The Widow's War

by Mary Mackey

  She is so busy trying not to break down that she pays no attention to Mr. Presgrove’s description of the family business in Salvador. Not until much later does she play back this conversation and realize how strange it is that the Presgroves are making money in sugar when everyone in Brazil knows the sugar market has collapsed. Coffee, she thinks. He should have said ‘coffee’, but what did it matter. I wasn’t listening for warning signs, not then.

  “You must let me escort you,” he continues. “There’s no use protesting that you can easily find a suitable female companion to travel with you. She is welcome, of course, but I insist on coming, too. You should not make such a voyage without a man to look after you.”

  She is about to tell him she can look after herself, but he continues speaking with an enthusiasm that defies interruption.

  “No, no, Miz Vinton, I beg you. Do not refuse. I will conduct you directly to my stepmother. At present she and my father are living in Washington. He’s a senator, Senator Bennett Presgrove of Kentucky. Perhaps you have heard of him? He’s been in the papers quite a bit lately.”

  Carrie shakes her head. She hasn’t read an American newspaper in weeks. All she knows is that Franklin Pierce has been elected President and that the issue of slavery is becoming more and more divisive, but beyond that she has been out of touch ever since the epidemic began. She has never heard of Senator Bennett Presgrove.

  “No matter, the point is, he and my stepmother have rented a very comfortable house in Washington, so you will not have to make the long trip to their plantation in Kentucky. As you know, the voyage from Brazil to the States takes two months—sometimes more. By the time you reach Washington . . .” He stops. “Well, you take my meaning, Miz Vinton.”

  “By then,” Carrie says, “I will almost be ready for what is called ‘my confinement.’ In other words, my condition will start to become quite obvious, and no amount of raising crinolines or taking out seams will be able to disguise it.” She knows she’s being overly blunt, but she doesn’t care. Her life is going to have to go on, and she intends to live as she has always has, straightforwardly without cloaking everything in cloying euphemisms.

  “I need to warn you that I’m not a woman who puts much stock in conventions. When I was a child, my aunt despaired of turning me into a lady. I have no intention of shutting myself away for months in a dark house with the blinds drawn. It’s unhealthy and boring and completely unnecessary. Being with child is not an illness, and despite the fact that I’m unmarried—” Although she fights to control her voice, it trembles at the mention of marriage. She stops and takes a breath.

  “Despite that, I am not ashamed. I intend to go out in public as long as I feel up to it, and if that makes you want to reconsider your offer, you had better tell me now.”

  Mr. Presgrove doesn’t seem to be the least disconcerted. “Of course,” he says. “Whatever you wish. But you will allow me to escort you back to the States, won’t you? And you will let my stepmother have the joy of being present when her first grandchild comes into the world?”

  Carrie’s desire to resist collapses. She wants to go home to have her child, and Mr. Presgrove is offering her a chance to do so in comfort and safety. She’s surprised that she still thinks of the States as “home,” but she does. All at once, she’s overcome with nostalgia. She wants to experience winter again, watch apple trees bud out in the spring. How long has it been since she has seen a robin or eaten maple syrup on her pancakes?

  “I’ll travel to Washington with you,” she says. “Thank you, Mr. Presgrove. It’s a very kind offer, but are you sure William’s mother will welcome me?”

  “She will welcome you with open arms.” He pauses. “And you must let me pay your expenses. Again I insist. After all, William’s dying wish was that I take care of you and,” he looks around the room, “I imagine you are experiencing financial difficulties. I hope you do not take offense at me saying this, but your father, famous though he was, could not have been a wealthy man.”

  Carrie studies him warily. She does not like the turn the conversation has just taken. He seems sincere, but is it possible he doesn’t know she’s wealthy? She glances at the pile of condolence cards on her writing desk. If so, he must be the only unmarried man in Rio who doesn’t view her as a potential source of income.

  “Surely you have heard that I recently inherited a great fortune.”

