Chapter Nineteen
brAINTREE
Massachusetts
Fearful of more disappointments, I didn’t allow myself to believe it when I was told that a long-awaited packet of letters
from John had finally arrived with parcels and gifts. Only when the trunks were stacked in my entryway and the letters placed
in my trembling hands did I feel my heart soar at the sight of my husband’s familiar handwriting.
Nabby and I opened the packages first. Inside, we found a jar of marbles for six-year-old Tommy, who gleefully poured them
onto the floor. We also found tea, precious tea! Giddy with excitement, we started unboxing things faster, unpacking gloves,
pins, house brushes, china bowls, ribbons, and fabric, too.
But when Nabby unrolled a furl of muddy orange silk over her knees, she winced. “What a ghastly shade.”
“Oh dear,” I said, reaching to finger the cloth. “The quality is good, but this color is not at all to my mind.”
We’d asked for gray or lavender—suitable for serious occasions. Now I wondered what use I could make of orange.
“I’d look sickly wearing this,” Nabby said, holding it up against her rosy-cheeked complexion, which favored bright blues
and pinks. “People would run from me fearing I had some plague. To send this for my dresses, my dear father must approve of
my notion to be a spinster all my days . . .”
I laughed that she was contemplating spinsterhood rather than indulge in romantic play. “Why would you wish to be a spinster?”
“Because boys are so tiresome,” she replied.
Tiresome had become her favorite word as of late and I tried not to encourage her by taking notice of it. “Perhaps your cousin Betsy
will want this fabric,” I said, rolling the fabric up again. “If not, we’ll try to sell it, though it will not fetch much.”
Nabby laughed. “What could Papa have been thinking?”
“Given his important work in France, we must be grateful he thought to send fabric at all—as I suppose ladies’ fripperies
are quite beneath his notice.”
Besides, the silk really was of very nice quality, and amongst the other articles he sent, we soon found linens and handkerchiefs—both of which always
made me a tidy profit.
I chastised myself for all the months I feared he’d forgotten us. He’d now sent more than enough to keep us afloat and a few
treats besides. That was to say nothing of the letters, which I lovingly cradled to my bosom until Nabby asked, “Aren’t you
going to open them?”
“Not until the kettle is ready.” I intended to indulge myself. I took a tea tray upstairs, my heart as light as a feather
and my spirits dancing. In anticipation of many pleasures so long denied me, I rocked my head slightly to one side, then the
other, to loosen the aches in shoulder and neck. When I stirred the tea, I enjoyed the tinkle of the little metal spoon against
the porcelain cup before setting it down ever so gently in the saucer. I finally brought the cup up warm between my hands,
watching the steam rise from the amber whirlwind. How wonderful it smelled. And the taste!
Though I had no sugar to sweeten it, the leaves imparted a sweetness of their own, floral notes melting to something earthier
on the back of my tongue, and I moaned with the pleasure of it.
The tea was excellent. The best I ever had, and according to John’s manifest, not even high priced, which made it all the sweeter.
I knew there was much to do around the farm before sundown, yet I found myself removing my shoes and taking down my hair.
I even scented my wrists with a little lemon verbena on a whim before sprawling abed like a wanton with my letters . . .
John said he feared to write love letters lest they fall into enemy hands.
So, I told myself to be content if all I received was a packet of terse little notes that told me next to nothing.
As long as they reassured me of the good health and happiness of my boys, I promised myself to read between every line the unspoken sentiments of my husband’s heart.
I would simply trace each letter, each word, until I could feel his hand as mine.
With trembling, joyful fingers, I broke the wax seal and unfolded the pages, pressing my nose close, imagining I could scent
some lingering essence of my dearest friend.
The first letter—from November—was all business except to reassure me that our boys were “very well” and that “Europe is the
dullest place in the world.”
I smiled at the charm of this dubious sentiment, but that smile faded upon reading the next letter, in which he wrote, “This
moment I had, what shall I say? The pleasure or the pain of your most recent missive from late October. The complaints in
it gave me more pain than I can express.”
