Kitabı oku: «The Wives of Henry Oades»
The Wives of Henry Oades
Johanna Moran
A NOVEL
For my husband, John Moran And for my parents, June Ray and John Campbell Chommie
Tena, ki te riro ko ta te teina ki mua whanau mai ai, hei muri ko ta te tuakana whanau ai, na, he iwi kino taua iwi hou, ina tae mai ki tenei Motu.
But, if it happens that the child of the younger is born first, and of the elder afterward, then the newcomers will be an evil people, when they arrive in this Land.
—A Maori premonition of disorder
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Part One
The Newcomers 1890
Kindness Itself
Wellington February, 1891
Wellington March, 1892
Taken
Inconceivable
Alone
She Speaks to Me Day and Night
No Worse than Here
A Deal
Berkeley
A Proposal
Nancy
Together Always
The Main Concern
Part Two
North Island 1895
North Island 1897
North Island Late 1898
Wellington
Wellington Hospital
March 1899
Hello, Henry
Part Three
A Fly in the Amber
A Start
Calling the Same Man Husband
Beginning Today
There Was an Old Woman
A Trip to the Quack
At the Palace Hotel
Pieces
Dickering
A Question of Divorce
All She Knew for Certain
A Christmas Duck
A True Wife
Elsewhere
Something Demonic
Hello, Little Bastard
The Party Most Principally Injured
The Wives of Henry Oades
A Queer Life
At Home
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
PART ONE
The Newcomers 1890
A COMMON BAT on the other side of the world elects to sink its rabid fangs, and one’s cozy existence is finished.
Margaret Oades knew her husband was up to something the moment he came through the door with a bottle of wine. It was late. The children had gone up hours ago. “What’s the occasion?” she asked, laying out a plain supper of shirred eggs and lardy cakes.
Henry kissed the nape of her neck, giving her a shiver. “I’ve an announcement,” he said.
Margaret expected him to say he’d found a collie for their son. John, nearly eight now—her big boy, her pride—had been wheedling without letup for weeks. She took down two goblets, hoping the dog was an old one and not some frisky crocus lover.
“A senior passed in New Zealand,” he said instead. “Of a bat bite, poor bloke. I’m to complete his stint. We’re due as soon as possible. You’ll want to prepare.”
Margaret set the goblets aside. “Henry.”
“Two years, sweetheart.” He’d proposed marriage with the same pleading look. “The time shall sail by, you’ll see. It’s a grand opportunity, a flying leap forward. I could hardly say no thanks.”
Three weeks later, boarding the steamer tender that was to take them down the Thames and bring them up alongside the Lady Ophelia, Margaret could not recall what she’d said next. Nothing perhaps, stunned as she’d been.
On board the crowded tender, a child each by the hand, Henry and Margaret jockeyed for position at the rail. Already the narrow boat was moving, spewing gray smoke. Margaret waved to her parents on the quay below, flapping her hankie, straining to pick them out through tears and drizzle. She’d not told them she was expecting again, thinking it too soon. She regretted now not making an exception, cutting the sadness with a bit of happy news. Henry wrapped an arm about her, kissing her brow, his beard grazing her cheek. He’d been made a ship’s constable, issued a red-lettered guernsey too small for him. The bulky knit pulled across his broad shoulders and chest. Pale knobby wrists jutted between glove and cuff. He was to be paid seven pounds for patrolling the single-women’s section, which appealed to the latent cop in him. He’d had other aspirations before settling upon an accountant’s stool. There was a time when he thought himself bound for the opera stage, but that was years ago, before he knew what it took.
He kissed her again. “It’s not forever.”
“The new baby shall be walking,” she said, rising up on her toes, waving wide arcs.
Behind her a woman said, “They cannot see us anymore. We’re too far off.”
Margaret turned to face the lady in the gaudy checked cape, a pixie of a woman with a sprinkle of reddish brown freckles to match her hair. Earlier, Margaret and her father had been standing on the wharf, monitoring the loading of their trunks. The cheeky woman sashayed up like a long-lost relation, saying, “Your wife has such a serious look about her, sir.”
“I beg your pardon,” Margaret had said. “You’re addressing my father.”
“You don’t remember me,” the woman said now, fingering a dangling ear bob.
“I do, madam.” How could she forget?
“Where’s your lovely da?”
“My father isn’t sailing,” said Margaret. “He was there to see us off.”
“A pity,” she said, turning to Henry, smiling, dimpling. “I’m Mrs. Martha Randolph, Constable. One of your charges. Who might the wee lady and gentleman be?”
Henry introduced the children, clapping a proud hand to John’s shoulder, prying six-year-old Josephine from Margaret’s leg. Margaret turned back to the watery haze that was her parents, spreading her feet for balance, her pretty going-away shoes pinching. She’d been told the river was calm. “Smooth as glass,” her favorite uncle had claimed.
“Your children are charming, Mr. Oades,” said Mrs. Randolph. Meaning, presumably, Your wife is utterly lacking. The woman sauntered off not holding the rail, flaunting her superior sea legs, a cockiness won by being on one’s own, no doubt.
London was behind them now, the hawkers and filth, the soot-belching chimney pots, the piles of manure in the streets, the raw sewage in the black water. Margaret had visited once before. It’s good to get to know other things and places, Henry had said on the train. She’d agreed aloud, but not in her heart. At thirty-two she was a contented homebody, John and Josephine’s mum, Henry’s wife. It was enough, more than enough. She knew all she needed to know about other things and places.
The tender rounded a rocky promontory. A row of small cottages went by, lighted from within, the mothers in them tucked away, minding their worlds, starting their suppers.
Henry spoke close to her ear, his breath warm as toast. “Think of the grand stories we’ll tell in our sapless dotage.”
She laughed a little. “Assuming we’ve the sap to see us to dotage.”
He laughed too, releasing pent-up excitement. “That’s my girl.” He was as keen to go as she was not. He hoisted John and put a fist, a make-believe telescope, to John’s eye. “Now watch for our ship, boy. She’ll come into view any moment now.”
A shout came from above. “Ahoy! There she is!”
The passengers stampeded toward the bow. Henry and the children fell in, joining the stream. Margaret stood rigid, the blood quickening in her veins. The Lady Ophelia was enormous, majestic. She came with sails as well as steam. Four towering masts swayed against a pewter sky, as if unstable.
