Palmyra

by Susan Evans McCloud

  “Emma and I are about to remove, actually, to Harmony, Pennsylvania, where her family is.”

  “Oh?”

  “I have some work I must accomplish, and hope to be able to succeed with it there.” He smiled; a sad smile, I thought, but there seemed a buoyant light in the expression, strange as that may sound.

  “Your brother is buried a few feet from here, and you have come to take your leave of him,” I guessed.

  The smile deepened, but so did the sadness. “Yes. In many ways Alvin was the best of us, and I still miss his kindness and counsel.”

  I understood. We both turned our faces toward the low spot where the noble young man slept. There seemed no need for conversation between us; I felt an ease in his presence that astounded me.

  “Is it a difficult work that awaits you?” I said, wondering at myself for asking the question.

  “Indeed, it is that. Challenging beyond what my capacities seem to be—but glorious beyond expression!”

  His words, like his look, seemed to enter some inner chamber of my soul and find lodging there. I found myself saying, “I am sorry you have been hounded by crude, greedy men.” The expression in his eyes made me falter a little. “My father heard . . . told me something of the matter . . . ,” I stumbled.

  He nodded solemnly, but that light still danced behind the blue eyes.

  “Have you sustained harm from these villains?” I was suddenly curious concerning what happened that night a few weeks ago.

  “Not enough to take note of. I was pursued while walking alone through the woods, assaulted several times, but I was always able to fight off my attackers successfully.”

  “It is a shame,” I sighed.

  “I have worked for your father several times in the past years,” Joseph said, as though just recalling the fact. I nodded in response. “He is a good and just man.”

  The words of praise pleased me. “He speaks highly of you, as well. Even I remember what a conscientious worker you were.”

  “It is gratifying to be remembered and regarded with honor,” he replied, bowing over my hand, preparing to take leave of me.

  “I wish you the best of success in your new ventures,” I said with enthusiasm.

  “Thank you, Esther. You, too, will realize the desires of your heart and fulfill a good work in your lifetime.”

  The blue eyes held mine for an instant before the man turned away. I stood a long time after he had left, as though the spell of his presence still lingered, like the benediction of those singular last words he had spoken to me. I marveled at this, at the light and purity of his spirit that I had felt so strongly—and could neither gainsay nor understand.

  Chapter 7

  Palmyra: December 1827

  I am not one who becomes excited over weddings. Indeed, I look upon them as little more than formal necessities, forced upon us by society, necessary in order to get on with the real business of life. I enjoy seeing men and women dressed in their best and looking fine as much as the next person—but I am not enchanted, nor in any way taken in, by the show. Besides, at weddings everything that is real and meaningful is smothered by a layer of excitement and lavish pretense. I prefer the idea of a few choice friends and a small country church, music, and flowers amid sincere, heartfelt congratulations—and the bride not so exhausted and distracted that she cannot even identify what she herself is feeling, much less respond to the feelings of others!

  There. I have said my piece—perhaps all the more emphatically because of the two very difficult weddings I went through.

  Theodora’s marriage did take place, much as her father and mother ordained, planned, and executed it. She remained a gentle, pliable participant throughout. I do not know if the beauty and excitement got through to her. Her skin was as pale as new snow, her graceful hands still as white stones in her lap or dropped down at her sides. She smiled; she accepted congratulations with a graciousness that did justice to her spirit and to her excellent upbringing. She wore the glow brides are supposed to have access to; accompanying it: a tiara of jewels in her hair from which her veil floated, diamond-shaped ear drops, a gown exquisitely crafted of the finest tulle over a white satin slip, the skirt ornamented with two rows of festoons, edged with three narrow pipings of cherry-colored satin, arranged so that the roses in the festoon were attached to the broad white satin rouleau at the bottom of the dress, creating a most stunning effect. A bouquet of hand-crafted roses and hyacinths was placed at the termination of each festoon in the upper row, and the sash at Tillie’s waist was of broad cherry-colored satin, falling in exquisite folds.

