The Engineer's Wife

by Tracey Enerson Wood

  I tried to put myself in Wash’s place, working to keep the family business alive for future generations. After all, the bridge would be completed one day, and I secretly hoped this would be the last Roebling bridge. Letters and the occasional telegram were no replacement for simple physical presence. Despite Wash’s ailments and frailties, I missed the warmth of his body next to mine at night, the soothing sound of his voice, and the humor that would pop up at the most unexpected moment.

  That summer, Wash had requested Johnny come stay with him in order to visit family, as he was too busy to come back to New York. Thus, I was stunned to receive a letter postmarked from Maine.

  Dear Em,

  Johnny and I are enjoying the spectacular scenery and enjoying lobster, a true delight. I can’t imagine why they believe it suited only for criminals. The waves crashing on the rocks bring our son such joy! I’ve been dabbling in oils, trying to capture the sunlight shining through waves, but the vision proves too ephemeral for my talents. Do join us when you see fit.

  W

  I imagined them eating lobster and painting by the sea while I labored on alone. My arms ached to hold my son, feel the salt air against his soft cheek. I crumpled the letter and fed it to the fire.

  The next morning, I awoke with my arm outstretched over the cool spot in the bed Wash had abandoned. I curled my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. What else could I have done or not done?

  As I dressed, I ticked off the tasks I needed to accomplish. Things to do not because of my husband’s instructions but because I had determined they were necessary. I sat on my bed, wiggled my toe into a stocking, stopping midcalf. Was living happily without him simply a choice I could make? I pulled on my other stocking and my new bloomer costume, tailored by a willing seamstress.

  Why should my existence, my worth, be attached to Wash?

  Twenty-Six

  1874–1875

  An invitation arrived for a “Gala at the Monster Classical and Geological Hippodrome.” Drawings of chariot races, dancing horses, and elegantly dressed people sipping bubbly drinks completed the oversized vellum. PT had added a note in his large, loopy handwriting: Dear Peanut, I insist you and Mr. Roebling come, no excuses allowed!

  Wash’s response came a few days later. Please attend with my regrets, dear. You will be much more entertained by horses than would I.

  The venue was a vast outdoor space PT was leasing on Madison Avenue. It was covered by an enormous tarp, much like his first circus tents but many times larger. Chairs elevated on risers lined the perimeter around the center ring.

  A waiter in white tie and tails greeted the guests at the entrance with a tray of champagne flutes. Each had a strawberry glistening with bubbles. Sipping the wine was uplifting, the first astringent note followed by a smooth and light finish. Flute in hand, I sauntered past tables laden with tea sandwiches, vegetables cut into amusing shapes, and most spectacularly, a boat carved out of ice, holding a mountain of pink shrimp. Skewering a briny morsel, I nonchalantly took notice of the other invitees: several Vanderbilts, the owners of the property; Abram Hewitt, the tall, lean gentleman I had met in Ringwood, who was now running for Congress; and a few other politicians.

  The ladies’ gowns, in every color imaginable, provided a peek at next year’s fashions. Many featured elaborate bustles, and the shape of the skirt was decidedly slimmer than my own rather worn dress. Oceans of netting and beading and sprays of feathers to match crowned the ladies’ hats. To my chagrin, tightly bound corsets were still very much in evidence. The men, in contrast, wore a uniform: black tailcoat and top hat, white shirt and tie.

  Perhaps anticipating Wash’s regrets and to prevent my own, PT had also graciously invited GK and Millie, and we planned to meet at the event. PT found me first, however. The picture of elegance in his crisp white tie and tails, he removed his silk top hot, spun it by its brim like a top, and greeted me with a bow. “Welcome, my dear Mrs. Roebling. I hope the refreshments are suitable?”

  “Most sumptuous, Mr. Barnum.”

  “Excellent. I have reserved premier seats for you and your family.” He waved over an usher. “Please join me after the show.”

  GK and Millie sat down a moment before the perimeter lamps were extinguished. As promised, we were front and center. Limelights threw the center arena into view. A spotlight shone on PT, now sporting a red-lined black cape, welcoming the audience with his commanding voice.