Henry called to Margaret. She scanned the throng, spotting them ahead, larky children shrieking, Henry waving her forward. She gripped the burnished rail and began to inch her way toward them, the deck seesawing beneath her feet, her insides turning. “Like walking about in your own best room,” the prevaricating uncle had said.
THEY’D NOT BEEN on board the Lady Ophelia five minutes when John stumbled over a coil of rope and fell, scraping his knee. A uniformed officer was on him immediately, setting him to. The deck was positively littered with ropes, with winches and chains, drums and casks, all manner of object designed to draw a curious boy close to the rail. She’d need to watch the children every second of the day.
“There’s some confusion in the ladies’ section, sir,” the officer said to Henry. “You’re wanted straightaway.”
The ship’s doctor came up, offering Margaret and the children a tour in Henry’s absence.
Henry cheerfully accepted on Margaret’s behalf, before she could decide or get the first word out. They were led down a narrow corridor and shown the maple-paneled library, and then a card room, and yet another social room with a piano, an Oriental rug, and plush velvet drapery.
“It’s all quite impressive,” said Margaret, calmer now. It helped to be inside, away from the rail. By the time they reached the hectic dining hall she was feeling rather human again. The roast lamb smelled delicious. How novel to sit down to a meal she hadn’t so much as pared a potato for.
Dr. Pritchard escorted them to their cabin afterward, passing the animal pen along the way, where chickens mingled with pigs, and sheep stood with sad-looking dewlappy cows.
“We’ve the best of butchers aboard,” said the doctor.
“Nice piggy,” said Josephine, squatting, putting herself face-to-snout with a homely sow having her brown supper.
The grizzled old sailor inside the pen approached her. “You mustn’t ever utter the word pig on board a ship, lassie. ‘Twill bring the worst of luck. You’re to say swiney instead.”
“Come away, Pheeny,” said Margaret, giving the frightening man a stern eye.
At the opposite rail two young African sailors struggled to unlatch a wooden lifeboat. “They’re required to practice,” said the doctor, “before each sailing.”
The inept lads looked no older than twelve or thirteen. She would have to study the latching apparatus and teach herself how to unlock and release a boat. God help them should they need to rely on tots.
The women’s section was located just behind the animal pen. Male passengers, the doctor said, were strictly forbidden here. Margaret looked for Henry, but saw only women coming and going, old and young and in between, all laden with sacks and baskets. Off to the side, four women stood in a close huddle, Mrs. Randolph obviously presiding, one hand holding her fancy cape closed, the other gesturing wildly.
“Your husband will have earned his stipend,” said the doctor, reading Margaret’s mind.
She asked, “Do you have any idea when we might expect him?”
“I don’t. Sorry.” He brought them as far as their cabin door and left, saying that he was overdue.
She entered thinking, Henry, Henry, wait until you see. They’d both imagined a fairly spacious cabin, anticipated a small sitting area at least. In fact, the room offered only three places to sit: upon one of the two lower berths or upon the stool beneath the writing shelf. Lamps and washstand were bolted to the wall, virtually promising heavy seas. A shout came from outside, along with a grating rattle of chain. The ship shuddered and began to move. John begged to go to the bow, but Margaret said no, Father wouldn’t find them in the crowd. They waited for Henry inside, the dim little cabin rocking like an elephant’s cradle. When he didn’t come, she prepared the children for bed. “It’s been a long day, hasn’t it?” She changed into her nightdress and climbed the six-rung ladder to her berth, crouching at the top, proceeding on her hands and knees. There was no other way. The Queen herself would access the bed with her bottom in the air. Below, John kept up a steady stream of chatter.
“We’re bound to see whales tomorrow,” he said. “And sea pigs too.”
“The wobbly man told us not to say pig,” said Josephine. “You’re to say sea swiney instead.”
“Porpoise then,” said John. “That’s their other name.” Margaret fell asleep to their voices, dreaming that Henry had snuck off the ship and gone home on his own.
He showed up just after ten, whispering apologies. The captain had detained him, along with the other constables, treating them all to brandy and cigars. “The skipper’s a dyed-in-the-wool bachelor,” he said, “with no appreciation of a lovely girl waiting.” He attempted to squeeze his large self in beside Margaret, but even with her backside flush against the wall, the berth would not hold them both. He climbed down and then up again, settling in the opposite upper with a loud sigh. They were to sleep like celibates for the duration then, something they’d never done. A lonely, hemmed-in feeling came over her. In the dark, she touched the ceiling, calculating the distance—eight inches, ten at the most. A near-term woman wouldn’t fit. “’Night, Henry.”
“It’ll be all right, Meg,” he said.
She closed her eyes. “It will.”
HENRY WAS CALLED away to duty the next afternoon, missing the last spit of England. Margaret bundled the children and took them up top. A few dozen others stood somberly at the rail, a westerly whipping their clothes, blowing hats from heads. Cornwall’s jagged cliffs rose somewhere off the stern, no longer visible without a glass. Ahead lay nothing, absolutely nothing but an alarming expanse of churning sea and dull winter sky. A man began to play the anthem on his flute, slow and mournful. Some of the passengers locked arms and sang. The women sounded especially sad, their voices cracking. Margaret wasn’t the only one, then. There were others whose bones wouldn’t warm, others thinking: What in God’s name have we done?
THEY ENTERED the Bay of Biscay that evening and came along the edge of a storm. An hour into the weather, Henry complained of dizziness and blurred vision. Margaret went to fetch Dr. Pritchard, finding his tight quarters filled with patients. He gave her an orange and instructions to have Henry go up on deck. “I think you should come have a look,” she said. The doctor promised he would first chance. But he didn’t, and Henry was left to rally on his own.
On the sixth morning, in sight of the African coast, the seas placid, Margaret awoke feeling queer herself, quaky and nauseous. The doctor gave her an exasperated look when she came in, one that said: You, again. He asked straight off, “Are you in a family way?” Margaret said yes, and he shrugged, as if to say the symptoms were to be expected. He advised her to keep a full stomach.
“Much easier said than done,” she said.
The doctor laughed, showing another side of himself. “You’re a droll one. I like that.”
Mrs. Randolph was passing the infirmary just as Margaret came out. “Mrs. Oades! You’re well, I hope?”
“I am.” The lady’s eyes were glassy, fevered-looking. She was younger than Margaret first thought, probably Margaret’s own age, give or take a year. “And you, madam?”
