“The only thoughts I had were for Mr. Birdsall to get well,” Sophy says, truthfully enough. “He is a perfect gentleman.”
“So he appears. But men are men.” Mama sighs, philosophical. “I won’t tell you it’s pleasant at first, lying back and being breached, and you might as well learn now that even gentle men forget their manners in their throes. Don’t be alarmed if there’s bleeding, perfectly natural when you consider a path is being forged where no foot ever trod. What you must remember is that things will soon improve. And the discomfort is nothing—the merest drop in an ocean—when set against all the rest of it.”
Sophy has been stealing glances at her reflection, thinking that she and Gideon will sort out this confusion of body parts and forest-clearing for themselves. But Mama’s last words get her whole attention. Could this addendum be the Portal to Bliss that Caroline’s cousin spoke of? It would seem that the cave of crystal is accessible even to clergymen and their wives—a revelation, to be explored later. She waits expectantly, but Mama’s face is grave. She is gazing at Sophy with a brooding sympathy that solemnizes her features.
Without warning she pulls Sophy to her. Even in times of sickness, Mama has never been a woman given to physical affection. Sophy is introduced abruptly to the limp apron and the long, flattish bosoms behind it, the sharp hipbones and hammock of loose flesh slung between. Her layers of white gauze are crushed against Mama’s faded calico. She is breathless, her ears ringing, so can’t be sure if Mama actually says “My lamb,” or if that tenderness comes back to her with the words that followed on the night of Papa’s accident: I am here to bear it with you. At this merciless proximity, Sophy absorbs directly what Mama means by “all the rest of it.” The bloody labor of childbirth, Eve’s curse leveled again and again. The babies stillborn or dead in the cradle. The endless toil of serving others, with little thanks and never a thought for yourself. The special burden of the clerical wife, held to a higher standard, forever falling short. Mama wants her to know that this is what is in store once the door of delight is opened.
Mama lets her go. She straightens Sophy’s dress with curt tugs to the shoulders and waist, and fluffs out the skirt. She licks her hand and slicks Sophy’s hair back in place.
“Some find that a pillow under the hips eases the way,” she says.
CHAPTER 17
____
POSSESSED
JAMES LEFT FOR BOSTON ON APRIL 30, A DAY OF SOFT BEAUTY, the sky a new blue and a green haze frothing the trees. His intention was to spend the night with Reuben and visit Caroline at her cousin’s house the next day. He had written ahead to both, but only Caroline had replied, in a style more elegant than the one she had departed with. He managed to divine, amid expressions of artful inconsequence about the weather, the state of the Boston pavements, and her health, that Caroline would be happy to receive him, that she regretted it had been so long since they had talked. This was more communication than he’d had for weeks. James was taciturn about his expectations, but he had elected to travel with the wagon—to bring Reuben back for Sophy’s wedding, he said, owning to no further hopes about his own. Still, it was obvious to the Hedges and Gideon, gathered in the front yard to see him off, how much the prospect of seeing Caroline again lifted his spirits.
On a day as lovely as this, optimism was less an attitude than an instinct. The Reverend had managed the journey from his bedroom to the front stoop on crutches, with Gideon and Sophy supporting him on either side. It was the longest distance he had walked since his accident, and the first time he’d been outdoors. The sights and smells of spring seemed to awaken the sensualist he’d buried long ago. He raised his face to the sun, shut his eyes, and inhaled the sweet air.
“A man wants to spread his wings on such a day,” he said.
Gideon’s skin prickled; he was aware that the parson’s youthful self was speaking. The horse seemed to sense the phantom presence, as animals will. The muscles of its back rippled in a delicate shudder, and it began to trot before James could shake the reins.
MRS. HEDGE SENT Sophy and Gideon out to the field to look for fiddleheads. Both of them knew that she was trying to spare them the instruction they were due and give them some time alone. “The Reverend needs to rest, whether he knows it or not,” she said. “And the ferns won’t wait. Get them in their first youth or they’ll be too tough to cook.”
