Chapter Text
Howl, howl, howl, howl! O, you are men of stones:
Had I your tongues and eyes, I’d use them so
That heaven’s vault should crack.
Tallie.
I had thought that I learned something of the rack of this tough world before now. That I had felt enough of its surface wrench and tear to understand the dull, mechanical cruelty beneath. But there can be no true instruction without repetition, it would seem. I must learn my grief by rote, for one loss, even that of a daughter, could not be relied upon to teach me proper anguish. I had to lose you too, Tallie, lest my weeping be thought counterfeit. For fear that, should I ever again read great works of poetic suffering, I would scoff, and claim that mere mortals could not possibly contain such awful injustices within their weary, stretched bodies without splitting at the seams.
“Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, / And thou no breath at all?”
I have learned my lesson. And I understand him now.
King Lear, I mean.
What verses of his I recalled in sudden dumb shocks of recognition after Nellie, I now grasp hungrily within myself, deep and permanent and bloody as marrow. Perhaps I was always suited to feel a kinship with him. My predisposition to melancholy was so potent that, even in our happiest moment, Tallie, my wayward imagination spoke to you of Lear.
How could I?
Had I quite forgotten how King Lear ended? When I spoke of him to you that gilded afternoon, when I suggested his caged birds as a model for our living, could I have forgotten that the promised end of their music was played in howls? And for Cordelia, gentle, low-voiced, stubborn Cordelia, who would not pretend to anything she did not feel, not even for her safety, not even for her life, had I forgotten that her candid stanzas brought her death? Brought her murder?
No. I had not forgotten. But, like the hopeful audience to any tragedy, I had thought perhaps that, this time through, all might just turn out well.
My poor fool.
“Speak what we feel,” wrote the poet.
I have tried. And I have not. Speaking to Dyer of my feelings is like screaming under water. I can only do so much before the effort chokes me. And half of what I felt for you must never be spoken in any case. Can never be spoken. Not to Dyer or to anyone. I smuggled my love for you into my writing. Between the curls of ink that form my diary, I concealed your mouth, your wrist, the freckles on your chest, the bisect plane of your stomach. But for the sake of delicate audiences yet unknown, you were shamefully censored even there.
But then, I now remember, so was Lear.
So was King Lear rewritten, my teacher told me, his bleak horror blotted out for one hundred and fifty years, too tragic even for tragedy. For one hundred and fifty years, any student of King Lear would have faithfully believed that sweet Cordelia lived. And married for love.
And Tallie, oh my Tallie, for one hundred and fifty years, they would have been right.
Seven generations of Cordelia living, and living, and living.
And why should she not? She is all ink now. Nothing left but ink.
And here I hold my pen.
Let me rewrite our tragedy into history. And let there be no obstacles for us this time. No Finney, and no Dyer.
But indeed, there must be Dyer. For without Dyer there would be no Nellie, and Tallie, forgive me, I would have you back with me a thousand times, with nothing come between us ever. But, oh, I would have Nellie too!
No Finney, then.
But Dyer.
Dyer and I.
We had an indiscretion. Back when we were courting. Just one. And by the time we knew it would have been a terrible mistake for us to marry, our smaller mistake, our gentle experiment, had made itself quite plain.
Dyer had turned his attentions to my sister by that time. They were always better suited. Should have made a better match. Did, in fact, make a far better marriage than we would ever have done. And instead of breaking their happiness together with my burgeoning condition, I made them both this offer: “House me on the farm in some small place,” I told them, “and I will help in every conceivable way that I am able, with neither jealousy nor resentment. Raise my child as your own, and all my labour will be yours in her care or in any other. Only do not make me marry. Do not make me leave. And we will thrive together better as a family of four than any two people could scrape by in isolation.”
They accepted. As of course they must. And Nellie was born to me in the farm house, not long after Dyer’s marriage to Rebecca.
We converted one of the chimneyed outbuildings into a little cottage when Nellie was weaned, more for the sake of their privacy than for mine. I fought hard for an extra pump to be plumbed in, with the argument that I could better help my sister with the cooking, and I had a little stove of my own, a narrow bed, a linen press. No dried posy on the wall for me, no wedding quilt, but they suited Rebecca better up at the main house in any case. Nellie resembled her in all the ways that she resembled me. And Dyer never again looked on me with any love unsuited to a brother and sister.
A strange arrangement, perhaps. Unlikely, many would say. But there it is, set down upon the page, as probable a story as any of people finding their happiness out here in the dirt and stones and careless rain.
Rebecca at last fell pregnant our third summer. And her sicknesses were so severe that Nellie came to spend her nights at the cottage with me. We cuddled together in my little bed, and I would stroke her hair until she slept, telling her that she was my treasure. All of our treasures. But most especially mine. And she would put her arms about me as if she understood, little as she was. And when Rebecca was delivered of her child, (no, of twins - Dyer always wanted three) we were so muddled together as a family, me helping during the night with nursing and diapers, and Rebecca sleeping at the cottage for some peace during the day, that it made sense eventually for Nellie to decide that my small home was as much a part her own as anywhere else.