Mrs. Randolph put a hand to her middle. “The lamb stew of two nights ago nearly killed me. Mind what you eat.”
“I shall,” said Margaret. “Pardon my saying so, but you appear a bit peaked still. Perhaps you should see the doctor.”
“I’ve seen the no-good,” said Mrs. Randolph. “Once was enough, thank you. A baby died last evening, you know.”
Margaret’s eyes filled. “Oh, dear God. Of what?”
“Whatever the cause,” said Mrs. Randolph, “the quack inside made not the first bloody attempt to save it. He’s a dentist, by the by, not a bona fide doctor. The purser informed me.” She touched Margaret’s hand with trembling fingers, her voice softening. “The child was the mum’s one and only. She is beside herself with grief, poor wretch. She’s not left her berth even to relieve herself. Some of the others and I plan to attend the service at four. Will you come, Mrs. Oades?”
“Of course.”
“We’ll show she’s not alone in the world, won’t we?”
“Yes,” said Margaret. “Though we won’t begin to solace.”
THE BABY’S NAME was Homer Brown. Someone whispered, “Barely a year old.”
Prayers were said, and then the shrouded child was let over the rail, into gray water, beneath a gray sky. The bereft mother faltered as the baby was released, grasping the rail in lieu of a husband. There was no man present, no kin at all.
Above, Margaret could hear the rowdy drunks in the men’s hatch, Norsemen, a good many of them. Someone shouted in English, “Show a bit of respect for the baby’s mum.” But they did not let up for a moment.
Kindness Itself
MARGARET BEGAN to miscarry on the eleventh morning out. A strong wind had come up during the night and was only now abating. A keen howl continued, along with straining-timber noises, hideous, ungodly sounds to die by.
Henry brought her down to John’s berth, and then went for Dr. Pritchard, returning instead with Mrs. Randolph. She carried a sack and something wrapped in blue flannel.
“Dr. Pritchard is ill,” said Henry.
“He’s utterly worthless is what he is,” said Mrs. Randolph, placing the flanneled package upon Margaret’s abdomen. “A brick hot from the oven,” she said. “Just the thing.”
Mrs. Randolph turned to Henry. “Take the children up top, why don’t you?”
“Yes, do please, Henry,” said Margaret.
Henry began snatching the children’s clothes from pegs. He dressed them, consoling all the while. “Mum is fine, Mum is perfectly fine.” With sleepy Josephine riding his hip, he bent and kissed Margaret’s forehead. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered.
The ship rolled to port. A stir of odor rose from the chamber pot. Margaret turned to the wall, cramping still. The heat from the brick helped some. She drew up her knees, the sheet falling away, exposing her stained nightgown.
John cried out, “Mum’s bleeding!”
“Lady’s blood,” said Henry in a low voice, though not so low as to frighten John with seriousness. “Nothing more natural, boy.”
“Her eyes are closed,” wailed John. “She’s dead.”
“She’s not, son, she’s not. She’s resting. Let’s let her be now.”
She’d marry him all over, Margaret thought vaguely, for his fathering alone. “Go look for whales, John,” she murmured. “This may be your lucky day.”
Mrs. Randolph went to work the moment they left, preparing a basin of cool water and fishing a bar of scented soap from her bag. “Were you very far along?”
“Not quite three months.” She’d lost two others. It never got easier. The first, a full-term boy, was stillborn. That was the unspeakable worst.
Mrs. Randolph sighed. “It’s a terrible bleak feeling, isn’t it?”
Margaret sat up and began to wash. “Have you children?”
“None living.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Tut, tut, Mrs. Oades. No need for the long pussy face. I’ve not dried on the vine quite yet.” Through the wall came a male groan, a ghoulish sound. “So many ill,” said Mrs. Randolph. “Especially down in the women’s hatch. It isn’t right the way they have us situated alongside the animals. The girl under me is ailing. Spinster sisters both have a fever.”
“They should be quarantined,” said Margaret.
“The ship is chock full. Where would you have them go?”
“Hammocks might be slung in Dr. Pritchard’s quarters.”
Mrs. Randolph swatted the air. “And have the quack incommoded? He’d force oranges on the poor women and then fault them for dying, the same way he blamed Homer’s mum.”
“He didn’t,” said Margaret.
“He did,” said Mrs. Randolph. “The baby was fed tinned milk instead of mother’s. He’d be alive if not for that. The charlatan said it straight to the grieving woman’s face. I was there.”
“How cruel,” said Margaret.
“Men are.”
“What would a dentist know about babies?”
“What would any man, Mrs. Oades? Now where might I find a fresh nightgown?”
Margaret pointed toward the corner. “In the trunk. Near the bottom.”
Mrs. Randolph crossed the rolling floor, her arms spread for balance. She wore big, bold rings on both hands. Margaret had never owned a ring other than her wedding band. Her grandmother had been the same plain way, her mother was, all the aunts and cousins. Each generation bequeathed the austerity to the next, passed it sideways.
Mrs. Randolph knelt and opened the trunk, picking up the porcelain ginger jar inside. “Here’s a lovely thing.”
“A parting gift from my mum,” said Margaret. “A keepsake from home. It’s been sitting on her chimneypiece for as long as I can remember.”
“My mum was the sentimental sort, too,” said Mrs. Randolph. She gently returned the jar to the trunk, pulling out the other nightgown and bringing it to Margaret. There were bloodstains on that gown too, flecks of Margaret’s mother’s, thanks to a lost thimble. They’d both sewed furiously preparing for the journey, talking without respite as they worked, trying to get everything said.
Margaret slowly dressed herself. She and Henry had thought of names—Anne for a girl, after Margaret’s mother, Walter for a boy, after Mr. Whitman. “The dentist couldn’t have known for certain,” she said, setting the cold brick on the floor and lying back again. “Any number of ailments might have taken the child.”
Mrs. Randolph said softly, “Just rest, Mrs. Oades.”
Margaret closed her eyes. Never name a child before the christening. She’d heard it said often enough, but didn’t see how it mitigated the loss. Name or no name, Margaret loved them completely from the moment she knew. She fell asleep weeping, waking an hour later to Mrs. Randolph’s close whisper.
“How is it now?”
Margaret turned to face her. “You are kindness itself.”
Mrs. Randolph arched an eyebrow. “You didn’t think so at first. Mounting your high horse the way you did down on the docks.”
“Oh, forgive me, please. I shouldn’t be so touchy about my age. My husband is nearly two years younger. He likes to tease.”