Gideon was beginning to feel more like a man about to be married. As the two of them walked side by side along the road, each holding a handle of the basket, a farmer hailed them from a passing wagon and his wife waved her kerchief in their direction. The world was smiling on them for no other reason than that they were young and in love. Gideon took off his hat with a flourish and waved back.
Sophy dropped her end of the basket, snatched the hat from his fingers while he was still waving, and ran, veering away whenever he reached to reclaim it. It was like trying to catch a bubble, she was always floating out of his grasp. Her hair was coming undone, and she was laughing, holding his sober hat above her head to tease him. The farmer brought his horse to a halt so he and his wife could watch. A woman with a bundle of laundry on her back shouted encouragement.
“Enough, Sophy! We’re making a spectacle!” Gideon was vexed to be made a fool of, ashamed to be short of breath. He had been spending too much time at his desk.
“I don’t care. I hate this hat. I’m going to let the wind have it.”
But something she saw in his face stopped her running and made her come to him. Her loose hair and rosy cheeks, the dwindling light in her eyes, reminded him of the day in the sickroom when he had commanded her.
“It’s only that I like to see your hair,” she said. And then, “I thought we were playing.”
Her voice was so meek that the will to master stirred in him, as it had when he was too weak to move. He wasn’t weak anymore. He could knock the hat from her hand, grab her wrist and pull her to the ground, mock-punish her with rough kisses. Or he could do as he’d done before: speak, and she would obey. Gideon tasted the taming words on his tongue, liquorish and harsh. He swallowed them.
He took the hat from her and clapped it on his head, knowing that it sat too low on his brow, like a bumpkin’s. Let him be ridiculous, he deserved it.
“I’m no good at playing,” he said, still breathless. “Not much experience. Perhaps you will teach me.”
Sophy knelt to pick up the basket, and stood with it under her arm. “I never knew what play was until recently. My brothers thought it was amusing to torment me. Mama would find me tied to a tree or blindfolded in the pasture, long after they’d forgotten me. I was nearly grown up before I learned.”
“Who taught you?”
They were in the field before she answered. Gideon had the odd sensation of walking in the dream he’d had months before. The setting was the same, a few early flowers showing their heads, the grasses still swaying, new green interspersed with brown stalks from the winter. But in his dream his progress had been hindered, and now it was effortless. No tough vines tripped him; the vegetation was so frail that he could easily tramp it down. The expanse that had churned like a raging sea could be crossed in five minutes at a leisurely stride, and the girl who had waved at him from the opposite shore was by his side. When Sophy stopped suddenly and turned to face him, he realized they were standing on the same spot where she had danced a year ago. He felt wonder, akin to awe. If a voice were to address them from above, or issue from a clump of dead milkweed, he would not be surprised.
“Do you ever think about your father?” Sophy asked.
It was the last question Gideon was expecting. Its irrelevance punctured the sublimity of the moment. “Not often,” he said. “He had no part in raising me. Do you think of yours?”
“I don’t really believe in a father. If I had one, he’s not to be spoken of.” Sophy looked down with sudden concentration, as if fiddleheads had sprouted at her feet. “You asked who taught me to play. It was—is—my mother. My
real one. She has been a presence in my life for a while now.”
“Are you saying I’m about to enter into Holy Wedlock with a haunted woman? What do you think she does for you?”
“Urges me on. Dares me. She’s far more adventuresome than I am. I don’t see her, but I know when she is there. That day you first watched me . . . I was dancing because of her.” Sophy hesitated, cautious. Until now the dance had been a silent compact between them. “If you haven’t been visited, I don’t expect you to understand.”
“There isn’t enough of my father to make a decent ghost,” Gideon said. “My mother told me he went down in a ship before I was born, and when I was little, I used to imagine ‘Lost at Sea’ cut into a stone in a churchyard, all stark and solemn, and me standing before the grave with my head bowed. I suppose that was the closest I ever came to missing him. Fathers were for other boys. I went my own way, from the beginning.” He considered telling her what his mother had said about his being hatched from an egg, but thought better of it.