  “Yes, Miz Vinton. I heard that on the day I learned you were still alive. The news has spread to Salvador. Brazil is a large country, but Americans are few and when something happens to one, the rest know about it so swiftly it’s enough to make one believe in thought transference. So, yes, I did hear you had come into money, but when I saw you—pardon me for remarking on this—in a dress that is becoming but obviously worn, living in a home that is simple to the point of starkness, I decided those rumors were untrue. To be frank, I hoped they were untrue.”

  “They are,” she says. “What would you say if I told you that I am nearly destitute? That this house is rented? That I have less than fifty dollars American to my name?”

  He does not flinch. “I would say that it is fortunate indeed that I came here today, and I would ask you to have the goodness to accept any monetary aid my family or I can offer you. I know my father and stepmother would feel the same. I am sorry to hear you have been experiencing financial difficulties, but you must put any anxiety about money behind you. You shall never want for anything, nor shall the child.”

  His face turns red; he seems to struggle for words. “Miz Vinton, I said just now that I hoped the rumors of your wealth were untrue, because I have something to ask you, and if you were rich, you might be inclined to think I had ulterior motives. I want to say, right at the outset, that I am thinking only of your welfare and the welfare of your child. I am a simple, plainspoken man. I know this is the worst possible time to ask you this question. You are grieving for William, as am I. I’ve never done this before and I don’t know how to find the right words, but I wonder if . . . that is, if you would consider doing me the honor of becoming . . . my wife.”

  “No,” she says sharply. “Of course not.” So he is a fortune hunter after all. She is disappointed. She had thought better of him.

  Mr. Presgrove looks agitated, as well he should. “I was afraid that would be your answer, Miz Vinton. That would be my own answer if I were in your position. I have heard you have been deluged with suitors who, despite your many obvious virtues, court you only for your money, but I am not one of these. Would you please hear me out before you give me your final answer? What I am about to say has grave implications for your child.”

  Carrie wants to order him to leave, but when a man says he is about to say something that has “grave implications for your child,” what choice do you have but to listen? “Go on,” she says.

  He clears his throat. “Thank you. You are every bit as kind as William said you were.” He clears his throat again. “I would hope that if you accepted my proposal you would in time come to feel affection for me, but however you choose to regard me, I will respect your feelings, and I will never attempt to compel your affections or ask you to do anything you do not want to do.

  “If you wish, our marriage could simply be a legal arrangement for the benefit of my late stepbrother’s son or,” he adds quickly “daughter. Frankly, that would not be my preference, for, if you will excuse me for saying so, you are a very attractive woman, but for a daughter it is particularly important to have a legitimate father. You have not been back to the States for a long time, and perhaps you do not realize the stain an out-of-wedlock birth puts on an innocent child there. I don’t care that you and William never married, nor will my father and stepmother care. No matter what you decide, we will embrace your child as our own, but society will not be so kind.

  “America is still Puritan. Saving your presence, I must use the word bastard here, Miz Vinton. I can think of no kinder word, and that is what people will call your baby. I do not wa
nt that to happen when you and I can so easily prevent it. If we marry, no one will dare question the paternity of your child.”

  “Mr. Presgrove, please, stop. I can’t possibly consider your offer. We have just met.”

  “Yes, Miz Vinton, we have, and that is why I now want to tell you something to prove my sincerity. I said that my father was Senator Bennett Presgrove. The name meant nothing to you, but it means a great deal in the States. Few men are more determined to extend slavery into the western territories, and few men make more ardent speeches in support of slaveholding.

  “I will not attempt to deceive you by pretending that my father himself does not own slaves. When he argues for the extension of slavery, he speaks out of self-interest. He is one of the largest slaveholders in the state of Kentucky. I realize that in confessing this fact I run the risk of permanently alienating you, but I want you to know everything about me without reservation.

