Romance: Luther's Property (59 page)

“Is there no man anywhere who can find himself a loving wife
without going through these extreme machinations?” I asked my paper-reading
companion. She looked at me with puzzled eyes and then shrugged.

“You know what men are,” she replied. “Helpless babies, most
of them. Once their mother’s sick of them they’ve got to get married or they’ll
starve to death.” The thin gold ring on her finger showed me she might have
some first-hand experience with men’s behaviors. “If it weren’t for wives,
there’s men out there who would run around with their clothes in tatters and
holes in their shoes.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “There are men who have wives
that go around the same way.”

My companion laughed.
 
“But they don’t get to enjoy it the same way.” She tapped the side of
her head. “Having a wife around changes everything.”

That seemed to be what the writer of the advertisements
seemed to be hoping for. “Wife wanted!” one headline after another screamed,
each one prefacing a tersely eloquent summary of the aspiring groom’s charms.

“Householder with three healthy sons,” one spelled out; it
was a prospect that made my stomach lurch in a most terrifying fashion. The
next belonged to a logger, also a father of three, and the one after that had
only two children and a piano studio in San Francisco.
 
I considered that one for a while, until a
closer examination of the text revealed that it was very desirable that all
applicants speak Mandarin Chinese.

Lacking the desired tongue, I moved on. Some of the ads
revealed themselves to be nothing more than a laundry list of wants: a wife
seeking a husband must be trim, cheerful, hardworking, and virtuous – not
necessarily in that order, a phenomenon I suspect said more about the groom’s
experiences than his personal preferences.

Confident that I qualified on most counts, absenting this
day which found me none too cheerful, I continued reading the ads for much of
the morning. A train arrived, disgorged its passengers, reloaded and left;
still I stood reading.
 
For quite some time
I stood on the platform, perusing the ads. They were printed in an almost
unreadably small font; squinting against the sun as it climbed up the horizon
toward noontime heights was beginning to give me quite a headache.

I glanced toward the train station office.
 
It was near enough to empty; the few souls
that were in there had apparently already finished whatever business they’d had
with the ticket agent. If there was an ideal time to go in and inquire about
the cost of passage to California, this was it.

Yet I found my feet wouldn’t move. I was frozen in place, as
solidly stuck as if someone had painted the soles of my shoes with stout glue.
Somehow, I’d lost the ability to walk and move of my own free will; it was a
strange paralysis of the likes I’d never experienced.

While I was thus stricken, the rumble of an approaching
train filled the air. I could feel the ground beneath me shaking. For a moment
I thought of the Union guns and the way cannon balls screamed as they tore
through the air. It took all my will to not plaster my hands over my ears;
while we all did such things during the battles, only the rubes did so now.

The train was shorter than most; it had an engine, four
passenger cars, and trailing those, a private car with big windows. Through the
glass I could glimpse a tabletop dressed with white linen; beyond that, I had a
fleeting glance of red velvet upholstery. Painted on the side of the car in
golden letters were the words Benson Trading and Exchange, Limited.

My heart stopped in my chest. I could feel my mouth go dry.
The fear I felt in that moment exceeded anything I’d felt the night before,
watching Father’s print shop burn. The private train car before me belonged to
Richard Benson. Riding inside it was the man so determined to be my husband.

I knew Robert as soon as he stepped out of the train car. He
had to stoop to do so; he was a very tall man, and that considerable height was
exaggerated by the oily-looking black top hat he wore. Such hats were in fashion,
but it suited him poorly; it was too small by half for his bulbous head.

The man who would marry me had red skin, covered over nearly
entirely with angry boils and acne pustules. Such a thing was not uncommon
among boys and even men my own age, but to see such a compromised complexion in
one nearly Father’s age was revolting. It wasn’t particularly warm that day,
but even at a distance I could see a glistening sheen where his skin appeared
to be weeping.

He was broad, with a thick torso, tree trunk legs, and
ape-like arms that filled his jacked sleeves near to bursting.
 
Watching him move was a fascinating
spectacle. Robert Benson didn’t walk as much as he lurched forward, one stiff
step after another made without the slightest regard of anyone else’s presence
or position. I saw a mother snatch her young child out of Mr. Benson’s way with
barely a moment to spare; if she’d not acted, surely he would have trod
directly on the tot.

Every bit of the man’s appearance seemed designed to evoke a
response of fear and revulsion. His suit was the darkest black; the walking
stick he carried was topped with a gold-chased burl. I’d heard he’d bragged of
cracking heads with it, and rumors were that he would laugh at a dog’s pained
yowls after he shooed them away.

I couldn’t stop staring at him, but I didn’t want him to see
me. In that moment, I remembered my hair had fallen free from its braids. The
red hue was particularly noticeable in the sun; of all the women of my age in
the valley, I was the only one blessed with auburn locks. This I was sure
Robert Benson knew; the merest glance in my direction would reveal my presence
to him.

