"Repeat them," Dinah said.
"I won't. I tried to tell them the truth, but you know how much good that'll do, they nod, they smile, oh yes, of course, we know, we believe you -- but I'm your brother, and they wouldn't expect me to say anything else, it makes no difference what's true."
"But it is true."
"I know that, and so do you, and in this house there's no shame to you at all. But out there -- where do you think your husband's going to come from, if not out there?"
Dinah did not want to think of a husband.
"And you can't go away anywhere else. They'll all just think you're going away to -- to -- "
Robert was unaccountably shy to say it. It was Mary who came to his rescue. "They'll think you're like I am, only not married."
Robert nodded gravely. Dinah noticed the way he drew Mary tighter to him and she almost invisibly smiled and was satisfied. They were still talking more to each other than to Dinah. From the secure fortress of their marriage they were going to shout down directions as to how she should fight her dragon.
"Dinah, there's only one way out of this, so you can hold your head up and be known pure and good and not have any more of this nonsense."
Dinah waited.
"Damn, but you make it hard, you're so silent!"
Ah, Dinah thought, you are not so safe as you thought.
Anna spoke from beside the fire. "Robert, it grieves me to hear words like that in my home."
"Sorry, Mother." He dismissed her with his unmeant apology and went on with Dinah. "You must know what I mean. You've got to wed, and you've got to wed right away."
She had expected it, and liked it all the less for having had some time to anticipate it. "I wonder," she said icily, "whether Mr. Uray would have me now."
"No, Dinah, you're hearing me wrong on purpose!"
"And he does have a wife who might object to the arrangement, particularly if I've done any lasting harm to his connubial powers."
"Damn!" Robert stood quickly, moving the table a little and upsetting his stool. "Mother, I'm sorry, but there's not a man in the world who can hold his tongue when this woman speaks!"
"If I remember, Robert, you swore last because she wouldn't speak."
"She gets it from you," Robert accused. He paced toward the window of the cottage. "Dinah, it's not Mr. Uray we're proposing, as you know perfectly well. There's a man who loves you dear, who knows about these stories but knows they're not true, and he wants to marry you, and he's happy to marry you quickly. He counts it as his good fortune and not as a favor he's doing you."
"Tell this Christian soul that the offer will get him blessings in heaven, but not me for a wife."
"I'll tell him no such thing. I'll tell him that I talked to you and proposed his name, and that you're thinking, and you'll damn well think today and by tonight you'll damn well have an answer of yes for me."
"But you haven't proposed his name," Mother said from her ineffectual place near the kitchen fire. "You haven't told her who." Dinah heard with irritation the note of excitement and happiness in her mother's voice. I have no allies here, she realized.
"Of course she knows," Mary said. "It's Matthew, my dear brother, who already loves Robert as his good friend and wants to make a home for you."
Dinah was silent. She could think of nothing to say. She kept thinking, better Matthew than Mr. Uray. But it was not the right thing to remember now, for when she thought of Mr. Uray she pictured him kneeling over her, and "better Matthew than Mr. Uray" was no consolation for the desolate prospect of marriage and facing a hot and irresistible intruder night after night. She knew that it was surely not that way in marriage; Mary's joy in it was proof enough of that. But it was too soon after her encounter with the overseer. She said so.
"It has to be soon," Robert said. "That's the whole point, it must be soon.
Dinah only shook her head.
"Hold off on her," Mother said. "Give her a few days. It's only yesterday it happened, and she just woke up this morning, the world's wrong side out for her today. Like you said, tell Matthew she's been asked and now she's thinking."
Robert sighed. "All right. You women make up your minds so slowly, it drives me mad. Come on, Mary. I'm late enough to work, and so's Matthew, waiting to hear her word."
Mary followed him to the door. "Robert," Dinah said.
He turned to her, obviously hoping she had already changed her mind and would consent. It annoyed her, but she said what she meant to say anyway. "Thank him for his kindness. And I thank you for yours. But please -- tell him not to come here. Tell him not to visit."
"I can't tell him that," Robert said.
"You certainly can," Mother said. "After what Dinah's been through, it's perfectly natural if she wants just to be with her family. Get on, Robert, you've done what you meant to, you've done it well, now give the girl some room to breathe! Her food is getting cold. Get out, go on, get to work, earn money, get rich!"
Finally they were gone, and Anna stood at the door watching Dinah push potatoes back and forth with her spoon.
"Do you want to know what I think?" Anna asked.
"No," Dinah answered. She knew what Anna thought, and hated the idea. Anna was hardly the one to talk about the joys of marriage -- hadn't her husband left her, and only luck had kept them all from starving to death or being split up since then? No, Dinah had no wish to hear her mother spout foolishness. She sat and ate her potatoes in silence; in silence her mother watched her from the door. It took very little time for Dinah to be ashamed of herself for having hurt her mother so. But Dinah could think of no apology that would not also invite her mother to go ahead and offer her advice after all. So Dinah ate her potatoes, got up from the table, went to her room, and lay down.
