The First Day of Spring #5
“There was something strange about that flower,” I explained. “I remember bringing it home and looking for Mother’s vase. The fragrance was so sweet it was cloying.”
Yes, I was remembering it now. I had arrived home and passed briefly outside Father’s study hearing him and John discussing Plato. I was looking for Mother’s vase in the living room when the fragrance from the flower grew overpowering. I had felt dizzy and fainted.
Just like before, I smelled the sweet scent of daffodils in the room. I swayed in my steps. For a few seconds I looked at John, my eyes imploring him to listen, to believe me.
My head grew heavy. My neck felt like it couldn’t support the weight. I blinked once. The second time my eyes would not open. I heard John call my name, but I could not answer. The last thing I felt was his strong arms as he caught me when I fell.
I do not know how long I slept. By the time I awoke it was dark outside and the household was silent.
The only light came from the fire and a small candle.
I thought I smelled food and then saw a tray left on the table near the foot of the bed.
The contents were cold. The ham and vegetable soup must have been placed there hours ago.
I only managed a few bites before I pushed the plate away.
It took me a moment to notice Dixon asleep in the chair by the door, looking very much like a sentry asleep on duty.
She was snoring softly, her arms folded across her belly.
I watched for a few seconds as it rose up and down.
My heart told me it should have been John.
Was he in his bed? I was scared to approach him.
I knew he slept in the adjoining bedroom.
I had heard him often the last couple of nights when he moved about.
It had to be him who had carried me here.
Dixon must have helped me out of my clothes because I wore my night dress.
Odd that I didn’t wake until now. I summoned up my courage, opened the adjoining door, and looked in.
The other bedroom was dark. My eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness. I could tell no one was in there.
Where was John?
I walked to the window and looked outside in my quest to seek some answers. The mill was dark except for light coming from John’s office. I could just see him, with his back facing me, at his desk. He must still be working I reasoned. I was curious how much longer he would stay there.
I thought about waiting up for him, but my body would not obey. I felt tired, so very tired. Without bothering to wake Dixon, I just returned to bed. I blew out the candle and snuggled under the cool sheets.
I still remembered the daffodil.
Even as my eyes grew heavy again and drooped down I thought about the strange flower.
I knew I had smelled its sweet fragrance in the parlor.
Did it really change the course of my life?
How could a flower bring me into the future?
The last thought I had before sleep claimed me again was: How could something so impossible happen?
The glare of the morning sun streaming in from the open curtains woke me from my slumber. Strange but I didn’t remember dreaming. I recalled nothing, now that it was daytime.
My eyes took a quick turn around the room and I saw I was alone. Dixon was gone and the chair in which she had slept moved back to its place by the armoire.
I looked around again, but this time my eyes were riveted to the unusual looking twirling object at the window.
I had never seen anything like it before.
Two extremely thin metal rods were joined at their center forming a cross shape.
Four small, intricately carved, wood figurines in the shapes of roses were dangling from the ends of each rod.
The carved pieces were so small, so delicate that it must have taken days to carve each one.
Several pieces of wood, so thin they could almost pass for paper were arranged in a circular fan pattern between the rods.
In the very center was a tiny metal shaped cone.
The entire thing was perched on a long and very thin vertical rod attached to a candle holder.
The rising heat from the lit candle made the rods spin by pushing at the fan pattern.
I thought the wood pieces would burn but they didn’t.
It reminded me of a merry-go-round or an upright windmill.
I remembered seeing the miniature of a windmill at the Royal Exhibition in London.
For several minutes I watched it spin, its pace leisurely. I was amused and enchanted.
“I just finished it this morning.”
John had walked into the room so quietly I did not know he had entered until he spoke. I let out a surprised gasp seeing him. I couldn’t help myself. It was difficult not to be startled.
“You made this?” I asked, incredulous that he had the skill and patience to create such an intricate piece.
“Yes,” he answered. He did not appear angry or perturbed at my question. His manner and tone of voice was matter of fact. “You mentioned you wanted one with flowers. It took longer to carve, but it is what you wanted.”
My heart skipped a beat knowing he had done this for me. It was the sweetest gift I ever received.
When John moved closer to where I lay on the bed, I looked to his hands. There were several small nicks and cuts on his fingers, most probably attained from the long hours and days of carving.
How strange that I only just noticed this.
He mentioned that he was still working on one for the baby and promised it would be finished before our child was born, even if he had to work during the nights to finish.
I was so touched at this news, I did not say anything when he sat on the bed.
For several minutes we both watched his wood carvings twirl around and around, the shadow of the flowers strewn across the walls.
I was so engrossed by the very pretty display that I did not notice my husband moving closer and closer.
By the time he was at my side he was close enough to touch me.
John started with my hand, placing his on top, letting me feel its weight.
The warmth was so soothing, I felt no fear.
He grew bolder when I did not pull away.
“Margaret, dearest.” He leaned forward, his face mere inches from mine. I could feel his breath on my lips. Just as his hand warmed mine, his breath removed the chill I felt in the air. His warm breath was all I could feel as I stared deeply into his eyes and became lost in their gaze.
I could not help my reaction. Unwittingly I wet my lips, preparing them for the kiss I knew would follow. It was invitation enough for John.
His kiss was slow, soft. He leaned slightly forward, not hurrying me, but letting me become accustomed to the feel of him. For the first time since I found myself here in his home, I did not pull away.
I do not know how long we kissed. I only know I let it continue. I enjoyed the feel of him, the taste of him. John slanted his lips over mine, covering me, his tongue making small attempts to tease mine.
I almost gave in but then he gathered me in his arms. I suddenly felt trapped, the euphoric feelings abruptly stripped away.
“No!” I cried out, yanking his arms down. “Stop it!”
John reacted as though I had slapped him. His stunned expression slashed at me, making me hurt as much as he.
I felt such remorse at my reaction. This man was my husband. Though I did not remember, I should have welcomed his attentions, perhaps sought them. However I could not help my instinctive response, nor take it back.
I wanted to tell him I was sorry, that I was not trying to hurt him. But John had already pulled away. He stood, his eyes averted. I did not have to see them to know they were filled with pain.
“I will leave you to rest,” he said, not even looking at me. With his shoulders swooped down, he looked like a beaten man. “I will not disturb you.”
“Will I see you at dinner?” I hurriedly inquired after him. He walked so quickly, he was already at the door when I asked.
For just a moment I saw him turn and look back at me. His head was in profile. I could only see half his face. I thought he would say something, but he shook his head instead and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
I wanted him to answer me. I thought if only I heard his voice, it might lessen the horrible guilt I felt. I could not stop staring at the closed door. I had almost slapped him, but now, it felt that I was the one who had been slapped.
Nearly every room had a carved wooden, twirling fan. I do not know how it escaped my notice before. Each one was a little different. Some of the dangling carvings depicted animals, one was of boats, and another looked like carved coins. Each was unique and they were all made by John.
I spent the rest of the day looking at them, lighting the candles and watching them spin. It made me wonder what kind of carvings John would make for the baby.
I would have a long wait to discover the answer.
My husband did not join us for dinner. I felt such remorse when I saw his empty seat and unused table setting.
His mother said nothing to me apart from inquiring after my health and making sure I was getting enough rest. The staff followed her lead and kept a round-the-clock watch over me.
They walked on egg shells, having been ordered not to alarm me, anger me, or make me overly excited. It grew tedious very quickly.
By the time I went upstairs to sleep, I was frustrated and anxious.
Not even Dixon’s incessant muttering could calm my nerves.
I checked the adjoining bedroom, but John was not there.
I could see he was at his office, hunched over his desk working late into the night. I watched him from the bedroom window.