by L. S. Young
“I came to see an old friend.” He sank into the ancient settee, and I took the ottoman adjacent, for the impermanence of it. “And this is a fine parlor, or was once.”
“Is that what we are?” I mused. “Old friends? Such a long way to come for a social call.”
“I was in the area.”
I smirked, the area being the middle of nowhere. “I see. Would you like tea?”
“No, thank you.”
“It was kind of you to attend Colleen’s funeral, as you barely knew her.”
“Don’t be that way. She was like a mother to me.”
“She was nothing like a mother to me, yet I find myself haunted by her death. She was so young, and she gave my father everything. I try not to dwell on it. I have children to think of.”
“Where are they?”
“William takes them fishing on Saturday. Ezra fishes, that is. I don’t know what Card does and don’t want to know as long as he doesn’t fall overboard.”
He gazed at me. “That’s a shame, I thought I might—” He swallowed, taking a breath, and did not finish his sentence, saying instead, “I saw Ezra . . . at the funeral. Hadn’t seen him since he was in the cradle.”
“Please, let me make you a cup of tea, or a sandwich. Something.”
I rose hastily before he could speak and returned some time later with tea and scones. They were stale, leftover from the day before, but I didn’t care, and neither did Henry, for he ate none. He fiddled with his tea. The delicate cup looked small in his long-fingered hands, which were trembling. Finally, I rose and took it from him, saying, “Give me that before you break it.”
I sat down on the ottoman again and took a sip of his tea. The cup chattered as I placed it back on the saucer. “Henry, what is it?”
He cleared his throat. “I was at Ma’s the other day, and she’d been going through some old things. Found somethin’ I thought you might like to have.”
He took an old tintype from his pocket and handed it to me. It was him as a boy, aged about seven and dressed in knee breeches and a waistcoat, his signature shock of curls hanging across his forehead. He was slight, with a serious, handsome face, even at that age, and thoughtful eyes.
“Don’t you want it?” I said. “Or Della?”
“Della isn’t sentimental. Don’t you think it resembles Ezra? I don’t know so much as he does favor Colleen. It’s his very likeness, wouldn’t you say?”
I did not look at him. Suddenly the hand I held the tintype in was trembling. “I don’t know what you mean,” I managed.
“I wanna know if he’s mine.”
“Yours?”
I met his eyes then and saw that none of my pretense made any difference. I felt the blood draining from my face but didn’t realize I had fainted until there was darkness. My head struck the floor, scattering stars behind my eyelids. Henry was leaning over me, slapping my wrists.
“Lie still a bit. I gave you a shock.”
I felt hot tears running backward into my hair and swept them away with the back of my hand. My throat ached unbearably. I turned my head and saw the overturned teacup and saucer. The rug had kept them from breaking, but the tea had spilled. Henry helped me sit up and lean against the ottoman.
“I suppose you have your answer,” I murmured.
I could feel his eyes on my face. “The cornfield?” he whispered.
“You remember.”
“Remember?” He sprang up and began to pace. “Why, of course I do. You were my first!” He rounded on me, and his tone was full of accusation as he said, “All this time. You never told me! And Della is barren . . .”
“It never rains, but it pours,” I said. “How did you know?”
“I didn’t before, but then I knew when I seen him standing with you at the funeral. He looks so like me, it gave me quite a turn. Do other folks know?”
I shook my head. “Some do. Most don’t. Folks see what they want to see.”
There was a long silence. At length I said, “So long as we’re exchanging uncomfortable truths, I have something for you.”
I went up to the attic and rummaged through my hope chest until I found a cedar box in the bottom with a sliding catch. I opened it and took out a faded envelope that was buried beneath schoolgirl notes, valentines, and name cards. Back in the sitting room, I placed it in Henry’s hand.
“Read it aloud,” I said. “I haven’t read it since the night it was written.”
His voice shaking, he read:
Henry, my darling,
I have something to tell you which I cannot bear to reveal in the fullness of a moment’s silence, for I am ashamed. We have made a terrible mistake, yet I suspect that in time it can become our most wonderful joy. It is simply this: we must begin our life together earlier than we planned. I cannot think of this as reason for sadness. Please come to me. I love you madly, I long to see you, I need you desperately.
Devotedly and lovingly yours,
Landra Andrews
I laughed softly. “‘I love you madly. I need you desperately!’ Such stuff is fit for the stage.”
Henry was unamused, his face full of anguish. “How could you keep this from me?”
“Well, I never meant to. The day I called and met Della I had walked over to give you the letter. It was meant to be sent earlier, by Eric, but you were away. I didn’t know why you had gone . . .”
“If you had given me this letter I’d have never married her.”
“If! That word is enough to drive one mad!”
“It’s no wonder you despise me so.”
“I forgave you long ago, when I stopped loving you. It was the love that gave such a twist to the knife. Without it, everything was merely mischance.”
Henry sat down on the settee again, his face grim.
“Tell me something about him, Lan,” he said softly.
