How does one answer such things? I wrote and tore up a dozen responses, offering support and sympathy, before deciding the only words coming from me should be sweet and hopeful. I can only echo back times a hundred your own words: “My love for you I find is paramount to every other feeling, and the lapse of time and change of scene only deepens it.”
He did manage to make brief visits, but in the long stretches in between, I returned to my usual activities: visiting friends, riding, and following the progress of the suffragettes. It seemed like marking time, living with my mother, and waiting for my life to begin. At the same time, winds too strong to resist were leading me down a path that seemed more fate than choice. I was unsettled and short-tempered, my friends finding excuses to stay away. Indeed, I wasn’t enjoying my own company.
* * *
Mother’s neighbor and dear friend Eleanor White had invited me to tea at her home, purportedly to cheer her up after her own daughter had left the nest. I suspected the real reason was to divine my interests in a certain army captain.
Eleanor was plump and sweet, and I had known her my whole life. Her parlor was similar to Mother’s, if somewhat smaller. A large green divan with a curving oak border flanked by two matching settees formed a cozy conversation nook. Walnut bookshelves framed a carved marble fireplace.
We sipped tea on the velvet divan. Between us, the morning paper declared “Is Suffrage a Lost Cause?” I squinted to read the smaller text: “Women Devote Energies to War Effort.” My brief encounters with rolling bandages and packing boxes had demonstrated a distinct lack of energy for the tasks.
Eleanor followed my gaze to the newspaper. “The war won’t last forever. What then?”
Visions of leading protests for the women’s movement crossed my mind, quickening my heartbeat. Surely, there could be no more suitable activity for me.
“When the war is over, the suffragettes will become active again, and this time, I’ll be done with schooling and able to help,” I said.
Eleanor pulled her wrap closer. The fire had burned down, so I got up to add another log. I ran my fingers over the rough iron sculptures on the hearth and on the bookshelves.
Her family supplied iron to the foundry, and she made art from the castoffs. She had presented me with unusual gifts, such as the letter N on my bedroom wall. With help from a worker, she had constructed it by heating, then pounding a brick-sized iron remnant into shape and had given it to me upon my entrance into womanhood. Confused, I had reminded her I had no such initial in my name.
Eleanor had laughed. “No, dear. That is to put upon your wall so you will always know your true north.” She had entertained me with her artwork on many childhood visits, showing me how they fit together and changed when viewed from different angles. They were certainly out of place in a traditional parlor, which pleased me all the more.
“What is it, darling? You’re fussing about like a mama cat who’s lost her kittens.” Eleanor peered over her demiglasses, teacup at her lips.
“Not fussing. Studying.” I tinkered with the perpetual motion machine, an iron, gear-shaped wheel with spokes that flopped over as they reached the top, continuing the circular action.
She suppressed a smile. “Have you developed a sudden interest in thermodynamics?”
“Perhaps. Would there be something wrong with that, Mrs. White?”
She shrugged. “Not at all. A good sign, I would say.”
Her smirk was irritating me as much as the pinch of my corset stays. “Why don’t you simply ask what you wish to ask?”
“That’s not how it’s done, my dear. You still have much to learn in the matter of polite conversation despite the fine example and mentoring of your mother.” She set down the teacup and sighed. “But I understand today’s young ladies see things differently.”
“I didn’t intend to be rude.”
“Intention isn’t as important as the words chosen, my dear.” She twined her fingers. “How should I phrase it, then? What are your plans with your young gentleman?” She raised one eyebrow at me. “Or perhaps you prefer—are you engaged in activities best saved for marriage?”
Heat rose in my cheeks, and I cleared my throat, stalling to gather my wits. “I see how my question could lead a conversation in undesired ways. But let me try to answer.” I tugged at the blouse collar squeezing my neck. “Captain Roebling is a very engaging gentleman who has favored me with attention and undeserved flattery.”
“That much I’ve seen with my own eyes.”
“Unfortunately, we’ve found each other at a most unsuitable time. He, of course, is in the throes of war, and I am just beginning to sort out who I am.”
“My dear, timing is not something you can control. Neither is love.”
“This is true. But there are things I must do—or try to do—before I can fall into another’s world. One thing I have learned about the captain: his life is as focused and structured as mine is not, and if I were to fall into it, I would surely not be the same again. So I must resist, you see, as long as I can, with eyes wide open to all the possibilities.”
An image of Wash with a bloodstain blooming on his chest stung my thoughts. “Included in those is the very real possibility that…” A sob threatened to choke out my words, so I reached out, placed my hand over hers, and moved on. “As for your second question…”
“Never mind.” Her eyes lowered. “I think you’ve answered that.”
* * *
But as much as I tried to read about or engage in a world of possibilities, I found myself too often dreaming of a certain honey-haired captain with a deeply resonating voice that erased all others. On a day in late summer, I opened the door, expecting my mother’s friends arriving for tea. Instead, there was Wash in full dress uniform. I flew into his arms as if lifted in a hot air balloon.
“Come,” I beckoned, taking his hand and leading him to a private spot in our backyard. We sat on a double swing under a trellis. I wanted him all to myself, without the prying eyes of my mother and her gaggle of friends.
Grapevines and roses wove a fragrant nest for us, sheltering us from late afternoon sun. He gathered me into his arms. “You seem surprised to see me. Didn’t you get my letter?”
“No, but you are a welcome surprise.” We kissed, his touch tingling my lips.
He broke away from me much too soon, and I protested by grasping his wool-covered shoulders.
“There isn’t much time,” he said.
“How long do I have you?”
“I’m sorry, it was in the letter. Only an hour or so, I’m afraid.” He brushed my cheek with the back of his hand, giving me a chill as he secured a wayward tendril of my hair behind my ear.