by Mary Mackey
I am also writing to you because I was told to. There, you see: I am being blunt again, but I know you will not mind. You always were a woman of strong opinions. When you and Papa argued it was as equals, face-to-face with no words minced and nothing hidden between you.
Before I left Rio, I went to a fortune-teller who threw those polished cowry shells the slaves call buzios, the ones they believe the gods use to send messages to human beings. I think the fortune-tellers read the messages by counting how many shells land right side up and how many fall upside down, but I’m not entirely sure. In any event, I know getting my fortune told was not a logical thing to do. The woman I went to claimed to be a priestess, but she was not nearly as skilled or wise as Mae Seja, and you never believed Mae Seja could see any farther than the end of her own nose. Still, I longed to know if my baby would be born well and healthy, and if it would be a boy or a girl.
At first the fortune-teller refused to tell me what she saw. Instead she looked frightened, which alarmed me. When I ordered her to reveal what the buzios were saying, she told me I would give birth to a girl “more angelic, strange, and beautiful” than any child I had ever seen. I objected to the word strange and demanded to know what she meant, but she refused to say another word beyond repeating “If you want to know anything else, Senhora, ask your mother.”
I called her a fake, told her my mother had been dead for fifteen years, paid her, and ordered her to go away since it was clear she did not know any more about the future than I did. But since then, I have had a change of heart. Recently, I realized I have never stopped talking to you although you have been dead since I was a child. I dream of you often, and although you can no longer reply, this one-sided conversation, which never stops, comforts me.
Do the dead know what happens to the living? Were you present at my wedding? Did you slip into the church unseen and watch me marry a man I do not love for the sake of my unborn child?
Yesterday, I left Rio to return to the States, and yesterday I felt my child move in my womb for the first time. Will she really be “angelic, strange, and beautiful?” Can you see her, or was the fortune-teller only pretending to read a message in the shells? Perhaps my baby is a boy. If so, I hope he will look like William. If the souls of unborn children and the souls of the dead are in the same place, please speak to my little boy and tell him that his mother already loves him.
As you may have deduced by now, I am not entirely happy in my marriage. No surprise there; I didn’t expect to be. But I think if I were a person more capable of forgetting the past, I would at least be content as Deacon’s wife. The problem, as you may have guessed, is William. I still love him. What am I to do with this love? Transfer it to my baby? I doubt that will work. I can love my child without ceasing to love its father. Transfer it to Deacon? I don’t think that is possible.
You see, Mama, I misspoke a moment ago. I am not simply in love with William; I am obsessed with him. I think of him from the time I wake up until the moment I fall asleep, and at night he fills my dreams. I think if I described these dreams to you, you would not condemn me, but I am not sure how to put them into words. They are very physical. William and I do not simply talk to each other. We do a great deal more. I believe most women would be horrified to have such dreams. Those pious girls I went to school with would hurry to confession, but here, too, I am different from other women. I welcome passion. I long for William’s embraces. Each morning I am sorry to wake up and discover they are not real.
Yet oddly enough, although I can write to you, I cannot write to him. I have no idea why, but when I sit down to put pen to paper, I circle the blank page like a moth circling a candle flame and produce nothing but blots and tears.
I am not sure how I will post this letter. Perhaps I will drop it in the sea or burn it, but in any event, I will keep writing. The baby inside me grows larger every day, and I am frightened. I am not used to experiencing fear. I have always been confident that I could take care of myself no matter what happened. But so much can take place between now and the time we reach the States, and the only other women on board are the Misses Turner, two spinster sisters who presumably know nothing about childbirth, and Mrs. Wiggins, wife of the military attaché to the American Diplomatic Mission in Rio.
Nettie, as she has urged me to call her, is very pretty and well turned out in the latest fashions, all of which seem to be designed to make a woman look like a church bell. As we sail north toward the equator, it will grow hotter with each passing day, but I am willing to bet she will never abandon her lace gloves, long sleeves, and multiple petticoats. Nor will she take off her much-beribboned bonnet, a sturdy piece of millinery which would keep her head at a tropical temperature even if she were visiting Antarctica.
To give you an idea of her devotion to the latest styles, she has confided that she is going back to the States to have her seamstress run up a series of ball dresses for her. Why a woman would undertake a four-month round-trip voyage for a few silk and taffeta dresses that could just as easily be made in Rio is a mystery I am not capable of comprehending.
In other words, although Nettie is friendly, she is as impractical as those travelers who used to come up the Amazon with bathtubs, bottles of scent, and pianos. I like her, but I do not believe I can rely on her in a crisis. However, she is a good conversationalist and bright enough if you can steer her away from the topic of crepe de chine. She knew Deacon when he moved in Washington society and has nothing but good things to say about him. Also, she is perpetually cheerful. At the moment, I hold my tongue, keep my thoughts about William to myself, and drink in Nettie’s good nature like a woman dying of thirst in a lifeboat. I am grateful for her friendship, but I would give the next two months of her for ten minutes with you.