“He’s a good boy. Obedient.” I sat down as well, keeping a careful distance from him. “And handsome. He does take after you in looks, but I’d not call him as full of larks as you must have been at his age. He’s a quiet child.” I sighed. “How many men have suspected a child was theirs and said nothing?”
“You would have me be a coward?”
“I would have you behave as you are,” I said. There was no desire in me to flatter him. “I love William. We’ve made a life together, and you must not come back here or you will destroy everything.”
His eyes took in the shabby parlor: the threadbare rug, torn and patched furniture, and the cobwebs on the high ceiling that lingered just out of my reach. I could tell he was wondering just how much such a life was worth to me.
He turned back to me. “Do I hold such sway over you?” he asked. “Do you love me yet?”
I regarded him thoughtfully. “I could not have kept loving you all these years. It would have destroyed me. Once ‘I loved thee with a passion put to use in my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.’”
“Rossetti?”
“Browning. If you could see the way he and I are together . . . I would not wish any companion in the world but him.”
“Are you quotin’ another poet? You know I can’t catch your meanin’ when ya do that.”
“But William does, and that is why we get on so well together.”
He still looked confused. “I have no hope of you carin’ for me in future then?”
I sighed, closing my eyes. “God knows you’re handsome, Henry. And charming, for all your nonsense, but we’re married. Both of us!”
I left it at that, and when I said no more, he took my silence for indecision and moved closer to me. He took my hand in both of his, turning it over to kiss the wrist and my palm. The sensation of his lips on my skin awoke something in me, and I ventured to look
at him. In an instant, his arms were around me, and his lips were on mine. We did not part for some time, and when we did, I was breathless.
“Well,” he breathed. “We still have that, at least.” He tried to kiss me again, but I turned my face from him, and his lips grazed my cheek.
“At least let me send money for him,” he pleaded “He should have good clothes and toys and attend a fine school. He should have a horse and a gun when he’s older. Every boy should have a horse.”
I bit my bottom lip until it smarted, struggling with the desire to say yes and give Ezra everything I had wanted him to have.
“It’s impossible!” I cried at last. “Will wouldn’t like it or allow it.”
“You say he knows you, Lan, but I don’t think he does. I don’t think he knows what you want, or who you are, or sees your spark. Come away with me. We’ll send for the boy.”
“You forget I have two boys, one still barely more than an infant. You aren’t thinking straight, Henry.”
He reached for me again, and pushing him away, I said, “I won’t become a pawn for your pride because Della can’t give you a son.” I rose from the settee, trying to shake the wrinkles from my starched skirt.
“Ain’t he my son, as well? Oughta have been ours.”
“Well, he isn’t. You made certain of that! Now please go, and give Della my regards. There’s no harm in telling her you paid a call to an old friend.” I walked purposefully to the front door and held it open for him. He hesitated in the door of the sitting room. At last he put his hat on and stepped past me.
“This ain’t the end of it,” he said. I watched him go. His black gelding was tethered to the hitching post, and he freed it, swinging into the saddle. When he was out of sight, I closed the door, slid the deadbolt with finality, and leant my forehead against the heavy oak wood.
I never took my nap that day. By the time Henry had gone, the sun was setting. I boiled an egg and made a cup of tea. I was finishing this meal by the kitchen window when Will returned with the children. He placed Card in my lap, and I kissed his head.
“Catch anything?” I asked brightly.
“Six catfish!” cried Ezra.
“Fried ‘em up by the river,” explained Will.
“I figured.”
“Did you rest?”
“No, I had a visitor.”
“Who?’
“We’ll discuss it later, at bedtime.”
When the boys were bathed and put to bed, we went up to our room. I stirred the fire and put on my flannel nightgown.
“Who came by?” asked Will.
I seated myself at my vanity and began to brush my hair. “Henry Miller.”
“That so?” Will’s words were casual, but his tone sounded strained. He began to undress and then stirred the fire even though I had just done so. “What did he want?”
“He knows about Ezra.”
William turned toward me, looking thunderstruck, an expression unfamiliar on his usually placid face.
“Knows? How?”
“I’m afraid they favor, now that he’s older.”
“What did he want?” Will asked again.
I sighed. “He offered money and then asked me to go away with him. I sent him away. I don’t wish to speak of it further.”
“What in hell? What else did he offer? Do you wish you had gone with him?”
Rising from the vanity, I crossed the room, removed my slippers, and climbed under the covers. I curled up beneath the quilt, my knees to my chest. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
He nestled in beside me, and I let him embrace me. Silence, nearly tangible, enveloped us, and Will did not speak again. Soon he was asleep, tired from his day on the river. I would never tell him that a part of me wished I had gone with Henry, that I craved the excitement of him, the unpredictability—everything I had loved him for. His presence to me was like a first shot of strong liquor, heady and invigorating. As I fell into slumber, I fought the urge to weep for my girlhood dreams, long dead.
A week later, I received a letter from Henry in the mail, and another soon followed it. After that, they came in succession, always without a return address. He sent money for Ezra, but the words were for me. He begged me to come to him.