  “Miz Vinton, please do not judge me on the basis of my father’s reputation. I may be his son, but I do not share his views on slavery. In fact, I find them abhorrent. William told me you were an abolitionist. So am I. My father and I have quarreled bitterly over slavery. I believe he may write me out of his will because of it, but whether he does or not is a matter of indifference to me.

  “I’m an honest businessman, Miz Vinton. I’m not wealthy, but thanks to my late mother, I’m prosperous, and I can easily take care of you and the baby. You say you have no money, but even if you did, I would not need it, and I would insist that you agree to draw up a will leaving it all to the child.

  “I know I am not a great catch, but I’m good-natured, and I love children, and, if you will excuse me for saying so, I’m told that I’m not bad looking. You deserve a better man than I will ever be, but time is of the essence. I am here and unmarried, and I would love this child as my own without ever attempting to replace his father. When the boy is old enough, we can tell him the truth. You can name him William Saylor Presgrove, and when he is of age, he can drop the ‘Presgrove.’ If you give birth to a girl, she will be my delight and treasure, and I will see that she marries well. Male or female, the child will not only inherit whatever money you may have; he or she will inherit my entire estate as well.”

  Carrie is impressed. Surely no man who was merely interested in her money would confess to being the son of a slaveholding father. Still, what he is proposing is impossible.

  “This is a generous offer,” she says, “a kind offer, very possibly a well-meant offer, but, Mr. Presgrove, I cannot accept it. My answer is still no. I cannot marry you. I will go back home dressed in mourning and tell people I am William’s widow.”

  “Miz Vinton, that may work for a while, but although Brazil is on the other side of the globe, ships sail from the States to Rio more frequently than you might imagine. In the end people will find out. Sooner or later, they always do. I know my proposal has been unromantic, but do not think the less of me for that. I realize I can never take William’s place in your heart. I would never try. But what I would try to do is make you happy.”

  Pulling out his card case, he removes a card, picks up Carrie’s pen, dips it in the inkwell, and writes something on the reverse side. “Here are names of some people who know me. And here is where I am staying. I have friends and business acquaintances in Rio. You can ask them about my financial status and my character. They will confirm what I have told you. Please at least think over my offer, Miz Vinton. If you discover something about me that makes you adverse to becoming my wife, then I will never mention the subject again. But if after verifying my story, you change your mind, I would be honored to be your husband.”

  “I do not wish to be rude,” Carrie says, “but I would appreciate it if you would leave now.”

  Mr. Presgrove rises to his feet, politely bids her good day, gives her a courtly Southern bow, and leaves. Two hours later a messenger arrives bearing a huge bouquet. There are so many flowers, Carrie cannot find enough vases to hold them. With them is a note, which reads:My dear Miss Vinton,

  Whatever you decide, I remain your loyal friend.

  D.L.P.

  Chapter Six

  After pillaging the flower market of its most spectacular blossoms and ordering them sent to Carrie, Deacon hails a cab and spends the remainder of the afternoon making calls. Traveling to the docks, he speaks to two business acquaintances. Then he pays a short visit to the banker who handles his commercial transactions and asks for a favor. His banker is delighted and promises to do as Deacon has requested.

  “You may rely on me, Senhor Presgrove,” he says, shaking Deacon’s hand with so much enthusiasm that a bystander might have thought Deacon had just been elected to political office.

  After leaving the bank, Deacon dismisses the cab and strolls through the city. His pace is leisurely. From time to time, he pauses to admire something: a cage of green and red toucans being offered up for sale, piles of orange cashew fruits, clay pipes imported from Holland. Around four, he stops in a café for a small cup of coffee so strong and thickly sugared he can almost stand his spoon up in it. Legless beggars clack along the street in small wooden carts painted with the faces of saints, vendors hawk an unidentifiable purple fruit that looks like grapeshot, barefoot female slaves in ruffled skirts and turbans pass by balancing trays of sweets and baskets of laundry on their heads.

  Tossing a few coins to the waiter, Deacon gets up and begins to walk again. When he reaches a section of smart shops, women dressed in the latest Paris fashions sweep by him like flocks of exotic parrots.