  I could go on and on, but to what purpose? She did look more beautiful than she ever had, or perhaps ever will. But that should be able to be said of all brides. Gerard Whittier, resplendent himself, seemed proud enough of her, perhaps genuinely pleased with the young lady who walked at his arm, so that at least appearances were well served.

  I had been granted a few moments alone with Tillie the evening before.

  “We are to go to Canada for a brief honeymoon,” she told me. “Gerard says it is most lovely there.”

  “So I have always heard.”

  She smiled nervously. “I shall make the best of it I can, Esther, and try sincerely to love him.”

  “I know you will, dear.”

  “And we are returning here, you know. Father has given me that assurance. We are to spend six months or so in the city. By then old Mr. Andrews will have retired, and Gerard will step into his vacated position—and I can come home.”

  “In time for May Day!” I exulted, attempting to encourage her, but then recalling a bit glumly my heavy thoughts on that morning when I had contemplated all the places the coming year might take us.

  Latisha, who is only two years younger than Theodora, entered the room then and interrupted our tête-à-tête. There was no way I could protest without making a fuss, but there were so many questions I had not yet asked. In the end, as I was leaving and bent to kiss my friend’s cheek in farewell, I whispered into her ear, “You must promise to write, Tillie. And give me addresses, if you have them, of places where you will be stopping.” She nodded and laid her cheek against mine. “Real letters now, promise! If you are really in need of me, I want no brave theatricals.”

  “Oh, Esther!” she cried. “How can I bear to be parted from you!”

  I held her head to my shoulder and cradled her, as I might cradle a child. Latisha looked on, not attempting to hide her incredulity.

  “I am certain I shall not react in such a manner when the time comes for me to be wed.”

  “I am certain you will not,” I agreed, equably. “But you know what a tender heart your sister has, and we have been dear friends since our earliest childhood.”

  Latisha held her pretty nose up in the air, not deigning an answer. She had always been a bit jealous of the closeness we shared, and who could blame her? She was but a few years younger and might well have been included in our group, save for the elusive fact that such unions, I am convinced, form themselves—upon some natural lines that we cannot always even define, much least modify. She did, after all, have friends of her own. But they shared nothing as sweet and extraordinary as what we had known.

  I took my leave, feeling my own loss nearly as keenly as I felt hers. I attended the ceremony the next day and the lavish festivities that followed, and watched this handsome, haughty stranger wisk our Tillie away from us to a life that would be no longer a part of our own.

  Throughout the evening Josephine chatted gaily, imagining, I am sure, her own approaching enthronement as bride and wife. Phoebe and Georgie and I found a quiet spot near the back of the gardens where we could sit together and mourn for a few moments in peace.

  It would have been bad luck to express our concern for Theodora in so many words, but feeling it further united us.

  “No tears,” Georgeanna said brightly when she saw our eyes fill and swim. “Our love must be strong, not weakened by doubts. We send Til
lie out upon the current of our love—like a magic carpet to take her forth and uphold her.”

  How wise Georgie could be!

  I half rose from the stone bench, suggesting we return, when my eye caught a movement, and the movement solidified into two solid figures I could recognize—dancing through the shimmering twilight together: Simon Turner and Emily Thorn. Why is sorrow ever present, no matter the occasion, no matter the efforts of joy to dispel it? I thought bitterly.

  Perhaps Georgie had seen them, too. She turned to Phoebe with a question that kept us occupied for another ten minutes or more. When at last we rejoined the others, Emily was drinking punch with her mother and several other ladies, and Simon was nowhere to be found.

  Josephine had things precisely as she wanted, precisely as she had planned. A December wedding, heading off the holiday season with the magnificence she had desired. Ten times prettier than Tillie, she was the picture of elegant, breathtaking beauty; a perfect bride. Alexander Hall was beside himself. His eyes softened and melted whenever he looked at her, and I recalled with a pang that Gerard Whittier had not once looked at Tillie that way. We had thought Theodora would be able to return for the wedding, but a sudden storm crippled the city, while out here the sun shone upon a sparkling wonderland of iced trees and snowy fields. But the streets were passable, and the spirit of the coming holiday was like a spice, crackling the very air with anticipation.

