The Engineer's Wife

by Tracey Enerson Wood

  Wash and I spent as much time together as possible during his week of leave. We played chess and did word puzzles each evening, resting from our long walks and picnics during the day, always accompanied by a driver, GK, or his wife, whom we called Millie. My physical opposite, Millie was petite, even delicate. She wore the latest fashions with so much flair, I wanted to hate her for it. But her sweet nature prevented me from such a crass response.

  Each morning, Wash arrived a bit earlier, and each evening, we prolonged our visit. The thought of him returning to war twisted my gut tighter as the days flew by. My dreams were plagued by visions of him running from an exploding bridge. On his last morning, dawn had barely broken and I was still slumped over my first cup of tea when I heard Millie answer a knock. Wash’s deep voice lured me to the door in my morning gown.

  “Captain Roebling,” Millie tutted. “You want to squeeze more into a day than will fit.”

  “Exactly my philosophy.” I beamed at him.

  Pink bands lighting the sky framed Wash and his picnic basket in a rosy glow. “Sunrises are more beautiful than sunsets, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Three

  Cold Spring, New York

  As abruptly as Wash came into my life, the war claimed him back. A letter arrived days after he departed, sharpening my longing for him.

  My Darling Em,

  GK and I have arrived safely, with one minor mishap. That foolish little stallion of mine fell down today, causing me to somersault over his head. But I was up long before he was and had to kick him to make him get up.

  The next letter came a week later, just as I was entertaining notions of putting Wash out of my mind and starting a campaign to plead for women’s right to vote. But I was torn, wondering if I might be more likely to see him in the District or by staying in Cold Spring as GK had meetings across the river at West Point.

  He wrote:

  I am able to attain only a few hours rest each night, stretched out across some chairs or curled up on the ground. When I return from this miserable place, I shall sleep, interrupted only for my attentions to you, for two years.

  But Uncle Robert Lee isn’t licked by a long shot, and if we are not mighty careful, he will beat us yet… I went up in an air balloon. I had a fine view of the battlefield, but unfortunately, the enemy had a fine view of me.

  I read his letters each night before retiring, then tucked them under my pillow. My superstition was that he rested easier for it.

  Sometimes he let on about more than fatigue and frustration: The troops led by Useless Grant are tired and played out. I met with no mishap; one bullet intended for me went through my orderly’s heart, killing him instantly.

  How does one answer such things? I wrote and tore up a dozen responses, offering support and sympathy, before deciding the only words coming from me should be sweet and hopeful. I can only echo back times a hundred your own words: “My love for you I find is paramount to every other feeling, and the lapse of time and change of scene only deepens it.”

  He did manage to make brief visits, but in the long stretches in between, I returned to my usual activities: visiting friends, riding, and following the progress of the suffragettes. It seemed like marking time, living with my mother, and waiting for my life to begin. At the same time, winds too strong to resist were leading me down a path that seemed more fate than choice. I was unsettled and short-tempered, my friends finding excuses to stay away. Indeed, I wasn’t enjoying my own company.

  * * *

  Mother’s neighbor and dear friend Eleanor White had invited me to tea at her home, purportedly to cheer her up after her own daughter had left the nest. I suspected the real reason was to divine my interests in a certain army captain.

  Eleanor was plump and sweet, and I had known her my whole life. Her parlor was similar to Mother’s, if somewhat smaller. A large green divan with a curving oak border flanked by two matching settees formed a cozy conversation nook. Walnut bookshelves framed a carved marble fireplace.

  We sipped tea on the velvet divan. Between us, the morning paper declared “Is Suffrage a Lost Cause?” I squinted to read the smaller text: “Women Devote Energies to War Effort.” My brief encounters with rolling bandages and packing boxes had demonstrated a distinct lack of energy for the tasks.

  Eleanor followed my gaze to the newspaper. “The war won’t last forever. What then?”

  Visions of leading protests for the women’s movement crossed my mind, quickening my heartbeat. Surely, there could be no more suitable activity for me.

