The Eulogist

by Ms. Terry Gamble

  She jumped to her feet and took my hand. Resigned, I followed her to the piano, where she directed my index finger to middle C. Together, we sounded out the note.

  Chapter 4

  1828

  James had been scrubbing. Mostly his face and hands. Like most everything in Cincinnati, the brush was a by-product of pigs—in this case, hog bristles that chafed and scraped until James looked more bloodied than cleansed.

  “Goodness, James, are you walking down the aisle?” I asked from the cookhouse doorway.

  It was a joke between us since neither had prospects. Today was out of the ordinary since we were invited to tea at the Parish House. James had donated a fortnight’s worth of candles (which sounds more generous than it was since summer’s light was upon us), and the minister’s daughter, Julia Morrissey, had sent us an invitation out of thanks.

  “Here. Let me,” said I, striding across the room.

  James’s arms and back were muscled from wrestling pots. Stocky like our father, he was freckled all over and reddened from the brush.

  “You have been mortifying your flesh, James,” I said, using my fingertips to smooth the waves in his hair. “I shall call you Archbishop Becket.”

  “You’ll call me no such Catholic folderol, especially in front of the Morrisseys.”

  “Still,” I said, our eyes meeting in the looking glass as James cinched his trousers, “you are looking quite the dandy.”

  * * *

  Neither of us followed the sermon closely. Morrissey’s lectures were, for the most part, grim screeds that made me flinch. And James kept looking at his pocket watch. When we stood to say the Creed, I recited Ovid.

  “Ecce metu nondum posito.”

  More than one Cincinnati matron stared.

  James clenched his jaw as we left the church. “I suppose you find it amusing to utter Latin in a Protestant church.”

  I might have apologized, but when we arrived at the refectory, most of the parishioners looked as relieved as we to be done with Morrissey’s brimstone for another week. James’s eyes darted about. It was a sea of hats—high ones on the men’s heads, voluminous ones on the women’s.

  “Law,” said I, still partial to simpler attire. “We might as well move to Timbuktu for all the strangeness here.” I touched my fingers to his sleeve. “And you still have grease under your collar, James. You will never get a lady to give you a second look.”

  From across the room, we heard a female voice. “Mr. Givens! Olivia!” Hatsepha Peckham strutted over.

  James looked stricken, but when he spoke, he was formal and polite. “Miss Peckham.”

  I was rendered mute by her ensemble. An entire flock of red-feathered fowl had been slaughtered to crown her with the Burning Bush.

  “Not scurrying off as usual?” Hatsepha Peckham said to James. She barely acknowledged me. “Did you have a biscuit? I made the buttermilk ones. Well, my girl did. She has a hand with pastry.”

  James demurred, but I took two.

  Hatsepha looked him up and down. “You are quite thin. But then, I heard you have been ill . . .”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why, your sister said something just last week.”

  “My sister says a number of interesting things,” said James, a sidelong glance at me.

  Hatsepha leaned in, the brim of her headgear knocking him on the brow. When James made a motion to step away, she clutched his forearm. “I understand you are coming up to the Parish House for tea, as are Father and myself. I am so pleased,” she said. “So pleased.”

  “Mmmm . . .” said James, extracting himself.

  Later, as we walked toward the Parish House, I said, “Hatsepha Peckham has you in her sights, James. Tell me, is it mutual?”

  “Hatsepha Peckham? Goodness no.”

  “Well, you are certainly dressed as though you are trying to impress someone.”

  James took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair until it stuck straight out, fortified by beeswax. “If you must know, Olivia, I am hoping to approach the minister’s daughter.”

  “Julia Morrissey?” Julia Morrissey of the wickedly lovely hair and much-commented-upon eyes. “Ha! I knew it, I knew it, I knew it,” said I, skipping ahead. Often James scolded me for being childish, but that day my giddiness was contagious, and he had to smile as if his hoped-for alliance held out the promise that our family might actually make traction in this new world to which we clung as tightly and tenuously as barnacles.

