The Engineer's Wife
Page 1
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2020 by Tracey Enerson Wood
Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks
Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
Cover image © Ildiko Neer/Arcangel Images; National Archives and Records Administration, New York and Brooklyn Bridge: Promenade., ca. 1898. Photograph. https://www.loc.gov/item/2002706694/
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
www.sourcebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Wood, Tracey Enerson, author.
Title: The engineer’s wife : a novel / Tracey Enerson Wood.
Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Landmark, [2020]
Identifiers: LCCN 2019032996 | (hardcover)
Subjects: LCSH: Roebling, Emily Warren, 1843-1903--Fiction. | Roebling,
Washington Augustus, 1837-1926--Fiction. | Brooklyn Bridge (New York,
N.Y.)--Fiction. | GSAFD: Biographical fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3623.O6455 E54 2020 | DDC 813/.6--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019032996
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Epilogue
Afterword
Reading Group Guide
A Conversation with the Author
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
To all the readers and all the writers, without whom all is lost.
One
Washington, DC
February 1864
The light, sweet honey scent of burning candles did not quite mask the odor of blood and sweat in the makeshift ballroom. Not far from the White House, the room was tucked inside a military hospital, itself a repurposed clothing factory. Noise echoed in the vast space, with cots, machinery, and great rolls of cotton neatly stacked against the walls. Tall windows let in slanted rectangles of light upon women in dark uniforms setting out flower arrangements. I too felt out of place. Dressed in a ball gown, I was like a fresh flower in a room meant for working men.
Double doors opened from an anteroom, and chattering guests tumbled in. An orchestra hummed, tuning up as men clad in sharp Union dress uniforms gathered in conversation groups with women in their finery. Nearer to me, a line of men on crutches and in rolling chairs aligned themselves along a wall, each of them missing a limb or two or otherwise too broken to join the healthier soldiers.
I nodded my greetings, hesitant at first. Like most young women in my small town of Cold Spring, New York, other than a glimpse of a few limping, bedraggled returned soldiers, I had been sheltered from the consequences of war. Here, the wounded men clambered over one another, some in hospital pajamas, some half in uniform, reaching out to me, seeking to be included despite their infirmities.
I ignored the bloody gauze wrapped around heads and the stench of healing flesh as I shook their hands, right or left, bandaged or missing fingers, making my way down the line. One after the other, they thanked me for coming and begged me to dance and enjoy myself.
In the letter that had accompanied the invitation to the event, my brother had been clear: The ball is intended to be a celebration of life, a brief interlude for men who have seen too much, and the last frivolity for too many others. It pained me to look into their eyes, wondering who amongst them were enjoying their last pleasure on this earth.
“So pleased to meet you. I’m Emily.” I offered my hand to a soldier with one brown eye, his face cobbled by burns.
He held my hand in both of his. “Miss Emily, you remind me there is still some joy in life.”
I smiled. “Will you find me when it is time to dance?”
The soldier laughed.
My face flushed. It was too forward for a lady to ask a gentleman to dance. And perhaps he was unable.
“You can’t tell from my pajamas, but I’ve earned my sergeant’s stripes.” He tapped his upper arm. “I won’t be joining the butter bars.”
The term butter bars rather derogatorily referred to the insignia of newly minted lieutenants. Belatedly, I recalled my invitation was to the Officers’ Ball, and the sergeant had apparently come to watch. My cheeks warmed. I had gaffed thrice with one sentence. Not an auspicious beginning, considering my goals for the evening.
More women filtered in, each on the arm of an officer. In contrast to the men against the wall, the exuberance and freshly scrubbed skin of these officers made me doubt they’d seen battle. I felt rather out to sea. I had insisted on arriving without a chaperone, as I had expected to be escorted by my brother, but he was nowhere to be seen.
His last letter had said the fighting had slowed during the winter months, but that could change at any moment. Even
if it hadn’t, he was a target. I shook the image of a sniper out of my head. Surely, if something terrible had happened, they wouldn’t still be setting up for a ball.
The soldier still had a firm hold on my hand. I pasted a smile on my face and peeked about the room. Was it more awkward to mingle with the others, all in couples, or rude not to?
The sergeant jutted his jaw toward the center of the ballroom. “Go now. We’ll be watching.”