  All eyes fixed on him. Even professional performers of Shakespeare paled in comparison. It was as if he were the Cardiff Giant brought to life, larger than mere mortal beings. But clothed, of course. Was it his words, his voice? The spotlight? Dress? Mannerisms? It was all of that, along with the grace with which he moved and the confidence that oozed from him in a clove-scented cloud.

  “First, the champion chariot racers from Europe will defend their title against the Americans!” The audience whooped. PT lowered his voice so the crowd had to hush to hear the attractions. He recounted each act in the program, his voice rising with excitement, culminating with “Then, my dear friends, we will see the dancing horses, like the spectacular Lipizzans of Austria. Now, on with the show!”

  My heart raced with the chariots, the pounding of their hooves reminding me of riding with youthful abandon. Exciting as the chariots were, they stirred up a dust cloud that left us brushing off our clothes and wiping our faces. GK laughed, but poor Millie was flustered. We flapped our handkerchiefs at the dirt the best we were able, but this failed to settle her, and they excused themselves.

  Between acts, waiters walked down the rows, offering more champagne and bonbons. But the lingering smell of the horses, although not offensive to me, ruined my appetite for them. I scanned the tent for GK and Millie, but they were nowhere to be seen.

  A sudden creak of the adjacent chair startled me as I was admiring the audience in their elegant dress.

  “Are you enjoying the show?” PT mopped his brow.

  “Very much so. Thank you for inviting us. Will Mrs. Barnum join us after the show?”

  “You’re very welcome. And no, I’m afraid she’s feeling poorly.” He eyed the empty seat next to him.

  “Please give your wife my well wishes.” I nodded toward the empty seat. “I’m afraid Millie isn’t well-accustomed to horse races. Or dirt.”

  “My wife, the same. I thought it a feminine proclivity. But then, you disprove that; a sprinkle of earth doesn’t offend you.” He offered a crisp handkerchief, indicating a smudge on my face. “A wagonload, dumped at your feet, is but an opportunity to build a garden.”

  “Some might say I could use a bit more feminine sensibility.” I showed my ankle, exposing a hem that had been repaired.

  He chuckled, leaned closer, his breath on my ear giving me a shiver. “Will you allow me to send a replacement dress, as my show has undoubtedly ruined that one?”

  His spicy scent was soothing, and I had an urge to run the back of my hand against his clean-shaven cheek. His attention sent a tingle through my body. Hundreds were in attendance, yet he made me feel as though I were the only one there. “No, I couldn’t allow you to do that.”

  “Well then, I must return to my duties. The second act is about to begin.”

  A line of riders in dark blue uniforms stood on unsaddled white stallions. They trotted into a circle, the horses’ tails held high, their manes and coats brushed until they glistened, even in the darkened arena.

  “Oh, they’re magnificent.”

  “Indeed they are. We can discuss afterward, if you desire to set up a ride.”

  I pictured myself riding through the countryside on a great white stallion. Oh, how I missed the freedom to do things that thrilled me. “Thank you, dear sir. What a joy that would be.”

  The circle of horses in the ring backed into two straight lines with the spotlight filling the space in between. A woman, standin
g tall in a dazzling red dress, rode into the spotlight, straddling two side-by-side horses.

  “There’s my cue.” PT touched two fingers to his pursed lips, then bounded out of his chair, his cape floating after him.

  * * *

  Miss Mann—Muriel—had become indispensable to our family. As Johnny was less in need of a nanny, she had assumed the role of cook and treasured confidant to me. One especially warm evening, we thumbed through copies of Harper’s Bazaar. Dressed in light cotton dressing gowns, we amused ourselves like schoolgirls on an overnight party, braiding our hair, playing card games, and talking about the mysteriously absent men in our lives.

  “Maine of all places!” She tsked and patted Chaucer’s golden head.