  “I shall distract Hatsepha,” I said. “I shall ply her with bonbons while you converse with your paramour. Hatsepha shall be none the wiser. Although I must say, she watches you like a hawk. Do not think you have fooled her. She knew even before me where your interests lay.”

  “I do not understand women’s minds,” James said.

  “Do not sound so morose, Jamie. And for goodness’ sake, talk about something other than candles.”

  “What do women want to talk about?”

  I threw up my hands. “Hats, apparently. Or their children. Or other people’s children.”

  I looked up at the Parish House with its joyless windows. Out of nowhere came a thought of Erasmus. Two months since he had left us and still no word. Almost every day, I would go to the landing, hoping to find that preacher again. Surely Sam Mutton would know something. The landing pulsed with the usual riffraff and mélange of humanity, but there was no sign of the scarecrow Sam who had been railing from a soapbox.

  Pardon me, but do you know a preacher named Sam Mutton? I had asked upon catching the filthy collar of a boy carrying valises to a waiting dray. You’ve seen him about, I’m sure. The one who speaks of forgiveness?

  The boy eyed me evilly. Them’s that’s preaching here is always talkin’ crazy. You don’t need to go far to hear sech manure as spews from the likes of them. Why, I’s heard hell described fifty differnt ways. So which un is it, ma’am? You tell me.

  “I miss Erasmus,” I said to James. “Oh, I know it is all nonsense. But of the three of us, he knows how to talk to ladies.”

  “I would not call it talking,” said James. “And I would not call them ladies.”

  We entered the clammy, occluded halls of the Parish House, where Ephraim Morrissey lived with his daughter.

  “Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch’entrate,” said I, reciting Dante.

  “‘Abandon all hope ye who enter here,’” said James. “Indeed.”

  In spite of the June heat, there was a fire in the grate. I groaned, but James, showing restraint, bowed before the Reverend Morrissey and thanked him for his sermon.

  “I believe you checked your watch,” said the reverend, who up close was no lovelier than in the pulpit. Pouches, like little sacks of wheat, dangled beneath eyes radiating retribution. “Not once, but thrice.”

  Said James a bit too quickly, “’Tis a chandler’s habit to time the cooking lest the pot boil over.”

  “Yes,” said a woman’s voice behind us. “Candles, Father. A bushel for the church, Father. For which we can thank this gentleman.”

  The lovely Julia Morrissey—and she was so pleasing to look upon that I might have envied her but for her demeanor that seemed unconscious of the fact—touched her father’s arm. She smiled at James, her bright eyes eerily similar to her father’s except that the light in hers seemed anything but damning.

  James stammered out something about making plenty of candles, that it was nothing really, and I thought, On my grave, do not get him started.

  “I do not believe we have formally met,” said Julia Morrissey. Her voice was honeyed and vaguely southern but so lightly touched as to avoid the twang that demands twenty minutes to utter a sentence.

  “I know who you are,” said James.

  Julia did not seem to notice his bluntness, but the reverend cleared his throat. He had no discernible mouth, yet his lips curled into what would be a smile were it not so reminiscent of a grimace.

  “James Givens,” said James, holding out hi
s hand. Julia extended hers, and he pumped it.

  Really, Jamie, thought I, for she clearly expected him to kiss it. Now it lay limply in his. I noticed his nails were not entirely clean.

  I cleared my throat. James, coming to himself, presented me as his sister, Olivia Givens.

  Julia Morrissey turned those eyes on me, and for a moment I felt what James must have felt: that to be seen by eyes such as these was to be appreciated and reflected back in some imagined glory that, once conceived by Julia Morrissey, could be altogether possible—so possible, in fact, that I, too, found it difficult to speak.

  The Reverend Morrissey, on the other hand, continued to regard James with the cool appraisal of Saint Peter assessing heaven’s new arrival. Were it not for a couple approaching with an infant in tow distracting the reverend, James might have bowed again and beat a retreat from father and daughter alike. Instead, he seized the opportunity to turn to Julia and say in a rush, “You have such lovely skin, Miss Morrissey. I am hoping . . . well, I’ve been experimenting with a soap recipe that will be kinder to tender skin. I . . . I would be honored if you would try it.”

