by Lynn Austin
‘‘We don’t. I didn’t...Imean, I never got married! The engagement was called off!’’
A slow smile spread across his face and the faint dimple I’d missed so much finally appeared. ‘‘Really? And all this time I’ve been imagining you reading Pilgrim’s Progressover and over again.
I figured you must have memorized it by now.’’
I couldn’t help laughing. ‘‘No, I’ve been free to read whatever I want...dozens and dozens of books. But what about you, Walter?’’
‘‘Me? I’ve read dozens of books, too.’’
I laughed again. ‘‘That’s not what I meant and you know it! Are...are you married?’’
‘‘No. I’m afraid my poor health has prevented that.’’
‘‘I’m sorry, Walter.’’
‘‘I’m not.’’ His eyes twinkled as the dimple in his cheek deepened. ‘‘And the young lady I was betrothed to certainly wasn’t sorry, either. So it looks like we’ve both had a narrow escape from the bonds of matrimony. Was your father very disappointed?’’
‘‘No, he got what he wanted—my sister married my fiance .’’ I laughed at the shocked look on his face ‘‘It’s a long story with a happy ending for everyone. Father’s land is part of Wyatt Orchards now.’’
‘‘That big establishment up on the hill?’’
‘‘Yes, and Father was finally able to retire. He lived to see the grandson who will inherit his land someday, so he’s a contented man.’’
‘‘And I guess in a way I could say the same thing about my father. Howard Knowles Gibson may not have his own son working beside him, but my sister has married well and her husband is being groomed to run the business in my place.’’
‘‘So you’re free to pursue your own dreams, Walter?’’
‘‘In a manner of speaking.’’ He gestured to his chair and I noticed for the first time that it was a wheelchair. ‘‘This contraption makes it pretty difficult for me to be the captain of a whaling ship—although I suppose I could still be a Hindu snake charmer.’’
I felt awkward suddenly. I didn’t know what to say. I remembered the tray in my hands. ‘‘Well, here’s your lunch...and the food is getting colder by the minute. Would you like to have a picnic out here or shall I take it inside?’’
‘‘On a beautiful day like today, I think I’d like to eat out here. Bring the little folding table here, will you, Peter?’’
I watched the servant fetch it, set it up, and arrange the food on it. I waited for Walter to invite me to stay and visit with him while he ate, like we always used to do, but he had grown very quiet. He looked down at the food, not at me. Peter pulled up a chair for himself but none for me. Neither man ate. They hadn’t even unfolded their napkins. The silence grew uncomfortable.
‘‘Listen, I should go and let you eat in peace,’’ I said quickly. ‘‘Enjoy your meal.’’
Walter didn’t argue with me. I ran back to the house to hide my tears.
I was still sitting at the kitchen table with my face in my hands an hour later when someone knocked on the back door. It was Peter, returning the lunch tray. I ducked my head so he wouldn’t see my swollen eyes and red nose.
‘‘Thank you, Peter. You didn’t have to walk all the way back here with that. I would have come for it.’’
‘‘If you have a few minutes, miss,’’ he said quietly, ‘‘Master Walter would like to speak with you. But he said I should not interrupt you if you were busy.’’
‘‘I’m not busy. I’ll...I’ll be down in a few minutes.’’
I soaked a towel in cold well water and pressed it over my eyes. A quick look in the mirror showed me that it hadn’t helped one bit. Lydia used to put cucumbers on her eyes after a late night out but it was too early in July for cucumbers. Would pickles work just as well? I fetched a jar from the pantry, then quickly decided it would make matters worse to arrive smelling like dill and vinegar.
Suddenly I had a flash of inspiration—I would tell Walter I had been reading a sad book! I quickly considered the possibilities and decided on Les Miserables. That story would bring tears to anyone’s eyes, even a ‘‘tough nut’’ like Father or Frank Wyatt. I wished I had a copy of the book to tuck under my arm for credibility but I didn’t own one. Instead, I practiced smiling in the mirror a few times, then set off down the path to the cottage.
Peter sat on the front step, whittling a chunk of wood. He quickly stood, bowing slightly when he saw me. ‘‘Master Walter is inside, miss. Please go in.’’