  “Can you believe it? In fact, he once claimed that all I wanted was to ride horses in Kentucky and paint pictures in Maine.” Riding horses, yes. But when had I dreamed of painting? The long-ago conversation—before we left for Europe—filtered into my mind. Had Wash been trying to tell me that he had other dreams? I quaffed the whiskey Muriel offered as I puzzled.

  We scrambled for shawls to cover our thin garments at a knock on the door. PT and Henri appeared in the doorway, both surprising and pleasing me.

  “Sorry for the intrusion, ladies.” PT removed his hat, his eyes taking in my curious hairstyle and clothing. A crooked smile crossed his face.

  “Oh my, I completely forgot!” Muriel said. As I let the two men into the room, she rushed off.

  After an awkward round of drinks, with Henri abstaining and me clutching my shawl, Muriel rejoined us, now properly dressed. Henri took Muriel’s arm, and they left for the evening, their laughter trailing after them. A pang of envy stirred in me, seeing the two of them go out without a chaperone. Was their culture more lenient toward courtship, or were there special considerations due to their age?

  “Oh, this slipped my mind in the excitement.” PT presented an elegantly wrapped box. “Cubans. Mr. Roebling will enjoy them, I’m sure.” He cast about with feigned curiosity. “Is he here? I’d like to give them to him myself, perhaps share a smoke.”

  “You know very well he’s not here. But I thank you in his stead.” I led him toward the front door.

  “How unfortunate. Well, I’ll just secure these in his humidor.”

  I followed him to the library where he stowed the cigars and helped himself to another glass of whiskey. He offered me a glass as well, but I declined.

  “PT, I think you best be on your way.” Chaucer’s ears perked up, and he headed to the door.

  “Yes, yes, of course. But if you would be so kind, I have a bit of sad news, and I’m afraid old Henri is quite weary of listening to my troubles.”

  “What is it?” We perched on the settee. He picked up a deck of cards and shuffled and flipped them into waterfalls and sliding arcs of color. He had me so mesmerized, I barely heard his words.

  “My wife, I’m afraid, is not long for this world.”

  Shish-shish-shish went the cards. Chaucer lay down with a grumble.

  “I’m terribly sorry, PT. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Give me a moment of distraction, perhaps. Do you know cribbage?” Without waiting for a response, he dealt us both a hand. His soft blue eyes welled up.

  “Do you want to talk about her?” I closed my fan of cards.

  “Peanut, you’re endearing, but please, I’d rather have a few moments when I can give my mind a reprieve. She has been unwell for a number of years.”

  We played a quiet round. He gave me a small smile when I won, and I reached over to run the back of my hand across his smoothly shaven cheek. What was it about this man? We gave each other comfort, each in probably the loneliest of our days. We played hearts and poker and games he made up long past midnight. He broke down and cried, telling me of the daughter he had lost shortly before she would have turned two. He shared bits and pieces of his wife’s troubles, seeming more resigned than upset. Her heart was slowly failing, and the doctors had long since given up hope.

  We commiserated, telling stories of our lost loved ones, picking the best moments, the funny ones, the bittersweet ones.

  “Love has no limit in time or number,” PT said.

  We toasted to that, pledging to cherish our memories forever.

  “I shouldn’t go on about my sorrows.” PT refilled my tumbler of whiskey.

  I shook memories away and lifted my glass to him. “To times lived and to those we have yet to live.”

  “And for your companionship, a bright light in my despair.”

  At some point, with the whiskey flowing through both our veins, it was clear he was in no condition to go home. We played ever more silly games, which he won at an impossible rate. I finally accused him of cheating. Following the hint of his eyes upon my chemise, my wrap having long since been abandoned, I found the missing three of hearts.

  “How did that get there?” I demanded.

  “Methinks the lady doth protest too much. I’m afraid I can’t play with a cheater.” He threw down his hand.

  I pinched the edge of a card hidden in his sleeve. “Aha!” I laughed.

  He shrugged. “I have plenty more.”

  I frisked him for evidence. He fell onto the floor, curled into a protective ball. His sleeves, socks, waistband, all produced playing cards. Tugging at his shirttail produced a fountain of aces. I cackled at each discovery, unmindful of his own silence. After I had found the last of the contraband, he rolled onto his back in surrender.