“I assumed the gentleman was your da,” said Mrs. Randolph. “I was merely making certain.”
“Why?”
“I took a slight fancy to him.”
“You don’t mean it!” Margaret’s unsuspecting papa would have fainted dead away had she made an overture. “He’s an old man.”
Mrs. Randolph shrugged. “I prefer a mature gentleman.”
“My mum would have run you through with her umbrella.”
They laughed a little, Mrs. Randolph’s hand brushing close, her dazzling red-stone ring glinting. Margaret felt an odd urge to try it on for size. “Captain Burns would be more your sort,” she said. “I happen to know he’s an eligible bachelor.”
Mrs. Randolph waved off the suggestion, pulling a hankie from a side pocket, wiping her perspiring brow and neck. “No, thank you. His breath is foul, and he has a tremendous backside for a man. It’s every bit as broad as my own.” Her watery eyes shifted about. “The wind has died down, hasn’t it? Perhaps it’s time I fetched your husband.”
Margaret sat up a bit. “Please visit a moment longer.”
The cabin air was inhospitable, as warm and muggy as a coop’s. Still, Mrs. Randolph didn’t hesitate. She pulled the stool close and sat, buffing the ring with a sleeve and splaying her fingers. “Pretty, isn’t it? I noticed you looking.”
“It’s lovely. A ruby?”
“A garnet, actually. You should see how it does in a good light.” She tugged the ring free and pushed it down Margaret’s middle finger. “There now. Hold your hand to your cheek.” Margaret shyly complied. “Yes, like that. Isn’t it striking next to your dark hair? Christmas is coming. I’ll make a mention to Mr. Oades.”
“He’d think us both daft,” Margaret said, studying the ring. Henry was always saying that she was a natural, a born beauty. She denied that she was, though of course she liked to hear him say it. Oh, she wasn’t a scare. Her features were arranged nicely enough. She was a tall woman, a bit too tall, though she walked erect as she’d been taught, in fear of growing a hump. Her wasp waist, considering the children, drew the occasional flattering comment from other women. Her eyes were clear, more gray than blue, and her complexion was even, unblemished. But her mannish hands weren’t right. The knuckles were too large, unworthy of the ring’s glamour.
“You may borrow it one evening,” said Mrs. Randolph.
Margaret removed the ring and returned it. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly.”
“It was given to me by a circus performer,” said Mrs. Randolph. “A wild-animal trainer, a Persian living in Paris, a splendid masculine specimen.”
“How romantic,” said Margaret. “And the blue ring? A sapphire, is it?”
Mrs. Randolph nodded, smiling as if with fond memory. “An English gent surprised me with this one, a charming old dear from London. Rich as Midas. George. I don’t recall the surname. We’d just been to the Lyceum to see Sarah Bernhardt onstage.”
“Sarah Bernhardt. Really.”
“It was the highlight of my life. She sleeps in a satin-lined coffin, you know.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Am I tiring you, Mrs. Oades?”
“Not in the least,” said Margaret. “Was she as vulgar as they say?”
Mrs. Randolph leaned in. “She was sensual. She embodied the complete woman, if you know what I mean.” She closed her eyes and threw back her head, embracing the air, an invisible lover. A warm flutter passed through Margaret. She felt herself blushing. Mrs. Randolph let out a dreamy moan, her back arching, the stool teetering. She toppled off sideways, hitting her head with a solid thud.
“Mrs. Randolph! Are you all right?”
The cabin door flew open. Storming in ahead of the children, clumsy Henry nearly stepped on Mrs. Randolph’s outstretched hand. She rolled out of his range and stood awkwardly, brushing herself off, starting to laugh. Margaret laughed too. She couldn’t help herself.
Henry stood staring, looking as if he’d happened upon a cell of loons. “I heard the noise. What are you up to here? I thought my wife had fallen out of bed.”
“It was nothing,” said Mrs. Randolph, breathing hard. “Just a bit of cheer.”
She left a moment later, with a sisterly kiss to Margaret’s cheek and a promise to look in on her later. When Mrs. Randolph knocked at two, Margaret was sleeping, and Henry didn’t wake her.
“I hadn’t the heart,” he said.
They put in at Malta the next morning. Margaret looked for Mrs. Randolph at breakfast, but then the ship began taking on coal, a filthy process. A dry black dust rained down on the decks, their faces, their clothes. She and the children were forced below because of it. Soon after leaving tranquil Malta they were in rolling seas again. Henry ventured out toward the end of the day, bringing back cheese and warm milk that was to be their supper. The captain had ordered the decks cleared and the hatches closed.
“It’s expected to get worse before it gets better,” said Henry, breaking up the cheese with his hands.
They remained penned for the better part of two days. It fell to Henry to dump the pot and fetch the food. Margaret stayed with the children, entertaining them with stories and spillikins, a simple game when played on land. Players take turns selecting a jackstraw from a scattered pile, losing if another straw is disturbed. Margaret should have known that the ship’s movement would spoil the game, although the children didn’t seem to mind. They spent hours playing, riding John’s lower berth together.
On the third morning Henry returned later than usual from his constable’s duties. “Your Mrs. Randolph is gravely ill, I’m afraid.”
Margaret stood to leave. “You’ll mind the children?”
“I’m sorry, Meg. I cannot allow you to go. She might be contagious.”
“Think of all she’s done for me, Henry. I’ll stay no more than a minute, I promise. I’ll simply peek in to show I’ve come.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
She kicked the stool instead of him. “Imagine my preventing you from going to a friend in need!” John quit playing suddenly, gathering up the jackstraws. Josephine began nibbling her thumb, her wary eyes darting from parent to parent.
“Never mind,” Margaret said to the children. “Carry on with your game. Or would you rather a story? Shall I read some Tom Sawyer?” Henry hovered too close, looking infuriatingly contrite. There was no place to turn with her anger.
MRS. RANDOLPH DIED the next day. Margaret left John and Josephine with Henry and attended the service alone, joining a clutch of women on the lower deck. The cause of death was internal convulsions. So said the dentist. He volunteered the information straightaway, before anyone might think to inquire.
“I did everything within my power,” he said.
Margaret spoke up. “She didn’t respond to the orange cure?”
The dentist turned, glaring at her, drawing up his collar. As if her remark had sharpened the day’s gray bite. “I beg your pardon?”
“Mrs. Randolph complained to you of a stomach disorder early on, did she not?”
