by L. S. Young
“Yes, of course.”
I told him Mother thinks it shameful that I work, says I give myself airs like the Yankee girls, yet I never hear her complain that I keep food on the table and clothes on her back. I told him she complains when I dust or polish what’s left of the silver, but she won’t even let me hire a girl to keep up the house a few days a week. He said then that I could feel free to bring her with me if we were married, that he’d do his best to look after her as well as me, but of course that could never be. I told him she would never come with me if I married into a family she saw as beneath us, and of course, I could not leave her. She would have no idea how to fend for herself. She doesn’t understand that things have changed forever now that we’ve lost the war and that women like us must go to work to take care of ourselves and our families. I honestly believe she would rather starve.
Then, finally, he understood why I had spurned his advances in the past while keeping his friendship and why I was so sad to reject him. I told him goodbye and left shortly after that, for my shift was over. I had a mind then that I would never see him again. Monday, of course, I was at the Davis home instructing the children. They did far better minding their lessons than usual, and I was so relieved I let them come into the kitchen and help me bake a batch of cookies. Around the time I was perspiring and sprinkled with flour, the butler came in to tell me I had a visitor.
He was standing on the front stoop with his hat in his hand and a battered valise next to him. His unruly hair that I’ve seen awry so often was parted on the side and slicked into place with pomade. His cavalry mustache drooped so elegantly on either side of his mouth, and he looked so sad and handsome, I could have cried. He took me in his arms and kissed me. It wasn’t my first kiss, diary, as you know from what seems a lifetime ago, but it was the only one I’d ever had from him, and certainly the only one that seems to have counted. Then he pushed an envelope into my hands and went down the street.
The only thing in the envelope was a note written in his unsteady hand that said, “In case circumstances change, I will always be waiting,” and a train ticket, one way, from Atlanta to a place called Madison.
None of this would have had any bearing whatsoever on the matter, other than to make my heart ache, except that Mother and I had a disagreement that night. Quite the most dreadful one we’ve ever had. She was complaining over my working so often, especially on Sundays, and never attending services with her. She said it was unseemly for a young woman to behave so, working all day only to go and spend hours among strange men at the hospital and get home late in the evening. I explained to her once again that I get a small stipend for the work I do there, but she merely hinted I ought to be trying to find a husband. Well, something came over me, and I told her everything.
I said, “If it weren’t for you and your foolish notions about family and birth and a million things that don’t mean a hoot in the South anymore, I’d be on a train by now and married to the man I love by tomorrow.”
Then she said I was an ungrateful wretch, and thanks be to God my father wasn’t alive to see it, and I said, “Thanks be Papa isn’t alive to see how you’ve let me work myself to death just to keep food in our mouths, all the while bitching about my shortcomings and not lifting a finger to help me.”
She slapped my face for that and said being a working woman had taught me to speak like common trash. I was holding the tea tray with our best china on it, and I came near dropping it, but I just set it down on the sideboard and went to my room. I packed a few things into a carpetbag, put on my hat and gloves and wrap, and emptied the coffee can money into my purse, and before God, I walked right out of the house and didn’t look back. Mother had gone into her room and was weeping angrily, and I don’t believe she even heard me leave, nor do I care. I suppose she’ll find out what it’s like to work as a woman in a man’s world, or she’ll go to her relatives in Savannah, but it doesn’t matter either way to me.
I reached Madison yesterday morning, and a time did I have getting to Willowbend from there. It occurred to me I ought to have telegraphed Solomon Andrews upon my departure. Well, I hadn’t. If I’d had the money for the train, I may truly have lost all courage and gone to my sister Maude in Monticello, but I didn’t, so I paid a farmer to let me ride on the back of his mule cart, and one long, dusty, bumpy ride it was.