Walter sat in his wheelchair, bending over a box of books.
There were crates of books everywhere, as there had been last year, and a small daybed had been set up in the dining area for Peter.
Walter looked up when I entered. ‘‘I hope I’m not keeping you from your work,’’ he said.
‘‘Not at all. Father is napping and I was just reading Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables. It’s such a sad book, don’t you think?’’
He studied me for a moment, then shook his head. ‘‘You’re not a very convincing liar, Betsy. I know I hurt your feelings earlier and I wanted to tell you how very sorry I am. Will you forgive me?’’ All I could do was nod. He smiled slightly, then looked away. ‘‘Thank you. I would love nothing more than to spend my mealtimes talking with you like we did last summer, but it’s awkward with Peter here. He’s my dinner companion and I feel obliged to converse with him. I hope you understand.’’
I digested his words for a moment. ‘‘You’re not a very convincing liar, either,’’ I said. ‘‘I’ve never heard of a master dining with his servant before, much less feeling obliged to talk with him. Nor do I know many servants who would be comfortable sharing polite dinner conversation with their masters.’’
He laid down the book he’d been examining and looked up at me in surprise. ‘‘Well, it just so happens,’’ he said, smiling slightly, ‘‘that I have been reading Les Miserables, too. ‘Down with the nobility!’ ‘Liberty and equality for the masses!’ I thought I would try putting it into practice with Peter.’’
I began to laugh. And when I thought about what conclusions Walter might have reached if I’d arrived smelling of dill pickles, I laughed harder still. Without thinking, I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him.
‘‘You make me so happy, Walter! Oh, how I’ve missed you!’’
I pulled away again, suddenly shy. I looked at his beloved face, his soft gray eyes, and I saw the same love I felt for him reflected there. I knelt on the floor in front of him, and forgetting all caution, I spoke the words that I knew were true. ‘‘I love you, Walter.’’
He reached out to caress my cheek. His hand quivered with palsy as he lifted it. ‘‘Yes,’’ he said. ‘‘Yes, I know. But we never should have fallen in love with each other. I never should have allowed it to happen.’’ His hand dropped back into his lap.
‘‘Why? Because you’re rich and I’m poor? Because you’ve traveled all over the world and I’ve barely left Deer Springs? Or is it because you’re handsome and charming and I’m plain and fat?’’
He reached up again and brushed away my tears with unsteady fingers. ‘‘You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, Betsy.’’
He meant it! I saw it in his eyes, and the truth stunned me. Walter had looked inside my heart and he saw me as beautiful. A moment passed before I could speak.
‘‘Then why?’’
‘‘Because I’m going to die.’’
‘‘No you’re not! Don’t say such a terrible thing, don’t even think it!’’
‘‘It’s true, Betsy. My father has taken me to dozens of doctors, hired the finest specialists, sent me to all the best clinics here and abroad, and they’ve all said the same thing. The disease is progressing rapidly. All the other family members who’ve had these symptoms have died. There’s no cure.’’
‘‘Don’t listen to them, Walter. I’ll take care of you. I won’t let you die.’’
‘‘I’ve already accepted t
he truth,’’ he said gently, taking my hand in his limp one. ‘‘I don’t mind dying. I decided to come here to a secluded place to make it easier on my family. So they wouldn’t have to watch me deteriorate. But now I’m hurting you. Now...I’ll have to leave. And I’m so very sorry.’’
‘‘Please don’t leave me again,’’ I whispered. ‘‘Please. Whatever time you have left, I want to spend it with you.’’
‘‘I can’t,’’ he said, closing his eyes. ‘‘I can’t. It hurts me too much...wanting to touch you, to kiss you, to hold you in my arms—and knowing that I can’t do any of those things. And it’s not fair to you.’’
‘‘Why don’t you let me decide what’s fair? Leaving me isn’t fair!’’
Walter silently shook his head. The sharp planes of his thin face, the dark circles that rimmed his eyes seemed much more prominent in the shadowy room.
I longed to throw myself into his arms again, to press my face to his and feel the roughness of his whiskers, to feel his breath on my cheek, his fingers in my hair. I wanted Walter to be the first man I ever kissed, the only man. But he turned his face away from me and called for his servant.