The dentist cupped a hand to his ear, feigning deafness. Margaret was about to repeat herself when Mrs. Randolph’s sailcloth-wrapped body arrived. She made a heartbreakingly paltry package. Margaret wept. There was so little to her in death.
Two African sailors brought her. The somber, broad-beamed Captain Burns—the bounder who’d allowed the dentist to pose as physician—followed behind, Bible in hand. Margaret bowed her head and prayed curses. God blast them both.
When she lifted her eyes, the sailors were in position at the rail. The Africans shivered in the damp air, awaiting their cue from the captain, who appeared impervious, both to weather and death. Almighty Burns began with a great heave of his shoulders, a world-weary glance skyward. A minute was given Mrs. Randolph, two at the most.
“We therefore commit Martha’s body to the deep…”
The mourners were forced aside to allow the crew room. Her body fell with a flat splash into the choppy sea, floating only a moment inside the weighted shroud.
“Looking for the general Resurrection in the last day, and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ, at whose second coming in glorious majesty to judge the world, the sea shall give up her dead…”
All sails were full. She was already gone, behind them. Somewhere off the stern, in the Mediterranean Sea, east of Malta, out of sight of land. Margaret imagined meeting Mrs. Randolph’s relations one day, or George from London, and having only these few unlovely facts to offer.
A week later, approaching Aden, Margaret pulled her own aching tooth with a string. She’d extract every tooth in her head, she told Henry, before she’d betray Mrs. Randolph by seeking out Dr. Pritchard.
“What does one have to do with the other?” said Henry. “Besides, you hardly knew the poor woman.”
Margaret tried, but she couldn’t make him understand an affection forged in a single morning. The small transactions between women, particularly mothers, cannot adequately be explained to a man. Some, like hers with Mrs. Randolph, will bind women for life.
CHRISTMAS CAME. Carols were sung. A plum pudding was served. They were nearly halfway quit of this wretched, murderous bark.
Wellington February, 1891
SOMETHING HAD GNAWED a shilling-size hole straight through the trunk. Margaret stepped back and gave the contents tentative pokes with the umbrella. Nothing stirred. The vermin was gone. She leaned in again and unfolded the teal-blue arrival frock, a ridiculously expensive thing with exquisite glass buttons. Her family slept on, oblivious to the shouts and clomping boots above, the lovely symphony of men preparing to anchor. At her back, Henry shifted fitfully, thrashing his sheet to the floor. He’d been seasick two days running now. She retrieved the sheet and covered him, feeling his warm forehead, stroking his shoulder. “Today’s the day, dear heart.”
He murmured something unintelligible and turned on his side.
“I’ll wake you when it’s time,” she said, returning to the business of their wardrobe, brimming with energy and health. She felt exhilaratingly liberated, like a servant just released from indenture. Let the sailors request her assistance with the heavy mooring lines. She’d have a go at it.
She roused the children before they were ready and dressed them as she would two posts, putting them in the twin costumes sewn up for the occasion, black-and-white-checked ensembles with sweet sailor collars. “Perfect,” she said. “Now make believe you’ve just been introduced to the governor.”
John made a lackluster bow and sat back down on the edge of his berth. Josephine curtsied and did the same. Margaret clapped her hands sharply. “On your feet. Today’s the day. What did Tom Sawyer say to his mates? Shake out that maintogalans’l! Sheets and braces! Now, my hearties!” She bent and kissed them, turning her cheek to their cool foreheads. “Time for breakfast, my darlings.”
“What about poor dad?” said John.
“He’ll come round once on land, son. You’ll see.”
Up top the warm wind lifted Margaret’s hat from her head. Perspiration streamed from her temples, her underarms, pasting her fine new overcorset to her flesh.
“My word,” she said, coming abreast of the first officer. “Such unusual weather.”
“Not at all, madam,” he said. “’Tis summer here, you know.”
She hadn’t known. Nor had Henry. He was dressed when they returned, decked out in the handsome wool purchased with the governor’s welcoming party in mind. Even now he was unhealthily florid, panting.
“You’ll roast alive,” said Margaret.
“I’ve nothing else,” he said, gesturing toward the corner. The cabin boys had already come for the trunk.
She brushed a bit of lint from his sleeve. “Well, never mind then. We’ve arrived. That’s all that matters, isn’t it? Tonight we’ll enjoy supper in our own cozy flat. Won’t that be lovely at long last? I might start a pot of cow-heel soup if we’re settled early enough and there’s a decent butcher on hand. How does that strike you?”
He touched her cheek. “You’re the best girl.”
THE LADY OPHELIA was anchored some distance from the wharf. A queue to board her tenders wound around one deck and down a flight. The line moved at an encouragingly swift pace and then abruptly stalled.
Margaret gazed landward. After eight weeks aboard, the Arctic steppes would have been a welcoming sight. Still, she hadn’t expected such an idyllic storybook place. They were moored in a perfect bowl. Small houses dotted the rocky shore. Farther back stood lush blue-green hills.
A man spoke behind her. “The head of the fish. It’s hardly a fair description, is it?”
Margaret turned, smiling at the bespectacled officer. “Sir?” She knew him by sight, not by name. He’d been particularly kind to the children on board, winning them over with small treats from his pocket.
“North Island is shaped rather like a fish,” he said, “or so the Maori legend goes. Wellington is its head, the sweetest part.”
“Maori, sir?”
“The indigenous peoples, madam. Did you not attend the captain’s lecture Friday last? He went into some detail on the subject.”
“I’m afraid not,” said Margaret. She’d had no interest in anything the captain had to say. “I couldn’t leave the children.” The officer tipped his cap and wished her good day, good luck.
To the west a double rainbow arced, a thrilling spectacle, the best of all omens. “Lovely,” she murmured, more to herself. Henry had been right. It is good to get to know other things and places. Beside her, Henry bowed over the rail, as if about to pray or die.
“Why not take off your coat?” He shook his head, not opening his eyes. She gave him a pet. “Just think of the luxury coming. I’ve been dreaming of a real bath for weeks now.” The queue started up again. He pulled himself from the rail and shepherded his family forward.
Boarding was a tricky proposition, given the swell in the harbor. The secured tender came and went sideways, banging against the ship’s hull. The tender’s skipper stood waiting inside the narrow open boat. Fashionable ladies stepped down cautiously, clumsily, into his large grimy hands. Margaret stood single-file behind John and Josephine, who were behind the corpulent vicar and his wife, and about to go on. In the next moment, Henry made a strangled noise and vomited between ship and tender, into the water and down his brass-buttoned front.
