The Stolen Marriage by Diane Chamberlain
“That’s wonderful,” I said. “And soon you’ll be able to build things with your own child.”
He gave me a smile that told me how much he liked that idea. “I admit, I’m hoping for a boy,” he said, almost shyly.
“I think it is a boy,” I said, then prompted, “but if it’s a girl?”
“I fear I’ll turn a daughter of mine into a tomboy.” He laughed. “She’ll be fit for no man.”
“She’ll be lucky to have her father’s time and attention,” I said, but he had moved on to the shelves nearest the side window. He motioned me over.
“This is my favorite section,” he said. He pulled one of the huge, heavy volumes from a shelf and walked across the room to set it on the desk. I followed him and watched as he opened the book, which was filled with pictures and illustrations of early American furniture. He turned a few of the pages almost reverently and I could see how much he enjoyed creating furniture. I remembered the smells and sounds of his factory and knew he belonged there. I gently touched his arm.
“You love your work,” I said.
He looked up at me. “Yes,” he said. “I’m fortunate to have a job I love.”
He closed the book and slipped it back into its place on the bookshelf while I wandered through the room, touching the spines, reading titles. I spotted a thick scrapbook on a small table in the corner and touched the corner of it with my fingers.
“Mama’s scrapbook,” he said. “Some family photographs. Newspaper articles. That sort of thing.”
I would have liked to look through the scrapbook. Get to know my new family. But it didn’t seem the time, and I returned my attention to the bookshelves. I spotted several Bibles and a whole shelf devoted to the Baptist faith.
“I think your mother is upset that I’m Catholic,” I said.
Henry raised his eyebrows, then began guiding me out of the room. “Not many Catholics around here,” he said, as we walked through a small sitting room. “Just a tiny congregation and they mostly keep to themselves.” He stopped walking when we reached a closed door and turned to face me. “You won’t be able to go to the Catholic church, Tess,” he said. “You’re going to have to fit in here in Hickory. Fit in with my family and our way of life. And of course our child will be Baptist. It’s best you don’t tell anyone that you were a Catholic.”
“Were a Catholic?” I said. “I don’t know anything about being Baptist. Even going to a Baptist service is a sin.”
“That’s ridiculous.” He shook his head with something close to a chuckle. “You’ll have to give up all that hocus-pocus that comes with Catholicism.”
I said nothing. I thought of the priest who’d loudly blasted me for sleeping with Henry. Had I deserved that much vitriol and humiliation? I was angry at that priest. Angry at the church that would make me feel so dirty and guilty. Yet my life had centered around my beloved St. Leo’s. I wasn’t sure I could break away. Already I felt an ache in my heart that I would miss mass tomorrow, not to mention all the tomorrows to come.
Henry pushed open the swinging door and we walked into the largest kitchen I’d ever seen in a home, all done up in white and a deep, rich blue. The whole downstairs of my Baltimore house could fit inside that kitchen. The cabinets were white metal, the countertops a pale blue laminate with dark blue trim. The floor was a blue and white checkerboard. Even the large white porcelain enamel table was trimmed with blue. The whole kitchen was spotless.
Hattie walked into the room from the outside door, a wicker laundry basket in her arms, white sheets spilling over the rim. The smell of sunshine followed her into the room.
I smiled at her. “That looks heavy,” I said. I thought Henry should help her with the basket, but he made no move toward her.
“Ain’t bad,” Hattie said. “Used to it.” She rested the basket momentarily on the kitchen table.
“Let’s continue our tour,” Henry said.
“Excuse us,” I said to Hattie. It was going to take me some time to get used to having a person in the house whose role was simply to clean up after us.
Henry put his hand on my elbow and guided me into a hallway papered with pink cabbage roses on a gray background. He pointed to a closed door. “That’s Mama’s room,” he said. “And by the way,” he added, “you don’t need to excuse yourself from Hattie, or sympathize with her about her work. She knows her place. You have to learn what yours is.”
I felt scolded. “I’ve never had a maid before,” I said.