I kept the money. I stored it in an old coffee can and rationed it for necessities. The children needed something other than ragged cast-offs and homespun to wear. I bought castor oil, vitamin drops, and cough medicine, and a pair of shoes for Ezra from the Sears catalogue at the general store. Once I even afforded myself the luxury of half a pound white sugar and used it for my tea and in little cakes for the children. William never said a word about any of my purchases; to this day, I don’t think he even noticed, and it was this, more than anything, that drove me to write my first reply.
Henry had known I needed the money, and that I would not send it back. In spite of this, I wrote to him, asking him not to press me, insisting that he send no more. He continued to send the letters—brief, jocular, direct in their intentions. Sometimes he revived stories from our childhood together or quoted the letter I had written for him at sixteen, teasingly, “I love you madly, you must come to me.”
Ida’s father had given Eric the money he needed to begin his own law practice in town, a venture that was sorely needed in a little place like Willowbend, where one must take the train to Tallahassee to find an attorney. I knew that even without Ida’s money he would be successful, and they would always live in luxury. I couldn’t help feeling a bit jealous of them both, but my jealousy turned to disgust when I visited them the first time in their new home.
A maid let me in and showed me to the parlor. A handsome youth, not more than nineteen, was sitting opposite Ida on the sofa. He stood up as I entered, blushed, and bid her goodbye. His eyes were downcast as he passed me in the doorway.
“It’s not much,” Ida said, as I seated myself in an armchair, “but there’s nothing wrong with small beginnings.”
I looked around at the neatly furnished room and the fine Turkish rug on the floor and pressed back a smirk. “I don’t suppose I call a fine home like this small, but what do I know?”
“You’re one to talk, rattling around in that big old house in the middle of nowhere.”
“Oakhurst was practically falling down before Will started restoring it. Many parts of it still are. Ida, who was that? The young man who left as I arrived.”
“Oh,” she said, pouring me a lemonade, “just a neighbor who works at the mercantile. He carries my shopping and trims the hedges sometimes.” She hesitated then leaned toward me with a conspiratorial air. “Isn’t he handsome?”
I furrowed my brow at her. “Ida, you’re four months gone with child and barely married for two.”
She shrugged a shoulder. “What Eric doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
I stared at her. “You don’t mean to say . . .?”
She didn’t respond, but a smile played about her lips.
“Ida, you didn’t!”
“I get so bored, stuck at home all day! Besides, I can’t get into any trouble this way, expecting a baby.”
I banged my glass down on the tea table with unnecessary force, spilling its contents onto the lace cloth. “I’ve never spoken a word of remonstrance to you, Ida. You have always been free and wild, and I never judged you. But did you really think I’d encourage your unfaithfulness to my beloved brother?” I shook my head. “I told him years ago to stay away from you.”
“You what?”
I stood, brushing crumbs from my skirt and gathering my shawl.
“Don’t you dare walk out of this house, Landra Cavendish,” said Ida imperatively. “Stay and scream at me all you like, but don’t go with your nose in the air. You’re such a hypocrite! I saw the way you looked at Henry Miller
at Colleen’s funeral.”
I gave her an icy glare. “I have only two things to say. One is that I rue the day you married my brother. And the second is that Tansy is your sister, and you’re so selfish and stupid that you’re the only one who can’t see it.”
Ida gasped, her face turning brilliantly red. “You take that back, you hateful—”
I turned on my heel and marched out before she could spew whichever name she had chosen to call me then took my reticule from the foyer and left, my face burning. We did not speak again for many months, until her and Eric’s child was born, and even then things were never the same between us. I never again shared my dearest secrets with her. I certainly never shared with her what was to come, but she had been right in one point: I was a hypocrite.
Chapter 19
Trials
The hurricane season that summer, one of the worst in my lifetime, brought heavy rains. Tobacco, a finicky crop at the best of times, requires the perfect amount of sun and rain to grow, and our young plants smothered in the flooded fields. One hot night when lightning flickered far and wide, Will woke me to say that the barn where we stored the cotton had been struck and was on fire. My first thought was of the children, to get them out of the house in case the fire should spread. I sat with them at a distance from the flames with Card in my lap and Ezra beside me, as Will battled the flames with wet sheets. Seeing his distress, I wrapped Card in a blanket and told Ezra not to let any harm come to him, then ran to assist him.
There were no neighbors near to help us and no fire engine. Within minutes, the windows of the barn were engulfed with billowing flames. I could hear the timbers groaning and creaking in the heat, and I pulled on Will’s arm.
“It’s going to come down!” I screamed, trying to make myself heard over the roar of the flames. I was right. We ran, and I scooped up the baby and grabbed Ezra’s hand when we reached them, pulling him along with me. We were halfway to the great oak when the barn imploded upon itself, collapsing in a great gout of orange flames and black smoke. Will turned and ran back to the house to make sure no smoldering cinders had caught in the roof.