I stopped short, trying to recall what complaints I made six months ago. Surely only that he didn’t write often enough or
with the warmth I was accustomed to. But I could remember nothing that justified what he wrote next. “This is the third letter
I’ve received from you filled with complaints. I wrote several answers but could not send. One was angry, another full of
grief, and the third too melancholy, so I burnt them all.”
Then came something from my husband I could never have conceived: a threat.
“If you write to me in this style I shall stop writing back entirely. Can professions of esteem be wanting from me? Can protestation
of affection be necessary? Can tokens of remembrance be desired? The very idea of this sickens me.”
Heavy distress spread through my limbs, making my arms weak as he continued to rage at me. “How shall I convince you that
my heart is warm? Shall I declare it? Shall I swear to it? Is it possible you should doubt it? I know it is not possible for
if I could believe you truly doubted me, I cannot answer for the consequences. And you will be very sorry for them.”
I lay there upon our empty marriage bed, stunned, letting my tea go cold, my mind reeling to remember what could possibly
have occasioned such a rant.
This letter, with its anger so blunt . . .
I should’ve stopped reading. I had, after all, meant to savor this packet of letters.
Unfortunately, now I needed to know that this fit of temper was only that.
My good man always regretted his outbursts.
Perhaps I’d learn in the next letter that he apologized for his harshness.
Perhaps he’d write to me gently, remembering that I was his partner in this life, left quite vulnerable and alone.
But the next letter was all Paris and politics. “Last night I saw the illumination for the birth of the Princess. Splendid
indeed. The military school, the hospital of invalids and the Palace of Bourbon were sublime.”
I smoothed out this letter on the quilt next to the one in which he assured me that Europe was the dullest place in the world.
Then I stared, counting back.
So it had been Christmastide when he strolled the Parisian streets enjoying these sublime sights. And if he thought of me,
it was apparently with anger for having dared to ask for reassurance of his love.
The idea of it had sickened him.
Just as I now felt sickened to remember what I was doing during that same Christmastide. I’d been cold, hungry, and lonely, pouring my heart out to him in letters—my tears
flowing faster than the ink—and suffering a dreary winter without my daughter, without flour to make bread, shivering in threadbare
clothes without hope of paying our bills . . .
Now teary, I beseeched myself to lay these letters aside. All for naught. I couldn’t stop flipping page after page, the rest
of John’s cruel letters passing before my eyes in a blur.
A New Year’s wish urging me to find a way to embrace poverty.
A Valentine mocking me as “Her Ladyship” for having had the temerity to ask him for news, which he somehow believed I wanted
for gossip to impress my friends. This followed by an assertion that he was surrounded by spies and an accusation that perhaps
someone was whispering malicious rumors about his doings into my ear.
Nearly every letter was suffused by his disgust that I should wish to know any detail, political or personal, about his daily life. Every letter impressing upon me his importance, and my unimportance.
Finally he wrote, “Leave me alone. You know that I shall not injure you and you ought to believe that I have good reasons
for what I do.”
Oh, but he had injured me. Never before had I felt so unjustly treated. Certainly, he’d given me cause for frustration and
disappointment. But that was to be expected in any marriage, and I’m sure I’d given him cause for the same. But this . . . this was different.
If he had slapped me, it would not have felt more like abuse. All at once, the pendant I’d worn felt as if it were strangling
me, and I tore it from my neck. Still, the breathless sensation spread until I felt a tightening in my chest and my breath
began to stutter.
I couldn’t get enough air. I stumbled from the bed to the window, dragging in ragged gasps. Was this what John experienced
during the Boston Massacre trial? Then, I’d been at his side, coaxing him to breathe, soothing him until the pain subsided.
But I endured this frightening pain alone until I sank down to the floor for fear I might lose consciousness.
I lay there, gripping the edge of the dusty, old Turkey carpet until my heart stopped thudding in my chest and swallowing
became easier. The sharp stabs of panic transformed into a dull but deeper heartbreak.
I did not leave my room that day. I couldn’t eat a bite. Nor did I take more than a nibble in the days that followed. When
I finally roused myself, I floated through the farm like a fog—quiet, insubstantial, and scarcely there.
Perhaps this was the terrible consequence that John warned of if I should doubt his love.
Because doubt his love, I now did.
From whom could I seek comfort?