A Woman so Bold

by L. S. Young

  For most of my adolescence, when Aunt Maude wrote to me, she signed her letters with a paraphrase of something my mother had written to her upon the event of my birth. “I pray you may treat others with kindness, endure each hardship with patience and humor, and conduct yourself as a lady in each and every situation.”

  When Eric saw that, he would joke, “One outta three ain’t too bad. Better than none.”

  I would laugh and pinch him, but sometimes, on nights when I couldn’t sleep, those words rankled. Life had not given me many chances to be a lady. Did a lady help butcher hogs in spring until her clothes were stained with blood? Did a lady giggle in church when the minister prayed, “Demolish, oh Lord, the fortresses we erect for ourselves”? Did a lady say “damn” when boiling fat leapt out of a pan of frying chicken onto her bare arm? Did a lady read novels in secret, by candlelight? Above all of that, a lady did not have a secret love child passed off as her younger sibling. I did not think a lady did any of the things I had done, except to dance by candlelight with a long train of eligible gentlemen.

  When I showed the letter to Colleen, she said, “Of course you must go. It would be rude not to. I know you have a hope chest, but if Maude offers to help with your trousseau, let her, for she’s more money than she knows what to do with.”

  Aunt Maude was waiting at the depot for me as I arrived in Monticello. She was a stunning woman, like my mother had been: full-figured and well-dressed, with rouged lips and cheeks. Her dark mass of hair was piled atop her head in a pompadour that was elegant without being ostentatious; a streak of silver ran through her hairline and formed a stark contrast to the sable waves.

  She kissed my cheek and held me away from her, inspecting my face.

  “More like Muriel Andrews every time I see you,” she said, “but fairer. Such a severe woman, that.”

  I smiled, thinking this a strange criticism from someone who comported herself like a queen.

  “Lily is like Mama,” I said.

  “Don’t I know it? I wonder your father can bear to look at her.”

  With this cheerful statement upon her lips, we departed the depot. Upon our arrival at her home, she gave her hat to her maid, a girl of about fourteen, and led me into the parlor.

  “Uncle Horace is at the office,” she said dismissively, “and now, for a repast.”

  I had barely begun on my refreshments when Aunt Maude said, “Is he a good man? This farmer you’ve chosen?”

  I looked up from my cucumber sandwich, too startled to respond.

  “I don’t trust that Yankee woman Solomon married to judge his character.”

  I covered my mouth with a napkin, hiding a smirk. “He’s a good man,” I said. “Kind and honorable, and forgiving.”

  “He’s a gentleman, but he has no wealth, is that correct?”

  I swallowed, embarrassed by my lack of knowledge in regard to Will’s finances. “One might say that.”

  She regarded me with severity. “He shall make you happy?”

  I nodded.

  “Hmm. I’ll say but one thing and hold my peace on the matter. He shall, perhaps, please you. Nonetheless, I’ve found the best philosophy is not to expect a thing, not only from men but from life, for you shan’t get it. Even if he makes every joy yours, which he won’t, there will be other disappointments. For instance, a beloved sibling might marry someone you entirely dislike.”

  After this speech, she continued to regard me from beneath her slanting black brows. I knew she was referring to Daddy, but I didn’t say so. I merely nodded my assent.

  “Well, then,” she continued, “I’ve laid some things out for your wedding dress, some fashion plates, and a few sketches of classic gowns I had done by my tailor.”

  I swallowed a bite of teacake too quickly in an attempt to respond to this and choked. She watched impassively as I coughed and gulped lemonade.

  “Aunt, I’m flattered,” I said at last, “but I don’t deserve such generosity. I am determined to wear something old. Mother’s gown, most likely.”

  “I cannot allow you to wear Elizabeth’s gown.”

  Maude put down her glass and wiped imaginary crumbs from her mouth, inspecting the stain of rouge on the linen napkin. I felt a pang of sympathy for her scullery maid. “For one thing, it will never fit you. It shall be too long and too narrow in the waist. Girls don’t corset the way they did in our day. Especially not a farm girl, I warrant.”

  I ignored this jab at my appearance and said, “I can hem it and let it out.”

  “No, no. You see, our mother wore it first. It’s an heirloom, to be saved and passed down, not worn. A miracle it survived the war. If Lizzie hadn’t sewn it up in that mattress, it would’ve gone for a blasted fool Confederate battle flag. Anyhow, you’re young, you’ll want something that’s in style.”

  “But I don’t like the latest fashions. I hate the big sleeves and short skirts. They’re unbecoming to a woman’s figure. They look clownish.”

  She narrowed her eyes and studied me. “The truth is I don’t think much of the latest fashions, either. They’re hideous, in my opinion. Well, what did you have in mind?”

  “Something old, with a classic shape, from the seventies or eighties. I always loved Hannah Monday’s gowns when I was a girl. I remember going to a wedding when I was twelve or so, and the bride had on a simple white polonaise.”

  “Oh! I know just the thing! Come with me.”

  She rose and strode from the room, and I followed her, confused. “Just the thing? Here?”