  As he crosses the Largo do Praço, he sees a toothless old man in a battered straw hat clutching a lamppost with one hand and a bottle of rum with the other. Rum is sugar and sugar is selling for next to nothing, Deacon thinks. This is a thought that should worry a man in the sugar exporting business, but Deacon’s mood remains sunny.

  Pausing in front of the Igreja de Nossa Senhora de Candelária, he looks around for a cab. The church, which as usual is adorned with scaffolding, is still not complete. Deacon has long thought it should be renamed “Our Lady of Perpetual Construction,” but he has not found anyone he can share this witticism with. Brazilians are touchy about foreigners making jokes about religion.

  A cab appears. Deacon hails it and gets in. Half an hour later he is sitting in the parlor of the home of the military attaché to the American Diplomatic Mission, drinking sherry and having a lively conversation with the attaché’s wife, a small, redheaded woman from Tennessee named Nettie.

  “My stars!” Nettie cries. “You are the most amazin’ man, Deacon Presgrove. How do you do it?”

  “Necessity, my dear,” Deacon says. “Pure, unadulterated necessity.”

  Nettie laughs and refills his glass, which, Deacon is sorry to note, is hardly larger than a thimble.

  “You simply must take part in one of our amateur theatricals before you leave Rio. You are too talented to let yourself go to waste. Christ Church is putting on a passion play at Easter, and you would be perfect for the role of Judas.”

  Deacon smiles and toasts her with the miniature sherry glass. “I will take that as a compliment, Mrs. Wiggins. Alas, I will be long gone before Easter, out on the high seas, tossed by the elements.”

  “Why, you selfish old thing, you. You simply cannot leave without sharin’ your talents. You were such a favorite back in Washington City. I still remember the night I saw you do Shakespeare at the National Theater. I never saw a more handsome Romeo. I can’t for the life of me recall the name you acted under?”

  “Donald Lane. But my acting days are long behind me, Nettie. I had a brief career on the boards, again out of necessity. A single season only. Hardly a soul except you remembers and, darlin’, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t remind them.”

  “My lips are sealed,” Nettie says. She takes a sip of sherry and laughs. “At least until you sail. Now don’t go givin’ me that dark look, Deacon. I’m only teasin’. Honey, you are lookin’ at me like Othello looke
d at poor Desdemona just before he wrung her neck.”

  Chapter Seven

  In later years when Carrie thinks back to the weeks when Deacon courted her, what she remembers most is how considerate he was. The day after he proposes marriage for the first time, he returns to her house and asks to see her. Instead of telling the maid to send him away, she admits him to her parlor to thank him for sending her the flowers.

  That at least is the ostensible reason. The truth is, she’s lonely. Deacon Presgrove is the only person in Rio she can talk to about William and the only person who knows she’s carrying William’s child. She decides in advance that if he renews his proposal, she will ask him to leave at once, but he never mentions the subject. Instead he is sympathetic and considerate, and they have a long conversation that leaves Carrie feeling as if she has found a friend.

  Three days later, he comes back again, and again the day after that. Gradually she begins to expect him to call in the late afternoon and to look forward to his presence in her parlor. Deacon is charming, amusing, friendly; he distracts her from her grief, encourages her to imagine how much better her life will be once she leaves Brazil, and reassures her that she will not be lonely in the States.

  Sometimes they talk about her baby: whether it will be a boy or a girl, whether or not it will look more like her or more like William, what name she should give it.

  On other occasions, they discuss less personal things. Deacon is well-educated, well-read, and intelligent. He can talk about art, literature, and politics without being pompous or boring, and although he knows almost nothing about botany or even, to Carrie’s surprise, how sugar is grown, he knows an amazing amount about the theater. His stories of the plays he has seen in Washington and New York help her remember there is another world beyond Brazil. Sometimes he acts out the best bits for her, calling up the lines from his apparently inexhaustible memory.