  “When the war is over, the suffragettes will become active again, and this time, I’ll be done with schooling and able to help,” I said.

  Eleanor pulled her wrap closer. The fire had burned down, so I got up to add another log. I ran my fingers over the rough iron sculptures on the hearth and on the bookshelves.

  Her family supplied iron to the foundry, and she made art from the castoffs. She had presented me with unusual gifts, such as the letter N on my bedroom wall. With help from a worker, she had constructed it by heating, then pounding a brick-sized iron remnant into shape and had given it to me upon my entrance into womanhood. Confused, I had reminded her I had no such initial in my name.

  Eleanor had laughed. “No, dear. That is to put upon your wall so you will always know your true north.” She had entertained me with her artwork on many childhood visits, showing me how they fit together and changed when viewed from different angles. They were certainly out of place in a traditional parlor, which pleased me all the more.

  “What is it, darling? You’re fussing about like a mama cat who’s lost her kittens.” Eleanor peered over her demiglasses, teacup at her lips.

  “Not fussing. Studying.” I tinkered with the perpetual motion machine, an iron, gear-shaped wheel with spokes that flopped over as they reached the top, continuing the circular action.

  She suppressed a smile. “Have you developed a sudden interest in thermodynamics?”

  “Perhaps. Would there be something wrong with that, Mrs. White?”

  She shrugged. “Not at all. A good sign, I would say.”

  Her smirk was irritating me as much as the pinch of my corset stays. “Why don’t you simply ask what you wish to ask?”

  “That’s not how it’s done, my dear. You still have much to learn in the matter of polite conversation despite the fine example and mentoring of your mother.” She set down the teacup and sighed. “But I understand today’s young ladies see things differently.”

  “I didn’t intend to be rude.”

  “Intention isn’t as important as the words chosen, my dear.” She twined her fingers. “How should I phrase it, then? What are your plans with your young gentleman?” She raised one eyebrow at me. “Or perhaps you prefer—are you engaged in activities best saved for marriage?”

  Heat rose in my cheeks, and I cleared my throat, stalling to gather my wits. “I see how my question could lead a conversation in undesired ways. But let me try to answer.” I tugged at the blouse collar squeezing my neck. “Captain Roebling is a very engaging gentleman who has favored me with attention and undeserved flattery.”

  “That much I’ve seen with my own eyes.”

  “Unfortunately, we’ve found each other at a most unsuitable time. He, of course, is in the throes of war, and I am just beginning to sort out who I am.”

  “My dear, timing is not something you can control. Neither is love.”

  “This is true. But there are things I must do—or try to do—before I can fall into another’s world. One thing I have learned about the captain: his life is as focused and structured as mine is not, and if I were to fall into it, I would surely not be the same again. So I must resist, you see, as long as I can, with eyes wide open to all the possibilities.”

  An image of Wash with a bloodstain blooming on his chest stung my thoughts. “Included in those is the
very real possibility that…” A sob threatened to choke out my words, so I reached out, placed my hand over hers, and moved on. “As for your second question…”

  “Never mind.” Her eyes lowered. “I think you’ve answered that.”

  * * *

  But as much as I tried to read about or engage in a world of possibilities, I found myself too often dreaming of a certain honey-haired captain with a deeply resonating voice that erased all others. On a day in late summer, I opened the door, expecting my mother’s friends arriving for tea. Instead, there was Wash in full dress uniform. I flew into his arms as if lifted in a hot air balloon.

  “Come,” I beckoned, taking his hand and leading him to a private spot in our backyard. We sat on a double swing under a trellis. I wanted him all to myself, without the prying eyes of my mother and her gaggle of friends.

  Grapevines and roses wove a fragrant nest for us, sheltering us from late afternoon sun. He gathered me into his arms. “You seem surprised to see me. Didn’t you get my letter?”

  “No, but you are a welcome surprise.” We kissed, his touch tingling my lips.