‘‘Peter, I’m tired,’’ he said. ‘‘I need to lie down for a while.’’ I heard the bone-deep weariness in his voice. ‘‘Please go home now, Betsy.’’
But I didn’t go. I couldn’t move. I watched Peter wheel Walter’s chair the short distance to the bedroom and remove the blanket that covered his legs. Then Peter lifted him into his arms like a child and laid him on the bed. I understood why Walter hadn’t allowed me to watch him eat. He could no longer feed himself. And I understood why he had allowed me to glimpse his helplessness now.
I waited until Peter wheeled the chair away, then I ran into the room and sat down on the bed beside him, bending to rest my head on his chest, my arms encircling his thin shoulders.
‘‘My pain won’t go away if you leave me,’’ I wept. ‘‘You’ll only be gone from my life that much sooner. Please give me whatever time you have left,’’ I begged. ‘‘Please. That’s all I ask.’’
He laid his hand on my hair. ‘‘Betsy...my love...don’t you understand? The weakness that started in my legs has left them paralyzed. Now it’s spreading to my arms and I can scarcely feed myself. Eventually it will affect all of my muscles. I’m already having trouble swallowing. But when the muscles that work my lungs become paralyzed, I’ll stop breathing. I’ll suffocate to death. I can’t put you through that ordeal or all that work.’’
‘‘It’s not work when you love someone. Please let me be the one who takes care of you, not Peter. If you’re really dying, then I want to stay beside you until you draw your very last breath.’’
‘‘And what will I do for you in return?’’ he asked sadly. ‘‘I’m a helpless invalid. I have nothing to give you.’’
‘‘Just give me yourself, your love. That’s all I want—’’
‘‘No.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘That’s not a loving relationship. Taking care of me will keep you from accomplishing your own dreams.’’
I sat up so I could look into his eyes. ‘‘You’re wrong. You can help me accomplish my dreams. I want to write books. You can read what I’ve written. You can coach me and encourage me when I’m stuck. I value your opinion—even when you’re wrong.’’ I managed to smile, and he smiled in return as we remembered all our spirited arguments about the novels we’d read. ‘‘I don’t think I have the courage to write a book without you, Walter.’’
I watched a tear slowly slip from the corner of his eye and run down his temple. He was silent for a long time as he studied my face.
‘‘There’s a book of poetry over there on my dresser,’’ he finally said. ‘‘Read me the sonnet where the marker is, would you? It’s called ‘The First Day’ by Christina Rossetti.’’
I rose to retrieve the book, then sank down beside him again to read it aloud.
I wish I could remember that first day,
First hour, first moment of your meeting me,
If dim or bright the season, it might be
Summer or winter for aught I can say;
So unrecorded did it slip away,
So blind was I to see and to foresee,
So dull to mark the budding of my tree
That would not blossom yet for many a May.
If only I could recollect it, such
A day of days! I let it come and go
As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow;
It seemed to mean so little, meant so much;
If only I could now recall that touch,
First touch of hand in hand—did one but know!
‘‘ ‘Did one but know...’ ’’ he repeated when I finished reading. ‘‘Will you do something else for me, Betsy?’’
‘‘Anything.’’
‘‘Take your hairpins out and let your hair down, then take off your shoes and go barefoot.’’
‘‘Why?’’
‘‘That’s the way you looked ‘the first day, first hour, first moment of your meeting me.’ Miss Rossetti may not remember, but I’ll never forget it because that’s the day I fell in love with you.’’
‘‘You didn’t! I looked horrible that day!’’
‘‘No, you looked like an angel from a Da Vinci painting—a barefooted angel, quoting Henry David Thoreau, no less.’’ He smiled as he watched me pull out my hairpins. I shook my head until my hair fell loose, then I unbuttoned my shoes and kicked them off along with my socks.
‘‘Does this mean that I can stay?’’ I asked when I finished. ‘‘And that you won’t leave me and go away again?’’
‘‘I’ll agree to let you stay on one condition.’’
‘‘I know—no ‘hovering.’ I’m not allowed to ask you how you’re feeling every two minutes.’’