From there, I hitched another ride with a nice-looking family called Harmon, who seemed less than thrilled to let my dirty visage near their carriage. From where they let me out, it was a three-mile walk to the Andrews’ farm. I got there at dusk, and Solomon says he never laid eyes on a more beautiful sight than that of me hobbling up the drive on my blistered feet, with my shoes in my hand, my hair falling out of its net, and my face burnt from the sun. We were married by the local preacher this morning in the front parlor, and this is the first chance I’ve gotten to write since. I am not sure I’ve ever been this happy in my life, perhaps not even before the war. Then, things had a misty quality to them, like something so beautiful it can’t be true, but every moment since I left Atlanta has rung with clarity. I am his wife, and I will bear his children and keep his house and work his land, and warm his bed at night.
I know what Mother’s opinion is on the matter, but I can’t think what Papa would say. After all, his father came to this country with nothing and built his fortune on the backs of slaves. All that is gone now, the house burned and the land stolen for want of tax money. The wheel of fortune turns, and now I am the one with a round of work for the rest of my days. But we have our own land, our own life, Solomon and I. It seems like enough.
On the day of my wedding, Colleen loaned me her false pearl earrings, and Tansy did my hair in a pompadour. Lily pinned a square of white organdy to my hair to serve as a veil, and I scrutinized myself in the mirror. I disliked my round face and plump cheeks, which contrasted with my sharp chin, and my eyes were a dull gray-green, lacking the size or sparkle of Lily’s. My fair skin was prone to freckles, and my rippling, reddish-brown hair was a constant mess that mussed in the wind and found its way out of every chignon I wrangled it into. However, as I smiled at myself, my two elfin dimples, invisible in repose, came out of hiding to soften my face. My happiness in these small physical triumphs was dimmed by the sight of Lily’s reflection in the mirror beside mine, and I turned away.
I took my one pair of crocheted lace gloves from where they lay on the dressing table and pulled them on, lacing my fingers together, then fastening the tiny mother of pearl buttons that held them closed at the wrists. Edith handed me a bouquet she had made of dogwood blossoms and peonies.
And so I was wed to Will. We stood beneath the dogwood tree in the front yard, on the carpet of petals it had shed in the spring wind, and said our vows. Afterward, we had luncheon in the dining room with everyone present: Daddy, Colleen, the children, Ida, Eric, Tansy, and Aunt Maude. With the money my aunt and uncle offered for the reception, Colleen had made delicate foods just for the occasion: cold chicken, finger sandwiches, coleslaw, petit fours, pound cake, quartered oranges, and lemonade so sweet and tart it set one’s teeth on edge.
After luncheon, as we gathered on the porch to say our goodbyes, Tansy took me aside and pressed a parcel into my hands. Inside were a pair of beautifully crocheted gloves and a set of handkerchiefs embroidered with my new initials, LEC.
“This sholy is goodbye,” she said. “Here you is married, and I’m to go north.”
“North? What for?”
“I got a job. Mr. Monday helped me find a job with somebody he knew up there.”
I felt the foundation of my world tottering for a moment. Tansy to leave, when she had always been there?
“But why must you go?”
She lowered her voice. “I’ve always wanted to. And I’m scared, Miss Landra. They lynched that woman up in Georgia for something she didn’t do, and being light-skinned ain’t gonna
help me none.”
I pursed my lips, knowing she was right. “Are you to be a lady’s maid, then?”
“Lord, no. If I ever roll another curl it’ll be too soon. I’m gov’ness to a lawyer with seb’m kids. A black lawyer! Can ya imagine?”
“Governess?” I asked. It had never occurred to me that Tansy, as well as myself, might have excelled in academics. I had never spoken to her of the school she attended with the other black children.
“Yes’m,” she said, raising her chin. “I sat for my teachin’ certificate.”
“Well! It seems I’ve underestimated you, Tansy.” I kissed her cheek and whispered, “Sometimes I think it is you who has been my truest friend, and not Ida.”
She smirked. “Gay as a jaybird she is, and twice as mean. But she give me the train fare for Boston, and I’m grateful to her fer that.”