I nodded and slipped my hand from his, resisting a peek at my white silk gloves to see if they’d been soiled. My ball gown showcased the latest fashion: magenta silk, the skirt full in the back and more fitted in the front. My evening boots echoed the profile; with an open vamp and high heel, they reminded me of Saint Nicholas’s sleigh. I smoothed the gown’s travel creases and mulled its merits. Comfort: adequate. Usefulness: very good, considering its purpose was to please the eyes of young men. Mother had disapproved of the deeply scooped neckline, but she had sheltered me long enough. I was now twenty years old and craved amusement.
The handsome dress uniforms and elaborate gowns each guest wore suggested formality and elegance, but raucous laughter shattered the tranquility of the elegant piano music. Clusters of young men erupted in challenges and cheers, guzzling whiskey and fueling their spirits.
I stepped closer to a particularly animated group in which a tall, handsome captain held court among a dozen lieutenants. Perhaps he could advise me as to where I could find my brother.
“What will you do after the war?” someone asked.
“Rather the same thing as before. Build bridges. Blow them up.” The captain raised his glass, and the others followed, laughing and cheering.
A bespectacled, earnest-looking young man asked, “Sir, why would you blow up bridges in times of peace?”
The captain’s smile faded, and he leaned into the group as if sharing a great conspiracy. “There are only so many places to build a bridge, and sometimes we have to blow up an old, rickety bridge to make room for a new one.”
I stepped back, feeling awkward for eavesdropping.
The captain continued his lesson. “I’ll be helping the country to heal, connecting Kentucky and Ohio with a long-abandoned project. And then we’ll be doing the impossible. Connecting New York and Brooklyn with an even grander bridge. It will become one enormous city. If you want a job after the war, boys, come see me.”
I shook my head. The captain didn’t lack for hubris. But just as I was about to approach to inquire about my brother, he excused himself and hurried off.
* * *
Twilight had faded, and the candles and gas lamps burned brightly, as if the assembly’s energy had leached out and lit the room. All the women seemed thoroughly engaged, so I wandered about, my worry for my brother steadily increasing. A tiny glass of golden liquid was thrust at me, and I took a sip, the burning in my throat a pleasant sensation.
The orchestra played a fanfare, and a deep voice rang out. “Ladies and gentlemen, the commander of Second Corps, Major General Gouverneur Kemble Warren—the hero of Little Round Top.”
Relief ran through me like a cool breeze on a hot day. I should have known that the commander of thousands would need to make an entrance. Officers snapped to attention and saluted the colors as they passed, then held their position for my brother. My heart fluttered when I saw him, taller than most, shaking hands as he made his way through the crowd. Our family called him GK, as Gouverneur was a most awkward name. Thirteen years my senior, he was now in his thirties, with sleek black hair and a mustache that met the sides of his jaw.
After months of worry and cryptic letters from which I could only gather that his troops had won a major battle in northern Virginia, seeing my brother lifted me two feet off the ground. I waved as he scanned the room, his eyes finally finding me.
GK had been more surrogate father than older brother, our father having passed away several years previously. He was the closest to me amongst all our surviving siblings, no matter the time or distance that separated us. As he edged closer, my smile faded at the sight of his gaunt frame, the strain of war reflected in the streak of gray in his hair and the slump of his shoulders.
The young officer following behind my brother glanced my way. I looked, then looked again—GK’s aide was the same captain who had been boasting about healing the country with bridges. His eyes landed on me for the briefest moment, then scanned the room as if the enemy might leap from the shadows.
I coughed to cover a laugh. While he tried to appear vigilant, his gaze returned to me again and again. Perhaps he had seen me eavesdropping.
I squeezed past the knots of guests toward GK, but the crowd was thick around him. He greeted the wounded men, exchanging a few words and shaking hands down the line. Next, he worked his way into the larger crowd, and I was pushed back by officers surging toward him as they jockeyed for his attention.
“Men of the Second Corps.” GK’s booming voice filled the room as if to assure them that he could be heard over the firing of cannons. “Let us welcome these fine ladies and thank them for honoring us with their presence.”
He signaled the orchestra, and hundreds of young men in dark blue began to dance, their shoulders shimmering with gold-fringed epaulets, like an oasis after years in the desert. I danced with one handsome lieutenant, then another and another, each spinning me into the arms of the next in line. When at last I paused, gasping for breath, the officers gathered around me, helping me to tuck back the long ribbons that were losing the battle to contain my curls. While the other women sniffed their disdain at my exuberant dancing and frequent change of partners, the men laughed and vied for me. No matter about the women. I meant to keep my promise to my brother by providing amusement for his men.