  He broke away from me much too soon, and I protested by grasping his wool-covered shoulders.

  “There isn’t much time,” he said.

  “How long do I have you?”

  “I’m sorry, it was in the letter. Only an hour or so, I’m afraid.” He brushed my cheek with the back of his hand, giving me a chill as he secured a wayward tendril of my hair behind my ear.

  I wanted to yell at the unfair world, then sneak away with him to a faraway island, somewhere distant, deserted—except for us. I rearranged my face to hide my disappointment.

  “I love you, Em.” Wash slipped his hands into mine, then slid out of the swing, dropping to his knees in front of me. He gazed at me with wide and oh-so-blue eyes. “Perhaps this seems a bit hasty, but I know how I feel.” He lifted my hand to brush the stubble of his cheek. “I want to be with you, only you, and time is not on our side.”

  “Wash? What—?”

  “This is my clumsy attempt at asking an important question.”

  Heat ran up my chest to my face. My thrill at seeing him was being dampened by the armor trying to protect my heart. Yes, I wanted to see him, spend as much time together as possible. But there was still an enormous black obstacle before we could move on. I wanted to delay professions of love, delay thinking of a life together, because the war was all too likely to rip my soul to shreds. Mother had rather unkindly reminded me that as general officer, GK would be a target and his aides would give their own lives to protect him. The horror of losing my brother or Wash haunted my days and made sleepless my nights.

  “We have plenty of time, Wash. I shall see no one else in your absence. You can rest assured of that.” I fought to control the tremor in my voice and patted the seat next to me. “Now come.”

  He shook his head with a laugh. “Emily, I am not down on my knee to ask you to be my inamorata. I am asking you to marry me.”

  “Oh,” I squeaked. “Oh my.” He had swiftly moved past professions of love without waiting for my response, driven past the uncertainty of surviving a war, and arrived, smiling and disconcertingly handsome, right where I longed but feared to be. I took a bit too long to gather my thoughts.

  “That’s not the answer I was hoping for.” His grip on my hand loosened, his eyes clouded.

  “Give me a moment, Wash. You’ve obviously thought through this, but it’s all fresh and new to me.”

  “Forgive my presumption,” he said stiffly. “I thought you felt as I did.”

  I had known this man for a mere six months. We had spent only a few days of that time together, yet I was already hopelessly in love. Still, I had imagined his proposal on some distant romantic evening after a proper and exciting courtship. This was too soon.

  I brushed an errant rose petal from the folds of my dress. Tell him no, we should wait, at least until war’s end when we can spend more time with each other. We shouldn’t act in haste but proceed with minds uncluttered by war and separation. My thoughts ran to the wounded soldiers, the growing cemeteries that dotted every town. The heartbreak would be unbearable if I were to lose Wash—

  “Yes,” I said, ignoring my inner voice. I simply couldn’t refuse him, look into those eyes, and then send him back to the fight. Especially when, deep inside, I knew he was right—I could no longer imagine my life without him. Whatever my world of possibilities was to contain, it must include him. “Yes, I will marry you.”

  He took my hand, and we stumbled across the grass and flower beds, my worries tucked away.

  * * *

  The next morning, I slipped on the engagement ring Wash had given me, delicate white gold with blue and crystal-clear stones arranged like a flower. Although it brought me joy, it also evoked a deep sadness for a loss I had suffered years before.

  I tucked those thoughts away and bounced down the stairs, humming “Love’s Dream.” Perhaps that was a giveaway. It took Mother about thirty seconds to notice my ring. She caught my hand as I headed to the dining room for breakfast, put on the spectacles that hung from a chain around her neck, and inspected the ring. “Something to tell me, Emily?”

  “He proposed.” I grinned, and she embraced me.

  Mother took another peek at the ring. The gems cast stars on her face as she tilted my hand in the sunlight. “Good heavens, I believe those are diamonds. Your fiancé spared no expense. All of Cold Spring will be agog.” She wrapped her hand around my wrist. “Come, let’s talk.”