“You’ll adjust,” he said, leading me back to the foyer. He motioned toward the broad staircase. “Let me show you upstairs,” he said.
I gripped the smooth dark banister, which was almost too thick to get my hand around, and followed him up.
“There are three more bedrooms up here,” he said, when we reached the upstairs hallway. “Mine, and Lucy’s, and one for guests. And then there’s this parlor.” We stepped into a small living room. The flocked wallpaper was a pale blue and the overstuffed sofas and chairs were upholstered in a bold multicolored floral print. I instantly loved the room. I could picture myself sitting in one of those comfortable-looking chairs, studying for my licensing exam as I sipped a cup of coffee and smoked a cigarette. I recalled Henry telling me that his mother rarely came upstairs because of a bad knee. I would be free to smoke up here without her knowing what a “manly” girl her son had married. I chuckled to myself.
“What’s so funny?” Henry asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “I love this room, that’s all.”
Back in the hall, we passed the closed door to Lucy’s room and then Henry opened the door opposite hers. “My room,” he said. “Now our room, at least temporarily. Sorry about the mismatched beds. Hideous. Some of my workers brought the extra one from the factory so we’d have two in here. Again, temporary, trust me. It makes my stomach turn to see these beds together.” He motioned toward the two twin beds, one with tall carved posts at the head and foot, the other with a headboard made of wooden slats.
I laughed. “They make your stomach turn?”
“A pineapple bed and a mission-style bed right next to each other?” He gave a visible shudder and I laughed again.
“You’re going to have to teach me about furniture,” I said. To be honest, I barely saw the beds. I was taken by the armoire on the opposite wall. It was enormous, very tall, shaped like an elongated pentagon. The mirrored door was a long graceful oval and small floral carvings ran in a narrow line across the arched top and down each sloping side. “I don’t know a pineapple bed from a … what did you call it? Mission bed? But I do know that this is beautiful,” I said. “Did your father make it?”
He laughed as he came to stand beside me. “You have good taste,” he said, “but I can see you have a lot to learn about furniture. This is Victorian. Made even before my father’s time.” He ran a hand over the smooth wood. “Mahogany exterior.” He turned the key in the lock and opened the door. “Cedar interior covered in turquoise satin. It’s where I keep my good clothes, as you can see.” Suits and shirts hung neatly from the brass bar that ran across the interior of the armoire. He shut the door and carefully turned the key. “You will have the use of that entire closet.” He pointed to a nearby closet door. “I’ll move the rest of my things from there into the spare room.”
Back in the hall, Henry showed me a bathroom that, while small, contained a deep claw-foot tub I would have liked to sink into right at that moment. “You and I will use this bathroom,” he said. “Lucy has one next to her room. Hers is larger. I had no need for all that space, but we’ll have a good-sized bathroom in my—our—new house.”
We walked to the end of the hall and stood at the window that overlooked the backyard. I could see the garage and Hattie’s little cottage.
“We added the garage onto the old woodworking shed several years ago when we got a second car.” He looked at me. “Do you drive?” he asked.
“I have my license,” I said. My mother and I had shared an o
“Unfortunately we just have the Cadillac running now,” he said. “There’s a ’39 Buick in the garage, but the tires are in terrible shape, and as long as rationing continues, we won’t be able to replace them. Otherwise, I could let you use it. But you’re welcome to take a cab wherever you want to go.”
“Are there buses?” I asked.
He smiled at me. “You’re a frugal one, aren’t you?” he said. “Yes, there are buses, but please feel free to take a cab.”
“All right,” I said, returning my gaze to the little cottage. I noticed the window boxes, empty now for the winter. “I bet that cottage is adorable in the warmer months,” I said.
“Hattie’s lived there the past two years,” he said, “but I still think of it as Adora’s cottage.”
“That was the maid who saved your life?”
He nodded. “She worked for us for more than twenty years.”
“Twenty years!”