Love,
Carrie
March 21, 1854
Dearest Mama,
Mrs. Wiggins and the Misses Turner have taken to their cabins with mal de mer. I remain well: “healthy as a well-fed brood mare,” as Grandfather liked to say. The nausea of the early weeks has passed and my skin glows. Of course, my belly resembles a melon and my ankles don’t bear examination, but on the whole I would say I am prettier than I have ever been, for all the good it does me.
I know I should be happy to be in such good health, but I am too preoccupied to enjoy my strolls on deck or the cafezinho the cook prepares for me each morning. Something has happened. I want to tell you about it, but it is considerably more serious than dreams of illicit passion, and I find myself reluctant to commit it to writing.
I don’t know why I hesitate. When I was a child I could talk to you about anything. Even though you have been gone for many years, I remember you so perfectly that if I close my eyes I can imagine you are here with me.
Remember how you used to let me sit next to you at night and comb out your hair before you went to bed? You had the most beautiful hair: light brown and soft as a baby’s. It fell all the way to your waist. I knew at the time that you were proud of it, but now I realize how much Papa must have loved it. You were quite simply the most beautiful woman I have ever known and the kindest. I am told it is common for mothers and daughters to disagree and grow cold toward one another as the daughter enters womanhood and the mother moves into old age, but that never happened to us. Perhaps one of the few blessings of losing you when I was so young is that I can never remember anything flowing between us but love.
You always did what was best for me, Mama, even when it was not best for you. For six years you lived with Grandfather and Grandmother Hampton, enduring Grandmother’s complaining and Grandfather’s endless sermons so I could grow up safe and healthy in America, so I know you understand why I married Deacon. Like you, I am leaving a place I love for the sake of my unborn baby; but unlike me, you were married to a man you adored. You were certainly married to a man you knew; but, Mama, I am beginning to think I do not know Deacon as well as I thought I did when I accepted his proposal of marriage, or perhaps it is myself I do n
ot know.
When Deacon proposed, he claimed he loved me, and I was convinced he did; but—and I find this peculiar—since the day after we wed, I cannot feel his love, particularly when he and I are in bed together. I can tell he desires me—he leaves me in no doubt about that—but I cannot feel what I always felt when I was with William: security, a deep trust that he will never hurt me, a sense that his arms are a refuge against the troubles of the world. Mama, I am confused and for once I hardly know how to continue. Still, let me try.
I told Deacon when I accepted his proposal that, although I liked him and found him attractive, I did not love him in return, but despite this, our wedding night was more than I hoped for. Deacon was kind, considerate, attentive, and remarkably skilled as a lover. He did not once make me feel that he was disappointed that I had not come to him a virgin. Before we began, he assured me that, if I did not want marital relations with him so soon, he would not press them on me; but I was having none of that and told him so. I had not married him to live in celibacy for the rest of my life, so with some misgivings and an ache in my heart for that other wedding night that should have taken place but never did, I invited him to come into bed with me.
I was awkward at first, preoccupied with my pregnancy and worried we might do something that would hurt the baby, but he was patient, and we consummated our marriage with mutual pleasure and, I thought at the time, mutual affection. During the act—and this is crucial—I did not think of William. I believed I had put the past behind me. But of course, as you already know, that has not proven to be the case.
The very next day, things began to change between Deacon and me. At first, I hardly noticed, but gradually it has become clear that something is gravely wrong. A few nights ago, shortly after I had settled down to sleep, he came into my bunk, took me in his arms, and kissed me. To my shame, I responded eagerly to his kisses. I will tell you more about why I felt shame in a moment. For now, let me simply say that this was the first time I had been really passionate with him, and yet at the same time I could not shake the feeling he was making love to me merely to entertain himself. Perhaps this was untrue; perhaps I imagined it, but the worst part was that even as I doubted him, I said nothing.
Mama, I have discovered a strange thing: even when my heart does not respond, my body does. During the day, I find myself longing for the sexual act, and I think Deacon knows this. I tell myself that he is my husband and that naturally I should welcome his embraces since they present the possibility of having more children, but I have a terrible confession to make: I welcome them for another reason, and this is the source of my shame.
When Deacon makes love to me, I close my eyes and imagine he is William. I fear this is adultery, but I cannot stop doing it. So you see, the lack of real intimacy between us is very likely my fault, not his.
Deacon does not suspect that every time he touches me, I pretend he is another man, and I think that if you were here, you would advise me not to tell him.
I will post this letter by burning it. Deacon must never see it. He may love me as much as he said he did when he proposed to me or he may not, but in any case he must never suspect that I betray him nightly.
I will write again soon.
Love,
Carrie
March 23, 1854
Dearest Mama,
I have struggled with my passions and lost. I still think of William when my husband takes me in his arms, but I have gone beyond shame. Deacon’s caresses have become my way of forgetting my grief over William’s death—only I do not forget. I get drunk on passion and dreams and drift away to happier times that I do not dare mention to anyone but you.
