The Widow's War

by Mary Mackey

  “Yes, Daddy,” Deacon agrees, “we are.”

  We. The word sticks in Carrie’s throat. She gags on it, puts down her knife and fork and glares at Deacon, but he doesn’t notice. Father and son go on congratulating themselves. By the time dinner is over, Carrie is convinced Deacon is not an abolitionist and never has been. In other words, he’s been lying to her for months. He must have lied when he proposed, lied when he comforted her after Willa’s death. This is a very disturbing thought, but when she confronts him, he denies everything.

  “Carolyn, be reasonable. We’re living in my father’s house. What do you expect me to do? Tell him he’s the devil incarnate?”

  “Yes. You told me you and he disagreed bitterly over slavery, but I only see you rejoicing with him. Pierce has done evil work this day. The Kansas-Nebraska Act is an infamy. How can you even pretend to celebrate it!”

  Deacon gives her an apologetic smile. “You’re right. I shouldn’t play along with the old man, but I did it for your sake.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means, I want you to be able to live here in peace and quiet until I can find us a suitable home of our own. As I told you when I asked you to become my wife, my father is not simply pro-slaver; he believes in slavery the way a circuit-riding Methodist preacher believes in God. It’s his religion. He knows I believe the institution should be abolished, but if I were to mention this openly, he would charge me like a bull elephant. He’s a formidable orator when riled. When he was practicing law, he used to chaw up his opponents on a daily basis.

  “You should go to the Capitol someday and sit in the Senate visitors’ gallery and hear him, and then you’ll see what I’m up against. He’s half-bloodhound, half-cougar, and half-grizzly bear, and if you tell me that’s one half too many, I’ll tell you that’s because Bennett Presgrove’s got more meanness in him than Caligula and more stubbornness than a mule pulling a load of bricks uphill in a wagon with no wheels.”

  “In other words, you’re afraid of him.”

  Deacon smiles. “Yes, ma’am, I surely am. And you would be, too, if you knew him better. So let me humor him as long as we’re living under his roof. What does it matter if I pretend to agree with him? You know what’s in my heart.”

  “Yes,” Carrie says, “I do.” But she must not say it very convincingly, because Deacon seizes both her hands and presses them to his lips.

  “I adore you,” he says. “If you want to leave my father’s house, I’ll take you out of here tonight, but I have to warn you that Washington hotels aren’t very comfortable.”

  He could not have said anything more calculated to make her feel guilty. She cannot reply that she adores him, too, and she certainly cannot say she loves him, although she is still trying to, so instead she says: “Humor your father if you feel you must, but don’t act so enthusiastic about it.”

  “Thank you,” he says. “You’re an angel.”

  For a fleeting second just before he drops her hands, she sees a look of triumph cross his face. In the months that follow, she often asks herself what that look meant. Did he believe he had won the game? Did he think she would never again question him about his political beliefs? Did he really believe he could go on deceiving her?

  Perhaps the truth was less complicated. Perhaps he simply did not care if she found out what a fool she’d been. After all, he had her in his power. She had married him of her own free will and come to a country with him where she had no friends and only one relation, who she couldn’t stand and who couldn’t stand her. Looked at from Deacon’s perspective, those lies were a kind of courtesy. He need not have lied to her at all, but no doubt he thought a gentleman who had deceived a lady owed her a bit of fiction.

  In retrospect she finds it astounding that he went to the trouble. His story holds up for exactly two hours, and then it falls apart.

  Dropping her hands, Deacon gives her another smile warmer than the first, more winning, more handsome, a smile designed to melt marble and carve roads through the wilderness. “Get dressed, honey,” he says. “We’re going to a party.”

  “Not to celebrate Pierce’s foul act. I don’t care if your father has an apoplectic fit, I have no intention of watching pro-slavers rejoice.”

  “It’s a reception at the French Embassy. The French completely abolished slavery six years ago. Liberté, égalité, fraternité, and all that.” He smiles again, warmly, convincingly with so much truth in his eyes that she suddenly feels ashamed of herself for doubting him.

