”
“Tom doesn’t want children.” Shame filled her, its powerful tendrils rapidly turning to sadness, as the faceless child roared into her head. She took a few breaths to calm herself. “I’m not sure I do either because . . .”
Louisa waved Lydia out of the room and sank into her chair. “I’m sorry, Emma. Tom’s never mentioned anything like—”
“Why would he?” Emma blurted out. “I’m his wife.” Tears welled in her eyes as she remembered their sporadic conversations about having children, most dying after a few minutes like their passion. “We’ve talked about it, but there’s always some excuse not to—Tom’s practice, my art career such as it is, money, the war . . . always the war.”
“Of course,” Louisa said, looking askance at the fire, but turning back to Emma after a moment. “He never indicated any such thoughts to me in the past when he and I talked more. . . .”
“I wanted . . . want . . . a child,” Emma said, swiping at her cheek. “Perhaps that will happen someday.” Of the many things working against her, she knew perfectly well what was holding her back more than anything else: the memory of the child she had lost, the depressive secret she could never tell Louisa, which left her periodically only to come racing back when she least expected it. A child on the street, the sign for a doctor’s office, the way the sunlight glinted off a church steeple—any of these might trigger the emotion. The thought struck her that she held as much responsibility for the decision not to have children as Tom did. Had her relationship with Kurt so deadened her to the possibility of children, even if she believed that was what she wanted? She straightened in her chair. “In the meantime, I must count my blessings—be thankful for what I have.”
“That’s what all women must do—only Frances has escaped that fate because she now has the fortune left by her husband. I think she quite enjoys being a widow.”
Emma blew her nose in her handkerchief. “That’s unkind, I think.”
“But true. She doesn’t have that many years left—let her enjoy them.”
“Not a word of this to anyone, especially not Frances,” Emma said, getting up from her chair. “Lazarus is at home in the dark. He won’t be happy.”
“I envy you, Emma,” Louisa said, almost as an afterthought. “You have a man who loves you, your art, a comfortable home, and friends. Whether or not you have a child, not everyone is so lucky.”
“Yes, I am lucky,” Emma said, stiffening. She kissed Louisa on the cheek. “I can see myself out.”
She walked home by the river, the cold west wind slicing over the whitecaps, urging her to walk faster despite the shivers coursing up her legs. Bringing her hands up to her mouth, she gulped down the sobs engulfing her, for all she could picture in her mind were the intimate moments with Kurt Larsen and her appointment with Dr. Henry Morton so many years ago.
* * *
They took their places in the sitting room one rare night when Tom came home early from his practice.
Emma sat in her favorite chair across from the fire, sketching random thoughts that filled her head for new work. Diana was coming along nicely and would soon be done. Across the room, Tom read the newspaper and absentmindedly fingered a pipe that lay in an ashtray on the table next to him. His father had given it to him after his graduation from medical school, but he rarely smoked it.
Lazarus lay on the Moroccan rug in the middle of the room.
She looked up from her sketches to see Tom’s newspaper pages turn, and thought of what she would write in her diary: The picture of contentment—that’s what anyone would think of my surroundings. Me, laboring on the work I love, not yet making any contribution to the household except to act as a maid. Tom, happy with his newspaper, thinking God knows what, because I find it so hard to get into his mind these days. Lazarus stretched out between us like a god of serenity, his fur glinting in the firelight. When the dog “sighs” with satisfaction it seems as if the whole world is at peace.
But it’s not. The war rages on in Europe and Tom talks of it, but I know it occupies him even more than he lets on. In fact, it weighs on all aspects of our life. Our lovemaking has diminished to the point of nonexistence—a friendly hug, a quick good-night kiss, the best we can do. Things can change so quickly in a relationship, even in the early years. I suppose I was naïve to think that all would be rosy after my experiences with Kurt, but when one pushes something far back into the mind, away from the present, one is doomed to repeat mistakes.
I do love him and he loves me, I think, but I would expect our current state of affairs to be more like our golden years when comradeship is the glue that holds the relationship together. I think it’s my own weakness that keeps me from confronting him, asking him if everything is all right, expressing my confusion about having a child, but I don’t want to rock the boat because I’ve had enough of that. Stability is precious—something that never would have occurred with Kurt. Is there a man who can make me feel like I’m alive and fire my passion? Is that asking too much?
As she was looking at him, the newspaper slid down in front of his face, revealing the pinkish-white skin, the reading glasses perched on his nose, the blue eyes brimming with sincerity, the skin around his mouth creased, not a hint of a smile or happiness on his face.
“Louisa dropped by the office today,” he said.
“Oh?”
“Yes, she mentioned something to me that I’ve thought we should do for a while—in fact, I’ve already taken the first step.”
Emma rested her pad next to the chair. She said nothing because Tom had already decided what needed to be done—but more upsetting was his willingness to accept Louisa’s advice without consulting her.
“I’m hiring a maid for the household,” Tom said. “She’s a sweet girl who’s come from Ireland, looking for a better life. Her name is Anne.”
Emma fidgeted with the pencil. “We don’t need a maid, Tom. Housework keeps me busy when I’m not working on my art.”
Tom folded the newspaper, placed it on his lap, and took off his glasses. “Louisa always makes a go
od argument. I listen to her. She’s always the practical one, despite her money.”
“I don’t care about her money. What about my opinion of the matter?”
Tom leaned forward, bending over to pet Lazarus. “I knew you’d put up a fight. This is for you. A housekeeper will allow you more time for your work. You won’t be chained to the stove or to the dishes.”
“That’s very nice, but perhaps I enjoy doing work around the house.”
“No woman enjoys housework.”
Emma’s limbs grew cold and a frosty resentment churned inside her to the point that she didn’t want to speak.
Tom sensed her anger and lowered himself to the floor next to the dog. “Believe me, it’s for the best.”
“Why is it for the best? Louisa inherited her money!” She trembled in the chair. “We have to work for ours. Can we afford a housekeeper?”
“I’ve saved enough, and we’re doing well now that the practice has grown.” He petted Lazarus and the dog rolled over on his back. “Sit on the floor with me and give him a rub on his tummy. It’ll calm you down.”
“Lazarus is wonderful company, but I’m in no mood to calm down. Frankly, I’m angry that Louisa Markham has an equal footing in this household. You should have talked to me first. She’s like a second wife to you, and sometimes I wonder if she might not be the first.” She hated the words as soon as she said them—belittling her husband and taking shots at her best friend—but Tom’s action upon Louisa’s suggestion rankled her. She wondered if she could ever get over the feeling that Louisa harbored more love for Tom than she did, igniting her own jealousy and confusion.
Tom lifted his hands from the dog, sighed, and leaned against the chair. “That was cruel, Emma. I’m surprised at you, but you’ve always harbored a jealous streak against Louisa. How many times do I have to tell you—she’s been a friend to me for far longer than I’ve known you?”
She shook her head, feeling the ice in her veins thaw a little. “I’ve been called wicked and cruel by you, and headstrong by my mother, but I always seem to be the one who gets short . . .” Her voice dropped, ashamed of acting like an ill-tempered child.
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