“Goodbye then, Tansy.”
“Goodbye, and best wishes.”
I kissed everyone goodbye, and Will helped me into the carriage, where my trunk and all of my belongings were waiting. I said goodbye to Ezra last and held him the longest. He wailed as we drove away, and I ventured a glance over my shoulder. He was running down the pine lane after us, but Lily hitched up her skirts and ran after him, catching up to him quickly on her long legs. I made myself turn around when he was safely in her arms, but there were tears on my cheeks. I caught them quickly with my handkerchief before Will could see.
When we arrived at Oakhurst and entered the house, I was disappointed to see that the interior was nearly the same as it had been upon my first visit. I admonished myself inwardly for my impatience, thinking it would improve somewhat with the addition of items from my hope chest, such as new linens, doilies, and lace tablecloths. However, it needed far more in the way of restoration than that.
Alighting from the buggy, Will shouldered the trunk containing my clothing, and I followed him into the house and up the sweeping staircase—the banister of which was in desperate need of polish—and into what was to be our bedroom.
“I’ve slept in one of the smaller rooms since I moved here,” he said, “but I thought you might like something a bit grander.”
The room he had chosen was grand indeed, or had been once. It was undoubtedly the master bedroom. Large windows, facing east, overlooked the cotton field, with a window seat beneath them. There was a mahogany wardrobe in one corner and a matching vanity. The glass in it was old, wavy, and dark with specks in it, distorting my reflection.
The bed was large, a brass four-poster bedstead with a barred head and footboard. The mattress was bare but freshly beaten and stuffed, awaiting the linens and quilts I had sewn for it. The heart pine floor had been polished to a glossy sheen, and there was a fresh coat of white wash on the board walls. The ceiling above was ornate pressed tin. A fainting couch from the Regency era completed the picture.
I turned to Will.
“You did all this?”
He smiled. “Most of the furniture was here when I moved in, but I spruced it up and did the rest. I thought you needed some small luxury to come home to, and the rest of the place is rather lacking in that respect.”
I threw my arms about his neck and kissed him.
When I pulled away, he said, “You like it, then?”
“Will. It’s one of the nicest rooms I’ve ever been in, let alone slept in!”
I went to the windows again. They were nearly covered in creeping ivy that grew all along the east side of the house so that the light filtering through had a green hue.
“I meant to pull down that ivy,” said Will, more to himself than to me.
“Oh no,” I said quickly, “leave it. This place fell asleep a long time ago. It’d be a shame to wake it up again. Besides, it will be like sleeping in the topmost branches of a tree.”
He smiled as if the idea did not appeal to him so much as it did me but made no remark, humoring me, and I went into his arms again, brimming with joy.
I busied myself for the remaining hours of daylight, making the bed in our room and hanging the long drapes I had made for the parlor. That night was chilly, and after we had eaten our supper of leftover sandwiches and wedding cake, William stoked a fire in the wide hearth in our bedroom. Later, that room would prove a trial to us, its ostentatious size making it impossible to heat in winter and its east-facing windows a curse in summer, but that night it seemed perfect to me, wanting nothing.
I seated myself at the vanity and let my hair down, then changed out of my wedding gown into an everyday dress. We sat on the rug before the fire, and he brushed my hair, running his fingers through the chestnut waves as the fire crackled. At length his arms encircled me from behind, and his lips found my neck. I swallowed, both nervous and overcome with feeling.
“Are we going to make love?” I asked.
“When you are comfortable.”
“I am,” I said, “or as comfortable as I shall be.” I turned to face him.
“You know what to do?” he asked.
“Sort of. It was long ago and . . . rather brief.”
“We’ll take our time,” he said, smoothing my hair behind my ear.