  I tramped up the stairs behind her, holding my dress up in front so as not to trip. She led me into a simply furnished spare room.

  “Not mine, of course. It belonged to my maid’s daughter. I had it made up for her when she was married to a blacksmith. It’s very simple, of course, no frills. Oh dear, do you object to wearing a dress worn by a servant’s daughter?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m well acquainted with Ida Monday’s companion and . . . I suspect, half-sister.”

  “Oh dear, I do feel for them so, not fit for their society or ours.”

  I sighed. I suspected from my mother’s early journal entries that she leaned toward abolition, but Aunt Maude was older and did not share her views. Her prejudices ran deep. “Why is it in your possession?” I asked, changing the subject. “The dress, I mean.”

  “I had it made, as a gift to her mother, who was in my service for many years. The silly thing wore it in her wedding and then refused to keep it! Said she didn’t wish to be beholden to me for anything. Gracious, what notions they get into their heads. It’s not as if it cost much to have made. It’s a simple day dress, muslin, with no frills. She was married in 1880, in the afternoon.”

  She opened the closet and pulled out a white day dress with three-quarter-length sleeves and a small bustle. Mother of pearl buttons ran up the front of the bodice. The only other embellishments were an eyelet hem and plain ruffles around the sleeves. Aunt Maude unpinned the Wedgwood rose cameo she wore at her throat and held it against the collar.

  “Something blue?” she said.

  “It’s the most perfect thing,” I gasped. “I never imagined I’d find anything so like what I wanted.”

  She looked at me as if I were a lunatic, but she lay the dress out on the bed and fastened the cameo to the collar.

  “It’s very plain, not even silk . . .” she said uncertainly.

  “A poor man’s wife doesn’t need a silk wedding gown. I insist you take it back once I’ve worn it, for it isn’t mine.”

  “Tosh, you ought to keep it and give it to your daughter. That girl isn’t coming back for it, I warrant.”

  “I don’t have a daughter.”

  She nipped at my chin with her knuckles, but she smiled. “Not yet! Now I shall insist, in spite of th
is, that you let Uncle pay for you to honeymoon in White Springs. And while you’re here, you must go to the new opera house.”

  A few weeks before the wedding, Colleen took it into her head to instruct me in the ways of marriage: work, duty, patience, and love. When she came to the last one, I stopped her. “Leen, you don’t have to explain all that. I know how it goes.”

  “You were little more than a child then. I thought perhaps…”

  I thanked her and assured her she need say no more, but she continued. “I know you don’t see a house full of children as a blessing, but it’s the gift that comes of wifely duty…of giving your husband all he needs.”

  “All he needs? Does any man need ten or twelve children worth of satisfaction? He has a hand, doesn’t he?”

  “Don’t be vulgar.”

  I pursed my lips. “I’m to be married in a fortnight. I thought we were discussing facts.”

  She blushed, embarrassed by my frankness.

  “Colleen, I’ve assisted you in each lying in. Your marriage bedroom shared a wall with my girlhood one. Can’t we speak openly with one another?”

  She shook her head vehemently. “Some things don’t bear mentioning by decent people. I’ve said all I will say.”

  We were interrupted then by Lily’s entrance into the kitchen. She held a letter in one shaking hand and threw it into the fireplace as if its contents were poisonous to her.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Colleen.

  “From Emmett. He has broken our engagement.”

  “You were engaged? Why do I never know anything of your goings on with that boy?” cried Colleen.

  Lily shrugged. “It was a secret. He asked me in a letter, and now he’s ended it in a letter. He met someone in Columbus.”

  I put my arms around her. “It’s just as well. You can meet someone here whom you see above three times a year.”

  With my wedding night looming, my thoughts inevitably turned to my limited experience with the act of love. Ezra’s conception had been a mere accident in a moment of passion. Henry and I had been playing at lovemaking for months, kissing and exploring one another through our clothing when we could steal a moment alone. Necking, the youngsters call it now. One day we were in his father’s cornfield, and it went further than that. He had torn my underthings, rough in his eagerness and inexperience, and I had let him do as he liked. It hurt and was over quickly, and in my room that night, I wept. People speak of losing one’s virginity, but that has always struck me as a vague concept. There was no blood on my petticoat as I had thought there would be. Nothing was as I expected, and I felt no different, but I knew if anyone would have learned of what had happened, they would see me as a whore. My blamelessness was gone, and that was what I cried for, that and the fact that it had hurt. I had wanted so badly for it not to.

  Then there was Will. Our engagement had emboldened him. When we met in secret, he praised my attributes.

  “You’re beautiful. Everything about you is sumptuous, sensuous. Your hair, your mouth, your plump cheeks with those embedded dimples. A few other things as well . . .”

  “Will!” I cried, but I did not dislike his words. I only feared he felt free to speak them because of all that had passed. “A gentleman shouldn’t speak so to the woman he is to marry!”

  “Then to whom should I speak so?”

  “A—a common whore. Not a chaste woman, your betrothed.”

  “Must I tell you again of my own regrets?”