The children cried out in unison. “Dad!” The mangy skipper snatched them up, John first, and then Josephine, sitting them down hard on the tender’s wooden bench. He beckoned to Margaret, growling that he didn’t have all day. Margaret pulled Henry free of the soiled coat. They boarded the tender, she shakily, bulky coat and satchel on one arm.
Onshore the soft ground swayed. Her legs wobbled, felt about to give way. People swarmed, meeting in raucous reunion, kissing and hugging. Margaret and Henry scanned the wharf in all directions, looking for the governor’s welcoming committee. They stood for half an hour, smiling at various clutches of well-dressed men. No one approached except a yellow-eyed mongrel with an oozing gash in place of an ear. Josephine stood in the dog’s path, howling. Margaret put herself between child and beast and stamped her feet. The dog fled. Josephine blubbered on. Henry collapsed onto a cask. “Where could they be?”
“Never mind,” said Margaret. She adjusted the brim of his good hat, shielding his face from the beating sun. “Stay with the children. I’ll find a hack.” She bent and whispered to John and Josephine. “Keep an eye on your dad.” They gave dull nods, John boring a finger into a red ear, Josephine snuffling up, her nose running like an urchin’s. It was just as well that they were on their own. The governor’s pomp would have done her family in completely.
She headed toward the road, asking the first woman she encountered, a plump lady in an everyday dress, about to drive off in an open rig. “Oh, I don’t imagine you’ll find a hack this time of day,” the woman said. “They’ll still be in church, or gambling their babies’ milk money away. One of the two.”
Margaret thanked her and turned to resume her search.
The woman called after her. “I can take you where you’re going.”
The unexpected kindness brought Martha Randolph to mind. “We’ll gladly pay.”
The woman laughed. “Did you bring anything for bunions?”
“Sorry, madam. No.”
“You’ll owe me then,” said the woman, introducing herself. Mrs. Anamim Bell.
“A lovely name,” said Margaret. “Biblical.”
“It’s a horrid name,” said Mrs. Bell. “You’ll call me Mim or I won’t take you.”
“Mim, then. Thank you, Mim. Thank you very much indeed. And you’ll call me Margaret. Or Meg if you prefer.” Her earlier energy had leaked away. She was tired now, wishing only to be settled. And here came her bedraggled family. “My husband, Henry Oades. My children, John and Josephine. We call her Pheeny.”
“The poor lambs,” said Mrs. Bell. “Step up now. You’ll send for your things. I know a reliable man. Though you won’t get him to work on the Sabbath.”
So be it, thought Margaret. They’d make do one night, sleep in their underclothes. All she asked for was a stable floor and a stationary bed. She sat up front, next to Mrs. Bell. Henry dozed behind them, an arm curled about the limp children.
“You’re nearly dead, aren’t you,” said Mrs. Bell. “Poor girl.”
Margaret smiled, beginning to drowse. She pictured a nice big bed with crisp dry linens, her husband sleeping beside her for the first time in months. Supper first, though. “Can you recommend a butcher, Mrs. Bell?”
“Can you recommend a butcher, Mim.”
“Of course. Sorry. Mim.”
“The most handy is a blackguard from whom I wouldn’t buy a bone for my dog.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Jones is the best of the lot. His gristle at least comes with a morsel of flesh. You’ll want to keep watch on his fat thumb, though. His wife’s as well. They cheat for sport here.”
Mim began to list the town’s shops, describing the goods within each, naming the slippery-fingered sneak-thieves to be avoided. “You’ll find everything you need, but it’s not like home.”
“I don’t imagine,” said Margaret, fighting to stay awake. The woman’s drone would put an insomnious owl to sleep.
After a while, Mim asked, “What’s your man to do here?”
“He’s been asked to take over the new accounting system at Her Majesty’s distillery.”
Mim nodded. “Quite the cap feather for one so young.”
Henry cleared his throat. Margaret turned around. He smiled, waggling bushy eyebrows, vindicated. Margaret smiled too, rolling her eyes.
They came over a wooden bridge, passing a broad orchard. “What’s grown here?”
“Pip fruit, mainly,” said Mim, “Apples and grapes. And tedium.”
THEY ARRIVED in late afternoon, tying up the horse in front of a dull brown building with small windows. A cheese shop and a sneak-thief bookbinder occupied the ground floor. “His paste doesn’t last a week,” said Mim. The flats were located above the shops, eight homes in all. Mim offered a hand with the children and satchels, bustling about, not waiting for an answer. Margaret started up the building’s stone steps behind John, thinking mainly about relieving herself.
Theirs was number four, two steep stories up. John opened the front door. “It reeks,” he said, looking around.
He was right. The air was stale and musty. A chamber pot sat in full view, in it a desiccated mess. Margaret scraped the pot along the gritty floor with her foot, moving it behind the coarse curtain separating the sleeping alcove. She summoned the children, saying don’t look, feeling their foreheads for fever as they squatted, opening her reticule then, dealing out a toilet square each. An aunt had presented her with a generous supply before sailing, saying you never know what you’ll find. Margaret took a square for herself and loosened her drawers, hovering over the putrid pot. Henry the camel feigned no urgent need, shy of Mim Bell, no doubt.
Henry led the tour. The main room contained a green divan, an empty curio cabinet, and three straight-back chairs, one with elegant tapered legs. There were no books, no paintings, no vases for flowers. The stove was greasy, the tub beside it filthy with private hairs and insect husks. There was no oil for the lamps. The kitchen curtains were dreadful, dirty and tattered, and they were one bed short. Margaret hung her head after a brief inspection, defeated. Henry came to her, springy, as if with a second wind. It was how they were, how they’d always been. When one tottered, the other rallied.
“We’ll hire a girl,” he said. “There’s no need to lift a finger.”
His beard was crusted with salt; his fetid breath turned her stomach and weakened her knees. “I’m a bit dizzy,” she said.
Mim produced a hankie and began flogging the worn divan. “Sit now, why don’t you?”
“Just for a moment perhaps,” said Margaret, grateful. “I seem made of rubber.”
“Mr. Bell and I arrived five years ago Saturday,” said Mim. “I remember the wretched day all too well. It’s the queerest feeling being on land again, the bobbing and weaving, the addled thinking. It’ll be with you awhile, I’m afraid. You’ll go to take the bread from the oven and find the raw loaf still sitting in the bowl.”
