The Widow's War (6 page)

Again Carrie is touched. Overwhelming joy over the birth of a baby isn’t a trait you often find in a man who isn’t the father. She examines Mr. Presgrove’s face and sees signs of tenderness and sympathy she missed earlier.
He’s a good man
, she thinks.
A decent man.

Later she will realize that she should have looked at his face more closely, but now in this parlor with her grief newly minted, she only sees a stranger with William’s warm heart who looks something like William.

“I will have my baby in June,” she says.
My baby
. The first time she has ever uttered those words aloud.
William’s baby, too
, she thinks
.
Suddenly she experiences a passionate hunger to be held and comforted, and an ache so deep all she wants to do is run from it. Unable to meet Mr. Presgrove’s eyes, she looks toward the garden and sees a hummingbird stabbing its beak into a purple and white-petaled flower.
Passiflora edulis
:
maracujá
in Portuguese; passionflower in English. The unspoken words fall on her tongue like dust. She chokes on her grief, turns the choking into a cough, masters her emotions, and turns back to Mr. Presgrove.

“June?” he says. “But Carolyn—Miz Vinton—you can’t possibly stay here. You must come back to the States immediately and let my stepmother take care of you. You cannot go through the dangers that attend childbirth alone.”

Again he echoes a thought that Carrie has been having. When she wakes at night in a panic, she not only worries about William; she worries about giving birth to their baby in the tropics. Her two brothers and only sister died as infants here. She is probably alive only because her mother returned to Indiana to give birth to her. She was six—well past the age of greatest danger—before her parents took her to Brazil where even in large cities like Rio the lives of babies are so short that sometimes their parents don’t name them until they prove they can thrive. She can imagine nothing worse than bearing William’s child only to have it die or dying herself and leaving their child an orphan. Her own mother succumbed to childbed fever not two miles from where she now sits.

Time is running out. She must choose between Brazil and the States while she can still travel. For a few more seconds she wavers. Then she comes to a decision. She cannot do less for her child than her mother did for her. She’s been waiting to find out what happened to William. Now that she knows he’s dead, what is there left for her here in Rio where every street reminds her of him? Since she came back to this house, she hasn’t even been able to sleep in her own bed because they once made love in it. That bed is empty now, made up with fresh sheets, neat as a coffin. It would be better to leave it behind. She needs to start over. This is no place for her and no place for her baby.

She looks up and sees Mr. Presgrove waiting for her to speak. “I plan to return to the States,” she says. “But—” She breaks off in mid-sentence. She intends to tell him she doesn’t want to impose on William’s mother, but the truth is, she’d like to have her baby’s grandmother with her when she gives birth.

Mr. Presgrove looks relieved. “I’m glad to hear you are leaving,” he says. “The fevers alone, Miz Vinton, not to mention the bad water, filth, heat, venomous snakes . . . well, Brazil is no place for a woman who is with child. If I had a wife, I’d ship her back home as soon as she told me the good news. Have you booked your passage yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Then let me do it for you. My family has a sugar exporting business in Salvador. We are doing quite well, and I can easily book you passage to New York on a clean, sturdy vessel.” He smiles kindly.

Under normal circumstances, Carrie would have smiled back, but grief is bubbling up in her again, threatening to overflow, and she can hardly trust herself to speak. She wants him to go away now and leave her alone to mourn William, but if she’s going to accept the hospitality of the Presgroves, there are arrangements to be made.

She is so busy trying not to break down that she pays no attention to Mr. Presgrove’s description of the family business in Salvador. Not until much later does she play back this conversation and realize how strange it is that the Presgroves are making money in sugar when everyone in Brazil knows the sugar market has collapsed.
Coffee
, she thinks.
He should have said ‘coffee’, but what did it matter. I wasn’t listening for warning signs, not then.

“You must let me escort you,” he continues. “There’s no use protesting that you can easily find a suitable female companion to travel with you. She is welcome, of course, but I insist on coming, too. You should not make such a voyage without a man to look after you.”

She is about to tell him she can look after herself, but he continues speaking with an enthusiasm that defies interruption.

