Emma Barry (7 page)

Theo swung his legs off the edge of the bed and took her hand. “I have not had lovers, if that’s what you mean. At Yale, I — ” She silenced him with a wave of her head. She did not truly want to know. “I was not so innocent as you, Margaret, but neither was I a degenerate. I have never cared for a woman as I do for you.”

She took her hand away and turned back to the desk. In a crisp, light voice she said, “We do not need to say these things to each other, Theo. We know what we are and what we are not.”

He nodded and rose, dropping a kiss on the crown of her head as he walked to the basin to wash. Acutely aware of a sudden ache in her chest, she wished she believed her own words.

“What will you do while I am at the office?” he asked.

“I have a hundred letters to write. I find that I do not know how to explain the last two weeks to my friends. And I thought I might call upon your mother.”

Theo turned and grinned at her. “Alone? Brave girl. Shall I meet you there for luncheon?”

“As you wish.”

“How will you and Mother fare during my absence?”

“I don’t know where you ever acquired the idea that your mother and I don’t get along. Our interactions have always been most civil.”

“Perhaps from each of you telling me you disliked the other.”

“How dreadful of you to break our confidences in this manner,” Margaret said, laughing.

“I’m a shocking man.” He was mixing his shaving cream in a cup with a brush now. She had not known men required so many shiny and specific instruments for their toilet. Theo was wonderfully meticulous. She particularly enjoyed watching the long, smooth slide of his muscles under the skin of his back. Perhaps she should have returned to bed.

She sighed and responded to his question. “Your mother disliked me because she thought I sought to take her son from her and then because she thought I broke his heart. Now the war takes you from us both, and your heart has mended. With the war as a common enemy, she and I will find a way. I don’t know how to have a mother; she doesn’t know how to have a daughter. We’ll muddle through together.”

“I may return very soon.”

“Do you think it will be so?”

He shrugged. “The papers argue a long war is impossible. That the Union’s resources are so superior to those of the states in rebellion we will crush them and return to normalcy before winter.” His tone was measured but dry, as if he were reciting from the newspaper by rote.

“I’ve read so, but I take it you doubt this view.”

“That’s not how the civil wars in Europe have played out.” He washed his face and patted himself dry with a towel. “Walk out with me,” he said, his voice thick with meaning. Margaret nodded, dazed. Having a husband was very confusing.

• • •

Theo had to remind himself to slow down on the stairs several times so as not to rush his wife. Marriage would require many adjustments.

As they crossed the lobby, the clerk at the desk smiled and nodded at them. “Good morning, Mr. Ward, Mrs. Ward.”

His gripped Margaret’s arm tighter. She was
his
. He wasn’t sure what all that damn fool business about not believing in love was, but as Margaret slept in his arms last night, he had decided he wanted to put an end to that charade. Life with her would never be restful, but he’d had enough rest in his life. She was meant for him and he for her.

As much as she might want to deny it, she came alive when he touched her. She might bury her feelings, but her body whispered a different tale. While he was looking forward to his departure in some ways, months of nights without Margaret was a cold, dark possibility. Having finally started to live his life, he wanted to quaff deeply everything he had merely sipped before. But living away from her — however long it was necessary to do so — was an unfortunate condition of having a war motivate one to change.

Several blocks later, he exerted a warm pressure on her arm and she turned and looked up at him, puzzled. They had reached his office. Theo lifted her gloved hand to his mouth and kissed each of her knuckles before turning her hand over and pressing his mouth to her palm. He inhaled. Lavender and lemon verbena. That ever-present Margaret combination of floral and citrus, sweet and tart.

He would spend the morning counting the hours until they were together again. Finally, he released her hand and looked deeply into her gold-brown eyes. “I hope you have a pleasant morning, Mrs. Ward.”

She appeared amused and, he hoped, perhaps as overwhelmed by him as he was by her. “You also, Mr. Ward,” she replied.

“Until luncheon.” He released her hand with regret and opened the door.