  It was not a bad effort, considering, and his earnestness was not lost on Julia Morrissey, who replied graciously, “Seeing that my father disapproves of warm water in the bath, I shall be more than happy to at least have pleasant soap.”

  Her quick look over her shoulder at her father did not escape my attention.

  In truth, James’s soap recipe was in need of improvement, having burned his skin through an excess of lye and later causing an explosion when his proportion for glycerin went awry. I scanned the room for Hatsepha, who any moment could descend like a vulture after carrion. But she was nowhere in sight. Relieved, I turned my attention back to James, who was blushing, and Julia, who said, “You were so kind to donate your candles. I wish we could enjoy them longer.”

  “Longer?”

  “Have you not heard? My father is taking a position in Kentucky. I am afraid our days in Cincinnati will be coming to an end.”

  Only I would have noticed the falter in James’s smile, and this because of the stirring in my own stomach.

  “Times are changing, Mr. Givens. Out with the old, they say. This is such a progressive city, do you not think? My father frightens people. Oh, do not protest. I am well aware. I live with him. I know his views. But I did quite like it here.”

  She had the saddest look, like Persephone in winter. Her distress matched James’s, though I suspect for different reasons. Looking from James to me, she said, “I am sorry we will not be better friends.”

  No sorrier than I. With a dip of her head, she turned back into the roomful of guests.

  James gripped my arm a bit too tightly. “Did you know Morrissey was leaving?”

  James looked inconsolable, so in an attempt to cheer him, I said, “Can you not propose on the spot?”

  “We have spoken but two words.”

  “In many places they arrange marriages,” I said. “And why not? You think everyone just falls in love? I was in love when I was fifteen, and where am I now?”

  A nice wife for James, and our life would be set.

  “Remember what our father told you, James. Marry well and, if possible, above your station.”

  “Our father,” said James with a snort.

  “Too charming by half,” said I. And for a moment, my thoughts returned to Erasmus. “Speaking of charm.” I jerked my head toward Hatsepha Peckham, who was heading our way.

  Chapter 5

  1828

  Several weeks after James made the formal acquaintanceship of Julia Morrissey, a gentleman called on me. We had struck up a conversation at the market two days prior, but I had not given it another thought. The man had made such a slight impression that when Mrs. Humphries announced I had a caller in the parlor, I thought she was joking or that one of Erasmus’s creditors had arrived to collect an outstanding obligation.

  “Phinneaus Mumford, ma’am. We met last Saturday morning.”

  “Ah,” I said, racking my brain. Had we talked about tomatoes?

  Phinneaus Mumford took his place in a Windsor chair. He had a neatly trimmed moustache, finely combed curls, and a rosebud of a mouth. Never had I seen lips so unappealing. Were women here at such a premium that I, Olivia Givens, of unremarkable countenance, should be somehow in demand?

  I composed myself on the settee. I concentrated on Mr. Mumford’s feet that were turned inward, pigeon-style. His teacup clattered.

  “You like it here?” he said.

  And to think I had been merely civil to him at the market.

  “At the boardinghouse?” My eyes grazed the clock.

  “Cincinnati, I mean.”

  “We have been here for nearly nine years,” I said, and tolerantly, in my opinion, for his tone implied that my accent betrayed a recent arrival, yet there are accents far thicker than mine.

  “Yes, but . . . you’re from Ireland.”

  I held my breath for a second, exhaled loudly. What was Ireland to me but a boggy land from the past? I regarded the fabric of Mr. Mumford’s coat and trousers. The colors were not quite right. No doubt the cloth was piece-dyed and would soon fade. “What do you do, Mr. Mumford?”

  “Me? Well, ma’am, I’m a surveyor. I make maps.”

  This sounded promising. A maker of maps might be just the thing. After all, there was a whole frontier to explore, and I, for one, was willing.

  “So you go into the wilderness and count the hills and plot the streams and . . . ?”

  “I ensure the streets run square.”

