Love's Rescue (15 page)

“Thank you.” Elizabeth sighed as she and Caroline enjoyed the breezes. “I couldn’t bear another minute of supervision. I do wish you had called sooner. We haven’t had much chance to talk.”

“It has only been a couple weeks. You have much to do to get properly settled.” The petite woman leaned forward to squeeze Elizabeth’s hand. “Things will return to normal in time.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “What is normal? Everything has changed.” A lump formed in her throat at the thought of Mother’s diary. Maybe reading her mama’s words would bring back her soft voice and gentle advice. “I miss her.”

Caroline didn’t need to ask who Elizabeth meant. “Of course you do. The next time I visit, we will bring flowers for your mother’s grave.”

Elizabeth swiped away a tear. “I seem to be a basketful of emotions these days.” This time she squeezed Caroline’s hand. Though plain and undistinguished in society’s terms, Caroline Brown had always been her dearest friend after Anabelle. “Thank you for your consideration. I would like to do that. Perhaps we might continue the walk into town.” Her mind drifted toward the harbor, but her ears noted Aunt’s strident voice through the parlor windows. “Today wouldn’t do.”

Caroline leaned close and shielded her face with her fan. “His ship is still here.”

Elizabeth felt an uncontrollable thrill despite the finality of his words last night, but it was not something she could admit, even to Caroline. “I presume you don’t mean Mr. Finch.”

Caroline laughed. “Certainly not. Someone far more interesting.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “The girls are plotting ways to claim a dance.”

“A dance?”

“At the Harvest Ball a week from Saturday.”

“Harvest Ball?” Aunt Virginia screeched from inside the parlor. “A ball is just the thing to lift everyone’s spirits.” She bent close to Mrs. Brown to share a confidence.

“This is horrible,” Elizabeth groaned. “Now I shall be pestered day and night.”

Caroline laughed. “You will find it charming. One of the ladies from New England suggested it last year. Apparently the Northerners celebrate the harvest with a feast and dancing. All the ladies agreed to try it last October, and it ended up quite the success.”

“In spite of the fact that we don’t have a harvest?” Many came to Key West from New England, bringing with them customs that didn’t always fit.

“Do you think that minor irregularity would stop the planning of a grand ball? Why, the ladies can talk of nothing else, and since they are collecting donations for the benefit of the Marine Hospital, they have managed to drag their husbands on board.”

“And their daughters.”

“Naturally.” Caroline smiled coyly. “Lavinia Dawson had a new dress made just for the occasion from imported French silk, and Sophronia Bell’s gown is said to have taken forty yards of satin to construct.”

“Forty yards!” Elizabeth couldn’t imagine such an unwieldy gown. “How will she move about?”

“Carefully.”

“It will trail behind her like a wake.”

Caroline laughed. “That could create quite a spectacle on the dance floor. Can’t you see the dancers tripping and falling over her dress?”

“Especially since Sophronia is a tiny little thing. How will she manage such a gown?”

“I understand she is wearing an enormous dress improver.” She sighed. “The price of vanity.”

Elizabeth had to laugh. If ever there was a woman without a drop of vanity, it was Caroline. “A very big price.”

“I doubt she will be able to reach to the edge of her gown. Why, her dance partners will have to be very tall or have very long arms.”

“Like—” She halted, unable to say Rourke’s name but knowing Caroline understood. “His arms would be long enough.”

“Yes, but his heart is already taken.”

Elizabeth felt a blush heat her cheeks despite last night’s rejection. “I believe you are mistaken.”

“Not at all. When a man waits four years to pay a call on a lady, that lady can be certain his affections are sincere.”

Elizabeth wasn’t nearly as confident as her friend. Since the topic only brought discomfort, she changed course. “What are you wearing?”

“My gown from last year is perfectly serviceable. You, however, need something new and beautiful.”

“I’m in mourning. I won’t be attending.”

“But you must. Everyone with any social standing at all will be there, including many widows. Dancing might be frowned upon, but there is no reason you cannot dine and converse. I shall be glad for your company.”

