Emma Barry (12 page)

He’d spent some time every day during his absence imagining this moment. What he’d somehow never realized that was that it wasn’t a reunion because they weren’t the same. Weren’t the same and, in so many ways, were strangers. However were they supposed to proceed? He certainly didn’t know.

Still, neither of them spoke. Margaret fixed her hair and dress. He tried not to watch her too closely. Finally, when she seemed to be done, he offered her his arm and they descended together into chaos.

Apparently Mother and Mrs. Ruskin were trying to put together a tea worthy of his homecoming and failing. Something about the larder being bare. Josiah was watching, amused, as the maids bore the brunt of the women’s frustration. Margaret only gave his arm a reassuring pat before she interceded on the girls’ behalf and attempted to negotiate peace.

Theo dropped into a chair and watched the scene unfold with a growing smile.

Ah, home.
This
, this he understood. The rest would work itself out.

During the first day of Theo’s leave, Margaret felt breathless and tense. Knowing him better in absence than in presence, she was no longer sure how to comport herself.

Their lovemaking his first night home had been brief, passionate, and impersonal. Afterward, Theo fell into a heavy, immediate sleep. There was none of his former tenderness. No words of love. No endless caressing. Theo conducted himself with warmth and dispatch.

And then it was over.

He had even risen before her in the morning, leaving her to wake, confused, alone.

As she entered the breakfast room, she tried to whittle her doubts away. But a chill seemed to fall between Sarah and Theo when she entered, and it was all Margaret could do not to run from the room. Whatever she’d expected from his return, it was not bracing relief followed by paralyzing coldness and confusion.

Her husband rose and directed her to a chair, and Sarah offered her tea. These impersonal chivalries were followed by a long, tense silence. Had things been like this when they were first married?

A year ago, Margaret had been so consumed with their infatuation, with the newness of being together, she probably would have missed it if it had been. Maybe this wasn’t unusual. Maybe this was what things were like between the three of them.

Finally, her mother-in-law said, “Theodore was just telling me about his journey and about what he would like to do for the rest of his leave.”

“What are your plans this morning?” Margaret asked while she sipped from her cup.

“I thought I might pay a call on Reverend Patterson. He’s been so kind with letters and whatnot for the men and me. I want to thank him.”

She could feel whatever color was left in her face drain out. He was leaving?

“We’ll dine
en famille
tonight,” Sarah was saying, “but I thought we might have some of our close friends to supper tomorrow. Josiah, of course, but perhaps the Dixes as well.”

“Whatever you want,” Margaret said, but inside, she could not believe it. Nine days! They had nine more precious days with him. She didn’t want to share him for one second more than she needed to. Why wasn’t Sarah being more possessive?

“Well, while you finish your breakfast, I’ll be off.” Theo dropped a quick kiss first on Margaret’s cheek and then Sarah’s before departing.

She nodded at him and reached for her fork, but found she could not get her fingers to work. They would not lift it. She slammed her fist down on the tabletop and whipped out her chair.

“Theo,” Margaret hissed when she found him donning a scarf in the entryway. “You’ve been home scarcely twenty hours, and you’re leaving?”

He looked at her, shook his head in confusion, and said, “I’m going to pay a call. I will be home within the hour.”

She stared back, searching his face for any trace of the man who had made love to her in a stable, so overcome by emotion and years of longing that he could not hold back for a single moment. The man who had begged for her love beneath the willow tree and who had vowed to return to her, whatever the cost.

No, the man in front of her was leaner, harder. No tenderness in him. No understanding of how the past year had been for her.

She crossed her hands in front of her so he would not see their agitation. “You have been … so distant, Theo. I need assurance from you that all is well.”

His eyes narrowed. “It’s unlike you to be insecure, Margaret.”

“You’ve been gone more than a year. How do you know what I’m like?” She spoke in a whisper, since she did not want Sarah or Mrs. Ruskin to overhear, but she burdened the words with as much emotion as she could.

“I don’t know what is motivating this outburst,” Theo shot back, “but we’ll discuss it when I return.” He shoved his hat onto his head.