“She was like part of the family,” he said. “Her son and daughter too. But she’s about fifty now and crippled with rheumatism, so she had to stop working. Hattie’s her niece.”
“Where did Adora go?”
“She’s still in Hickory, living with her daughter and her grandchildren. I hired her son and daughter on at my factory. Zeke is our maintenance man and Honor works part-time as a housekeeper.”
“Wasn’t Zeke the colored man in your office when I came to the factory?”
“That’s right.”
“How come he’s not in the military?”
“He was.” Henry shrugged. “He volunteered for the Marine Corps and broke his leg last year while he was in training at Camp Lejeune. He’s doing well though. Walks with a limp and I’m sure he has more pain than he lets on.” He put his hands in his pockets. “We still look in on Adora. Make sure she’s got enough to eat, what with the rationing and all.”
I followed his gaze toward the cottage. “How did it happen?” I asked. “How did Adora save your life?”
He shook his head as though he were tired of talking. “Not now.” He turned to face me. “You look a bit wrung out,” he said. “I know this must be a lot to take in. Would you like a nap?”
The thought of lying down, closing my eyes, and escaping from everything new and unfamiliar was seductive. “I would,” I said.
We walked back to his room, where he told me the pineapple bed would be mine. “You can unpack and have a good rest,” he said. “I’m going to drive over to the factory.”
“It’s Saturday,” I said.
“Yes, but I wasn’t there yesterday and I want to make sure everything’s in good shape.”
I must have looked panicky at the thought of being in the house alone with his mother and sister, because he rested a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be back before you even wake up.”
19
I woke to the sound of muffled voices on the other side of the bedroom door. It had to be nearly five o’clock, the room filled with a dusky twilight. I raised my head an inch from the pillow to try to make out the voices. Henry and his mother? So much for “Miss Ruth” rarely coming upstairs.
“She doesn’t play bridge and I’m hardly going to put everyone in the bridge club through the agony of tutoring her,” Ruth said.
I couldn’t hear Henry’s response, though his voice sounded calm.
“She looks foreign,” Ruth said. “Like a Gypsy. Is she Italian or…?”
I wasn’t sure, but I thought Henry said, “What does that matter? She’s a Kraft now.”
“It matters and you know perfectly well it does,” Ruth snapped. “She’s pregnant, isn’t she?” she asked, and I held my breath. Again, Henry’s response was hard to make out.
“Oh, dear Lord!” Ruth said, and I pictured her wringing her hands, her cheeks growing red. “Soon she’ll be showing and everyone will know. How could you be so foolish, Hank? She trapped you. She’s a gold digger. There were a thousand and one ways you could have taken care of that short of marrying her.”
My stomach clenched at her words. I sat up quietly, needing to hear the conversation more clearly. I needed to know my enemy.
“I’ve married her,” Henry said. “I’ve done the right thing. And keep your voice down.”
“How do you know it’s yours?” Ruth asked. If anything, her voice was louder now.
“It’s mine.” Henry sounded very calm. “And she’s my wife. You can’t change that. You’ll make her feel at home here, Mama.” It was a command. “You’ll take her to your book club and so forth. You’ll help her fit in.”
“Violet’s in the book club!”
“Violet will adjust.”
“I don’t know how you can treat Violet so cruelly!” Ruth nearly shouted. “She loves you so much, Hank. I nearly died seeing my mother’s ring on that girl’s finger! I gave you that ring for Violet, no one else.”
I glanced down at the diamond on my hand. What little light there was in the room seemed to collect in its facets. I felt guiltier than ever for wearing it.
Ruth wasn’t finished. “Violet knew I always intended the ring to go to her,” she said.
“You never should have told her that.”
“She’s loved you since you were children.”
Henry made a derisive sound. “She’s loved me from the day she realized I was wealthy, Mama. Not before.”
“She helped you plan your new house! Why did you let her do that if you didn’t intend to marry her?”
“I don’t love her,” he said.
“And you love this … this Italian Catholic gold digger?”
I winced.
“She trapped you and you fell for it,” Ruth continued.