“No, no, Miz Vinton, I beg you. Do not refuse. I will conduct you directly to my stepmother. At present she and my father are living in Washington. He’s a senator, Senator Bennett Presgrove of Kentucky. Perhaps you have heard of him? He’s been in the papers quite a bit lately.”

Carrie shakes her head. She hasn’t read an American newspaper in weeks. All she knows is that Franklin Pierce has been elected President and that the issue of slavery is becoming more and more divisive, but beyond that she has been out of touch ever since the epidemic began. She has never heard of Senator Bennett Presgrove.

“No matter, the point is, he and my stepmother have rented a very comfortable house in Washington, so you will not have to make the long trip to their plantation in Kentucky. As you know, the voyage from Brazil to the States takes two months—sometimes more. By the time you reach Washington . . .” He stops. “Well, you take my meaning, Miz Vinton.”

“By then,” Carrie says, “I will almost be ready for what is called ‘my confinement.’ In other words, my condition will start to become quite obvious, and no amount of raising crinolines or taking out seams will be able to disguise it.” She knows she’s being overly blunt, but she doesn’t care. Her life is going to have to go on, and she intends to live as she has always has, straightforwardly without cloaking everything in cloying euphemisms.

“I need to warn you that I’m not a woman who puts much stock in conventions. When I was a child, my aunt despaired of turning me into a lady. I have no intention of shutting myself away for months in a dark house with the blinds drawn. It’s unhealthy and boring and completely unnecessary. Being with child is not an illness, and despite the fact that I’m unmarried—” Although she fights to control her voice, it trembles at the mention of marriage. She stops and takes a breath.

“Despite that, I am not ashamed. I intend to go out in public as long as I feel up to it, and if that makes you want to reconsider your offer, you had better tell me now.”

Mr. Presgrove doesn’t seem to be the least disconcerted. “Of course,” he says. “Whatever you wish. But you will allow me to escort you back to the States, won’t you? And you will let my stepmother have the joy of being present when her first grandchild comes into the world?”

Carrie’s desire to resist collapses. She wants to go home to have her child, and Mr. Presgrove is offering her a chance to do so in comfort and safety. She’s surprised that she still thinks of the States as “home,” but she does. All at once, she’s overcome with nostalgia. She wants to experience winter again, watch apple trees bud out in the spring. How long has it been since she has seen a robin or eaten maple syrup on her pancakes?

“I’ll travel to Washington with you,” she says. “Thank you, Mr. Presgrove. It’s a very kind offer, but are you sure William’s mother will welcome me?”

“She will welcome you with open arms.” He pauses. “And you must let me pay your expenses. Again I insist. After all, William’s dying wish was that I take care of you and,” he looks around the room, “I imagine you are experiencing financial difficulties. I hope you do not take offense at me saying this, but your father, famous though he was, could not have been a wealthy man.”

Carrie studies him warily. She does not like the turn the conversation has just taken. He seems sincere, but is it possible he doesn’t know she’s wealthy? She glances at the pile of condolence cards on her writing desk. If so, he must be the only unmarried man in Rio who doesn’t view her as a potential source of income.

“Surely you have heard that I recently inherited a great fortune.”

“Yes, Miz Vinton. I heard that on the day I learned you were still alive. The news has spread to Salvador. Brazil is a large country, but Americans are few and when something happens to one, the rest know about it so swiftly it’s enough to make one believe in thought transference. So, yes, I did hear you had come into money, but when I saw you—pardon me for remarking on this—in a dress that is becoming but obviously worn, living in a home that is simple to the point of starkness, I decided those rumors were untrue. To be frank, I hoped they were untrue.”

“They are,” she says. “What would you say if I told you that I am nearly destitute? That this house is rented? That I have less than fifty dollars American to my name?”

He does not flinch. “I would say that it is fortunate indeed that I came here today, and I would ask you to have the goodness to accept any monetary aid my family or I can offer you. I know my father and stepmother would feel the same. I am sorry to hear you have been experiencing financial difficulties, but you must put any anxiety about money behind you. You shall never want for anything, nor shall the child.”