Margaret threw her hands up in exasperation and bolted up several stairs before whipping around and upbraiding him. “Theo Ward, don’t treat me like some misbehaving child. I’m your wife.”

“You don’t need to remind me of that fact, madam,” Theo said, wrenching the door open and sweeping through it. It closed behind him with a decisive click.

At the sound, Margaret tore up the stairs and threw herself onto her bed, sobbing.

• • •

Forty minutes later, Theo was marching home from Reverend Patterson’s, fuming. All right, so the same things that were bothering him were bothering her. All right, so he wasn’t sure how to be with her now. All right, so he was confused and blundering. But she didn’t understand who he was, what he’d seen, what he’d done. She’d spent a year protecting the maids from Mother and rolling bandages. He’d discovered the place where his ideals met political expediency.

Whatever she was angry about, all she’d had to deal with on a regular basis was missing him. She desired his presence, and he was not there. She was afraid, yes, reasonably so, that he might not return. But he was at war. Participating in an awful machine of death. Writing to the families of boys he had known all his life, communicating the worst possible news. Navigating the horrible rush of battle and the stultifying grind of waiting. He was entitled to a little confusion about how to behave with his wife.

He stomped into the house to discover Mother in the parlor, needle in hand. “I believe Margaret is upstairs with a headache,” she offered. The lines around her face suggested something about this situation was amusing. Theo failed to see the humor.

“Thank you. I’ll check on her.”

He opened the door and found her sitting at her dressing table. She did not acknowledge his entrance. This was already going badly.

“You’re correct. You’re not a child,” he said, sitting on the bed and regarding her through narrowed eyes.

She inclined her head but did not speak.

He continued, “You’re upset?”

“Aye,” she nodded, one hand fingering a comb without intention.

“You feel insecure. In our marriage.”

She chuckled at this, a strange sound drained of its humor and vitality. She locked eyes with him in the mirror and asked, “Where have you gone, Theo? Where is the man I married?”

“He went to war, madam.”

She turned, and the ice melted from her visage. “Tell me. Explain it. Unburden yourself.”

Theo snapped to his feet and crossed to the window. Outside, the leaves had hardened, turned papery and dark, and were preparing to fall. He could not do as she asked and pollute this place with his life. She would not understand.

“Words fail me. I trusted in them, ere I went to war. But now I understand the limits of speech to express the horrors which men are capable of. I would not — I will not — tell you about it.”

“I see.”

“I needed to visit Reverend Patterson this morning. I’m home now. You must understand.” He turned and smiled at her with all the warmth he could muster at the moment. It wasn’t much, but it was the best he could do.

Her eyes were unreadable. Josiah was correct. She had pulled within herself for some reason, and he could no longer understand her. They were both hiding now.

“I see,” she repeated.

“I’m going down to be with Mother now. I hope you will join us.”

As he exited, he paused before her. His hand hovered about her shoulder for a moment, but neither of them crossed the divide. Leaving her untouched, he opened the door and proceeded downstairs.

Somehow he had to get through the next nine days, and then he could get back to the front. There was no way to fix what was wrong, not when he had to go back. They would forge contentment when he returned home for good. It was impossible in this in-between moment.

Margaret had been correct all along: he’d been ravished by the moment. As it was, since she could not love him and since he could not be transparent with her, he never should have come home until this war was over.

“But don’t the horses get scared on the battlefield?” The child’s eyes were warm and opaquely brown, like coffee. He was sincere and vulnerable as only a ten-year-old boy can be.

Margaret watched Theo smile and nod as he said, “I’m sure they do, Timothy.”

Timothy was undeterred. “But do they serve admirably?” the boy asked.

“Aye, son,” Theo replied. “They do their part, and we could not do it without them.”

Theo was good with children. They might have had them if things between them had been settled differently in ’59. The thought stung, but it was difficult for Margaret to imagine anything as being more painful than the last day and a half had been.

Two days had passed since Theo arrived home. As Sarah wanted, Josiah and the Dixes had come for an impromptu party. The evening had been dominated by Timothy Dix’s questions, which seemed to test the stories he had seen in Mr. Leslie’s illustrated newspaper. His two older brothers, who were even now at the front, had doubtless filled many letters answering the child’s questions. But the boy rarely faced the opportunity to question a real live soldier, so he had seized it with both hands.

