Marry in Haste

by Susan Van Kirk

  “I don’t think people like you and me can do a web search for ‘witness protection’ and find out who’s in it, Lettie. That’s the whole point of ‘protection.’ ”

  “So? See? You get my point. What if he was in organized crime? Gladys at the coffee shop thinks he’s working undercover for the FBI. All those guys are good-looking like him.” She paused a moment and added, “Besides, they have to be in great shape to run alongside the president’s car.”

  “Lettie. Have you been discussing him all over town?”

  She looked down at the floor. “No. Well, not really. Oh, all right. Just with a few people—Mildred, Gladys, the Sunday night bingo group, Ginger at the power company, the garden club, and a few others I can’t remember.”

  Grace sat down at the table and put her hand on her forehead. She counted to ten before she opened her mouth. “Lettie, you have to stop this. Jeff is a private kind of person, and he’ll get around to talking about himself eventually. He’s not used to living in a small town where everyone knows everyone else’s business. So no more spreading rumors. Got it?”

  “Oh.” She paused for a moment. “All right.”

  “I’m not moving in with Jeff. I hardly know the man.” Grace stood up and grabbed her coat. Then she lowered her voice. “We are going to somehow live through this remodeling. Right now I’m going upstairs to change clothes.” She turned a moment before heading upstairs. “I think I liked it better when you were reading the tabloids and spreading rumors about dentists being part of a terrorist group putting poison in people’s fillings.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Thursday morning, Grace was sitting on the sofa in the office of her home on Sweetbriar Court, warm pajamas on, her red wool blanket over her legs, and the Olivia Lockwood journal on her lap. She had already checked the weather outside and decided ice and sleet meant she could delay a bit before taking care of some errands. Besides, she couldn’t wait to see what was in Olivia Lockwood’s journal. A cup of hot spiced tea sat on the end table, its pungent, cinnamon aroma filling the room. She could look over at the bookshelves and see photographs of her husband, Roger, her children, her granddaughter Natalie, and her friends. Then, glancing down on her lap, she unfolded the burlap material and gently laid it on the back of the sofa.

  Oh, wait. Maybe I should put on some gloves. She went upstairs, found a pair of old gloves, and returned to the study. Then she gently opened the cover of the diary and moved her hand over the title page. “My Journal, by Olivia Rebecca Havelock,” she read. A small space at the end of “Havelock” was followed by the word “Lockwood,” written with a lighter color of ink. She must have started this before she was married, Grace thought. She slid her fingers behind the thin, fragile paper and examined the first page. The writing was an old-fashioned script, the ink a faded brown on the brittle, delicate paper.

  My Journal

  10 June, 1893

  What powerful words—“my journal.” Mama gave you to me so I will have a way to express my excitement as my real life begins. Tomorrow I will go to a large town called Endurance to stay with my aunt. I am not sure I will sleep tonight because my heart pounds for both joy and sorrow. To leave all I know behind—our farm, my mama and papa, my three brothers, the lilies outside my window, my dog—Cinnamon—and my horse—Lightning—the little cemetery with the graves of my parents . . . Oh, the list could go on and on. “You are creating a weed patch.” I can hear Reverend Ainsley’s voice in my ear. “Think, girl. Use your reason to organize your flighty thoughts. Begin again.”

  I, Olivia Rebecca Havelock, am beginning my new life at age seventeen, in the Year of Our Lord, 1893. I was born eleven years after the Great War to my parents, Jacob and Rebecca Havelock. God sought to call them home when I was a mere three years old. Their carriage suffered an accident, and they were both killed, Mother immediately, and Father three days later. I carry their images in a locket my grandmother gave me. I do not really remember them, alive. Sometimes I think I can call to mind the warm, flowery scent of my mother, but maybe it is just a dream. My grandmother, too, lies beside them in the little cemetery in our town of Anthem. All I can remember of Grandmamma is the smell of lavender. She must have worn a parfum that remains in the deepest recesses of my memory. I was five when she was felled by a stroke.

