The Engineer's Wife

by Tracey Enerson Wood

  I pulled back the waxy paper around the flowers and breathed in the lovely fragrance of yellow roses.

  “Speaking of Emily…”

  My ears perked at GK’s mention of my name as I climbed on a stool to reach the crystal vase.

  Wash cut in. “You’ve got concerns? Do you suppose I don’t? It’s a bit late to be caterwauling about that now.”

  I shouldn’t be listening. But my misbehaving half refused to move.

  “Would you allow her to fight our wars?” GK asked. “You seem well enough now. Where does it stop? What kind of man puts the ones he is privileged to protect in harm’s way?”

  “You well know her proclivities,” Wash said. “As stubborn and brave as any man.”

  “A dangerous combination.” GK spoke in a low, resigned voice. “But that’s how she was constituted from the very beginning.”

  “You’ll broker no argument from me, sir.”

  “Bravery is a misunderstood thing. She has her fears, of course, but they seldom concern her own reputation,” GK said. “While she was under my watch, I did that for her.”

  “She’s a grown woman now.”

  “And you’re not concerned with the impropriety of shirtless men in her proximity?” GK grew louder. “Or her keeping company with the likes of Barnum?”

  “You had her locked up in a nunnery, but I’m a tad more lenient.”

  I bit my lip to suppress a laugh as GK snorted. He had, in effect, put me in a nunnery when he paid for my education at Georgetown Visitation.

  “I can only trust in our vows and let the rest fall to fate.” Wash’s voice rose.

  “Is that so? Where the hell have you been for three years?”

  “I love my wife and love and respect you dearly, sir. But this matter is none of your concern.”

  It seemed I was wrong regarding Wash’s reasoning for distancing himself from the relationship between PT and myself. His trust in me, his desire for my own free will, was greater than any need for assurance of faithfulness. Piecing together the different aspects of his love was like putting together a fretsaw puzzle with only a portrait of a cloudy sky to guide me.

  I debated whether to thank Wash for defending my actions to my brother, but to do so would reveal my eavesdropping. There was nothing to gain from that. So I kept the moment tucked in memory, out of love for my protective brother and my ever-loyal husband.

  * * *

  With Wash seemingly at peace with my friendship with PT, I planned the long-postponed visit to his stables. Neither Wash nor Johnny showed interest, so I travelled alone by train to Bridgeport.

  Connecticut was similar to upstate New York but, at the same time, more quaint. We passed farms with red barns and rolling hills, cows pleasantly chewing their cuds, in between deeply forested areas. I was met at the station by PT’s carriage driver and soon arrived at his country home. I worried the strap of my day bag, not having envisioned being alone with PT so far from the public eye. Finally, we arrived at a cluster of buildings where he stood in front of a small cottage.

  “It’s a shame Washington was unable to join us,” PT said as if sensing and trying to lessen my discomfort. “I hope you find the accommodations suitable. It’s just a cabin, but I think it will provide for your needs. Your tea should be already set. The stables are just around the bend, and I shall meet you there when you are dressed for the ride.”

  I nodded, still taking in my circumstance. It was a sweet little cottage with just enough gingerbread ornamentation.

  “Just us, then? Will we be joined by others?” I was relieved when a young lady approached. She had long blond hair, left loose around her shoulders, and seemed to be in her early twenties—a bit too young to be one of PT’s daughters.

  “My wife, perhaps. But she’s not well-suited to a mount much larger than a pony.”

  “Your wife?” I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice but couldn’t manage to keep my jaw in place. As far as I knew, his wife had been dead for months. “When did—”

  “Ah, and here she is.” The girl—or woman, that is—stood on her tiptoes to give him a peck on the cheek. “Mrs. Washington Roebling, allow me to introduce Mrs. Barnum, my wife, Nancy.”

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m Emily.” I nodded my head, swirling as it was. PT was somewhere north of sixty. This woman would be forty years younger. No wonder he had kept her a secret.

  “Four o’clock, then?” They turned toward the main house.