  “Ah,” said I, slumping a little. “Well, they do, don’t they? Not all hodgepodge like in Ireland.” Again, I glanced at the clock, but there was no mercy there. “And where do your people come from, Mr. Mumford?”

  “Mine? Why, I’m Ohio born. But my parents came from Virginia.”

  “And before that?”

  “Virginia.”

  “And before that?”

  “Virginia.”

  “Ah. Do you read?”

  “Books?”

  I smiled with such exquisite patience that he must have taken my expression as encouragement, for he perked up and pressed on. “I read the papers. Front to back. I’m interested in politics.” He leaned forward. “I’m thinking of running for office.”

  “No!” said I. Through the window I could see an old Negro whipping a horse that was refusing to pull a dray.

  “’Course it’ll be easier to sell myself if I have a wife.”

  “Ah.”

  “So I’m in the market.” He puckered and moistened those rosebud lips.

  At that moment, I longed to be back on the ship in the middle of the Atlantic, unfettered by the obligation to marry. One of the sailors had made a loop in the halyard and hoisted me up, shoving me hard to leeward and sending me out over the water. Although my dress had flown about immodestly, I had cared not in the least. For that brief, thrilling moment, I had grasped the line, spun and soared.

  I knew what I was supposed to say. Hatsepha Peckham had instructed me about how to maintain the interest of a suitor.

  “I suppose you will want to look at my sampler.”

  “Well, I figgered you could sew.” Mr. Phinneaus Mumford put down his teacup with a little chink of expectation.

  Outside, the racket persisted. The whipped horse was now rearing back, its eyes bulging horribly as it struggled against the bit.

  “Honestly,” I said. “How people treat their creatures. Can you not make him stop?”

  Mr. Phinneaus Mumford said, “It is best to leave others to their business.”

  Perhaps Mr. Phinneaus Mumford had an unseen quality I had yet to appreciate. I said hopefully, “I wonder, Mr. Mumford. Do you own a piano?”

  “Ma’am, I live in a hotel. I possess no furniture.”

  “And yet you are in the market for a wife. When we met each other, I thought you were shopping for tomatoes.”

  I longed for Erasmus,
who would at least see the comedy in the situation. Livvie, he would say, I believe you have an appointment with the doctor. That terrible rash on your hands . . .

  “Tell me, Mr. Mumford. What recommends you?”

  He was clearly taken aback that so plain a woman should request he make his case. “We Mumfords have been in America for four generations. I’ve got people in Virginia. You’re . . . well. Miss Hatsepha Peckham said you had no prospect of attachment.”

  “Did she? How remarkable. Did you court her first?”

  “Well, I . . .”

  “She’s awfully rich.”

  “Yes, I . . .”

  “Perhaps a little stout, but should she abstain from butter and cream . . .”

  “I did not . . .”

  “Good breeder, I would imagine. I, alas, have no meat on my bones. You want to have a look?”

  I stood and rotated, ever so slightly lifting my skirts.

  Mr. Phinneaus Mumford departed soon thereafter.

  Chapter 6

  1828

  Opportunity was as scarce as it was fickle, and though Mr. Mumford was not what one would call a catch, I was well aware that he could be my only fish. I did not need James to remind me, though he most certainly did.

  What were you thinking, Olivia? Could you not have been more cordial to the man?

  The twin perils of spinsterhood—poverty and charity—loomed like the summer heat. I believe I might have reversed myself and exerted some charm were it not for Erasmus’s return.

  I had sponged myself off beneath my nightdress, tied up my pantaloons, and slipped into a chemise and two petticoats before stepping into my dress. Twisting my pigtails into loops, I went down to a breakfast of lard-soaked eggs after which I arranged chairs in the parlor to face the mantel in front of which I set an easel and a slate. The children I tutored were of various ages, woefully ignorant of sums and grammar, not to mention history, verse, or Latin. I was not partial to children, but funds were short, and I refused to take in sewing. Still, when faced with the sullen pout of a reluctant scholar, I could feel Opportunity dim to the point of extinction.