In a few moments she heard the door open, and knew her mother was watching her. Dinah would not look. Her mother spoke anyway. "You'll know what I think whether you want to or not. Dinah said nothing. "I think your brother loves you."
"Too much," said Dinah.
"Yes, too much indeed. He's as bad as Charlie, they both think they can run other people's lives. So here's what I think you should do. I think you should make your own decision, and whatever you decide I'll back you up."
Dinah heard the door close. Her bruises suddenly hurt worse, and her nose suddenly throbbed, but for a moment she felt less homesick, and she could lie there peacefully enough to sleep again.
When Charlie got home for dinner and heard what had happened that morning, he was furious. His shouting woke Dinah in the other room.
"She doesn't even like him!"
Anna's answers were softer, but still clear. "Liking isn't everything. A husband's better than not. And Dinah's ruined otherwise." Dinah felt a stab of bitterness at that. Mother might be willing to leave the decision up to her, but she did have a firm opinion, after all. Dinah knew her mother well enough to know that Anna would find many small ways of letting Dinah know what she ought to do.
"How is Dinah ruined!" Charlie demanded. "She's as clean as any girl could be." Dinah noticed that Robert, married, called her a woman; Charlie, still half a child, called her a girl. They see themselves in me.
"She has the name of it, anyway, and that's what ruined is, having the name of it. What other husband will she get?"
"Better than him, or none at all."
"None? You don't know what you're talking about, Charlie, you're only a boy. It's better to have a bad husband than none at all. I should know. I've had both."
It was an argument that silenced Charlie, even if it didn't convince him. He couldn't answer such appeals to adult knowledge. He knew he was still outside that world, and his ignorance humbled him a little -- one of the few things that could.
Later, his dinner done, Charlie came softly into Dinah's room. She didn't pretend to be asleep.
"How are you?" he asked.
"I'll be fine. Don't be late to work."
"Mother told me about Robert's and Matthew's little pl
ot. I'm against it."
"I overheard."
"Don't do it. You don't have to, you really don't. I'm due for a raise, they like my work, we can save the money and you can leave here, go to another city, start over. And even if you stay here, you'll be free. I'll pay for you to go to school. You can be a scholar, and never have to worry about a husband until you want to."
He went on about his plans for her; she let him. But as he talked she realized that he had no better alternative for her, really, than Robert had. Either way she was to be dependent on someone, unfree and owned by someone, forced to accept someone else's decisions in her life.
"Charlie," she said at last, "I don't want to take your money or Matthew's home. I just -- want to get a job and live my life."
"But you can't get a job here. There's no overseer who won't have heard of you, only the way Uray'll tell it, there's not a one who'd hire you. He'll tell them you're a bad worker and when he called you in to fire you, you threatened to tell everyone he raped you. And so he gave you a good licking and bravely said, 'Say what you like, girl, I'll have no truck with baggage like you!'"
"Who'd believe that?"
"Not many. But they'd know that you were trouble -- and anyone who hired you would risk the suspicion of wanting to have you for a paramour. I may be only a child, Dinah, but I know that much."
"How do you know it?"
"Because that kind of thing happens where I work, too."
"There aren't any women there."
"Doesn't always take women," Charlie said. "I've got to go back now."
Dinah was horrified. "Charlie, what do you mean? What's happened at your place?"
"Nothing. I was lucky, I came in high, the owners know me and when a man tried it with me I got round him. He leaves me alone now, hates me but I'm safe enough. You're helpless, though. Nothing you can do without connections."
That was no news to her. But another idea struck her. "Charlie, I know my numbers, I know all you've taught me. Can't you get me work at your firm?"
"As a bookkeeper?" The thought was obviously absurd to him. That was all the answer she needed. If her own brother, who knew her ability, could not imagine her there, no other man would consider her for a moment.
"You'd better go now, Charlie."
"Don't even consider marrying that woodenhead. We'll find another way around this." He patted her shoulder and left.
She thought it ironic, almost funny that even though Charlie understood her better than the others and knew the idea of marrying Matthew would appall her, he was the one who inadvertently convinced her to say yes to Matthew's proposal. But he had made the choices clear. Either wife to Matthew or wife to no one, and if wife to no one then bound to Charlie's generosity all her life, for she'd get no decent work. She did not doubt the permanence of Charlie's generosity, of course. But as a wife, even Matthew's wife, she would have a place in the world, a stature among women that she would never have as a maiden. And food and clothing would be her right, as a wife; she wouldn't have to be damnably and eternally grateful for every crumb that fell to her. She would not be despised by the world. And, perhaps, she would not even despise herself.