Rebecca’s children, two boys, Ned and William, grew so strapping and boisterous that there was never any jealousy between my sister and myself. There were enough scraped knees to clean, enough hair to brush, and pebbles to admire, that neither my sister nor I felt any cavity in our motherhoods. And the hard work of the farm would be lessened for all of us as the children grew. In the promise of this coming ease, Dyer knew some contentment.
And then, one February, when Nellie was just shy of her fifth birthday, and the boys were toddling about the farm like drunk crows, and the weather still fell hard, because one cannot write a mild winter for upstate New York, even with enough ink to drown in, one February Sunday, I saw you, Tallie.
You were on a gig, do you remember? On your way to church. And I was on the hill waving the rest of the family off, since I never accompanied them. Not even then. Not even with Nellie there. And you must have thought my wave intended for you. And I saw your expression alter, your red head under the canopy crane the better to see me around your driver. A hand raised, curiously, your shawl suddenly gathered at your chest in pale fingers.
And when I saw you, my arm dropped. Do you recall? So suddenly that you must have thought me outraged. But I was nothing of the sort. Only startled, by a new face, an unexpected salutation, a question without words.
I cannot wish my awkwardness away. It is a part of why you loved me. Of why you would surely grow to love me. So, I did not run to introduce myself, not even to give myself the promise of two more precious minutes in your company. Instead, I stood on the hill beside the empty buildings of the farm, and gaped, as the gig drew you away.
I asked Rebecca about you that evening as we cooked. She told me you were lately arrived to live with a neighbouring family. That you were meant to be married, but had thought better of it at the last, and fled. That your own family were too far distant to be of any help. That you were safe. Among friends. She described you as a person of easy smiles, of polite good grace and a sweet temper and I found myself alive with a strange jealousy that my pretty sister had spoken to such a person, and I had not.
I served biscuits and chicken broth to the children, and wondered whether I should see more of you. Whether I might concoct a reason to take me into market, or at least past the neighbouring farm.
As it happened, any deception was unnecessary. William suffered terribly from stomach pains during the night, and we were out of castor oil to ease his discomfort. I volunteered to journey to a neighbouring farm and beg a little, since I argued the errand was too small to take any of us all the way to town.
It was a cruelly cold day I remember, and my cheeks were hard bitten by the wind when I arrived at the Nelson farm. I called from the gate before I made my way up to the house. We knew the Nelsons a little. We were not as close friends as geography suggested, for Dyer found old Peter Nelson’s conversation trying. Too full of criticism dressed up as advice, he said, and nosiness disguised as care. So we three avoided the connection for Dyer’s sake, and missed knowing Frances intimately as a result. She was busy in the kitchen with the day’s potatoes when I made my request, hands grey with the dusty earth. She is a good and attentive woman however, and, eager to be of assistance to an otherwise prickly set of neighbours, she called for help out into the yard.
And you came through from the mudroom, brushing chicken feathers from your apron, a bowl of nut brown eggs nestled in your elbow. You looked up from your boots to see me, gangly, black stick of a woman in her overlarge boots, invading your new home like a vexatious exclamation point. And you smiled.
You told me that the hens must have heard me coming, for they had been thrown into the most prodigious flap whilst you were in amongst them, quite unlike their usual placid selves. I replied, my eyes lowered, that I hoped I was not causing too general a disturbance. And you laughed. Told me that it had saved a couple from the pot, as you had thought them frozen in the night. You handed me a whole bottle of oil at Frances’ insistence. I noted that William was small enough to bathe in so great a quantity, but your hostess said only to return the bottle when the need was over, adding that it was good to welcome me in person at long last, and that she was pleased at the thought of doing so again.
You opened the door for me, Tallie. Said my name for the first time in bidding me goodbye. And when I happened to turn at the gate, I saw your face at the window, pressed so close your warm breath misted the glass.
In a day or two, little William had improved. He has very brown hair now, of course, but back then I wonder if you remember that his hair was blond as candle wax. And as he toddled off after his siblings in his white woollens, Dyer called laconically from the cow shed that we should all give thanks the boy was now well enough to be lost in a snow drift.
Mid afternoon was come by the time I found the spare minutes to return the bottle to Nelson Farm. I remember thinking every step of the way, that I must be very careful of my features should it turn out you were not at home. I must give no hint of disappointment to Frances, who had been so generous and kind. And who was, in any case, being generous and kind to you, which was reason enough for my immense gratitude. But I did wish to see you that day, with greater heat than I could readily understand, and I had twisted the bottle around and around in my hands so much that, by the time I approached the porch steps, my gloves had left rings of grimy anxiety behind them. I was buffing them out on my skirts as you opened the door.