  Dumbstruck, I waved absently. I was apparently no more to him than a momentary amusement. Despite my marriage, I wanted PT to myself. I was shocked and ashamed and disappointed, all at the same time.

  After a short rest, I donned my riding clothes: calfskin breeches worn under a long jacket. If anyone recognized them as men’s wear, they had been kind enough not to mention that to me. I met PT at the stables. He was elegant in his riding habit and minus the newly discovered wife.

  “It was so nice to meet Mrs. Barnum.” I half smiled.

  “I suppose you’re wondering…”

  “Not at all. That is your private business.”

  “It isn’t a marriage per se.”

  “Oh? I wasn’t aware of per se marriages. Either you are, or you aren’t.”

  “You may have noticed her youth.”

  A stable hand walked out a glorious chestnut mare, brushed to a shine.

  “Quite.”

  The assistant helped me into the saddle, adjusted the stirrups, then disappeared back into the stable.

  “We have an agreement of sorts. She gets all I own at my death. Half of it if we choose to part before that.”

  His horse was brought out, a caramel-colored gelding. PT mounted in one swift motion, and we rode out into the August sunshine.

  “Your marriage seems a financial arrangement.” The clip-clop rhythm soothed my nerves. I relaxed into this new development, curious as to its beginnings. “What do you receive out of the bargain?”

  “Do I need to explain that?” He laughed and kicked his mount into a trot.

  I followed, my own horse needing little encouragement to keep pace. We raced along the open pasture, alternating leads, testing each other. It was exhilarating, the freedom of speed, the openness of the country, the smell of grass and the thud of hooves. After some time, my thighs aching, my breath coming in gasps, I was relieved when we halted near a well.

  We dismounted, and he filled a trough with water for the horses and a dipper for us. I greedily drank the clear, cold water, wiping the trickle off my chin.

  He removed his riding helmet and finger-raked his damp hair, then leaned against the stone of the well head, arms folded across his chest. “I hope my marriage doesn’t change things. Between us, I mean.”

  “Why would it? We’re friends, business associates, and now riding partners.” I could hear the hurt in my own voice.

  “Yes, but I hope for more.” He caught my eye. “I am a patient man, Emily. I can wait.”

  “Apparently not.” I leaned into my horse’s firm neck, feeling its heat and strength, trying to settle my feelings.

  “I’m not a saint. What would you have me do while you stay in a loveless marriage?”

  “I never said it was loveless.”

  “He left you.”

  I pressed my palm against my gut, shielding it from the arrow he had slung at it. My marriage was in a phase devoid of physical love. If I could just have a warm squeeze at the end of the day, my back washed in the bath, my cheek caressed by the back of a strong hand, I would feel more satisfied, less hunger for the touch of another.

  I had tried to get Wash to do these simple things, and he would, for perhaps a day. Then he would go back to his routine: a peck on the cheek for good morning and another for good night. Was this the rest of my life with him?

  “He just needs time,” I s
aid, mostly to convince myself.

  Twenty-Eight

  1877

  Climbing to the top of the Brooklyn anchor building was now routine for me, but ascending the narrow footbridge leading to the top of the tower was quite another challenge. At some point, I would have to face that challenge. The open walkway, fashioned of a series of horizontal wooden planks connected by ropes and thin wire handholds, seemed insufficient for so great a height. I’d often watched the men make the climb, dread gripping me like a too-tight corset.

  The four huge main cables would be galvanized steel, spun in place over the river, one thin wire at a time. Devices known as carriers, one for each cable, would run back and forth on a cable, carrying a loop with two lengths of wire on each trip. Then workers, dangling high above the river on the wooden platforms, tied these wires into bundles about three inches in diameter, creating a single strand. Nineteen strands were to be aligned in a honeycomb pattern and tied together, forming each of the great cables. The last step in creating the cables was to wrap each bundle of strands in a wire binding.

  The precarious walkway, swaying in the slightest breeze, became quite the attraction, and one day, boaters reported seeing two women on it, high above the river.