  Reassured, she goes up to her room to change. She would rather retire with a good book and a glass of milk, but before they married, Deacon explained life in Washington was an endless string of social events and warned she would rarely have a night free.

  My wifely duty, she thinks as she examines her dresses. As she sorts through them, fingering the skirts and examining the lace, she silently thanks Nettie Wiggins. On the voyage from Brazil, Nettie decided Carrie could not possibly arrive in Washington wearing what she called “those sweet, but impossibly unfashionable little frocks,” so she willed Carrie most of her wardrobe, all of which Nettie intended to replace as soon as she landed.

  Carrie and Nettie might be different in spirit, intellect, and complexion, but by a miracle of couture they are the same size. As a result, Carrie has morning dresses, tea dresses, ruffled ball gowns, flower-bedecked bonnets, a light summer evening cloak, dozens of shawls, and even a gilded lightning bolt designed to hold up her hair, which Nettie warned must be arranged casually à la Grecque.

  “Please, sugar,” Nettie insisted, “no braids or you will look like a servant. You must let your curls emerge.” Nettie also told Carrie she should get Deacon to set up accounts for her with dressmakers, but Carrie figures she can set up her own accounts, and besides, she has no intention of wasting money on clothing—at least not at the rate Nettie says it is wasted in Washington.

  Nettie’s frocks are not to Carrie’s taste. She prefers simplicity, a concept Nettie probably abandoned on the day her mother took her out of pinafores, but after considering all the possibilities, she selects a low-necked blue silk dress with short sleeves and a Bertha collar of sheer lace. The dress is so draped with artificial flowers that she feels as if she should water it before she puts it on, but she has to admit it’s pretty, and she’s always liked pretty things.

  The ladies’ maid, who like Mrs. Presgrove’s nurse is Irish, helps Carrie slip the dress over her head and then arranges her hair. All of the servants in Senator Presgrove’s house seem to have come with the place, and none of them appear to be slaves. As Carrie slips on her evening gloves—also a gift from Nettie—she thinks how fortunate this is. She might be able endure the senator’s political views by gritting her teeth and holding her tongue, but if he had brought his slaves to Washington, she would have been sorely tempted to put something nasty in his coffee. The garden is filled with possibilities: foxglove, Devil’s trumpet, lily-of-the-valley . . .

  Throwing one of Nettie’s shawls around her shoulders, she descends the spiral staircase, is admired by both Deacon and his father, and is loaded into the carriage like an over-sized bouquet. Twenty minutes later they arrive at the French Embassy, and half an hour after that, she gets up in the middle of a conversation and walks out. The French ambassador may represent a country that has freed its slaves, but as far as she can tell there’s not a single American at this gathering who believes in abolition, and they are doing just what Deacon promised her they would not do: celebrating the signing of the Kansas-Nebraska Act.

  “Washington is so terribly divided these days,” a senator’s wife says shortly before Carrie rises to her feet. Mrs. Greenleaf is a pretty, kind, well-meaning woman with a soft Southern accent, and Carrie takes an instant liking to her, but she does not like what Mrs. Greenleaf says.

  “Oh, people still pay formal calls, and sometimes, when compelled, they attend the same public assemblies, but no one invites the wives of Northern and Southern senators to
the same parties anymore. What a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Presgrove. Your husband and father-in-law are such strong supporters of States’ Rights. You must be terribly proud of them.”

  “No,” Carrie says, “I’m not.”

  The senator’s wife looks at her in confusion. “But how can you not be? Your husband and his father are among the staunchest allies of the South in Washington. I hear President Pierce himself consulted Senator Presgrove before he signed the act and that your husband was present at their meeting.”

  “Excuse me,” Carrie says. “I feel unwell and must leave at once.” Rising to her feet, she throws Nettie’s shawl around her shoulders and walks out of the French Embassy, passing within a few feet of Deacon who is so involved in conversation he does not notice her exit.