  For the last twelve years my new papa and mama have been Simon and Julia Wheeler. Papa farms, and he and Mama used to live next door. When Grandmamma died, the Wheelers took me in and adopted me as one of their own. Mama always said she wanted a daughter, having birthed only sons. But they are the rough and tumble loves of my life: Simon Jr., Jeremiah, and William. We call Simon “Sam” to distinguish him from Papa. I shall miss them so terribly while I am gone. We chased away possums, went mushrooming, swam in the creek, sneaked out at night and watched the stars and the moon—well, that was William and me. We could name all of the constellations.

  But now Mama says it is time for me to “put childish things away,” and learn to be a lady. She has taught me the skills of canning foods from the garden, mending clothing, stitching, reading, and writing. The Reverend Ainsley came several years ago to add piano, religion, sums, and history. My mama says I am very well educated for a woman of my time, and she wishes her own parents had allowed her to be so complete.

  But, oh, how I long to be done with my piano practice and out in the wind and the breeze on Lightning. Sometimes I ride so early the sun is just coming up, and the meadows are still filled with dew. I wave at Papa and the boys in the fields, and gallop up to the meadow beyond our range. There Lightning and I sit and ponder all that is to come: being a lady, falling in love with a man, having children and my own house to run, and growing old together. I thought it might happen in Anthem, but we have a paucity of young men in the countryside. Anthem only has a few hundred people, most of them married or old.

  So I am to go to a town called Endurance for the summer. I will live with my Aunt Maud, who will teach me more needlework, etiquette, and how to stand and sit properly. My mama says I have so much to learn to walk out in Society. I am excited to start my new life and I can hardly sleep at night. Mama and Papa will come and visit me after the crops are safely in.

  Sometimes, when Mama folds the wash or peels vegetables, I can see a tear on her cheek, and she wipes it away, thinking to hide it from my eyes. I often ponder this being a mother. It seems such a terrible waste to love, sacrifice, and rear children, only to watch them go off on their own into another life.

  Tears are in my eyes, and I must be careful not to let them fall on my words—another sin, self-pity, according to Reverend Ainsley. I am sure I will make new friends, and Aunt Maud will be as gentle and lovely as my own mama. One life ends, and a new life beckons.

  And so I end these first words of my life in my own, private journal.

  Olivia Rebecca Havelock

  Grace looked up from the diary. 1893. Seventeen years old. I’m trying to remember when I was that young. She seems so mature in some ways, especially when she is talking about her mother. But she’s also so sheltered. I wonder what she’ll think of Endurance.

  It didn’t take long to find out.

  14 June, 1893

  We have had such an arduous but astonishing trip to Endurance. We traveled by wagon with four of the horses, and it took us four days. We left the farm country while it was still dark and rode through vast prairie lands. The wildflowers bloomed in the fields beside the roads, and they were a joy to see. My anxiety disappeared amidst such beauty. I have already studied the wildflowers and seen their pictures so I can identify many of them. We saw Indian grass, goldenrod, phlox, rosinweed, and yellow coneflowers. The coneflowers are my favorites. In many of the fields by the road we saw wheat growing, and some of the farms we passed had the John Deere steel plows I have only read about. I saw drawings of them in the newspaper. Mama was right about education being an amazing thing. I have never been more than a mile or so out of Anthem, so my eyes tried to take in everything.r />
  Rev. Ainsley and I looked at a map before Mama, Papa, and I left, and I could see the sixty-five miles we would traverse. Papa said the vast Mississippi River ran parallel to our roads and west of us. Mama gave me a copy of Mr. Twain’s book, Life on the Mississippi, and I was so amused by his descriptions of the steamboat days, when he was about my age and trying to figure out how to navigate the deep and treacherous river. After he memorized the bends and depths of every inch of the river, he realized the romance and beauty of the river’s surface were lost to him. Treachery waited beneath the surface, unseen.

  We crossed several railroad tracks too. I have only read about trains, but I hope I may ride on one sometime in my future life. From Endurance, one huge railroad goes south called the Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe, and another one goes west and south. It is called the Chicago, Burlington, and Quincy route. I must stop now because we will reach Endurance today. I am so excited my thoughts scatter in fifty directions, and I am unable to think clearly.