Inside his clerks, Marcus and Anson, were already hard at work — or at least they’d managed to turn from the spectacle he had been making of himself over Margaret and back to their copying in time to avoid his eyes. He crossed to his desk, set down his valise, and tried to put his wife from his head. The more quickly he could wrap up his business, the more time he could spend with her before he departed.

Josiah came into the main office from his own private enclave and leaned against the door. The old man watched Margaret’s retreating figure through the glass. “She’s beautiful as the dawn, Ward. Why did it take you years to marry her?”

“Sheer obstinacy on my part.”

Josiah leaned against the wall. “And now you’re leaving for the war in a month.”

“Yes.”

“Leaving that pretty girl to go off and play games,” Josiah clarified.

Theo slammed a fist into his desk and snapped, “If you think the preservation of our union is a game — ”

“Calm yourself.” Josiah raised a hand in supplication. “I’m merely trying to say you have poor timing.”

Theo pursed his lips and turned back to the papers he’d been sorting. “The two matters resolved themselves concurrently. Believe me, I regret I must leave so soon. I don’t wish to leave Margaret at all. I would not do so if the stakes were not as high as they are.”

The old man stepped to the glass and looked out again. “For your sake, I hope you’re right.” Josiah had been his mother’s brother’s partner for many years. When his uncle had retired, Theo had taken his place in the firm. He often found his partner to be tedious, antediluvian, and complacent. But in this at least he was correct.

“So do I. Now, let’s start with the Bentley land dispute.”

The large buildings of Main Street blurred into the houses behind them. Gardens became smears of green, flowers points of color. Crowds on the sidewalks transformed into obstacles to be dodged. Each of Margaret’s steps took her closer to the dwelling where Theo intended to install her as mistress before departing for war. Had it really only been a single day since she had agreed to marry him? Was it less than a day since they had married?

It had seemed a simple matter as they had sat in the garden at the seminary. She might not love Theo, but she cared for him. Were her feelings sufficient for a lifetime partnership? Wouldn’t it be better to have security if she had conceived? On this basis had she accepted him?

You do make decisions in a most capricious way.

She glanced about, confused and dislocated. She had missed the turn.

Backtracking, she considered what awaited her. Though he had mentioned his mother during his proposal, Margaret hadn’t thought of the woman. Now it was all she could think about.

Mrs. Ward, the true Mrs. Ward, was a plump, short woman of about sixty years. Most of the residents of Middletown would not call her unpleasant. Most of the residents of Middletown had not married her son.

As she approached Theo’s house, a chilling thought froze Margaret’s progress. Theo could die.

On a lonely battlefield far from here, he could die. A bullet, illness, exposure — any number of things could take him from her. Her intense, vibrant husband could cease to be. His blue eyes, which saw even the truths she sought to hide, could see no more. His mind, so strong and ponderous, could stop.

She had known it, of course. Had kissed him, had given herself to him, in part because she was acutely aware of his mortality. But every time she remembered the peril he would soon be in, she was chilled anew. Why had she goaded him into going to war? Why had she married him? Margaret felt weak. Was her life at the seminary really so unpleasant that she had married a man she didn’t love and with whose shrewish mother she might have to pass the rest of her days?

She looked up at the structure, a brick two-story affair with large windows framed with black shutters, all topped by proud chimneys. She whispered a silent prayer for the strength with which to climb the steps, for a softening of Mrs. Ward’s heart, and, above all, for Theo’s life.

Margaret knocked, aware the resulting noise was tinny and likely ineffectual. Yet not moments later, the door sprung open, revealing the housekeeper Mrs. Ruskin. She was a slim, hard woman in her mid-fifties whose hair had already gone all to silver. Her chill at the impromptu wedding dinner the previous evening had been frosty and impressive. Clearly, Margaret had many people to win over in the coming weeks and months.

“Good morning!” she said, with all the brightness she could muster given her melancholy train of thought. It wasn’t enough to win over the housekeeper, but it was a start. “Isn’t it a lovely day? I didn’t get a chance to thank you last night for all your hard work putting together such a beautiful meal. I apologize we gave you so little warning.”