Margaret offered coffee to Mrs. Dix before settling herself on an ottoman across from Theo. They had scarcely spoken since their spat the previous morning. Last night, they slept far apart, pushed to the furthest edges of the bed in order to avoid touching. Neither had said anything about it. If they did not acknowledge it, it couldn’t be occurring. The absurdity would have been funny to Margaret in any context other than her marriage.

All day, she had thrown herself into preparations for the party. As long as her hands were busy, there was no possibility of fighting or crying. The same techniques she used to distract herself from her loneliness while he was gone worked now. Margaret felt self-conscious about the stiff cordiality between them, but there was nothing for it.

Theo was unsympathetic to her. Toughened by battle, he would not tell her about his life. Thus the soft thoughts and desires Margaret had nurtured in her soul during the past year, her attempts to reopen the stores of emotion within her that had been slammed shut when their engagement ended two years prior … well, they were all for naught. She needed a moment to mourn the life she’d thought they were building. Once she adjusted to the present, she would be fine.

She had told Theo she didn’t want love. Certainly she didn’t need it. He had given her what she had asked for. How could she throw that back at him?

With a start, she realized she was being addressed. “Won’t you play?” Sarah was saying.

Margaret recognized the words, but she was so lost in her reverie their meaning took a moment to land. “Of course.” She rose and crossed to the spinet.

As if by habit, Theo came and sat beside her to turn the pages of the music. They hadn’t been this close all day. Her body had yet to decide it didn’t need him. Margaret’s heart snagged and then began to thump wildly. Theo aggravated and unsettled her as no other person on earth could. Did he not know that? Could he truly be so obtuse?

“Mrs. Dix,” she called, hoping her voice sounded light, “is it true congratulations are in order? Did Samuel propose to Gertrude when he was home on leave?”

Mrs. Dix’s mouth broke into a wide grin. “Yes, yes he did. We’re ever so happy for them and look only for the conclusion of the war to celebrate their marriage.”

“I wish them every felicitation, of course,” Margaret replied, her fingers tripping over the keys in a painful cacophony. After a moment, she again found her place. “As a war bride myself, I appreciate their situation.” She didn’t dare look up at Theo as she continued, “Whether it’s wiser to wait until the conclusion of the war, or to marry immediately, I couldn’t say.”

Theo cleared his throat. “Samuel has seen a lot of action. Almost all the major engagements of the war, you were saying, Mr. Dix. He’s obviously looking after Gertrude’s heart and future by waiting.” He flicked to the next page.

Margaret scoffed. “She is not the best judge of her own well-being?”

“She has less information than he by which to adjudicate.”

“Then his discretion is at fault for her ignorance,” Margaret hissed. She pounded the final chord and looked up. Everyone else was silent, staring at the two of them as if they had turned indigo.

“More coffee?” she asked her husband, a forced smile pasted to her mouth.

• • •

Theo watched his wife cross the room, the frustration emanating from her palpable. Her emotions, at least what he understood of them, were mirrored in his chest. It was like ’59 all over again. She was a changeable whirlwind, cycling between half a dozen moods, all of them upset with him. What he needed from her right now wasn’t to be challenged. It was to be supported.

He tried to imagine explaining it to her. “What I want, darling, is for you not to ask any questions or demand anything that I can’t give. Supply that affectionate distance you seem to think our marriage is built on and maybe, when I’m back permanently, I can figure out a way to tell you who I am now.” He had no difficulty at all picturing her laughter.

He was being a bear. He knew it. But there was simply nothing for the situation in which they found themselves. She’d been correct, as she ever was, about the war not being a solution to his problem. It had forced his hand and taught him about action, but it also proved the limits of humanity. The emptiness of the soul. The fragility of life. The work of this war
must
be finished. The states must be reunited. The slaves had to be freed. But the cost would be high and, increasingly, it seemed like his heart would be sacrificed in the bonfire.