  The doorman hails her a cab, and she tells the driver to take her back to Georgetown. When she arrives, she finds the Presgrove house dark except for the lamp that hangs over the front door. Seizing the knocker, she rouses the servants and is conducted to her room where she sheds Nettie’s fancy frock. For hours, she paces back and forth waiting for Deacon to return so she can confront him with his deception, but he does not put in an appearance. Finally, she gives up and goes to bed.

  The gunshots and fireworks go on all night. She sleeps fitfully, turning her sheets into a damp, tangled pile. It is viciously hot and more than once she is awakened by the high-pitched whine of a mosquito. Around two in the morning, the Presgrove carriage returns bearing only the senator who, by the sound of it, is drunk.

  “Oh, I come from Alabama!” he bellows, “with a banjo on my knee!” Carrie pulls a pillow over her head, muffling the rest of the lyrics.

  That night she dreams of Brazil and the Amazon, of ships with tall masts going down in seas the color of buttermilk, of William making love to her on a warm beach, and a small girl floating away on the waves with a purple orchid clutched to her breast. Just before sunrise she wakes up alone in bed, wracked by nausea. Staggering to the chamber pot, she vomits. When she touches her breasts through the thin cotton of her nightgown, she finds they are heavy and sore. For the past few days, she’s been aware of this, but she’s been pushing it to the back of her mind and telling herself it doesn’t matter.

  Walking over to the dressing table, she unties the strings of her nightgown, pulls it off her shoulders, and inspects herself in the mirror. No! she thinks. Not now! But her menses are two weeks late, and once again all the other signs are present.

  Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she tries to absorb the implications of being with child by Deacon. Only a few hours ago, she was seriously considering leaving him and returning to Brazil, but she can’t possibly make the voyage if she is carrying a child. This baby has come at the wrong time. It ties her to a man who lied to her, a man who most likely never loved her, a man who must have married her for her money just the way his father married Matilda for hers. She has fallen into a nest of fortune hunters, and a baby will anchor her here. If she leaves Deacon after she gives birth, the law will give the child to him. And if she stays: What then?

  She needs to know as soon as possible if what she fears is true. Is there any way to tell for sure if she is with child? Has her waist thickened? She doesn’t think so. Her corset laces are no shorter. She rests the palm of her hand on her belly and remembers how Willa moved inside her, that sensation of butterfly wings and rising bubbles that will not happen for weeks yet—

  Suddenly she feels a rush of happiness so intense it makes her gasp. This baby exists; it lives inside her. She doesn’t know how she knows this, but she’s sure of it. For a moment she allows joy to wash over her. This child will never replace Willa, but it is a gift, and no matter what sacrifices she has to make, she’ll love it with all her heart and do what’s best for it.

  Grabbing one of Nettie’s shawls, she throws it over her nightgown and walks downstairs and out into the garden. Overhead, the stars are intense and unfamiliar. She is used to seeing the Southern Cross and Carina, but what does it matter? The sky of the northern hemisphere is as beautiful as the sky of the south; the flowers in this garden smell as sweet as the flowers in Rio. She will teach her baby the names of new plants and new constellations. Maybe she can make a life with Deacon for the sake of their child. She’s young. She has a whole life in front of her filled with possibilities. Somehow things will work out.

  Chapter Twelve

  The next morning on her way to breakfast, she encounters Senator Presgrove’s valet coming out of the senator’s bedroom with a tray of empty whiskey glasses.

  “Did my husband come home last night?” she asks.

  The valet balances the tray on the palm of his hand, and stares down at the carpet. “No, madam.” He looks up, still not meeting her eyes. “Mr. Presgrove sent word that he was sleeping at his club.”

  His club? She didn’t know Deacon belonged to a club. How many other things has he kept from her? Retreating to the garden with a book, she waits for him to reappear, but he doesn’t come home that night or the night after. Senator Presgrove also disappears, so for the next three days she’s alone except for the servants and William’s mother. She visits Matilda several times, but always finds her sleeping. When she offers to help take care of her, Aideen begs her not to.

  “Ma’am, the senator has ordered me to give the poor soul her medicine and see to her needs. If ye come in here and take over, Himself will fire me.”