  We have reached Endurance, and I am writing this part of my journal after Mama and Papa’s departure. I miss them already. It is impossible to explain how huge and bewildering this town is. We drove into Endurance from the south, and even though the whole way we had seen trees and prairie and grasslands, all of a sudden we began to see signs of civilization. A small house here, a barn there, appeared on the horizon.

  In the distance we could see the spire of a church, and this is good because Mama and Papa will expect me to be there on Sundays. But before we even saw the church, we crossed railroad tracks, and off to our right we saw a gigantic train depot. It was made of black stone, and it rose two stories with a tower and a clock on top. Oh, that I could actually see a train after seeing pictures and drawings of them!

  The town is bigger than any place I have ever been. The streets are dirt, but they are dry and dusty since no rain has fallen. So many stores! It is like a wonderland. Everywhere I looked I saw stores laden with any possible requisite or desire. I saw more wagons on the street than I have ever seen in my life. We must have looked like hayseeds since the people all stared at us. We passed a library and reading room. (Rev. Ainsley will be happy to hear about this because I can continue reading.) Next door to the library was a newspaper called the Endurance Register. I love to read the newspaper. In Anthem, it was sometimes a week late at the small reading room, but I still liked to read about the rest of the world.

  Our wagon rolled around a circle with a fountain in the middle and several benches. This must be the business part of the town. Like Anthem, one street is called “Main.” In Anthem, we only have a small dry-goods store and grocery store. Mama laughed at me because my mouth was open and my eyes were taking in sights I had never seen before. We saw gigantic Victorian mansions on the way to Aunt Maud’s. I wondered what it would be like to live in such huge places.

  Finally, we stopped in front of a two-story house, and Papa said we were here. Aunt Maud’s home is about the size of our farmhouse, but with more bedrooms. She has two boarders to help her with expenses. I laughed when I met her because she had a twinkle in her eye and a smile like I imagine my true mother would have had. Her hair is white as snow, and she is a bit plump in the middle. I remained quiet, as my parents told me a lady should do, and I listened. I think I will like her very much. She is actually my great-aunt, the sister of my adopted father’s mother.

  We had a lovely dinner, and my parents will stay overnight at the Lenox Hotel. From there they will depart early in the morning. We bade each other a tearful farewell this evening, and they promised to write and to come for me in the fall when the crops are in. Then I was shown to my new bedroom—which is furnished spartanly, but will do. I am not used to having frills in my life. While I turned in, my parents visited and discussed details about payment for my board. I could hear their voices murmuring while I changed into my nightgown. Then it was quiet downstairs.

  I wonder what Chicago must be like if Endurance is called a small town? I hope I meet other girls my age so I can have friends like Alice back home. I realize how tired I am, and I think I will fall asleep as soon as my head touches my pillow. Good-bye, Mama and Papa, and hello, my new life in such an astonishing town . . . Endurance.

  Grace closed the journal, stretched, and glanced at the clock on the wall. “Oh, my,” she said out loud. “I need to get cleaned up and take care of some errands. You’ll have to wait a little longer, Olivia, for me to get back to you.”

  She wrapped the burlap around the journal and slipped it into the drawer of a small end table. How amazing that she thought Endurance was a huge place. Perspective. And to think that even back then, the good, old Endurance Register was announcing the news. This calls for a visit to Sam Oliver in the history department at Endurance College. He should be able to fill me in on more details. I need to find out more about why the first wife fell down the stairs and what happened to this girl, Olivia. Since she married the judge later in 1893, theirs must have been a very fast courtship. Wish I had more time to read her journal since I am curious about the history of the town. Maybe she will describe some of the places we still have today. Well, at least I know she ends up marrying the judge and living in Jeff’s house. This seems weird—reading her words when I know a little about what’s coming up. Life isn’t supposed to happen that way. I wonder if the judge will turn out to be a prince or a toad.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Emily Folger watched, concealing her impatience, as Conrad left with the children for school. Friday. Dinner and poker tonight. She paced around the kitchen, biting her fingernails. Everything must be perfect. The house, food, drinks, and poker table must be ready. Glancing at the clock, she recalled Ms. Simmons would be over by noon, and she would help organize and clean the house. And the caterer. When? When would the caterer be here? Why can’t I remember? Oh, yes. I wrote it down. Where? She shuffled over to the bulletin board on the wall near the door. Thank God it was there, a blue note tacked on the board. Dinner at 7 p.m. Caterer will be here at 6:15. She let out her held-in breath.