If only it was that simple. Elizabeth couldn’t abide the thought of seeing Rourke take the hand of another woman, even for a single dance.

By the time Caroline had covered every aspect of the ball and its preparations, Elizabeth was exhausted. She had never
particularly cared for these events designed to showcase young ladies with the aim of securing a match. She would rather walk along the shore with a gentleman and engage in intelligent conversation. Even casting a fishing line in the water would be better than sitting around hoping the right man would get up the nerve to ask for a dance.

“I believe I will read a book.”

If Aunt Virginia hadn’t interrupted at that exact moment, Caroline might have rebuked her again. As it was, Mrs. Brown wished to call on another friend, and they bid farewell after Caroline promised to call again to firm up plans for the ball.

A ball! The hope that event might have raised two days ago wilted under the memory of Rourke’s scorn. She had laid her soul bare, and he had stomped on it. No, she would not go to any ball that might include Rourke O’Malley on the guest list.

By the time she could retreat to her bedroom for the night, Elizabeth was exhausted. Once Anabelle had finished preparing her for bed, she settled into the chair and pulled her mother’s diary from her keepsake chest. Even in the candlelight, Mother’s strong hand was clear.

The first entries, written soon after her marriage and arrival in Key West, bubbled with excitement over this “odd, rustic place.” From the colors of the sea to the tidy little houses, Helen Dobbins Benjamin noted every detail with wondering eyes. But soon that changed. A petulant entry just a week later noted the “exceeding ill manners” of the local population and the utter lack of society. The need for a minister and a schoolteacher had the women protesting to their husbands. Complaints about the sparse variety of the diet soon followed. “Fish and turtle every day, but not a fresh vegetable to be found.”

Elizabeth had heard the same sentiments from newcomers
all her life. Before her years in Charleston, she hadn’t understood the complaints. Did they not have every variety of fish in the sea? Many kept hens. Their eggs and the eggs of turtles were plentiful. A few of the more agrarian minded grew sweet potatoes, squash, and melon in the small amount of soil they could scrape together. Some had planted the coconut palm and banana tree with great success. Limes and sapodillas also came in from the other keys. Any given ship might bring the necessities like flour, lard, sugar, and molasses.

Then she went to Charleston. Fresh beans and peas, not dried. Peaches so sweet and juicy that she ate until her stomach ached. Fresh beef and pork, such a rarity in Key West, were common table fare. She had reveled in the variety. No wonder her mother had been shocked by the limited selection in Key West.

Though that disappointment was understandable, the next entry sent a shudder through Elizabeth.

How distressed Mama and Papa would be to learn what I must endure in this wilderness. The match they promoted bears little resemblance to the reality I face. I cannot return home, of course. As Mama would say, life is filled with trials and disappointments. We must do our best with what we have been given.

I have no confidante here, no special friend. The few women of self-proclaimed quality would gleefully shout my difficulties from the street corner if they knew of them. On these pages alone can I lament. If not for this diary, I would go mad.

Charles shows much less affection than during courtship. Having caught the prize, he is content to observe from afar or parade me before others, all the while maintaining
the perverse habits of bachelorhood. Surely this is not the kind of union God intended.

Perverse habits? Father? He held honor and propriety in the highest regard. She did not recognize the man Mother described. True, he did not display affection in public, but he had always asked a special blessing for Mother when saying grace and had kissed Charlie and her good night. He had deferred to Mother in all household matters, and she had turned to him for every decision that extended beyond the house. Elizabeth had always viewed their marriage as perfectly matched.

She reread the words.

The match they promoted.

If Mother had been unhappy following her parents’ counsel, why would she set Elizabeth on the same course? It made no sense, unless things had changed between them later or Mother had been mistaken about the most shocking of accusations, that Father had maintained perverse habits. She must have meant smoking a pipe or drinking brandy. That might have shocked her when they were first married, since Grandpapa had not indulged in either.