‘‘Oh, that’s right, ‘no hovering.’ I’ll have to amend that to twoconditions—‘no hovering’ is one, and the second is that you’ll marry me.’’ I stared at him, dumbfounded. ‘‘You see,’’ he continued, ‘‘I’ll be facing St. Peter at the pearly gates soon, and I don’t want to have a lot of explaining to do about us living here together.’’
I still couldn’t speak.
‘‘Betsy?’’
‘‘Yes,’’ I said in a tiny voice.
‘‘Please kiss me.’’
On the happiest day of my life, I married Walter Gibson. A justice of the peace performed the simple ceremony out by our pond. I went barefoot and wore a crown of wild roses in my bushy hair. Peter served as our best man and ring bearer, having shopped the day before for our two wedding bands. Lydia was my matron of honor, holding baby Matthew in her arms instead of a bouquet, and it was a toss-up as to which of those two bawled the most. The only other person who attended was Father, and he stood around in muddled bewilderment, wondering why a wealthy, intelligent man like Walter would marry someone like me. We honeymooned in our cottage to the accompaniment of hammers and saws as a crew of hired workmen quickly built and plumbed a new kitchen and bathroom addition.
‘‘Hire as many laborers as you need,’’ Walter told the foreman, ‘‘but I want it finished in two weeks. Not one day longer. My bride and I need peace and quiet.’’
They finished in thirteen days. Peter moved into the farmhouse with my father. He walked down to the cottage two or three times a day to help me lift Walter in and out of his wheelchair and get him dressed. Walter also hired a live-in maid named Helen to cook and clean for Peter and my father, and it was a happy ending for everyone when Helen and Peter fell in love and were married, too.
Walter and I settled into a blissful union that few married couples ever attain, even after many years of marriage. He was a tough taskmaster, though, making sure that I spent part of each day writing, but afterward we would read to each other and talk and laugh and love. The workmen built a ramp off the front porch for Walter’s wheelchair and we spent as much time outside as the weather allowed, watching the ducks and geese on the pond,
the deer that came to the edge of the woods, the changing seasons in the orchard, and the panorama of stars in the night sky.
One warm summer night as we lay in bed, listening to the frogs and the crickets serenading each other down by the pond, Walter suddenly asked, ‘‘Did I ever tell you about my very first night in this cottage?’’
‘‘No, I don’t think so,’’ I said, nestling closer to him.
‘‘I didn’t sleep. Not one wink. That racket out by the pond! Oh! I’d never heard anything like it! I tore up a perfectly good linen handkerchief and tried stuffing little pieces of it in my ears, but I could still hear that confounded noise. When the frogs finally had mercy and called it quits, your fiendish rooster woke up and started cock-a-doodle-doing! If only I’d had a shotgun! Well, I made up my mind to leave that very next morning. I couldn’t stand another night of all that infernal noise. Surely Henry David Thoreau was never kept awake the entire night at Walden Pond.’’
‘‘What changed your mind?’’ I asked, laughing along with him.
‘‘You did.’’
‘‘Me?’’
‘‘You brought me my breakfast and you must have stayed up half the night yourself reading the book I’d loaned you because you could already discuss it as enthusiastically as if you had written it yourself. You looked so beautiful and fresh and alive, like a sweet, delicious peach picked right off the tree! I decided that I didn’t care if the local fauna did keep me up all night, I was staying!’’
‘‘And I’ll bet you don’t even hear the frogs anymore, right?’’
Walter laughed. ‘‘I wait until you’re asleep before I stuff cotton in my ears.’’
‘‘You know what, Walter?’’ I said with tears in my eyes. ‘‘No one in the whole world ever told me I was beautiful before.’’
He turned to kiss my hair. ‘‘Then the whole world must be as blind as a bat.’’
Peter turned out to be an able carpenter, and since he had little else to do to occupy his time, he began lining the walls of our cottage with book shelves. As fast as he finished a shelf, I would load it with books and Walter would write to Chicago and ask his servants to send more of his collection. One day I unpacked a tattered set of leather-bound journals. Walter had printed his name on the title page and filled the contents from cover to cover with his neat handwriting. I opened the diary to the first entry: