Emily's Song

by Christine Marciniak

  “No!” His heart beat faster and his palms started to sweat as panic threatened to overcome him. He wanted to be able to leave Emily with this one thing. “I pull out with Yuengling’s company tomorrow, first light. I need it now. My wife. My new wife. Please.”

  Mrs. Edwards, a towel in her hands, came into view. “Ah, go take their pictures, Johnnie. The lad’s going off to war, and the wife needs a memento. The dinner will wait.”

  Sam smiled thankfully at her, taking a deep breath to slow his beating heart.

  Mr. Edwards sighed and put his jacket back on. “All right then, come around to the front, I’ll let you in.”

  Sam collected Emily from the buggy and brought her into the studio. “I’ll want two,” Sam told him. “One for me, and one for my wife.”

  “Sure, sure,” the photographer said as he prepared his equipment. “You’ll have to sit by the window, it’s the best light we’ll get right now.” When he had his equipment set up, he brought a chair and placed it by the window, and instructed Emily to sit on it. Sam stood behind her, and to the side, putting his hand on her shoulder. She reached over and took hold of his other hand, and as they posed, clinging to each other for dear life, the photographer did his magic and made the exposures.

  “I can have these ready for you tomorrow,” he said, already putting his studio back to rights.

  Sam sighed. He would not get it before he left.

  “I can mail it to you, can’t I?” Emily asked, clutching his hand. “I mean, you will be able to get and receive letters.”

  He hadn’t even thought of letters. He had been so focused on not being physically near Emily that he hadn’t considered they could still stay in touch.

  “Yes, of course,” he said, smiling at her. “You can send it to me.”

  He took out his wallet and counted out the money to pay the photographer, including a little extra to thank him for opening back up to take the picture.

  “Godspeed to you, Sam.” Mr. Edwards clasped his hand.

  Sam swallowed hard. “Thank you, sir.”

  He helped Emily back into the wagon, and they rode back to the house, talking about the gorgeous spring afternoon, because any other topic of conversation was too painful.

  Tobias met them in the drive and took over the horses. “The family has gathered to dinner,” he told them. So still dressed in their wedding finery Sam led his wife into the dining room. Despite their gay apparel, it was a somber affair, especially after the lavishness of the night before.

  “Be sure to wear two pairs of socks,” his mother said, dabbing her mouth with her napkin. “It will help keep your feet dry and warm. Warm, dry feet are very important.”

  “Of course, Mother.” He was hardly listening, unable to take his eyes from Emily, wanting to memorize everything about her. Any photograph wouldn’t do her justice.

  “You need to get the respect of your men right away,” his father said, signaling for more wine. “To be sure they listen to you in battle.”

  “Yes, Father,” Sam said. “Respect. Got it.”

  He barely registered what he ate, although he was aware it was certainly immeasurably better than anything he’d be eating in the near future. Why had he signed up to go to war? What foolish, romantic notion had led him to this point?

  When dinner ended, he automatically followed his father to the study. His father poured them each a glass of whiskey, and they settled in the wing chairs with their pipes. How long before he’d be able to do this again? Even here, with just the two of them the conversation was stilted. There was too much to say and not enough time to say it, so they said nothing.

  “We should join the women; your mother wants time with you before you go.” His father put out his pipe and placed his empty glass on the sideboard.

  Emily stood when he entered the parlor where the women were waiting. He immediately went to her side and took her hand. “I’ll go upstairs,” she said, tenderly releasing her hand from his, “and let you take leave of your family in private.”

  No one told her she didn’t have to do that, and he watched her go, knowing she would be waiting in his bed when he got there. Talk was awkward and forced. His mother kept dabbing at her eyes. His father sat straight, his jaw tight, occasionally emitting platitudes like “we know you’ll do us proud” or “you’ll be home by Christmas.”

  Elizabeth slouched in the corner of the couch, her lip stuck out in a pout. “It’s not fair that they gave you so little warning. Joseph didn’t even have time to propose.”

  After about an hour, his father checked his watch and said, “You should get some sleep, son; you need to leave quite early.”

  Sam had no intention of sleeping tonight, and he suspected his father knew that.

  “You’ll all still be abed when I leave,” he said. “I’ll say my goodbyes now.”

  He hugged them all, even his father, and assured them he would be back.

  “In time for Christmas!” Elizabeth said with forced cheerfulness.

  “Yes, definitely. And you’ll all take care of Emily for me.”

  “Rest assured, son,” his father said, a comforting hand on his shoulder. “She is our daughter now. You need not worry.”

  But of course he would worry anyway. How could he not?

  He took leave of his parents and Elizabeth and took the steps two at a time leading to his room. The lamp on the table burned, showing him that Emily waited under the covers in his bed. He undressed quickly, putting things where he could find them a few hours from now when he had to leave.

  Naked, he approached the bed and pulled back the covers. She was naked, and he remembered that night, only a few weeks ago, when he found her like this, in his bed. Then she had been a stranger. Now she was his wife. He reached out now, like he did then, to touch her creamy white breast. This time she did not scream, but smiled up at him.

  “Come to bed, husband,” she said to him.

  And he did.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Emily

  They hadn’t planned to sleep at all, but two nights of virtually no sleep caught up with them, and Emily dozed off in Sam’s arms. She awoke to him caressing her breast. “Do you have to leave soon?” she murmured. There was no light coming through the curtains, and at some point, he had doused the lantern. She didn’t know how he knew what time it might be, but he had to be with his unit by first light, which meant leaving here in the dark.

  “Soon,” he whispered the word, as a caress, in her ear. “But I still have a little time.”

  They used the time wisely, making love slowly and carefully, memorizing each other in the few moments they had left together. They lay together, sated, for several minutes, and then Sam disentangled himself from her. She sat up and watched as he got dressed by candlelight.

  “Go back to sleep,” he told her, touching her gently on the knee.

  “No.” As if there was any chance of her sleeping away the last few moments they would have together. “I’ll stay with you until you leave.”

  He didn’t argue with her. When he was dressed in his uniform, looking like he did on their wedding day, she thought her heart might crack in two.

  “I need to leave,” he whispered hoarsely.

  “I’ll go down with you.” She found her chemise on the floor and slipped it on. He took a dressing gown, his, from a hook, and put it over her shoulders.

  Together they walked downstairs. The house was quiet, but when they got to the front door, Tobias stood there with the reins of Sam’s horse in his hands. The saddlebags were loaded, the bedroll was strapped across the back. He had sent a separate trunk with additional supplies up the night before to where the troops were camping. That would travel with the unit by wagon.

  He turned to her, standing there on the porch and wrapped his arms around her. She wanted to stay like that forever, but knew they couldn’t. She breathed him in, the scent of their lovemaking was still on him, as well as the wool of his jacket and that ever present smell o
f cinnamon.

  “Why do you smell like cinnamon?” The question was completely out of place, but if she didn’t ask now, she likely would never know.

  He laughed and kissed the top of her head. “It’s in my hair pomade. You don’t mind, do you?”

  So that explained that. “Mind? No, I like it, and cinnamon will always make me think of you.”

  “Will you need a reminder to think of me?”

  “No.” She pressed her cheek into the wool of his coat. “No. I won’t need anything to remind me of you.”

  “I’ll be back.” His strong arms held her tight.

  Famous last words.

  “I know.” She was not ready to let him go yet.

  “I love you,” he whispered the words fervently into her ear.

  “I love you.” She could barely keep back her tears. There was nothing else she could say.

  His mouth found hers then, and he kissed her long and hard. Her knees grew weak, and she wanted to bed him again right now but knew that wasn’t possible.

  Behind them Tobias cleared his throat. “It’s getting late, sir.”