Elizabeth read on, hoping to learn more. Instead, the next entries detailed the common travails of everyday life, from a problem servant to a lack of sugar or stormy weather. None of them addressed her mother’s feelings.

She leafed ahead to find more of the same. The words blurred, and her eyelids threatened to drift shut until the entry in October of that year when there was a frightening incident that cost a man his life. Mother’s fear was palpable.

Though Commodore Porter claims to have eradicated the pirates, I cannot but wonder if one of their kind has returned. Others think it’s a Negro gone mad. Charles scoffs at such fears, insisting the guilty party will be found and brought to justice. That is so like him! But he is at court most days, leaving me here with the servants and a rifle I cannot work. How I wish I had never come to this place! I fear for the child I am carrying.

Elizabeth calculated the years and months. She must have been that unborn child.

She turned the page, but the next entry was dated weeks later and made no mention of a fugitive. In fact, it mentioned only the birth of a slave baby and Mother’s long vigil with the baby’s unnamed mother. She leafed ahead and saw no further mention of either pirates or justice.

As the candle sputtered out, she closed the diary and crawled into bed.

Shadowy pirates tormented her dreams that night. Again aboard ship, she fought them off with nothing but a belaying pin. In the way of dreams, their flashing swords could not smash her wooden pin, though they drove her closer and closer to the rail and the black water below. When she could not hold them off any longer, she awoke. They retreated from her memory, no more substantial than the heavy clouds threatening rain.

She threw off the bed sheet, and something thudded to the planked floor. Mother’s diary! After tugging the bedclothes onto the feather mattress, she found the diary underneath the bed. By kneeling, she could reach it with her fingertips and drag it close enough to grab.

All the answers lay inside.

Elizabeth crawled back onto the bed, where she could shove the diary beneath the covers if anyone walked into the room. A servant would knock first, but Aunt Virginia would barge in unannounced.

After locating the spot where she’d left off last night, Elizabeth continued forward. The entries detailed such commonplace occurrences that her attention waned. Surely something more interesting had occurred than the arrival of fine cotton lawn. Yet day after day, the diary read like a list for the mercantile.

She set the diary down and rubbed her eyes. Soon Anabelle would arrive to dress her. After that, the day would not allow for another look at the diary until nightfall. She heard Father close his door across the hall. He always left the house early and did not expect her at breakfast. Aunt Virginia was another matter. She would rise within the half hour. Elizabeth could read a little longer before hiding the book where no one would find it.

She picked up the diary again and turned the page.

I wish that woman had never come.

The words leapt off the page. Unlike Mother’s usual sprawling style, this writing was cramped. Each stroke of a letter wobbled. Her anguish speckled the page with scribbled-out words.

How could I have trusted him? Do vows mean nothing? I have heard of such things but never expected to find it in my own house. How I regret my ungracious comments to others, implying that the wife is somehow to blame for a husband’s wandering. Now I have felt that dagger pierce my own heart, and those careless words will be flung at me.

What can I do? No one here would understand, even if I dared to speak. My parents stop their ears to any complaint. I have nowhere to turn, no course to follow but one. Such matters must be hushed up, swept out with the dust. A virtuous woman must endure. She must hold her head high and pretend nothing has happened while the world laughs at her.

The entry ended with a watery splotch. Elizabeth rubbed a finger over the puckered paper. A hot tear had fallen there. In despair, Mother had cried out in the only way open to her.

Her words slashed open the memories of Elizabeth’s own fears and failures. Charlie. Rourke. Only she was the one who had broken faith. An older sister was supposed to care for her little brother. A true friend did not let someone take the blame for her.

A knock sounded on the door. “You ready fo’ me, miss?” It was Florie, not Anabelle.

For a second, Elizabeth wondered why, but she wasn’t ready for either of them. She must read more.

“Not yet,” she called out. “Come back in fifteen minutes.” That ought not raise alarms.

“Yes, miss.”

Elizabeth turned back to the diary.

What should I do? How can I raise my child alongside such a travesty? How can I stay silent with the proof of my husband’s unfaithfulness before me?