  I was happy for my sister. I was nearly as happy for my mother, who looked ten years younger in her new gown, for which no expense had been spared, and with her hair piled atop her head in one of the latest fashions and her pleasure softening the harsh lines the years had etched in her face. My father was gallant with her, and Josie most gracious, so that both of them shone like fair lights that night. I was glad of it. I was glad to sit back, an observer by choice.

  But what infectious madness do weddings engender? Not one but several old ladies took up seats beside me and, without asking, offered their sage advice.

  “It is time for you, my pretty. The men will not wait forever while you make up your mind.”

  Where has this come from? I wondered the first time.

  “You have your older sister wed now, Esther. It is time to look to yourself. So many nice boys would be willing if you will but give them the chance.”

  “You can follow soon enough yourself, dear, if you wish. I should like to see you happily wed, lass, and settled down. You will make a better wife than half the girls in the village.”

  A wise nod of the head. A scolding finger, kindly wagged. A gray head bent close to pronounce its gentle warning. I nodded graciously to each of them, though I was seething inside. And I was entertaining such a mood when Eugene Thorn stood before me and asked if he might pull up his chair beside mine.

  I acquiesced—anything to rid myself of this gaggle of annoying, though well-intentioned, counselors! I knew how Eugene felt about me, but I had not expected the wedding spirit to overcome him as well!

  “Esther,” he began after a few minutes, lifting up my hand and holding it loosely in both of his. “You look truly lovely tonight.”

  Beauty from within, I thought. But his eyes were shining, so I held my peace.

  “You have always believed Josephine to be prettier than you are,” he scolded. “It distresses me, Esther, that you cannot perceive your own beauty, how much more powerful and alluring it is than hers!”

  I bent over the punch cup he had placed on the low table before us and sniffed it, and he laughed despite himself, shattering the intensity his words had created.

  “Really, Esther,” he persisted, stroking my hand, leaning close to me. “Do not put me off this way. Do not make it so hard for me to speak of matters that—that are close to my heart.”

  I stared back, astonished. Whatever could he wish to talk about—here?

  Perhaps he sensed my reluctance. We sat in the ballroom of the Queen of the Erie hotel, which had cost the new, beaming husband a pretty penny. It was too cold to go outside. Nevertheless there was a lovely promenade of sorts opening into four small, cozy reception rooms. “Will you walk with me, Esther?”

  I could not refuse him. We crossed the length of the room, nodding and speaking to friend and acquaintance on either side.

  “This will not do,” Eugene fumed.

  “It will do well enough,” I replied gently. “What is it you want?”

  He would not answer. He steered me, instead, along the wide hall until we came to the first room. “In here,” he said, “where we can breathe for a moment alone.”

  I sighed. I had been fond of Eugene for as long as I could remember. He has a gentle heart and a good mind, and I had found that he could be trusted. And he did look handsome that night! I enjoyed the touch of his hand on my arm as he encouraged me in the right direction. I had always liked the sense of his nearness. When I was a young girl I sometimes used to dream about—

  “Esther.” There was such a yearning in his voice that I looked up and smiled. “Forgive me if all this”—he waved his arm vaguely—“has increased my desire for you. I have loved you for so long, Esther.”

  And you have loved me so well. I felt the warm color rise to my cheeks, unable to prevent it.

  “I want you to be mine. I know I can make you happy—or at least I shall spend my whole life in trying.”

  The earnest face bent over mine suddenly took on an expression so boyish, so vulnerable, that my heart raced. His dark eyes were very close to mine, his mouth so near that I could see the pulse beating in his throat, feel his breath—

  I let him kiss me. I was nearly twenty years old and had my own hungers to deal with. Perhaps I believe every girl should celebrate weddings with a kiss of her own. I closed my eyes, and I felt his touch like a warm fire spread over my flesh.