“Five years,” said Margaret. “I cannot begin to imagine.”
Henry dipped behind the curtain and picked up the chipped chamber pot. “Come along,” he said to the children. “We’ll let Mum have a rest.” The three traipsed out. Mim followed on their heels. “I’m just round the corner,” she said before leaving.
Margaret closed her eyes, stupid with exhaustion. Moments later, on the other side of the wall, there came a clatter of pans, an angry man bellowing, “Get to it!”
A woman screeched, “Not on your bloody say-so.” He was a toad, an idler, a no-good. Her mother was right about him. She was a cow, a common draggletail. His brother was right about her. Margaret removed the pretty slipper meant to impress the governor and threw it against the wall. The man sneezed a blustery sneeze. Then all went silent. She retrieved the shoe and closed her eyes again.
She had wondered about the neighbors, never having lived where people were above, below, all around. She’d looked forward to it actually, had imagined a warren of like-minded women her own age, all helping one another, exchanging recipes and such. She nodded off, her head heavy as a melon. The next thing she knew a woman was letting herself in, butting the door open with a broad hip, a bulging sack in one arm, a limp tick folded over the other. Margaret came to disoriented, assuming herself at sea. “Hello.”
The woman grinned. “Your boy happened upon a little playmate.”
“He’s a friendly one,” murmured Margaret. She recognized the moldy place now, the stout woman with the overbite. “Where are they, Mim?”
“In the yard. No need to worry. Your mister’s minding them just fine. Lucky you, landing such a prize. Otherwise you’d string him up here and now, wouldn’t you?” Mim proffered the sack. “Give us a hand, will you?”
They laid out the supplies on the kitchen table, their backs to the one dirty window. Mim had brought back a sleeping pallet, lamp oil, tea and supper things. There were cheeses, sausages, toffees for the children, and a bottle of red wine.
“You shouldn’t have,” said Margaret, overwhelmed. “You’re much too generous.” The cracked linoleum rolled beneath her feet. The cupboards shifted with every turn of her head. “You’ll stay for supper, won’t you?” It shamed her to offer hospitality from such a cesspit. “If you can bear it, that is.”
“Don’t be discouraged,” said Mim, slicing the sausage, laying it out on the clean plate she’d thought to bring. “Elbow grease is all. A good scrubbing, a new curtain or two.”
“I suppose,” said Margaret, looking about. There was nothing to see out the filmy panes but brick. “There’s a horrid smell.”
“Like mutton left cold and forgotten,” said Mim.
“More on the order of entrails,” said Margaret. “An old goat’s viscera.”
“Or an old man’s work drawers,” said Mim.
Margaret laughed. “After a bout with the trots.”
Mim pulled a corkscrew from her pocket. “A wee drop to sweeten the stench?”
“No, thank…yes, thank you. Thank you very much indeed. It couldn’t hurt.”
Mim took a throttlehold on the bottle. “You’re dying to wring his dear neck, aren’t you?”
The children were coming up the stairs, chattering in healthy voices. Margaret thought yellow curtains might be nice, a cheery color to stand in for the light.
Mim wrestled with the corkscrew, perspiration collecting above her lip. “You’d like nothing better than to put a pillow to his darling face and murder him in his sleep for carting you and the little ones halfway round the world.”
Henry came in. Mim’s scorched cheeks blazed brighter with embarrassment. “A figure of speech, Mr. Oades.”
“She’s offered to wring my neck for less,” he said, folding an arm about Margaret, kissing her temple. “Haven’t you?”
“I don’t recall it,” Margaret said, swaying against his side. If only the dingy room would still itself. He spoke close to her ear.
“Imagine us crabbed old sots before the fire, telling our spoiled grandchildren about the days spent here.” He bent over in parody, an ancient on a walking stick. He felt and looked feverish, in need of a bath and sleep. He took a bit of cut sausage and put it to her lips. “Have a taste, Granny. Or haven’t you any teeth to enjoy it?”
She ate the sausage to please him, to allow him to quit the nonsense.
“It’s quite delicious, Grandpapa.”
He kissed her again. “It’s not forever.”
Mim said, “I didn’t speak to my husband for the longest time after we came.”
Margaret looked at Henry. “Do you promise?”
Wellington March, 1892
Dearest Parents,
We have moved at long last, loved ones. Henry borrowed a dray from Mr. Sweeny. (“Leased,” I should say. The miserly man charged us for the use of his rickety conveyance & sickly mule. He wasn’t in need of either at the time, I might add.) But no matter, we have arrived. We have traded our cramped flat for a lovely cottage by the water & are glad for having done so. There’s not another soul within sight. Instead of rowing neighbors one hears only the rushing river and the wind blowing through the trees. It is the perfect tucked-away place.
We are swiftly moving into autumn, though our world is still abloom. The former tenants, Dr. Garrett and his wife (returned to England due to old-fashioned homesickness), left healthy roses behind, yellow mainly, & some red. We have gardenias as well, sweet violets, fuchsia & blue hydrangea as big as a baby’s head!
The cottage itself sits upon a gentle rise & is quite suitable, but for an infestation of moths. Henry treated the problem with turpentine, but it has not done much good. He says I must give it time. (I say I must give it every last frock!) Too, we’ve a leak directly over our bed. Henry promised to repair the roof, but has yet to get round to it. I lack the heart to keep after him. We would have remained in town, had he had his way. Now that we’re here he is obligated to rise long before the sun & start out in the dark, on primitive clay roads.
You asked about Henry’s duties. He is the one to calculate the distillery’s every last expense, which is no small feat. It is not merely a matter of keeping count of the pencils & pens & kegs. He must also keep a close eye on the workers. If a man is tardy or loafs, Henry must determine and assign a cost. He likens Mr. Freylock, his supervisor, to the English master at Kings School who left him in charge of the younger boys & then popped in every ten minutes to see that Henry was running things properly. You know the sort. Henry tolerates Mr. Freylock far better than I would.
‘Tis the mud season. Henry will often stay in town after a big rain, rather than risk becoming stuck. Then too, he is both bakeryman & dairyman, as no one will make deliveries this far north. He’s made his fair share of sacrifice. I shall learn to live in harmony with the moths & drips. The tranquillity is more than worth it.