“I’m done talking to you about this,” Henry said, “and I don’t plan to discuss it with you again. She’s my wife and I expect you to accept that and treat her with respect.”
“You’ve humiliated me,” Ruth said, and this time her voice was soft. Quivering. I heard a sob escape her. I thought of my last conversation with my own mother. Her words had not been exactly the same, but their meaning certainly had been. I bit my lip. I suddenly felt sympathy for Ruth. Her plans for her son, for her family’s future, no matter how misguided, had been upended. I understood how that felt.
In a moment, Henry walked into the room. It was dim enough that he didn’t see me sitting up in the bed, and he started when I spoke.
“I overheard some of your conversation with your mother,” I said.
He’d been walking toward the dresser and I saw him turn to face me. “I wish you hadn’t.” He picked up his pipe from the dresser and lit it.
“She’s very angry,” I said.
“My mother always overreacts,” he said, turning toward me. He took a puff from his pipe and the comforting sweet scent of his tobacco filled the room. “She’ll be fine.” He glanced at his watch and reached for the doorknob. “It’s nearly time for dinner,” he said. “I’m going downstairs. Why don’t you get up and join me down there and we’ll see what Hattie’s managed to pull together from this week’s rations?”
20
January 26, 1944
Dear Gina,
I’ve been a married woman living in Hickory for only four days and it already feels like a lifetime. It’s not going well, dear friend. I hardly know where to start to tell you about it.
To begin with, my new husband didn’t touch me on our wedding night, or on any night since, for that matter. I’m both relieved and mystified. Relieved because I don’t love him (yet) and feel very little attraction to him—my heart still belongs to Vincent—but mystified because he was so ardent in that hotel room in Washington and now seems utterly passionless around me. Perhaps it’s the baby? I don’t know, a
Henry is very generous, however. He gave me money to spend on new clothing, since I’d brought so little with me, and yesterday he directed me to the most exclusive shop in Hickory’s cute little downtown. The sort of shop where I feel like an imposter. I turned myself over to the saleslady and let her select outfit after outfit for me. Soon I will have to break down and buy maternity clothing, but for now, my girdle still hides my condition and no one is any the wiser. I had fun shopping, actually, but I would have had much more fun if you had been with me.
I’m living in a darling town, in a rather posh neighborhood of hilly, winding roads and beautiful homes. Henry’s family home is among the prettiest and I still get lost in its many rooms. My favorite rooms are the library, which is filled with books on all subjects, and the upstairs parlor, where I feel snug and comfortable. It snowed yesterday and I spent much of the day nestled in that room, studying for the RN exam. I’m not sure how I will be able to get to Winston-Salem for the three-day exam in March, since Henry doesn’t want me to take it and I will be five months along then. Travel might be challenging. But I’m determined! I’ve come this far and once my baby is old enough to leave with a sitter (Henry wants us to have an actual nanny!), I will be a nurse, by hook or crook!
Oh, Gina, I don’t want to tell you how truly difficult these past few days have been! You will worry and I don’t want you to. I know I’m very fortunate that my baby’s father is taking responsibility for my child and myself, and certainly I’m living in paradise. But there is so much wrong. To begin with, his mother and sister already dislike me intensely. His mother, who is a lovely, sophisticated-looking woman, is kind to my face, but I know she wanted Henry to marry a girl named Violet who she thinks is a far more suitable match. Which she probably is. Henry denies they were engaged, but clearly there was some sort of relationship there that I have disrupted, and although I haven’t met this Violet, I feel terrible for hurting her. Henry’s mother has also figured out that I am expecting (though she’s said nothing to me about it), and I know she thinks I’m very loose and unworthy of her son and the family name. I don’t know how to win her over but I’m determined to try. Henry’s younger sister, Lucy, is cold to me, and has perfected a sneer each time she looks at me. She is bitter because she had no debutante ball due to the war. Can you imagine the sort of girl she is? How will I ever relate to her? I remind myself it’s only been a few days and we are all trying to make the best of things.