  “I love you, Esther . . . my beautiful Esther . . .” He spoke the words against my lips, against my cheek, against my neck, where his mouth pressed and seared.

  I pulled gently away from him. “Eugene, please.” I faced his gaze squarely.

  “Marry me, Esther,” he said.

  I hesitated, then shook my head gently. “In good time,” I murmured, “in good time, Eugene. There is enough of marriages just now.”

  “None more hopeful of happiness and harmony than ours,” he protested.

  “Which is exactly why we can wait.”

  “You make no sense, Esther.”

  “Reason never makes sense when spoken to passion,” I told him. Then I tried to explain. “First and foremost, I cannot even think about leaving Mother yet, before she has even accustomed herself to the loss of one daughter.”

  “Your mother will never give you up easily, especially now.”

  I knew what “especially now” meant. It was a reference to Jonathan and her unnatural protectiveness in regard to him, her general neglect in regard to all else.

  “This is true,” I conceded. “But I could not be cruel enough to leave her unprepared, Eugene.”

  He knew already that he had lost. He sighed and turned his face away from me, attempting to hide the bitterness that twitched along his muscles, defining the fine lines of jawbone and cheek.

  I took that dear face in both my hands and turned him back to me, distressed at the pain I was causing him. “I love you, too,” I cried suddenly. “I believe I have loved you for years.”

  He glowed from the inside out. He caught up my hands and pressed them both to his lips. “I believed you loved me,” he breathed. “But hearing you speak the words makes all the difference.” I could feel the pulsing of his joy through his fingertips. I smiled, a bit tremulously.

  I wished to do nothing to spoil it. So I met his warm lips again—astounded at myself, at the eagerness with which everything within me responded to his caress.

  The weather held for Josephine’s wedding, and then broke forth with a fury. She and Alexander were stranded in New York City; dismal prospect. But Josie made it into an adventure and turned her husband’
s fussing concerns into delight and wonder; she has a natural talent for that. I hope she loves him a little, I found myself thinking. I hope she comes back really loving him.

  Correspondence from Tillie had been skimpy over the months, to say the least. Was it fortuitous or a stroke of ill luck that, because Josie was so long in the city, she found out where Theodora was living and paid her a surprise visit, hoping to delight her old friend? She is canny, Josie is, and saw at once through the brave facade of things. When she arrived home this was the first thing she told me, giving it precedence over the recital of her own amusing and amazing experiences.

  “Does Tillie live in a grand house? No, she does not,” she stated emphatically, curling her long legs up beneath her and settling into the corner of the sofa with as much ease as a cat. “Does she have money? Enough. The remnants of what might once have been legitimate, even impressive. The Whittiers command a certain respect in the city, all right. I looked into that.”

  “How clever of you.” I resented her matter-of-fact, almost gloating manner. But, of course, she brushed this mere annoyance aside.

  “It is a brother-in-law, Esther, who manages the bank Gerard boasted of running. Imagine that! He is in banking, all right. A junior partner of some sort, bound to his relatives because of his own intemperance and high living.”

  “Do not tell me this,” I pleaded, covering my eyes with my hand.

  “So, you see,” she continued, ignoring me, “he has lied to the lot of them. I believe his family sent him to Palmyra to marry well, in hopes it would settle him down a bit. He could not look for a bride from among their own society, for everyone there knows of his ways.”

  I felt sick to my stomach and a little light-headed. My poor brave Tillie. No wonder she has not written much to me. She knows how easily I read between the lines.

  “Do not tell the others—do not tell anyone else!” I entreated.

  “Really, Esther.” My request did not please Josephine. “Are you not making a little much of this? He’ll come back to Palmyra and make a finer living than most still. And Tillie will be a grand lady here.”