  “I wasn’t thinking of you!”

  “Dearest. You would compare the loss of your innocence to the boundless appetite of my immoral youth?”

  Yet I was not comforted. A fissure, he insisted, did not exist between us, but I felt it. I did not know then that affection can create a bridge between two lovers separated by painful experiences, if given the time and care it needs, but I would learn.

  The evidence of William’s desire for me burdened my mind with the possibility of future children, and when I had time, I visited Lenore. I had not seen her since she delivered Ezra five years before. When she came to the door, I said, “I’m sorry for coming unexpectedly but—

  “Foolish girl!” she interrupted. “Come inside.”

  Her kitchen was much as I remembered: small and fragrant with herbs. I sat at the table, and she offered me a bowl of shelled pecans. I ate a few as she put the kettle on.

  “You are in trouble?” she asked.

  “Oh, no.” I showed her my ring. “I’m to be married.”

  “Ohhhhh!” She laughed, taking my hand and turning the emerald in the sunlight. “How fine! He is a good man?”

  “Yes, better than most.”

  “How is your little boy?”

  I started. It was not a question I had expected. “He is well. Spoilt, I fear. I indulged him, so grateful was I to have the raising of him.”

  She nodded. “I think of you many times since I attend your accouchement.”

  I bit my lip. The French word was strange in her creole accent, but exciting.

  “Why?” I asked. “Why should you think of me? You must see many girls, many women . . .”

  She sighed, licked her lips, and was silent, thinking. At last she said, “I see many, yes. White and black, dey all come. I tink of dem all. You are lucky to have your child with you, but not so lucky, because he never can be yours unless you want shame.”

  The kettle whistled shrilly, and she rose, returning in a few moments with two cups of tea. Her words pained me. It seemed she did not desire a reply, and I did not wish to speak further of Ezra.

  “I came to ask if I could visit you after I am married. I want to keep it from happening again.”

  She nodded. “You don’t want a baby with your husband?”

  “I don’t know. I wouldn’t go through it again if I could help it, but I suppose it’s unavoidable. As it is, I liked having you and Jill with me last time. My stepmother’s midwife is a coarse woman. She has always frightened me. If I get pregnant, will you come to me?”

  “Oh yes, I help you. I help all de white women, heal dem, cleanse dem wit my magic,” she said, lifting her eyebrows. Her tone was rueful, mocking. I felt suddenly disconnected from her. Because she had been a maternal comfort in my youth, so many years I had imagined that she loved me, but perhaps I had been no more than a child she was paid to look after. Maybe she even had her own children. Was the beautiful girl I had seen milking the goat Lenore’s child?

  “I can make you a tea,” she said, “but tracking your cycle is better.” She explained to me then the cycle of my fertility and the days when I was most and least fertile.

  “Thank you,” I said. “No one has ever shown me kindness the way that you have.”

  She scoffed. “You still breathing? De world has been kinder dan you think.”

  Chapter 14

  Two Marriages

  March 3, 1866

  It has been four days since my last entry. So many terrible, lovely, unbelievable things have happened that I have scarce had time to write any of them down. Sunday, during my rounds on the convalescent floor, I stopped by to speak to Mr. Andrews, as usual. His bed was made, and he was sitting on top of the counterpane, fully dressed except for his coat; he wore a threadbare waistcoat with a pocket watch, and his shoes had been shined. When I saw this, I realized he was going to be sent home, but I said nothing. I have mentioned him often on these pages, but I don’t think I have ever truly admitted, even in my heart, the extent of my fondness for him. This is in part because I fear that Mother reads my diary while I am away, and in part because I did not see the point in indulging a fancy for a poor planter, however charming he may be.

  He asked me to sit with him for a while, and I thought perhaps he wished to dictate a telegram to his mother, or listen to me read one
last time, as he had often done in the past. But when I took the chair at his bedside, he took my hand in his own and told me that he loved me! None of his banter today, he did not even waste words by painting pretty pictures of his feelings for me, but came straight out and said I was the best woman he’d ever known, and then, using my Christian name, he said, “Elizabeth, will you agree to become my wife?”

  I was so taken in that I fell back on my girlhood training and said, “Mr. Andrews, I am honored and terribly flattered, but I hardly know you.”

  True to form (how I admire his forthright manner, so different from the languid ways of the gentlemen I grew up with!) he said, “Please don’t! Pardon me, but I feel I know ya too well for that. They discharged me. I’m leavin’ Atlanta tomorrow, goin’ home, to God knows what. My land’s a mess, ain’t been worked in years. Pa dead, mama gone queer in the head . . . all my brothers killed in the war, my little sister a spinster . . . But I feel like I could face it all if I had you. I mean, if you were with me.”

  I knew this was what all the men said when it came time to leave the girls who nursed them, but now, coming from him, it sounded very different. It struck a well of feeling I had buried deep inside myself, and suddenly I was overwhelmed with the urge to weep, and I turned my face from him.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, reaching for me.

  “I’ve spoken to you of how I look after my mother,” I explained, determined to be truthful.