Matthew. After all, he wasn't a bad man, just bad for her. It was not her privilege to be choosy now. Matthew or worse -- the only alternatives. So she would take Matthew and be for him as good a wife as she could, and she would have this consolation: that whatever problems marriage with that well-meaning oaf might mean, her marriage would be happier than her mother's had been.
When she announced her decision that night, Charlie wanted to argue, but Dinah silenced him with a look. It's my life, and I've chosen it, she said. He confined himself then to one snide comment about family members being sold into slavery, a reference back to the chimney sweep episode that Robert magnanimously ignored. Soon Matthew came to ask her formally. He was even more shy than ever, and managed to say everything as clumsily as it could possibly be said, but Dinah made it easy for him. She noticed, however, that under his words there was more than a hint that he didn't believe her story about Uray, that he was sure Uray had succeeded and she was no longer a virgin. Most disturbing was the fact that this seemed to make her even more attractive to him: she was the woman that the overseer could not resist, and now he was getting her with no resistance at all. The allure of the fallen woman who forsakes sin to marry the charitable man who will save her from hell. Matthew was even more dismally stupid than she had thought. But she smiled anyway, for he was really the only choice she had; she said yes with all the tenderness she could muster.
Afterward Matthew and Robert manfully finished off a jug of beer to celebrate and left singing, with Mary scolding behind them. In the ensuing silence, when the song had at last faded, Dinah kissed Charlie and her mother, smiled as if she were happy, and went off to bed, where she did not sleep for hours, just lay there with her arms crossed over her breasts like a gate that should not be opened or all the griefs of the world would surely come in. Come in? No, escape. For they were already in her, held deep, and she did not want to know them any better than she did.
They married three weeks later, and though there were loud whispers about her daring to wear white, they carried it off well, and Charlie borrowed from his employers to give her a gift: seven books and a small cabinet to keep them in, a precious gift that she valued more than any other. Charlie -- he had the mind and the heart to be a good man, and she loved him.
After the ceremony, despite the many people shouting and clapping Matthew on the back and kissing Dinah and crying, Charlie managed to take her aside and say, "I'm sorry."
"Not now, Charlie," she said, turning away.
"No! I just want to tell you that this has taught me something. That nine pounds a month is nothing. Ten times that is nothing. If I had been rich I could have had Uray's head for this, and whatever story I told the world would have believed. It's too late now, for you. But I just want you to know. Whatever it takes, whatever comes in the future, Charlie Banks Kirkham is going to be so rich that no one will ever be able again to bend the life of someone that I love."
"No, no, no, Charlie," she whispered, taking his face between her hands. "Don't talk like that. Don't you love me?"
The question hurt him, and young as he was the tears came easily to his eyes. "You know I do."
"Then be happy for me. Please, so I can do this well."
It was a confession; she was inviting him to take part with her in a conspiracy of truth. "I will," he said, and immediately he made a pathetic attempt at a smile. "Can I visit you?"
"You have to," she said. "We have books to read together." She hugged him and went back to her wedding.
Matthew was waiting for her, not hiding his eagerness very well. The sooner the dinner was done, the sooner the wine was all drunk, the sooner the late-staying guests were gone. then the sooner her clothes would come off and he would achieve the goal he had damn well earned by now. She smiled at him prettily, and she knew he thought she was as eager as he. She still believed that a good marriage could begin with a lie, and after all, this lie was not so hard to tell, for he was so eager to believe it that it would never occur to him to question it.
BOOK THREE
In which debts are incurred and accounts are called due, and some find themselves bankrupt when they thought they were rich.
First Word
The more I immerse myself in the nineteenth century, the more I value their vices. Especially hypocrisy, I am grieved that we have lost the art of lying decorously to each other.
Cultured people were all actors then, playing exquisite roles, creating themselves with every word they uttered. Parties were improvisational plays, with scenes and acts, with curtains and encores. Even home life was lived as high drama. Not the low comedy we rustics act out now. Our conversation is modelled on the inanity of the talk show host; our thoughts are created for us by pollsters and journalists, who do not respect the role we wish to play, but instead distill us into percenti
les or cast us as good guys and bad guys in a melodrama in which the journalist himself is always the knight in white armor, the man in the white hat.
We are still actors, but the play is melodrama now, out of our control, acted by amateurs who are such fools as to believe the parts they play. Give me again the days of glorious hypocrites -- they knew they were artificial, but the artifice was beautiful.
-- O. Kirkham, Salt Lake City. 1981
13
Robert and Charlie Manchester, 1838
Robert got bored easily in meetings. He always had. But now it was getting worse, so that the meeting had scarcely begun when he got up and left the room and went out the back into the courtyard. Matt looked at him questioningly when he got up, but Robert only grinned and Matt kept his seat. The speaker droned on.
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