Chapter Eleven
The night before the wedding, while Adelaide was upstairs with Dinah, packing dresses, pinafores, and calfskin boots into
wooden trunks, I stepped out onto the porch. Twilight had settled over the farm. The moon hung like a lopsided smile, lighting
the branches of the old oak near the barn. The air was heavy with the scent of magnolia, and beneath it, the tang of manure
drifting up from the fields.
Except for the few months with Aunt Joan, I’d lived on this farm since I was born. Everything here was familiar, orderly,
well established: the low fence running alongside the drive, lace doilies arranged on the mahogany table in the hall, pink-tinted
flutes etched with flowers displayed on a breakfront shelf in the dining room. I could walk into the parlor at any time of
day and tell the hour by the way the shadows fell across the floor.
It was hard to believe that tomorrow I’d be leaving it for good.
Was I ready to move to a new house, miles away, in which my sister and I would share the role of mistress? Was I prepared
to share a bed with two men—four eyes gazing at me, four legs, four arms?
Addie’s laugh floated down the stairs and out the screen door. “I’m not bringing that old dress!”
“Your daddy bought it for you in Wilmington less than a year ago,” Dinah said.
“Put it in Sallie’s trunk.”
“You know it won’t fit her.”
The words stung, though Dinah said it matter-of-factly, without judgment. More to love, Eng had whispered a few days earlier, squeezing the extra flesh of my upper arm between his thumb and forefinger.
“Speaking of Sallie, where is that girl?” Dinah’s voice rose: “Sallie?”
“I’m here,” I called up to the window.
“You need to fill your trunk.”
“Be there in a minute.” I turned my gaze to the barn, and just beyond it, to the cluster of wooden cabins. I could see people
moving in the yards: snapping beans on the steps, hanging clothes on a line, stirring food in black pots over outdoor fires.
Grace was down there in one of those cabins, packing her own belongings. She was coming with Addie and me, a wedding present
from Papa. I wondered how she felt about leaving the only home she’d ever known, her family and friends on the farm. I wondered
how Dinah felt, knowing her daughter would be gone tomorrow, sent to another plantation.
Papa would host the wedding at home, he said. A modest affair for family and a few close friends, followed by a light supper
on the porch.
Four weeks earlier, we had sent out handwritten invitations:
Mr. and Mrs. David Yates
request the pleasure of your company
at 5 o’clock in the afternoon, April 13, 1843
Mulberry Farm
to celebrate the union of their daughters
Miss Adelaide Yates and Mr. Chang Bunker
and
Miss Sarah Yates and Mr. Eng Bunker
in holy matrimony.
Kindly join us for refreshments after vows are exchanged.
Addie and I had spent the past month sewing many of the items for our trousseaus: petticoats, corset covers, nightgowns, dress sleeves, handkerchiefs, nightcaps. From Lord
the skirt bunched awkwardly around my hips. My face was blotchy; my veil was askew.
But it wasn’t just the way we looked. Addie was composed. Prepared.
I, on the other hand, felt like an understudy thrown onto the stage without rehearsal.
The thought of walking down the stairs, saying my vows, stepping into a life I wasn’t ready for . . .
I burst into tears.
She went over to the dresser and took out a cotton handkerchief and handed it to me.
I dried my eyes, trying to steady my breath. If I decided I couldn’t go through with it, who would object? “I don’t know if . . .
if I can do this.”
She gave an exasperated sigh. “Why not?”
“I don’t know how I feel.”
“About Eng?”
“About Eng, about all of it.” I gulped the air. “I don’t want to spend my life being . . . gawked at.”
“Well, I’ll be there too.”
“For better or worse.” I dabbed at my face with the handkerchief. “I don’t want to share a bed with—anyone. Especially not . . .”
She pursed her lips.
“I want to stay here. I want to cancel the wedding.”
“Sallie, you knew this day was coming. You’ve known it for months.”
“I didn’t know how I’d feel.” Panic rose in my chest. I took a shaky breath, the whalebone corset tight against my ribs, and
closed my eyes. When I opened them, Addie was staring at me.
She stepped closer and placed her hands on my shoulders. “Listen to me.”
I wiped my cheeks again.
“You don’t have to think about everything just now,” she said in a calm voice.
“I don’t—”
“Not everything,” she repeated firmly. “Just the next thing. Remember?”
I nodded.
“So what is the next thing?”
“I don’t know. Getting married.”
“No. The next thing is to find some hairpins.” She smiled.
Despite myself, I smiled back.
She rummaged through a dresser drawer and pulled out a few two-pronged pins. “That’s good, we did that. Next, we’ll fix your
hair—it’s a mess. Then we’ll walk down the stairs.”
“I might faint.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Everyone will be staring at us,” I whispered.
“Of course they will. We’re the brides.”
“They’re thinking about—about tonight.”
“Don’t be silly. Nobody’s thinking about that, except maybe you. You’ll be fine. Remember: only the next thing. All right?”
“All right.”
Addie stood in front of me at the top of the staircase, one slim hand resting lightly on the banister. Her shoulder blades
pressed against the fabric of her dress like nubs of angel wings. Pearls were threaded through her sleek bun.
She turned back to me. “Ready?”
Garlands of glossy vines twined along the staircase railings. Below, in the foyer, dogwood branches with showy white and pink
petals spilled from tall vases. Beeswax candles in gilded candelabra cast a glow.
The brothers stood waiting, gazing up at us, earnest and composed in their flared black frock coats and starched cravats.
Their silk waistcoats—which Addie and I had embroidered with vines and flowers in pale thread—caught the light in shifting
patterns.
Not everything. Only the next thing.
I gave a faint nod.
At the foot of the stairs, I lifted a bouquet of roses tied with satin ribbon from the side table and held it to my nose.
I expected sweetness but caught only the sharp green bitterness of cut stems. I stepped into the parlor, my breath shallow.
There wasn’t enough air.