There was no time to re-braid my hair. With thick, heavy
locks past my shoulders, putting my hair up properly always took the better part
of an hour, not to mention a mirror and a brush. Besides, in itself, a braid
wouldn’t be enough to conceal the color.

I had a handkerchief tucked up my sleeve. It smelled of
smoke and had gotten a little dingy, but that couldn’t be helped. I managed to
get it secured around my hair in the nick of time. No sooner was the small
cloth knotted than Richard Benson stepped out of the train station onto the
sidewalk. I was no more than twenty feet from him.

The air stilled. I could hear a million cicadas singing,
their fiddling song cutting through the air like a saw blade with an agenda.
When I breathed in, all I could smell was the sickly-sweet odor of rose water;
clearly Benson bathed in the stuff.
 
I
didn’t breathe out. I feared that doing so might attract his attention. If the
sound of my exhalation didn’t do so, surely the retching I was working so hard
to contain would have.

Luckily, most of Robert’s attention was focused on the fact
that his carriage had not arrived as scheduled to pick him up. “I don’t care if
the blasted train is early,” he raged at a short man who toadied alongside him,
carrying a heavy black case and a portfolio stuffed to overflowing with papers.
“I need to go home now. I can’t waste half the day standing around waiting for
Boutwell to show up!” He hit the ground with his walking stick, and then leaned
heavily upon it. “I can’t, and I won’t!”

“You shant have to, Sir,” the short man said. “There’s the
carriage there. He’s coming now.” From down the road, travelling at high speed,
came an ornately painted coach being pulled by a splendid team of matching
chestnuts. It was being driven by a man who bore more than a passing
resemblance to the fire marshal.

Was this, I wondered, Kitty’s other brother?

My curiosity had a weight of its own, apparently. Benson
started to turn in my direction, apparently sensing that someone was watching.
I chose that moment to direct my attention back to the personal ads, deciding
in the heat of that moment that I would answer the very first one I read; whoever
placed that message was surely fated to be my husband.

“Iowa Agronomist Seeks Wife,” the headline read. The ad was
shorter than most. The only other thing it said was “Must Love To Read.”

When I returned home, I found Father sitting on the front
porch.
 
He had recovered his composure,
thankfully. His eyes were dry. He’d combed his hair and exchanged the sooty
clothes he’d been wearing for another set.

“I’ve news for you,” he said. “My daughter.”

“If you mean to tell me that Richard Benson’s come back from
Boston, I know,” I replied. “I saw his carriage on the road.”

Father nodded slowly. “He sent a boy round with the message
that we’re to join him at the dinner hour tomorrow.” He took a deep breath. “To
discuss the wedding arrangements.”

I think Father was expecting a reprise of our earlier
conflict, but I didn’t have it in me to argue with him again. There was no
point in it. I simply nodded my head a little bit and said, “All right.”

He brightened at my acquiescence. “I know this isn’t what
you wanted, girl, but things may work out better than expected. The Lord works
in mysterious ways.” A smile, slow and tentative, crept across his face. “Why,
your Mother and I hadn’t known each other but a season when we decided to wed.
And we were very happy together.”

“I know, Papa.” I leaned over and hugged him, squeezing his
shoulders gently. It struck me that there weren’t many more times when I’d get
to embrace my Father – the train for Iowa was scheduled to pull out of the
station shortly after first light. Tears sprang to my eyes, hot and quick. “I
know.”

His eyes searched my face when I stepped back. Perhaps a
tear drop or two had slipped onto his shoulder, alerting him to my distress.
Perhaps the timbre of my voice wasn’t as steady as it might have been.
  
“You will be happy,” he said. “I am sure of
it.”

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and nodded. “Of
course,” I agreed. I didn’t want to lie to Father, so I chose my words
carefully. “I just have to get used to everything being different.”

He nodded. “It was only yesterday that you were this high,”
he said, holding out his hand at knee-height. “Always sticking your hands in
the ink and getting prints on everything.” He reached out for another embrace.
“And now you’re a woman grown.”

He hugged me tightly, squeezing so hard I could feel that
affection and anxiety were coursing through his body in equal measure. “Oh, my
darling. I am going to miss you.”

My tears came back, in greater quantity than before. “I’m
going to miss you too.” Then I took a deep breath and stood straight, smoothing
my skirts until I composed myself. “But we’ll have to put the best face on it.”
I took another breath, feeling the air shudder its way down into my lungs. “Who
knows? Before too long, there may be another little girl running around who
can’t keep her fingers out of the ink.”

“Give him a son first,” Father said, “and I’m sure Benson
will let you have as many daughters as your heart desires.” He shook his head.
“A man in his position needs an heir. Someone to leave his legacy to.”

“A heir and a spare,” I said, forcing a smile back onto
Father’s face. “And more besides, should the good Lord will it.”

“I’m glad to see you’ve come around to the idea,” Father
said.