Mrs. Ruskin raised a brow and allowed her eyes to apprise Margaret. Her pinched lips communicated all was not to her liking, but just the same, she moved to the side to allow Margaret to enter.

“Mrs. Ward is in the breakfast room. Shall I take you to her?”

“By all means.”

The house through which she led Margaret was, in a word, grand. While Theo had alluded to his money during his proposal, she had thought of it even less than she had of his mother. The decorations were in the Empire style, with fine, heavy furnishings and beautiful, dark fabrics. The house made Margaret stand a little straighter and press her shoulders back to fit in. There was no possibility of slouching here. Apprehension racked her body.

At least in the breakfast room there was sunshine. At the head of the small table, framed by golden streams of light, sat Mrs. Ward. She smiled faintly and indicated the chair oppose her, silently bidding Margaret to take it.

“Tea?”

“Yes, please.”

The pouring ritual occurred. Hands, water, porcelain, silver, with the accompanying soft chiming of metal on china, the rising of steam, and, finally, the smell of tea. It was comforting and familiar.

Then they sipped in a long, conspicuous silence. Perhaps they could spend Theo’s absence entirely in this monk-like manner.

Alas, it was not to be. Crossing her hands in her lap to match her ankles, Mrs. Ward at last asked a question. “When does Theodore intend to return home?”

Margaret blushed at this veiled reference to their honeymoon but responded firmly. “If he has a plan, Mrs. Ward, he hasn’t shared it with me.”

“I see.” The pronouncement all but thudded on the table.

Margaret felt frustrated and self-conscious. Maybe she could create some common ground? “The past week has been overwhelming for me as well. There has been little time to make let alone discuss plans.”

Mrs. Ward regarded her over the lip of her cup. “How do you feel about my son’s enlistment?”

She blamed Margaret for putting her son in danger? Well, it was a natural, and not entirely incorrect, conclusion. “I worry for him. He is after all
my
husband.” Margaret knew that she had to assert her claim too. “But we, neither of us, could keep Theo from that which he feels so strongly about.”

Mrs. Ward set her saucer on the table with the faintest clatter and said coolly, “None of your people were at the service yesterday.”

Just as coolly, Margaret replied, “As you know, I have very few ‘people.’ My parents are dead. My only surviving sibling, my sister Emily, is with her family in Virginia. She could not travel under the present circumstances, even if she had warning, which of course she did not. A few teachers and students from the seminary were present, but most had already departed for the summer recess.”

“Do you intend to resign your post?” Mrs. Ward followed up.

“I
have
resigned as headmistress. She must reside at the school, and Theo feels my place is here, with him … and you. Depending on the board’s decision, I may retain a position on the faculty, however.”

Her future at the seminary confused her. When she’d faced eternity there, she wanted to leave. Now that she’d been offered way out, she wasn’t sure she wanted to take it. Particularly if the alternative was more time with this lovely woman.

“I see.” Those words and that heavy, judgmental silence again. Maybe Theo’s four-decade-long stasis made sense.

This was becoming tedious, however. She had but little patience for these games. “Mrs. Ward, I know you don’t approve of me.” The ensuing silence was reply enough, Mrs. Ward apparently felt.

Margaret continued, “I assure you, however, I care for your son. I will make him a good wife.”

Mrs. Ward cocked her head to look out the window on the small, well-kept garden. Without returning her eyes to Margaret she said, “You may call me Sarah, if you like.” There was another beat while they both regarded vegetables and flowers through the window and allowed this shift to digest.

“I’m wary of you,” Mrs. Ward — Sarah — said when her daughter-in-law did not speak. Margaret was unsurprised and appreciated the candor.

Theo’s mother continued, “He was in a very bad way after your engagement ended. For months he walked around like a ghost of his former self. Even once he returned to the land of the living, he was changed. I blamed you. I’d like to believe this time will be different, and you will prove a good wife. I want to see him happy.”

It was painful for Margaret to hear about that period in her husband’s life. She wondered if it might help her relationship with her mother-in-law to tell her she too had spent months in a daze. That the end of their engagement had nearly broken her. But she didn’t yet trust Sarah enough to be so vulnerable.