  The kiss ended, as she had always known it would have to.

  “I will be back.” Even as he separated himself from her, he still clutched her hand.

  “And I’ll be here.” She let go of his hand, finally, and brought her fingers to her mouth to try to hide her sadness from him.

  With that he mounted his horse and rode off to war.

  She stood, his dressing gown wrapped around her, watching until even the sound of the hoof beats faded into the distance. He was gone. Really and truly gone.

  “Mrs. Samuel?” Tobias spoke the words softly, standing only a few feet away. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Oh, no, thank you.” She stared off into the space where Sam had been.

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, ma’am, you should be back in bed.”

  “I should, you’re right. Thank you.” Like one in a dream, or perhaps a nightmare, she trudged up the stairs and back to the room. Sam’s room. It felt cold and empty and lonely without him. She climbed under the covers, which still held the scent of him, and let the tears flow. She didn’t even try to hold them back, for what was the use. She’d found her true love and lost him. She could still feel his touch on her body, it wasn’t possible that she would never see him again, but yet, she couldn’t forget the words of the woman at the inn “he died in the Civil War.”

  She woke to the smell of cinnamon and for a brief, wonderful moment, thought that Sam was back, but it was Beck, laying a tea tray on the dresser. “I wasn’t sure if you were awake yet, but I thought a cup of tea would do you good.” She pulled open the curtains and let the morning light into the room.

  “I’m not hungry.” She closed her eyes against the light and snuggled deeper under the covers and Sam’s dressing gown, still worn over her chemise.

  “I imagine not, but a cup of tea would do you good. My mama put a bit of peppermint in it. It will soothe you.”

  “I don’t need soothing. I need Sam,” she muttered.

  “I’ll leave the tea here all the same.” She heard Beck grasp the doorknob, but the door didn’t open. She opened her eyes a slit to see Beck standing, one hand on the door, looking at her intently. “You said, once Mister Sam left, we’d make plans for my escape.”

  “It’s too soon,” she protested. She didn’t have the energy to get out of bed, much less help Beck escape. Not today.

  “Why?” Beck persisted. “He’s gone. There’s no point in delaying.”

  He’s gone. She didn’t want to think about the fact that he was gone. She could still smell his scent on her. Why did Beck have to remind her he was gone. She stifled a sob. “Please let me get my equilibrium, okay. I’ll help. I swear. But let me…I don’t know…give me time.”

  “Fine,” Beck said, in a tone of voice that meant it wasn’t fine at all. “What’s it to you anyway, if I spend more time as a slave?”

  “Please!” She couldn’t keep tears from coming back to her eyes. “At least let me get one good night’s sleep so I can think straight. Is that so much to ask?”

  Beck left the room without further comment. After a few minutes, the scent of the peppermint wafting from the tea was too tempting, and she got out of bed and picked up the cup. She took it over to the window. In the fields the hands worked, hoed, weeded, whatever it was they did at this time in the planting cycle.

  In the rose garden Mr. and Mrs. Marshall walked arm in arm, heads close together. How much harder must it be for them to have Sam go off to war. He was their son, their only son. They had known and loved him for over twenty-five years. She had only known him a few weeks. If they could go on with their lives, so could she. It was only fair.

  She wished she could forget what that woman at the inn had said. If she hadn’t heard he would die in the Civil War, she would be fairly confident he would return. But she had heard that woman say that. Of course, she’d been fairly drunk at the time, maybe she had misheard. That was entirely possible. She took a sip of the tea. The peppermint was soothing. Certainly she had misunderstood what the woman had said. She couldn’t trust anything she heard while she was drunk.

  There had been something else too. A poem. The woman had said Sam was a poet of renown. He wasn’t yet. She was pretty sure someone would have mentioned it, like perhaps Sam, himself, if he had a reputation as a poet. She didn’t think she could marry someone and not know that about them. Then again, she didn’t know very much about him at all. Still, if he was going to be known as a poet, he needed time to write that poetry, and clearly he hadn’t yet.

