Time After Time (190 page)

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.

Chapter XIV

“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.

Trying to forget these things, Theo spent the balance of the evening answering Timothy’s questions about muskets and glowering at Margaret. She was engaged in a lively conversation with Josiah about the exigencies of new music.

“Young ladies have needs too, Mr. Trinkett. We have given up everything that is pretty and light and joyful for this war. We want to be useful and, as we have been told time and again, our greatest use is as decoration. Let us be ornamental. We require new schottisches to learn, so that we may brighten parlors from Maine to Kansas.”

Josiah waggled a finger at her. “Do you ever say what you mean, Mrs. Ward?”

“Not if I can help it,” she said.

Theo leaned across the space between the sofa and the ottoman upon which she perched. This was what he needed. He said to her, “Was that so hard, Margaret?”

She didn’t answer, but turned back to Josiah. “What we desire, truly, is a real way to contribute. We are mourners. We are keepers of memory. We are cheerers of spirit. Important tasks, aye, but … ephemeral.”

“Just so,” Josiah said, rising to bid the Dixes farewell and to collect his own things.

Margaret followed suit, but she paused a moment to whisper in his ear, “Not difficult, but painful.”

Theo watched her, confused. What the devil did she mean? It was painful to be pleasant to his mother’s guests for the evening? What had gotten into the girl?

After everyone had left, and Mother and Mrs. Ruskin removed to begin cleaning up the dining room, he wrapped his fingers around Margaret’s arm and pulled her from the room and up the stairs. They were going to have this out. Immediately.

Chapter XV

Theo slammed the door to their bedroom shut. He didn’t release her to a light a candle, and it took a moment for Margaret’s eyes to adjust to the dimness. His fingers still curled around her upper arm. It didn’t hurt, but his grip was strong. For a moment, he only scowled. She was frustrating him then? Good, at least it was something. She felt emboldened.

Raising her chin, she said, “I can tell you’re trying to intimidate me, Mr. Ward, but it isn’t working. We’re past that.”

“Oh, so we’re back to Mr. Ward, are we?” His eyes were narrow.

“As long as you refuse to treat me as your wife and an equal, yes, I think we are.”

“You can be an infuriating woman, Margaret.”

“You’d be amazed at how many times I have been told that before. Usually by students. Usually after I caught them breaking the rules in some manner. Not usually by people as … masculine as you, though.”

Theo’s cheek quirked, but he smothered the smile before it could spread across his face. “Stop that. We have serious things to discuss. What do you mean this evening was painful? Something shifted here, between us, when I was gone. I want to know what.”

Could he truly be so stupid? Margaret’s jaw opened, and she stared at him before slamming it shut. She sighed and said, “Everything shifted. Does that surprise you? Did you think I was a toy? That you could set me down and find me precisely where you left me when you returned?”

“No, of course not, but I thought you would explain the change to me.”

“I thought you meant it when you said you loved me.”

The air between them crackled. The room felt unduly warm. The profile of her husband, outlined by the last light of day glinting through the window, was strong and beautiful. Theo tugged her across the space between them and lowered his face to hers. He nipped at her lower lip, nibbling several soft bites along its length and then soothing the ache with his tongue. Margaret gasped.

Was this his answer? Lust in exchange for love?

Not to be outdone, she tore at the buttons on his vest and then his shirt. She licked up his exposed chest and then brushed kisses up his throat, standing on her tiptoes to do so.

She felt a growl beneath her lips, the stirring of his Adam’s apple. It made her feel powerful. She could not make him love her. But she could enrage him. She could enflame his desire. For the moment at least, that would have to be enough.

Her head traveled down his chest again. She sucked on a pink nipple, eliciting a gasp, before she continued lower. She tugged at the sparse sprinkling of hair and then her tongue swirled in his navel. She dropped to her knees and tugged on the buttons of his trousers.

“Mercy, Margaret,” Theo whispered. He pulled the pins out of her hair and dropped them haphazardly on the floor.

At last she freed his rod. She had never beheld it like this: pulsing and engorged and at eye level. She ran a hand up it, her thumb churning over the tip, round and round. She glanced up to see whether her ministrations were working. His eyes were closed, his head was back, and his breathing was ragged. Before she lost her nerve, she repeated the path of her fingers with her tongue and then pulled him, as much of him as she could, into her mouth. He was soft, like kid leather, on the outside. Firm and oaken at the core. Warm and throbbing throughout.

She licked his length. He sighed in appreciation, so she repeated the motion several times. Then she focused on the tip, allowing her teeth to catch on the edge and tracing patterns of stars and hearts with her tongue. All the things she wanted to give the Theo of her dreams. The one who loved her as she did him.