Mum, I picture you reading this letter aloud to Dad. You are situated on the green chair, cup at your left, the tea in it gone cold. Dad sits across from you, old Grazer snoring at his feet. Have I drawn an accurate picture? Is Dad grousing: “Flowers & moths & muddy roads! Will she ever come round to mentioning the children?”
Patience, Father dear. (Is he rolling his eyes to the heavens now?)
By now you have received the photograph. It is not a bad likeness, though the sun was in our eyes. You must forgive my lunatic’s smile. Our precious twins put it there. (Martha in Henry’s arms, Mary in mine.) They are the dearest of baby girls. I cannot wait for you to meet them. They are feeding well & sleeping four hours at a stretch. Do put the photograph in a safe place, by the by, as we shall not be sitting for another. Every mother wants a photograph to send home, & so the photographer gets away with charging a ludicrous fee. “A solid gold frame should be included in the price,” I said. The pompous dandy suggested I take my business elsewhere, knowing full well I wouldn’t, as he has no competitors worth considering in Wellington. At the end, I found myself cajoling him, much to my shame. I not only paid his ridiculous fee, but laid out supper as well! The blackguard enjoyed my kowtowing. He relished every last minute of it.
Were you shocked to see how Josephine has shot up? She so appreciated the embroidered apron her granny sent, but is close to outgrowing it already. Such a joy she is, & such a fine & willing helper! Sunday last she prepared a potted hare that I’d be proud to serve the governor. I’m enclosing the recipe. The more butter you add the better it will taste. It should keep nicely in a cool place for several weeks. Her sewing is coming along as well. Pheeny shall make a splendid wife one day. I’d worry were she ten years older. Dr. Garrett’s handsome daughter married a local lad. It broke Mrs. Garrett’s heart to leave her child so far behind. I had her to tea before they sailed. She had quite the long sob, believing she’d never see her daughter again. I offered to keep an eye on the young woman, but what good does that do Mrs. Garrett, really? It’s an unnatural business, putting impossible distance between parent and child. I, for one, have had my fill of it. I plan to stay put once home. You have my word, & Henry’s word as well.
John is kept in books & so is thriving. He is particularly keen on the stars & planets these days & has recently struck up a correspondence with a member of the Royal Astronomy Society. He’ll no doubt meet boys his own age once enrolled at the new school. In the meantime, our son’s closest chum is a pensioner of eighty-four!
Good news: You’ll remember my mentioning Anamim Bell, the sailmaker’s wife. I am happy to report that she has talked her husband into moving up this way. Mim is grand company. She is cheery & not one bit overdone about it. She vows we shall sit our husbands down & teach them to play euchre. Now if only I might magic you dears over for a hand or two. I miss you both so. As of today, ten months and three weeks remain. Pray the time flies.
Your always loving & devoted daughter, Margaret
ON WEDNESDAY Henry returned home with a bottle of wine and a sack of hard candies for the children. Margaret followed him into their bedroom, where he hung his hat and coat, and followed him out again. “What’s the occasion?”
He laughed a nervous laugh and ran a hand through his hair. “You’ll never guess.”
In the front room he bent over the babies in their cradles and made foolish noises. John came in, bombarding Henry. “Dad! I’ve taught the dogs seven new tricks. Come round back and see.” Josephine continued laying out the soup plates. She called to her father, competing for attention.
“Give your father a moment’s peace,” said Margaret. She met his eyes. “What is it, Henry?”
His gaze shifted to the ceiling. “I’ve been promoted.”
“Oh, Henry. What does that mean precisely?”
“It means I’ve a dozen men below me now. It means another ten quid per week.”
“In terms of time,” she said. “Tell me we’re not staying on indefinitely.”
John and Josephine stood silently watching. Henry took his place at the table and motioned the children to take theirs. “It’s an honor, Meg.”
“I’ve no doubt,” said Margaret, striving for calm. She brought out pea soup and a platter of ham and sat. “Let us be family now.” It was what she said every evening. Henry and the children bowed their heads for grace. “Are we staying on, Henry? Just tell us that much.”
“Not indefinitely,” he said, looking up briefly.
“Oh, Henry.” Margaret bowed her head and pressed her fingers to her burning eyes.
The twins were three months old now, a demanding set at times. The move from the flat to the cottage had been fraught with frustrations great and small. Granted, she was tired, overly prone to dark moods these days. Still. They’d been less than a year shy of their return. How could he?
“A MAORI LAD was publicly flogged today,” Henry said after grace.
“That’s hardly a subject for the table,” said Margaret. It was like him to negate one problem with another more dramatic.
John’s face was vivid with interest. “What was his crime?”
“Please,” said Margaret. Mary started up, the fussier of the two. Margaret went to her and rocked the cradle with her foot.
“He pinched a keg of rum,” said Henry. “Or so it was charged. He didn’t look the sort. A grand display was made of it. Several dozen Maori were lined up, forced to witness the lashing. As a lesson, I presume. A tribesman from the church was there. The lovely tenor? What’s his name, Meg?”
Mary squawked, waking Martha. “Bring a cross lass to me,” Henry said. Margaret brought Mary, intentionally handing over the more sour-smelling and cranky. He held her in the crook of one arm, smiling down, transformed as always. “Turns out the lad was a royal. The governor says there’s bound to be trouble.”
“That’s enough now,” said Margaret.
“FORGIVE ME, HENRY,” she said next morning. He was dressing in the far corner by wavering lamplight. Her voice gave him a start. “I was purely selfish.”
He came to her just as she sat up, cracking his forehead against hers, swearing. “Christ! Hardheaded woman.”
“Irreverent man! You shall be struck down by lightning.”
Both laughed softly. She stroked his beard, the back of his bristly neck. “I’m quite proud of you.”
He took her face between his hands and kissed her lips. “And I of you, my girl.”
“I’ll post your letter this morning,” he said, standing, pulling his coat from the peg.
“I need to add a few lines,” she said.
He nodded. “I’ll wait, then.”
Margaret hugged herself, thinking of home. “What shall I say about our return?”
“I wish I could tell you. I’ll know more next month.”
“Forever?” she asked.
He bent and kissed her again. “Not forever.”
PS: We have only just learned of Henry’s promotion to senior inspector. He has twelve men below him now, two of whom have just arrived. It is an unexpected honor, one that requires an extended stay here. We hope to start for home before next Christmas, but no assurances have been made as of yet. I shall write again soon with the particulars.
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