  I plopped down next to him and fanned the cards, smooth and warm from his body heat. “Cold, hard evidence of your criminal nature. How do you plead, sir?”

  “Guilty.” He raised my wrists over his head, pulling me on top of him, the cards raining like confetti.

  This is wrong, part of me screamed, as if alarm bells resided in my head. He let go of one of my hands and inched his own over the swell of my bottom. His other hand found my braid and followed it up to the nape of my neck. My head dipped toward him, my lips aching for his, my body tingling with want. It had been three years since Wash had shared my bed.

  This is wrong, I told myself again. But let me savor this feeling for a moment. Let me fill my flesh with the sensation of a man’s touch. I lost myself in his kiss for what seemed like an eternity and yet not long enough. His cloud of clove enveloped me, and his lips tasted of whiskey. Powerless to stop myself, my mouth, my body pleaded for him to fill my empty soul.

  I tilted my head as he nuzzled my neck, but his lips faded off, hot breath taking their place.

  He whispered, “It’s not right. We both belong to another.” But he held me still, waiting, I think, for me to overrule his objection.

  But I had no strength to overrule his objection. Yes, he had a wife, and I, a husband. Our behavior could not be justified in any moral way. But my husband had all but abandoned me, and it was PT who held me now, making me feel whole and alive, giving me strength to accomplish what Wash could not or would not do on his own.

  I tried to convince myself that our being together, supporting each other, was in fact what my husband wanted, needed. He left me so that I could finish his work, didn’t he? I clung to PT, my cheek against his, feeling the heaving in his chest matching my own. Then I noticed his cheek was damp. I pulled back to see his eyes welled with tears.

  “Tell me truly, Emily. Do you love me or the idea of me?”

  Of course I loved him. But there were many sorts of love. Parental love, brotherly love, friendship. And there was passionate love, which burns brightly and swiftly, then is replaced with either the slow and steady love of lifetime partners or the ashes of boredom and regret. I tried to imagine which way my love for PT would progress and, more importantly, whether the cinders of my love for Wash had any glow left within them.

  PT caressed my cheek. “You can’t say it. Is that my answer then?” />
  The alarm bells in my head clanged once again, and I gently pushed myself back. “As you’ve said, there are others to consider. Until we sort that out, we have no business engaging each other like this.”

  My better self had pervaded me, and I blinked passion away. I rose from him and rewrapped the shawl around me.

  * * *

  The evening with PT confused me even more regarding my marriage and my devotion to Wash. His letter from Maine and long ago words lingered at the edges of my mind, along with the fear I had misunderstood his dreams. I had spent so much time fighting the life we were living until I gave up fighting and jumped full force into the Roebling dream.

  But perhaps that wasn’t what Wash wanted after all. I swallowed, bracing myself to allow a thought that had been fighting to surface: Had I missed something he was trying to tell me all along but couldn’t due to family loyalty? Could it be he never really wanted the Roebling dream or me, or at least who I had become? Perhaps he had already left me. Was my marriage over, and I was the only one who wasn’t aware?

  It had been PT who supported me through legal battles, through self-doubt, even physical exhaustion, PT who cared enough to ensure Johnny had enough attention and encouragement from another man.

  But I had never for a moment stopped loving Wash and believed he still loved me. I was standing atop two unsaddled horses that were about to gallop in different directions.

  It became clear that I shouldn’t be alone with PT while I was so torn, and it was impossible to discern the state of my marriage in Wash’s absence. So I sent a cable to my husband:

  PLEASE COME HOME

  Twenty-Seven

  1876

  The tower on the Manhattan side grew quickly after the foundation was built and was complete in July. I had checked in frequently during the process, concerned the bedrock built by glaciers was not stable enough. But careful observation and measurements were done each step of the way. There was not an iota of settling, and there were even fewer marks of concrete crazing—the normal superficial cracking—than on the Brooklyn side, which eased all worries.