  Conrad had picked up the wine and alcohol last night on his way home from the bank. Catastrophe averted. She sighed with relief, recalling their ritual monthly talk last Wednesday about the bills. Emily had to account for every penny spent on the house and the children. It was always the same. He sat at the kitchen table and examined all the bills she had paid, and then he added the numbers in a ledger and checked and double-checked, as she stood waiting for his verdict. She fidgeted and bit her lip. Behind her back, her fingers curled and uncurled. It must have been minutes, but it seemed like hours.

  Finally, when he was finished, he looked up at her and said, “Done. You managed to stay inside the household budget. Just barely. You could do better, but for now we’ll leave it at this.” He shut the ledger, rose from his chair, and headed upstairs, whistling as he climbed the steps. Emily’s withheld breath flew out of her mouth, and her upset stomach still did fluttery turnovers, but she had managed once again.

  She remembered the week of Thanksgiving—the last time she had missed the mark. Twenty-five dollars—that was how much she was over with the groceries. Riveted in her memory was the conversation that night.

  “Twenty-five dollars. You’re over budget by twenty-five dollars,” Conrad stated, looking up from his usual position at the kitchen table.

  “I—I can’t be,” she stammered, and walked around the table to look over his shoulder at the dreaded black ledger. Conrad slammed the book shut and glared up at her. It was that “pain look.” She knew it and cringed.

  “I’m sorry. I made a mistake. I didn’t mean to say that. You’re right.” She crept back around the table to her usual position, head down, curling up her fingers into fists. The room was silent. Conrad leaned back in his chair. The clock ticked, echoing off the walls. Emily could hear her heart beat in her ears, and her stomach ached. She glanced up, under hooded eyes, and saw the “pain look” on his face.

  “Well, there’s
nothing to be done for it.”

  Emily’s muscles relaxed. Slightly. Her breathing slowed. Maybe this time he would forget it.

  “Nothing to be done. You’ll have to call your mother and tell her we can’t make it for Thanksgiving. Maybe you will do better with your budget next month.”

  “But—we can’t. They’re expecting us. I want to go. I’ve—”

  In seconds, Conrad was on his feet, around the table, and grabbing her shoulders. He slapped her face with a stinging crack, and Emily’s breath caught, her eyes lost focus, and immediately her hand went up to her smarting face. He walked back around the table and picked up the ledger.

  “You’ll call them tonight.”

  She stared at him. “And tell them?”

  His quiet voice was calm and monotonous, the words unhurried. “I don’t care what you tell them. Just do it. Maybe in the future you’ll be a better wife and keep track of the bills the way I expect you to deal with them. You never get anything right, Emily. You’re not smart, and so you’re not in charge. You need to do what I say.”

  Emily shuddered as she remembered that night. Last November. January—yes, she remembered. It’s January now. I hate the winter because it’s so suffocating, closed in. Last night she couldn’t sleep. I was probably worried about this dinner, she thought.

  She hated to take a sedative because they made her groggy in the morning, and sometimes she even walked in her sleep. One night she woke up in the back yard and she had no idea how she had gotten there, or why the alarm didn’t go off when she left the house. Maybe she had turned it off in her sleep. She rubbed her forehead, thinking about that night. Other times, too, she’d awakened somewhere else in the house. One night she woke up on the kitchen floor, two knives beside her, and blood on the floor from a cut on her arm. She had no idea how she got there, or why she had cut her arm.