  The press identified them as the daughters of C. C. Martin, who faced a great deal of criticism for his lack of judgment. I was guilty of schadenfreude; it was refreshing to not be the one under scrutiny, at least from the public.

  Wash and I had resumed a normal, at least for us, marriage. Sometimes, it seemed as if I had a roommate and business partner rather than a husband. He was still reclusive, refusing to see even Martin or Farrington.

  He reworked the cable plan, improving on Papa’s design, and was anxious for my report on whether the bundles of strands were coming together in the precise pattern he had devised.

  Martin and Farrington were supervising the cabling endeavor, but when they tried to describe the progress being made, I couldn’t picture it in my mind, nor could I connect their descriptions to Wash’s diagrams. In addition, there were concerns regarding how to secure the saddles the cables would rest on. I would have to climb to the top of the tower to evaluate the situation.

  Knowing this for quite some time, nightmares plagued me. I tried to imagine the view from the top but found myself growing more anxious rather than excited.

  Wash dismissed my fears. “The view will be spectacular, Em. Think how far you’ll be able to see.”

  “How far is that?”

  “Depends on the weather, of course. You’ll want to choose a clear day.”

  “Assuming a perfectly clear day, how far will I be able to see?”

  His eyes rolled heavenward as he calculated. “About twenty miles, give or take a quarter of a mile, and the accuracy of our presumptions on the diameter of the earth.”

  “My goodness, that’s incredible. Don’t you want to come up with me? Meet with Farrington and Martin yourself?”

  “No, thank you, I can see it right here.” He tapped his temple.

  His math was correct. I spent the better part of an afternoon studying geometry texts and encyclopedias. With pad and pencil, I had come up with the same number. It involved the height of the tower, curvature of the earth, the Pythagorean theorem, and some basic algebra. He was able to solve the problem in his head in a few seconds yet had no desire to see the spectacular answer in person. To have such a brain must be both a blessing and a curse.

  * * *

  I set a date for my climb up to the tower top, but as the day grew closer, the butterflies in my stomach turned to a nest of writhing snakes. Knowing Wash wouldn’t come with me, I didn’t bother to consult him and instead asked PT to accompany me. His ability to calm my fears was almost magical. Besides, he was certainly familiar with high-wire acts.

  On the appointed June day, we had the good fortune of a cool and cloudless dawn. While riding in PT’s coach, he waxed on about the spectacular view we were about to enjoy. Meanwhile, I contemplated a hundred different ways to flee. I closed my eyes and pictured GK at my side. “You are blazing a path for all women.” There was no choice but to go forward, regardless of the opinion of my thumping heart and twirling stomach.

  We met Martin and Farrington, who led us to the walkway entrance. Farrington, curiously dressed in an impeccable gray suit, went first. He scampered up the wooden steps, then loped across the narrow walkway, arms pumping at his sides. Martin followed, bracing himself with a hand on each thin rope handrail. I was next in line, with PT right behind me. I passed over the river shore, stepping carefully so as not to bounce the slender boards under my feet. It wasn’t so terrible after all. About midway up to the tower, the walkway wavered and I halted. Below, the world spun into an abyss. I gripped the ropes under my white knuckles and froze in place, my face breaking out in a cold sweat, my throat closing. My heart beat so rapidly, I thought I would surely collapse.

  “No. No farther. Good God, let me down.” I fell to my knees and changed direction, clinging to the wobbling planks.

  But PT was a considerable obstacle. He cooed reassuringly, “Come on. Only a little way to go.”

  A little way to go farther up, then all the way back down again. My body continued its revolt. I swallowed bile and tensed my muscles to halt their quiver.

  “Don’t look. Here.” PT wrapped a handkerchief as a blindfold around my head.

  I took a deep, shaky breath. The feel of a light breeze on my face calmed me, and the dread faded. Elizabeth had been afraid of heights, not me. Her panic on top of the cliff had led to the accident. I had been carrying her fear all these years. It was time to let go.