It was as unlike my first experience with the act as light from dark. He unfastened the hooks of my Basque bodice and unlaced my corset, expertly for a man, I thought, until I remembered, nervously, that I was not the first woman he had undressed. Then he helped me out of my undergarments, pulling off my stockings, running his hands up my legs, over my hips, up my back. He stood looking at my body by the light of the fire, his gaze moving from my full breasts to my waist then down the slope of my hips. I wasn’t ashamed for him to look at me. I had been aching for him for months, the kisses we stole in the darkness unable to sate my thirst.
His eyes came to rest on mine, and we gazed at one another, the desire between us building until he drew me to him and kissed me, this time heatedly. I took his shirt off as he fumbled with the buttons of his pants, and then he was naked before me, his body golden in the firelight. He was as I remembered him, all of a piece, from broad shoulders, to strong chest, to the rippling saddle muscles in his thighs and well-formed calves. He was visibly aroused, and I ran my fingers through the curling golden hair on his chest that trailed to his navel, until his arms encircled my waist and he lifted me, taking me to the bed.
Everything he did was intended to provoke sensation, overwhelm with feeling. I remember most the moment when he licked his fingers and touched me gently between my bare legs. “Do you ever touch yourself, here?” he asked.
I nodded and hid my face against his chest, both embarrassed and enflamed with desire for him.
“Touch me there again,” I whispered.
He did, with gently increasing pressure, until I began to gasp.
“You’re going to come,” he said simply, as he might have said, “It’s going to rain,” and in a moment I did, rapturously. As I lay limp and breathless against him I said, “Was that all of it?”
“No.” He smiled, running the backs of his fingers along the soft skin on the inside of my arm, making me shiver. “That was just the preamble.”
When at last we were joined, I felt as if I had passed into some other realm of knowledge, where only he and I remained.
Sometime later, we lay spent, satisfied. It was an initiation, a consummation in every way the past had not been. Virginity, it seemed, had little to do with first times, for I felt entirely new. I had never been made love to thoroughly and enjoyed it.
“I feel so different,” I whispered.
He pecked at my mouth, nipping me playfully. “You look like the cat that got the cream.”
“I feel like it, too. It feels we’ve done something very wrong and got away with it.”
“Wrong? Are you unhappy? What did you think it would be?”
“Oh no!” I shrugged, remembering my deplorable sadness after the time with Henry. “I don’t know what I thought.”
“And what do you know?”
“You.”
He smiled, pleased, and held me closer.
Waking the following morning with no pressing chores and no household to rouse was a new sensation. When I opened my eyes, I was tucked against Will’s side for warmth. The feel of our bare legs tangled together was pleasant. He was awake, lying on his back, and he rolled over and put one arm out to encircle me, pressing his hand to the small of my back. It was a reassuring gesture, void of sensuality, and I smiled, comfortable.
He bid me good morning and pressed a kiss into the hollow of my dimple. I hid my face in my pillow, grinning at nothing.
When he slipped out of bed to dress for chores, I sat up as well, but he shook his head.
“Lie abed your first morning, Mrs. Cavendish. I’ll be back.”
“What about breakfast? I was going to put on coffee for you.”
“A man who’s been making his own meals for ten years ought to know how to make a pot of coffee.”
I sank back down into the feather mattress. He pulled up a corner of the quilt, and his eyes traced the lines of my body, the slope of my shoulder, the dip in my waist, and the curve of my hip.
“I’ll be back very shortly,” he breathed, leaning over to kiss the soft skin between my breasts. It was arousing, but I snatched the coverlet from him and brought it to my chest. “I see,” I laughed. “You wish me to be ornamental.”
“Not at all, for then I couldn’t touch you.”
I stared at the ceiling while he was gone, thinking about what marriage would mean. He had shown only the purest form of respect for me the night before; everything had been for my pleasure and well-being, but he spoke of my body possessively. I thought of Colleen’s sufferings in childbirth because my father did as he liked with no regard for her health. It frightened me, but by the time Will returned from his chores with coffee and toast, I had pushed the thought from my mind.