“He is in you, whether you pay attention to him or not.”
And so must yours be, whether you believe in him or not, Gideon thought. Sophy was meeting his eyes now, her chin lifted. That stubbornness again, rearing up when she appeared most humble. When they were married, he would have to learn how to temper it.
“I have better things to do than listen to a dead man,” he said, “and so do you. We’re young, Sophy! God willing, we have years ahead of us. We should be preparing for the children we’ll have, the parents we’ll be—not wasting our precious hours fraternizing with the departed.”
Gideon realized with a chill that the words he had just spoken were not his: the pedantic, hectoring tone, the sanctimonious sentiments, belonged to Hedge. Perhaps he was the one being haunted. How often had he lamented the Reverend’s hold on him? Possession by the living was far more terrifying than the shriveled mischief of the dead.
He smiled to leaven his sharpness. “If my spectral mother-in-law chooses to make my acquaintance, I’ll treat her with every courtesy, but frankly, Sophy, I’d prefer she keep to herself. I have enough trouble with your living relatives!”
Gideon raised his eyes heavenward and pulled his hat down even lower, so the brim nearly touched his nose. He was gratified to see Sophy break into a grin. He had done well in his first attempt at marital diplomacy; he was growing into the role of husband even before he occupied it.
He put one arm around her waist, took her hand and held it up. “My mother gave me a dance lesson once. I was ten or eleven, she wanted me to have the social graces. But she was displeased with me for riding on her shoes and never offered again. Will you give me another chance, Sophy? The fiddleheads will accompany us.”
Gideon whirled her in a wide circle, then another, heady with delight that she was following him. She was so light in his arms that her feet left the ground when he spun her. Her hair had fallen to her waist and whipped like a banner. Each time the road hove into view, he saw that they were observed, first one, then several passersby pausing in their daily business to gawk. The two of them were making a spectacle, and he did not care.
CHAPTER 18
____
PRACTICE
“
WHO EVER HEARD OF REHEARSING A WEDDING? PAGANS may marry as often as they like, but good Christians are joined only once, and for most of us, that is enough. Cite me chapter and verse if I am wrong, Mr. Hedge.”
The parson had introduced the subject in an understated manner, but was having a hard time convincing his wife, who had stationed herself in front of the kitchen fireplace with her arms folded across her chest, a fortress of refusal.
“My dear, I’m speaking of the choreography, not the vows. If this were a wedding alone, or even an ordination, no preparation would be needed. But the congruence of events, the number of people involved . . .” Hedge flapped his hands helplessly. He looked to Gideon and Sophy with pleading in his eyes.
Gideon considered whether he had witnessed the crumbling of yet another brick in the parson’s foundation. Until this moment, Hedge had never been known to leave a sentence unfinished. His character, his profession, the whole bent of his being, was declarative.
“We could do with some practice ourselves,” he said. “It will give us courage, won’t it, Sophy?”
“And how do you intend to get the Reverend to the church with the horse and wagon gone?” Mrs. Hedge asked. “A wheelbarrow? Now that would be an inspiriting sight. The pastor carted to meetinghouse like a load of dung. There are those in the parish who would grieve to see the shepherd of their souls brought so low—and a few I could name who’d rejoice. If I didn’t know you for a man of sound mind, Mr. Hedge, I’d conclude you had taken leave of your senses.” She pronounced the last with weary finality, as if she had arrived at her destination after a long and trying journey.
Hedge met her gaze. “Lost my mind, have I? You should not be surprised, Fanny. I’ve endured many losses since the Lord chose to make me a cripple. To be ministered to when I am used to ministering. To be restricted to the compass of my bed when my influence once was felt throughout the county. To calculate my every motion and pay the price in pain. My life has become a continual warfare with my natural feelings. Each day I am forced to commit pious violence upon my pride just to get by. Do you understand, woman? Pious violence!”