  There had been a poem at the inn. She’d read it. What on earth had it been about? Oh! It had to do with her. Shivers went up her arms and she clutched the tea cup a little tighter. So, this was meant to be, her coming here and meeting Sam. It had happened before it ever happened. How was that possible?

  She shook her head to try to clear it and took another sip of the tea. What did she know for certain? She knew she was from the twenty-first century and now in the nineteenth, so time travel was possible which made pretty much anything else possible. She knew that Sam would be a poet and possibly die in the war. But she knew he wasn’t a poet yet, at least she didn’t think so, so there was time. Time meant that he might get leave and come to see her, or at least time to write letters to each other. She would not give up yet. And that meant getting dressed and meeting the day, even without Sam here by her side.

  She finished her tea and ate the cinnamon bun that Beck had brought up. She needed to start putting in place the plan to free Beck. Today or tomorrow she needed to mention some distant relative in Philadelphia that she would like to visit, perhaps get train tickets or something. That would be good.

  She took off Sam’s dressing gown and hung it on the hook by the door. She pulled on her bloomers under her chemise and managed to get into the corset by fastening it up the front. The petticoats and hoop she could manage on her own, but the dress with its yards of cloth and buttons up the back, was too much for her. She made the bed, laid the dress across it, and straightened up the rest of the room, knowing that Beck would be back at some point to help her.

  She sat at Sam’s desk and opened the drawers hoping to find some writing paper. She would start a letter to him now. She found some paper and pulled it out. The first page had some writing on it.

  A sprite from the land of Faerie

  Bewitching me with a glance

  She touched my hand and stole my heart

  Our meeting: more than happenstance

  She shivered. She recognized that. It was the beginning of the poem she had seen the night of Dayna’s wedding. She was almost certain. If the poem wasn’t finished yet, then certainly Sam had to stay alive at least until he could write the rest. There was something reassuring in that. She took out another piece of paper, fussed with the fountain pen until she got it to provide her ink on demand, and began a letter.

 
; Dearest Sam,

  You’ve been gone a few hours now, and I can still feel your touch on my skin. I already miss you so much it is hard to describe, but yet, I know you are going to be okay and come back to me. I can feel it. I know I will see you again. Any other possibility is simply not thinkable.

  The door opened, and Beck poked her head in. “You ready to get dressed, miss?”

  “I am,” she answered.

  Beck came into the room. “You’re getting better at doing more yourself.”

  “I try. I don’t know how someone can get dressed themselves with all the buttons up the back though.” She tucked her started letter into the desk drawer.

  “You can’t,” Beck agreed. “You need some skirts and shirtwaists and maybe a day dress with buttons up the front. Tell Mrs. Marshall you need these things, but don’t say it’s because I won’t be here.”

  “Okay. I can do that. And don’t worry, I won’t give anything away.” She stood, in preparation for Beck to finish dressing her. “Do you think they’ll mind buying me more clothes?”

  “You’re Mrs. Samuel now, they’ll get you whatever you need.” Beck picked up the dress and eased it over Emily’s head. “Right now, Mr. Marshall wants to go into town to pick up the photographs you and Mister Sam had made. He hopes you’ll go with him.”

  “Of course I will,” she answered as she emerged from the yards of material.

  “The tea helped?” Beck deftly buttoned up the back of the dress.

  “Very much so,” she said. “Thank you, and thank your mother for thinking of it.”

  Before heading downstairs to the family, she took a deep breath. The important thing to remember was that Sam didn’t belong solely to her, and she couldn’t act as if he did. To wallow in her own misery would make her a chore for these people, and that was not what she wanted.

  Mr. Marshall greeted her with a warm smile when she got to the bottom of the stairs. “Emily! How are you this morning? I know it must be difficult to have your husband leave so soon.”