  Over breakfast, I reviewed with Mother what I knew of the Roeblings. “Washington’s father is John Roebling. He was born in Germany but immigrated here for the opportunities. He—”

  “So you’ve told me. Besides, I read. I probably know more about him than do you.”

  I looked at her through my eyelashes. I never read enough or the right things, in her judgment. “Wash plans to join his father in the family business after the war. He’s built bridges for the army.” Also blew them up, but I didn’t think that improved his case.

  * * *

  Several months later, I harbored doubts about marrying a man I had known for such a short time. When I wrote to him with my concerns, he answered back:

  You dread our growing cold after marriage; a short separation from my darling is the cure for that, but unfortunately the remedy is as severe as the disease. However, a little trouble in getting something always adds to the zest of it.

  Our last visit before we were to be married was both glorious and heartrending. We reveled in each other’s company while the clock ticked our precious hours away. For two days, we barely left each other’s side, as if to prevent anything from wedging between us.

  On the dreaded day of his departure, we lingered on the platform as the engine on the long, black snake of a train hissed its impatience. He hugged me tightly, and I closed my eyes to capture the security of being wrapped in his arms, the tickle of his mustache when we kissed, the piney scent of shaving soap on his neck. I wanted to preserve the moment like a rose pressed in a book.

  A soldier appeared at his side. “Sir, it’s time.”

  Wash whispered in my ear, “This is a mere blink of an eye in our life together. Stay strong, my love.”

  I stared at the toes of his boots so he wouldn’t see the tears burning down my cheeks. He kissed my forehead, and his hand slipped from mine. He walked to the train, tall and straight and purposeful, chatting with the soldier. It must have been easier for him to close one door in his mind and open another, as if stepping from one compartment of the train to another. Perhaps he must in order to survive the brutal world of war. A final turn back to wave and Wash climbed into the railcar. I blew a kiss but too late. The black snake had swallowed him whole.

  * * *

  That year was horrific for the Army of the Potomac. I prayed for
an end to the war. My brother and Wash wrote about having been in Petersburg and Spotsylvania, but their current location was usually reported as “somewhere in Virginia.” The daily letters from Wash became weekly, then only a handful of letters through autumn. Although he tried to ease my nerves with lighthearted stories, the newspapers told a different one, that Virginia especially was a desperate place.

  Wash and I traded letters about our families for months before we had the courage to let them meet. Mother lost several children early on and protects the remaining six like a mama bear in a den of wolves, I wrote. His letters gave me the impression his family was big, boisterous, and intense, softened by a wicked sense of humor. I was a bit intimidated to meet them. However, he showed no fear of his father meeting Mother for the first time. Perhaps my stories were not sufficiently detailed.

  That autumn, we decided it would be best for our two surviving parents to meet, then leave the siblings to collide at the wedding. Neutral territory was selected. As Mother and I were coming from Cold Spring and Wash and his father from Trenton, we desired someplace in the middle. Upon my request, GK sent Wash to an iron foundry in Ringwood, New Jersey, to discuss munitions contracts.

  Abram Hewitt, a business partner of Mr. Roebling’s, offered to host our rendezvous at his estate near the iron mines. The Hewitts and their partners were the largest suppliers of iron on the East Coast, if not the country. As John Roebling was an inventor and manufacturer of iron rope, they were well acquainted.

  The Hewitts’ three-story mansion seemed a mix of styles: strong, boxy lines of Federalist, an Italianate cupola in the center of the roof, and bays with many windows. The gambrel roof and dormers reminded me of my own childhood home.

  Mr. Hewitt, a tall, lean gentleman, showed us around the grounds. Acres and acres of formal gardens, ponds of all sizes reflecting their beauty, and well-kept lawns surrounded the mansion, as well as many curious structures made from iron. A giant chain, each link over two feet long, stretched across the front lawn.

  “The iron was mined right here, and this chain was used to keep the British ships from sailing up the Hudson River,” Hewitt explained.