You smiled to see me, confessed that you had spied me coming as you darned, and apologised that both your hosts were out somewhere. I said that it was no trouble, perhaps with a little more vehemence than was fitting, and that I was only glad to see you so comfortably settled and looking well. You replied that your comfort currently included a pot of tea, one that I should be very welcome to share given how cold my walk over must have been.
You fetched me a mug, glazed a smooth, gingerbread batter brown, and sat me near the fire to warm. You sat in the glow, your skin shining like milky dawn, and spoke to me as you worked with your needle.
I asked how you came to be in the county. You responded only with a deep sigh and a rise of your fine eyebrows. Immediately, I withdrew the question, worried that it might have been an annoyance, but you merely smiled and shook your head. It was inevitable, you said, that when a stranger lands in a new place their history should be wondered at by everyone, just as a new arrival must be sniffed over by a pack of dogs.
I told you firmly that I had no wish to be everyone. And that if you preferred we could speak of other things, or enjoy the quiet together if that better suited your mood. You watched me, for a tug or two of your thread. I remember how blue your eyes glittered, like periwinkles caught in unseasonal snow. You seemed to consider. Then a playful expression overtook your features and you said you had a better idea. That instead, I should tell you everything I had heard from all my neighbours about the mystery woman, the Nelson’s new lodger, the runaway Tallie. For the first time, I caught a hint of what I now know to be your theatrical streak. And even then, I confess that it delighted me.
Flattered to be so teased, I stammered that I knew only what I had heard from my sister, and your darning immediately lowered. Sisters! you exclaimed. You confessed that you had often wondered about the arrangement at our farm, that now it made more sense to you. I blushed at the idea of your wondering about me, just as I had wondered about you and, to turn the conversation, I recited what little I knew of your situation. That you had travelled from your home to be married, and reconsidered your position too far from your own family for comfort. You commented that indeed this was the kindest version of events, and lightly enquired, with my better knowledge of our neighbours, whether such an explanation might be sufficient for everyone. I wondered at your turn of phrase, and replied that, yes, I thought that everyone should be satisfied. I still remember your reply.
“But you have no wish to be everyone, Abigail.”
I had no response. At once confounded and filled with something like pleasure, which nevertheless burned at my ears and cheek more readily than fire, I could do nothing except mouth dumbly into my tea. You came to my rescue, asking politely after the children, and we spoke for an easy quarter hour about small people, their aches and troubles and triumphs, their little labours and wild determination. I mentioned how Nellie, having heard of such ornaments from somewhere, had decided that my cottage should be all over decorated with holly branches for the season. You laughed, and said that you would be enchanted to see the results, were I willing to accommodate you in a return visit. I replied eagerly that, yes, I was sure my sister and brother-in-law would be more than happy to make your better acquaintance. And again you smiled, in that sweet way that I now know contained a hundred patient, wondering questions, and said simply that if we could fit in both holly branches and family into a single visit, then you would be pleased to see them also.
I do not know if I expected your call to come so soon. But that Sunday I was once again waving the family off to worship, and I noticed your absence from the passing cart. I wondered with a pang if you might be unwell, but the day was bright and clear, and the faces of the Nelsons were untroubled, and suddenly, with a surge of excitement such as I had never known since girlhood, I felt certain that you were planning to walk the mile over to visit me.
I was frozen in my boots at the thought, grounded on the hill path like one of Dyer’s fenceposts, a shimmer in my belly. And I had no reason to suppose any such thing other than the workings of my thrilled imagination, and the little that I felt I knew of you. I roused myself, and went to sweep the cottage afresh, as if I had not swept it every day since your suggestion. I pumped water, and set the kettle on to boil in anticipation, haunting the windows overlooking the forest road.
And at last you came, solitary figure in brown and red skirts, a heather coloured shawl wrapping you like a tent, your hair a shot of lingering autumn against the still frosted grass. I breathed, held myself back from running to the door, for I found my delight was bountiful and giddy and in need of some steadying. Why, I could not tell. I could not yet discern why I should conceal at least some of my eagerness to see you. Does one hide such enthusiasm, for the company of friends?
I made sure to open my own door gently, to walk out into the sunshine happy but composed. I raised my arm to you and waved, observing that you were not then gone to church. You cried back, confident I suppose of our privacy, that you were a Free Will Baptist, currently exercising her free will. I laughed, which I suppose set you further at your ease for you broke into a run to cross the ground that parted us the faster. And I wondered at my silliness in hiding my excitement from you. I made sure, then, to say just how glad I was that you were come. To apologise for the absence of my family. And in turn, you made such a face at me, touching my arm with complete ease, and answering in that low voice of yours that surely I must know that your design in coming just then was to have me to yourself a while. I found I did not need to answer, but smiled, and directed you inside the cottage where the tea was ready brewing.
I sometimes think that I feel you, Tallie, sitting beside me as I write, as you have appeared beside me before now, all rose and violet, solid and warm. That the more I cultivate my imagination on these pages, the more I write of you, the clearer I remember how it was. How it really was.
I shall continue.
I shall.