Each successive phrase had been spoken with a tighter tension, a slightly escalated volume. All three of the listeners were familiar with the technique from the parson’s sermons. As one, they braced themselves for the cannonade to come. But Hedge’s voice dropped.
“If I have any dignity left,” he said, barely audible, “a ride in a wheelbarrow would not diminish it.”
IN THE END, Micah was able to borrow a cart and an old workhorse from a neighbor. He and Gideon hoisted the Reverend up the step and into his seat, where Sophy waited with his crutches. Mrs. Hedge insisted that they wrap blankets around his back and legs to cushion him. The wedding was a week away, and they were all on edge. Although the horse’s plodding step came near to disguising the fact, they were going forward.
Hedge started to chatter as soon as they were underway. “In ordinary circumstances, I would never keep anything from my dear wife, but I thought it prudent not to mention the surprise awaiting us at church. She will know eventually, of course, but why burden her, when the world rests on her shoulders? Her pleasure will only be increased if we are discreet now.”
“You can’t mean that James is back, Papa,” Sophy said. “Mama had better know that right away.”
“Do you think I would withhold such news? Don’t be foolish.”
Gideon was sorry to see Sophy cringe, but he had to admit that Hedge’s rebuke was justified. James had been due to return two days before, yet not so much as a word had come from him or Reuben. Mrs. Hedge was convinced that some dreadful fate had overtaken him in the city. “He’s too trusting, that one,” she kept saying. “He never was hard like his brother. What if he’s thrown himself in the river for the sake of that prinking thing?” The parson insisted that James was only pleading his case with the young lady, but his calm had begun to fray as the great day approached. James had been assigned the plum role of escorting Sophy down the aisle.
Within sight of the church, the horse perked up its ears. Music was in the air, faint but distinct, riding lightly on the wind that carried it. It charmed them like panpipes, drawing them on, growing fuller and sweeter as they approached. No one spoke until they arrived at the meetinghouse door.
“It can’t be,” Sophy said, though there was no doubt that the melody was issuing from the same white-shingled building where she had spent most Sundays of her life.
“Handel,” said Reverend Hedge, as if the selection of music, and not the astonishing fact of it, required explanation. Since the church’s founding, a small choir had supplied the only music other than hymns ever heard within its walls, singing psalms a capella with a tuneless rigor that did not
offend the plainness of their faith. Instruments of any kind were considered to be the devil’s distractions. Let the High Church have its booming organs, the Catholics their voluptuous Masses. First Congregational would make do with the human voice harmonizing the Word—well or badly, it hardly mattered. The Reverend had subscribed to this view himself.
Now he feigned surprise at their amazement. “What is a procession without music? I think you’ll agree that our valiant little choir is not equal to the task. I didn’t know where to turn, but the Lord provided.”
As Gideon and Micah helped him from the cart, he told them the story. One of the retired masters at seminary had a nephew staying with him, a gifted violoncellist, trained abroad, but reduced to giving lessons for a pittance until a suitable position turned up. The young man was eager—hungry even—to play the music he loved for an audience.
“Had he been a violinist, I would have had to refuse him,” Hedge said. “A fiddle wouldn’t do in church, you know. But a cello is majestic. It is deep. It inspires awe in the listener.”
“That’s fine for us, Papa, but what about the others? They aren’t used to change.” Sophy slipped the crutches under his armpits, and Micah and Gideon slowly stepped away.
The parson’s face contorted as his weight settled on the sticks, and he let out a breath through his lips. For a minute or two he stood in place, neither speaking nor moving, his eyes fixed in concentration. Gideon had observed this before. It was as if the pain were spreading throughout his body like mercury spilled from a vial, dispersing so he could bear it more equably. “All the more reason to jolt them out of their complacency!” he said at last, putting the force of his effort into the words.
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