A lieutenant came by with a tray of drinks, whiskey for the men, tea for the ladies, he said, although it was difficult to tell them apart. The guests emptied the tray save two. The lieutenant handed one of the glasses, filled nearly to the brim, to me. “For you, Miss…?”
“Just Emily.” He needn’t know I shared a surname with the general.
“For you, Miss Just Emily,” he said, loudly enough to elicit chuckles from the crowd.
I took the glass and sipped. It was whiskey.
“No, all wrong.” He took the last glass, swirled the amber liquid, and took a deep whiff of its aroma. Then he downed it in several gulps.
I poured the whiskey down my throat and held up my empty glass, pressing my lips together to stifle a cough. The group cheered and my spirits lifted, sailing on fumes of whiskey. I was no longer a fresh flower in an old factory. I was their queen.
The crowd grew louder, but this time, it wasn’t me they were rooting for. A short, broadly built officer leaped into the air and landed with his legs split. The throng whistled and yelled “Just Emily!” for my response.
The group clapped a drumbeat, encouraging me. My competitive spirit outweighed my sense of decorum, and I spun, each step in synchrony with the clap, faster and faster until my dress lifted. Then I slid down into a split, one arm raised dramatically, my ball gown splaying in a circle of magenta folds around me.
As several officers helped me up, the crowd parted, revealing GK and his aide. My brother raised one eyebrow in warning, and the younger officer gaped at me. Heat rose in my face, but this time, it wasn’t the whiskey.
“Moths to the flame.” GK gave his aide a slap on the shoulder.
The aide then closed his mouth, his Adam’s apple bobbing above his blue uniform collar. “Shall I escort the young lady from the dance, sir?”
My opinion of him matched that of the booing crowd.
GK rubbed his chin. “A generous offer.”
The aide flashed a conspiratorial grin, but his smile faded when GK added, “But that won’t be necessary.”
Even though the captain had seemed a presumptuous young man, I was chagrined th
at GK was teasing him. GK slung his arm across my shoulders and led me away from the group.
“Emily, I trust you are enjoying yourself?” GK’s face showed a mix of tenderness and disappointment. I wanted to curl up like a pill bug.
“Quite. It is my pleasure to offer a small bit of entertainment.” I crossed my arms across my middle, feigning boldness. It had been a full year since I had seen my dear brother, and I wanted to show him how grown up I was and how much I cared about our soldiers. But despite my good intentions, I was a bit late to realize that my actions might reflect poorly on him.
One of the men called out, “Aww, let her stay and dance with us, sir.”
“Not now. The lady needs a rest.” GK maintained a grip on my arm, firm enough to tell me I was most certainly out of line.
The aide glanced wide-eyed from GK to me. His thick hair and neatly trimmed mustache were the color of honey, and his expressive eyes reminded me of the crystal water that filled the quarry at home.
“Miss Emily Warren, allow me to introduce Captain Washington Roebling.” GK lifted my gloved right hand and offered it to his aide. “I owe my life to this captain and my sense of purpose to this charming sprite. It is only fitting the two of you meet.”
The captain cleared his throat. “You—your wife? I thought she was unable to—”
“Gracious no.” GK laughed. “My sister. She and my wife happen to share a name. Now then, will you be so kind as to guard the honor of Miss Emily Warren?”
I felt sorry for the poor man; his eyes took me in, from escaping curls to rumpled hem, as he reconciled my identity. Perhaps trying to oust his commander’s sister from the event was only slightly less humiliating than ousting his wife. My presented hand hung awkwardly in the air until the captain regained his composure and took it in his own.
“It will be my pleasure, sir.” Then his first words to me: “Miss Warren, Captain Roebling, at your service.”
“Very well then.” GK gave a last glance, a small tilt of the head to remind me to act with decorum. He went back to his hosting duties, signaling the orchestra to resume and coaxing the officers back to the dance floor.
My new guardian took my hand and kissed the air just above it, then regarded me for several uncomfortable moments. My hand warmed from his touch despite my silk glove. Sensible of his gaze, I smoothed my hair and adjusted my dress.