  Not wishing to get Aideen fired, Carrie goes down to the kitchen to see if she can help run the household, but the servants have everything in hand. For an hour or so she sits at the kitchen table drinking coffee and watching the cook make vol-au-vent pastry shells. Then she gives up and goes back to the garden.

  By the morning of the second day, she’s bored beyond endurance. If she were in Rio, she could go down to the market and haggle with the vendors, take a walk on the beach, or call on friends, but she doesn’t know anyone in Washington except Nettie Wiggins, who has temporarily decamped to New York to have her dresses made, and pro-slavers like Mrs. Greenleaf, who she’s not inclined to visit.

  She thinks of many things during those days she spends alone. Sometimes she imagines herself working things out with Deacon and discovering that, although he married her for her money, he cares for her. She doesn’t think that’s likely, but perhaps, even if he never felt affection for her, they can come to some kind of understanding. When he proposed, he told her he adored children. Was that the truth or another lie? Can a man be a bad husband and a good father? Can she raise a child with someone who believes in slavery?

  Three nights in a row, she dreams of William. He always comes to her unexpectedly, bearing a handful of orchids or some strange, exotic object. One night he gives her a spiraled seashell carved with Brazilian and African symbols. In another dream he brings her an Amazonian tiger that licks her face and caresses her with great, soft paws.

  In these dreams William caresses her, too: moves his hands across her shoulders and down her arms, outlines her hips and thighs with his fingers, draws heat across her face and eyes, and breathes into her mouth. They make long, slow love in her bed in Rio or in a boat that rocks each time they move. They laugh and cry and cover one another’s mouths with their hands so no one will hear them.

  She sees William, alive and well: his dark eyes, the tiny scar above his right eyebrow, the mole on his left shoulder, the white spot on the sole of his foot left by a nail he stepped on fifteen years and a whole lifetime ago. As she strokes his hair and measures the length of his body with hers, she feels happier than she’s felt in months.

  Dearest Carrie, he whispers. Darling.

  Don’t ever leave me again, she begs him. Don’t ever go away. And in dream after dream, he promises not to.

  In the past when she dreamed of him, she woke feeling guilty. Now she wakes feeling cherished. It’s as if William has come back to comfort her. Each time she opens her eyes to find herself back in Senator Presgrove’s house, she experiences a mixture
of joy and longing and grief; but in the end, the joy outweighs the grief, and gradually she comes to understand that these dreams are a gift from Deacon, although not a gift he ever intended to give. By lying to her, Deacon has freed her from feeling guilty about loving William, and although she’s not inclined to thank him, she’s grateful, although what this means for her marriage in the long-term is something she’s not yet ready to contemplate.

  By day, she puts the dreams aside and starts to make plans. She needs to find a way to live the rest of her life, if not happily, at least with dignity. She would like to confront Deacon and have it out with him, but what good will that do when she can’t believe anything he tells her? She’s not sure exactly what steps to take, but she decides she’ll begin by insisting he move into another room. Perhaps he’ll object. Perhaps he won’t care. In any case, she can no longer sleep in the same bed with him. After that, she’ll wait and see what develops. It will be better for the child if they can at least appear to get along.

  As for her plan to use some of her inheritance to sponsor a group of abolitionist settlers and endow a glasshouse in memory of Willa, there’s no reason to sit around waiting for Deacon to come home so she can ask his permission to spend her own money. The time to act is now. The newspapers are reporting that a group of slave owners have met in Westport, Missouri, to plan a mass migration to Kansas. Armed, bent on driving out anyone who opposes them at gunpoint, and loudly declaring their right to take their “human property” into the territory, they are filing land claims at the rate of fifty a day. If something isn’t done immediately, Kansas may enter the Union as a slave state.

  Appropriating a pen, a bottle of ink, and a sheet of the senator’s personal stationery from his study, she writes to Eli Thayer, Vice President of the newly organized Massachusetts Emigrant Aid Company, and offers to donate enough money to outfit thirty emigrant families. As she blots the letter, folds it, and seals it, she thinks how furious her father-in-law would be if he knew his letterhead sat above such a message.