His face turns red; he seems to struggle for words. “Miz Vinton, I said just now that I hoped the rumors of your wealth were untrue, because I have something to ask you, and if you were rich, you might be inclined to think I had ulterior motives. I want to say, right at the outset, that I am thinking only of your welfare and the welfare of your child. I am a simple, plainspoken man. I know this is the worst possible time to ask you this question. You are grieving for William, as am I. I’ve never done this before and I don’t know how to find the right words, but I wonder if . . . that is, if you would consider doing me the honor of becoming . . . my wife.”

“No,” she says sharply. “Of course not.” So he is a fortune hunter after all. She is disappointed. She had thought better of him.

Mr. Presgrove looks agitated, as well he should. “I was afraid that would be your answer, Miz Vinton. That would be my own answer if I were in your position. I have heard you have been deluged with suitors who, despite your many obvious virtues, court you only for your money, but I am not one of these. Would you please hear me out before you give me your final answer? What I am about to say has grave implications for your child.”

Carrie wants to order him to leave, but when a man says he is about to say something that has “grave implications for your child,” what choice do you have but to listen? “Go on,” she says.

He clears his throat. “Thank you. You are every bit as kind as William said you were.” He clears his throat again. “I would hope that if you accepted my proposal you would in time come to feel affection for me, but however you choose to regard me, I will respect your feelings, and I will never attempt to compel your affections or ask you to do anything you do not want to do.

“If you wish, our marriage could simply be a legal arrangement for the benefit of my late stepbrother’s son or,” he adds quickly “daughter. Frankly, that would not be my preference, for, if you will excuse me for saying so, you are a very attractive woman, but for a daughter it is particularly important to have a legitimate father. You have not been back to the States for a long time, and perhaps you do not realize the stain an out-of-wedlock birth puts on an innocent child there. I don’t care that you and William never married, nor will my father and stepmother care. No matter what you decide, we will embrace your child as our own, but society will not be so kind.

“America is still Puritan. Saving your presence, I must use the word
bastard
here, Miz Vinton. I can think of no kinder word, and that is what people will call your baby. I do not want that to happen when you and I can so easily prevent it. If we marry, no one will dare question the paternity of your child.”

“Mr. Presgrove, please, stop. I can’t possibly consider your offer. We have just met.”

“Yes, Miz Vinton, we have, and that is why I now want to tell you something to prove my sincerity. I said that my father was Senator Bennett Presgrove. The name meant nothing to you, but it means a great deal in the States. Few men are more determined to extend slavery into the western territories, and few men make more ardent speeches in support of slaveholding.

“I will not attempt to deceive you by pretending that my father himself does not own slaves. When he argues for the extension of slavery, he speaks out of self-interest. He is one of the largest slaveholders in the state of Kentucky. I realize that in confessing this fact I run the risk of permanently alienating you, but I want you to know everything about me without reservation.

“Miz Vinton, please do not judge me on the basis of my father’s reputation. I may be his son, but I do not share his views on slavery. In fact, I find them abhorrent. William told me you were an abolitionist. So am I. My father and I have quarreled bitterly over slavery. I believe he may write me out of his will because of it, but whether he does or not is a matter of indifference to me.

“I’m an honest businessman, Miz Vinton. I’m not wealthy, but thanks to my late mother, I’m prosperous, and I can easily take care of you and the baby. You say you have no money, but even if you did, I would not need it, and I would insist that you agree to draw up a will leaving it all to the child.

“I know I am not a great catch, but I’m good-natured, and I love children, and, if you will excuse me for saying so, I’m told that I’m not bad looking. You deserve a better man than I will ever be, but time is of the essence. I am here and unmarried, and I would love this child as my own without ever attempting to replace his father. When the boy is old enough, we can tell him the truth. You can name him William Saylor Presgrove, and when he is of age, he can drop the ‘Presgrove.’ If you give birth to a girl, she will be my delight and treasure, and I will see that she marries well. Male or female, the child will not only inherit whatever money you may have; he or she will inherit my entire estate as well.”