  PT guided my hands to the ropes, and I continued, step by careful step. Soon, brilliant sunshine filtered through the blindfold as we came out of the shadow of the tower. A hand took mine—Farrington, I assumed. He led me onto the tower top. A small crowd cheered as PT ceremoniously removed my blindfold as if it were all for show. They were mostly supervisors and other workers, but I recognized a few of the more intrepid bridge committee members as well. I managed a smile and a wave, taking in the magnificent scene, 276 feet above the river. I stepped as close as I dared to the edge of the tower.

  Our world spread beneath us as if in heaven. As if there were no need to breathe or stand on my own as the wind filled my lungs and the sky held me aloft. To the north, the river bent toward the sea. The island of Manhattan stretched out, a grid of dark streets lined with long rows of trees, Central Park a big, green rectangle cut into the center. To the south and east, Brooklyn and Long Island, with their mix of squatty brick houses under slate and shingled roofs, white church steeples, and the gray ocean beyond. Across the narrows, Staten Island, studded with trees, seemingly one with New Jersey to the west.

  “Grand, isn’t it?” PT had joined me, and I passed the field glasses to him. He scanned northeast.

  “Your precious Connecticut is too far to see,” I teased.

  “Indeed. Another world.”

  Farrington showed me how the cables were coming together, the issues with some iron pulleys and fasteners that were wearing unevenly. He took some measurements, and I sketched some metal plates we would need.

  Aside from acting as my chief hand-holder, PT wanted to evaluate the workers on the project. “You’ve stolen all the best ship riggers,” he said to Martin.

  “Ah, this would be the circus high-wire training program, provided to you at no extra charge. I’m sure that’s why you’re here,” Martin said with a cynical smile.

  New wires were lashed with twine at intervals to the carrier wire. Upon the wire arriving in position, the twine ties were no longer necessary and required removal before the wires could be gathered into a strand. I watched as a slender rigger on a boatswain’s chair, attached by a pulley to the carrier wire, slowly descended toward us over the river from the Manhattan tower, cutting through the twine ties. One of
the support wires must have snapped, as he suddenly swung erratically, barely hanging on. I held my breath. A burly rigger was his counterpart on our side, and he shoved off on another chair. He got nearly halfway across the river, close to the other rigger, when his pulley got jammed between wires. He could not reach to free himself. With the carrier cable forced to a stop, both riggers were trapped.

  An audible gasp passed through the onlookers. The wind picked up, and the men swung helplessly in their chairs high over the middle of the river. Martin, Farrington, and PT consulted, their arms waving about wildly. I spotted the acrobat, Supple, whom I had borrowed from PT’s circus some time ago. I waved him over and led him to the edge of the tower for a view of the trapped riggers.

  Without a word, Supple swung himself onto the carrier wire, wrapped his legs around it, and pulled himself hand over hand to the trapped men. While clinging to the dangerously swaying wire with his legs, he grabbed the pulley, cut the tangled twine, and set the pulley free. Then Martin pulled the wire-hoisting lever, and all three were pulled to safety to the cheers and clapping of the crowd. PT pointed at me and led the crowd in another round of applause, which I modestly waved off. Inside, of course, I was bursting with pride.

  Much as I would have preferred to end my visit to the top of the world at that moment, there were more festivities planned. As had been demonstrated, the time-consuming work of cutting the twine ties was dangerous. Nonetheless, Farrington was determined to increase the efficiency. The reason for his fancy suit became clear. He ceremoniously handed his pocket watch to Martin and climbed in a boatswain’s chair hanging from the wire that stretched from the tower over a bit of river, then a half mile of the city to the Brooklyn anchorage, where another crowd had gathered.

  “Give me seven minutes!” Farrington shouted to the crowd, who cheered him on. He readied his knife, the latch securing his chair was released, and he slid toward the anchorage at great speed, lashing the ties with one swoosh of his large knife, his other hand gripping the rope suspending his chair.

  As the chief mechanic slid farther away, I watched him through field glasses. Halfway to the anchorage, he struggled with an especially tight tie. He lost his grip on the knife, and it tumbled to the ground. Farrington waved at us for help. Without his knife to free them, the ties impeded the progress of the pulley from which his chair hung.