I am using Deacon, and I think he is using me. I suspect neither of us really loves the other. What kind of marriage is this? I hardly know who I am. I feel as if I am sleepwalking through my life, living in a trance as the baby grows larger in my womb. When Nettie Wiggins speaks to me, sometimes I do not hear her, and when Miss Turner or her sister ask me a question, often I do not reply. All the while, for no reason I can name, I have a terrible, irrational presentiment that a disaster I am powerless to stop is rushing toward me. I hear such fears are common on long sea voyages, but I suspect the source of my own anxiety is guilt. I am deceiving my husband with a dead man. There, I have said it as bluntly as possible. William is dead. I repeat this truth to myself a dozen times a day but I still can’t make myself believe it.
The fortune-teller I consulted in Rio gave me her bag of buzios. This morning when Deacon was taking a walk on deck, I threw them and tried to see into the future, but if prophecy exists I have no talent for it. I saw exactly what I expected to see: sixteen polished cowry shells, ten turned right side up, six turned upside down. Still, you can deduce from this how unsettled I am becoming.
I am told that on our journey north we may expect to sight the vast sweep of muddy water that surges out to sea from the mouth of the Amazon. When we do, our ship is scheduled to turn west and put into port at Belém for three days to take on supplies. As we approach that city, I am overcome with memories. Do you recall the year you, Papa, and I lived far up the Amazon on a smaller river called the Rio Branco? I remember Papa sent his orchids down to Belém by dugout canoe and our mail—what little we got—came up to us the same way.
If you were still living there, I would go ashore and find someone to take this letter to you. But the jungle grows so fast that by now every trace of our camp has long been obliterated, so instead I will burn this letter as I have burned all the others and imagine you have received it.
Love,
Carrie
April 5, 1854
Dear Mama,
The catastrophe I feared has arrived, but not in the form I expected. I am so overcome with grief and weak from loss of blood that I can hardly hold my pen. Since the captain has been good enough to loan me his log book, I will copy out the entry and let it speak for itself.
Sunday, April 2, 1854: Delivered prematurely of passenger Mrs. Deacon Presgrove, a female child who lived less than a quarter of an hour.
Monday, April 3, 1854: Child of Mr. and Mrs. Presgrove buried at sea. Painting of stern boats continues.
I think that last sentence hurts more than all the rest. “Painting of stern boats continues.” Did ever a sweet babe have less of an epitaph? I feel as if no one but me knows she lived and breathed and was part of this world.
I am being unfair. The captain has been very kind as has Deacon and everyone else. Both the Miss Turners tended me with great skill and compassion, and Mrs. Wiggins did her best to help although there was nothing she or anyone else could do to save my baby.
I will write more when I am stronger.
Your grieving daughter,
Carrie
April 8, 1854
Dearest Mama,
I named her Willa. She never opened her eyes, but I like to imagine they would have been dark like William’s and that her hair would have been like his, too—thick and brown and silky. She was indeed the “angelic, strange, and beautiful” girl the fortune-teller promised me, so white and transparent that she seemed to come from another world. She could not have weighed more than a pound and a half, but everything about her was perfectly formed: her ears, her lips—even her tiny fingers had nails.
Before we buried her, I wrapped her in the shawl William meant to give me for a wedding present. In her arms I put one of the orchids I brought from Brazil. It is only a root and even though it cannot live in salt water, I like to imagine it blooming in Willa’s arms far beneath the sea, a great purple blossom signifying her mother’s love.
The ocean will never again look the same to me. When this voyage is over, I want to move inland.
Love,
Carrie
April 9, 1854
Dearest Mama,
Although I wrote to you only yesterday, I take up my pen again this evening to say how good Deacon has been to me and how kindly he has comforted me. When I told him I wanted to use some of
the money I inherited from Papa to establish a memorial for Willa, he not only made no objection, he encouraged me to think of what would be best.
I said I had two things in mind. First, I want to fund the construction of a glass house in Washington at the new United States Botanical Garden to shelter the rare orchids I am bringing from Brazil. I would like it to be called the “Willa Saylor House.” Although this will virtually be a public admission that Deacon is not Willa’s father, he made no objection and, indeed, encouraged me.
Second, I told him, I want to do something to help the struggle against slavery. Deacon thought for a while and then said that it was likely Congress would soon pass a bill giving the people in the Kansas Territory the right to vote on whether or not they want the state to enter the Union free or as a slave state. I knew about the Kansas problem of course, but I had no idea that a plebiscite act was so near to being approved. I had been under the impression that the representatives of the free states would never tolerate such a betrayal of the Missouri Compromise.
“It may have already passed,” Deacon told me. “If it has, President Pierce will certainly sign it, for although he comes from New Hampshire, he is nothing more than a doughface and a drunkard to boot.” By doughface Deacon explained, he meant a Northerner with Southern sympathies.
Once a date for the plebiscite is set, he warned, slavers and free-soilers will be rushing to the Kansas Territory to vote in the election since there is no residency requirement. How, he asked, would I feel about using some of my inheritance to sponsor a group of abolitionist emigrants?