“What choice do I have?” I shrugged my shoulders, feeling a
sour surge in my stomach. It felt wrong, so wrong, to deceive Papa, but if I
told him of my plans – much less the fact that I’d cabled Iowa, announcing I
was on my way with Shakespeare in tow – I knew he’d do everything in his power
to stop me.
 
“Did Mr. Benson send a
message for me?”

“No.” Father shook his head. “I expect that he’s waiting to
greet you for the first time in person.”

I nodded, as if that seemed sensible. More likely to me was
the possibility that it never occurred to Mr. Benson that there was any need to
communicate with the woman destined to become his bride; after all, I’d already
been purchased and paid for. “I’d best go get my attire for tomorrow sorted
out,” I said, stepping toward the front door. “And begin to pack my things.” My
voice wavered more than I wanted it to, but there was nothing that could be
done about that. “I have just one question for you, Papa.”

He turned toward me, with more than a little fear in his
eyes. “What’s that, darling?”

“What’s an agronomist?”

Having learned that an agronomist is a farmer who is also a
scientist, I retreated to my room with my emotions a whirl.
 
I knew nothing about this man in Iowa – not
even
 
his name! – but already he seemed
infinitely more appealing than Robert Benson could ever be.

A scientist, if nothing else, came equipped with a curious
mind. Being similarly equipped myself, I found this comforting. I could imagine
life in a household equipped with a laboratory; it would be like living with
the pharmacist, with a room filled to bursting with jars full of mysterious
ingredients and glassware.

For as long as I could remember, a small trunk stood at the
foot of my bed. It was meant to hold my trousseau, and in there, I had long treasured
a precious few items that I’d inherited from my Mother. There were linens she’d
embroidered and a French chemise made of linen so fine you could see the
sunlight through it when you held it up to the window.

I took that out and stared at it. This was always intended
for my wedding night; one of the very few things I actually remembered about my
Mother was her telling me how happy I would be when I became a bride.
 

It was a blessing that Mother hadn’t lived long enough to
see what a travesty my life had become. I carefully folded the chemise and laid
it on the bed; I knew I wouldn’t be able to bear leaving that behind.

The trunk was another question. It was stout and strong –
perfect for travelling – but it was also quite heavy. My departure from
Father’s house was going to have to be stealthy. There was no one to help me
carry a trunk, and I’d not the ability to do it myself.

The black leather satchel I’d used to use to carry my school
books would have to do. It wasn’t particularly spacious, but it was large
enough to contain the essentials: the Shakespeare, Mother’s chemise, and my
most practical dresses. I didn’t see life on an Iowa farm affording many
opportunities for dancing. The prettier dresses were consigned, one by one, to
the trunk. One pale green ensemble I couldn’t bear to leave behind; people
always said I looked fetching in it, and it wouldn’t be amiss to have something
attractive to wear for my new husband.

Father appeared in my doorway just as I was tucking the
skirt into the satchel. He didn’t say anything. Instead, he stood staring at
the trunk, which now held a modest rainbow of finery.

“Papa?” I asked, after a time. “Are you all right?”

He shook his head. “Every Father knows that this day will
come. And you ask the Lord to let it stay a distant possibility rather than a
present reality for as long as possible.” His voice broke. “You are my only
child, Abigail.” His shoulders shook and he choked back a sob. “When you are
gone, what will I have left?”

I froze. My Father was already grieving, and the magnitude
of the loss he was about to experience was even greater than he knew. Marrying
Richard Benson meant moving to the other side of the Valley; while we’d be
apart, Papa had every right to expect that he’d see me now and again.

Going to Iowa meant we’d be apart forever. This night would
be the last one we’d ever spend under the same roof; there would be no visits.
He would never see his grandchildren.
 
He
would indeed be truly alone.

I burst into tears, sobbing intensely. I was crying so hard
there was no sense in talking, but of course I tried anyway. “I don’t know,
Papa!”

He took me in his arms. “Abigail. Stop.” Father squeezed me
gently, and sounded like himself again, the reliable source of comfort and
strength I’d always known him as. “You needn’t worry. Everything is going to be
all right. I shouldn’t have troubled you.”
 

“I don’t want you to be unhappy,” I said to him. “And who is
going to take care of you when I’m gone?”

He laughed. “I’ll manage,” he said. “One way or the other.”

“I need to know that you’re going to be all right,” I said
to him, grabbing his arms and staring into his eyes. “No matter what happens.”

Father paused for a moment.

“Kitty Benson didn’t survive this, Papa. I might not
either.” I squeezed his biceps, hard. “Promise me that you’ll be all right.”

He nodded and gulped. “But you make me a promise too, girl.”

“Anything, Papa,” I said.

“If it comes to it…if things go badly between you and Mr.
Benson…” Father steeled his voice. “You do what you need to do to survive. You
stay alive. No matter what.”
 
It was his
turn to insist.
 
“Promise me.”

“I will, Papa,” I said. “I promise.”