All Things New (29 page)

“I’ll be seventeen in August.” Mary’s cheeks were as bright as ripe apples. She had spent a lot of time with Joseph at the dance, and Jo could see that she was sweet on him already.

“Mary is the perfect age,” Mother said. “And as you know, your father was a few years older than me. The young men in our community are ready to settle down after the war. We can’t afford to wait too long.”

“Why don’t you just say it, Mother: I’m twenty-two and plain and practically a spinster already. Go ahead and find Mary a husband, but please leave me alone.”

“Leave you alone? To do what, dear?” Mother kept her voice pleasant, but Josephine heard the hard edge behind her words. “Do you plan to immerse yourself in religion like Great-Aunt Hattie did, reading the Bible all day and moralizing? I know you don’t believe me, but being the mistress of your own home, raising children and having a good man to take care of you is very satisfying. There are few other options that will give you that satisfaction.”

Josephine knew it was true. She looked down the long, lonely road of spinsterhood and saw nothing—no home of her own, dependent on her family’s goodwill for her support until the day she died. Alexander had insisted the war had set her free, and while that might be true for women up north, it was not true for her.

“What do you think of Henry Schreiber, Josephine? You talked with him at the dance, didn’t you?”

“He seems pleasant enough. I hardly had time to get to know him.”

“That’s what courtship is for. You might at least give him a chance before you give up. And the place to start is by being pleasant to his mother.”

Henry was one of Daniel’s friends, one of the men who had attacked Otis and Willy and burned the school. Alexander had reminded her again this morning that two Negroes had died that night. Might she or Mary end up married to a murderer? Would she always look at her husband and wonder if he was capable of killing an innocent man—and never dare to ask?

“And, please, Josephine,” Mother finished, “let’s hear none of your radical ideas about doing your own gardening or cooking or sewing.”

At her mother’s tea that afternoon, Josephine felt like an item on display. She had attended similar teas before the war with the same object of snaring a husband—that much hadn’t changed. But the war had changed Josephine. She was finding her voice, and she longed to speak up, speak out, to choose her own husband or choose not to marry at all. But she remained quiet, demure, doing what was expected of her for her mother’s sake and for Mary’s. A portion of the Schreibers’ land adjoined White Oak, and as Josephine listened she realized that Daniel and Henry were scheming to create an empire by combining their families and their two plantations. She wouldn’t be allowed to stand in the way of her brother’s plans by refusing a marriage proposal.

The afternoon couldn’t end soon enough for Josephine. The moment Roselle returned from school with a supply of writing paper and ink for her, she went upstairs to hide in the guest room and write to Alexander.

Dear Alexander,

I don’t understand why you believe that God intended for the war to set me free in the same way that it gave the Negroes their freedom. My mother has embarked on a campaign to see me happily married, a campaign I am not at all in favor of. But the alternative, spinsterhood, is also unattractive. I am not as starry-eyed as my sister, dreaming of romance with a handsome, wealthy husband—not that any men in our community are wealthy these days. And while I have protested that I don’t care if I ever marry, the truth is that spinsterhood is a very lonely life, where single women are shuttled from one relative to the next for the rest of their lives, becoming a somber, powerless presence in each unfortunate household they visit.

You asked what I wanted for my life and my future, and
I still don’t understand the question. Don’t you know that I’m not free to want anything for myself, any more than the slaves were free to dream of their futures before the war? If you could kindly explain what you meant—

She stopped. Was her tone too harsh, too demanding? She had a sudden memory of Alexander gazing at her this morning and saying,
“You look so pretty with your hair that way.”
She forced back her tears and continued writing.

I’m sorry if I sound strident, but I’m so confused. The future I once expected to have with marriage and a family now seems unacceptable to me, but I don’t like the alternative, either. I would greatly appreciate your advice and wisdom.

Sincerely,
Josephine

She sent the letter with Roselle the next morning and received one in return:

My dear Josephine,

I can feel your frustration and your sense of being trapped. I do suggest a third alternative that is neither an arranged marriage to someone you have no feelings for nor spinsterhood. It’s an option that may seem impossible at the moment but can surely be achieved with God’s help. It is to marry a man you love and make a new life together as partners, the way God intended it to be when He made Eve “bone of Adam’s bone, flesh of his flesh.”

I understand that the desire to please your family and to make an alliance with a man of their choosing must be very strong and ingrained. But the truth is, the only One we are required to please is God. Your mother’s intentions are honorable in that she wishes to see you in a secure situation
with all your needs met. But if we serve God and honor Him, He has promised to meet all our needs. That is the very definition of faith—to walk in hope, trusting in what you can’t see or control.

I urge you to take your situation to God, confiding in Him as you have with me, and asking for His guidance and His will. He will show you what to do. Write Him a letter if you must, just as you are writing to me. You need more wisdom than I am able to give you. Stay well, dear Josephine—and please try prayer.

Yours,
Alexander

Prayer? He expected her to pray? Josephine folded the letter and stuffed it into her pocket, unwilling to risk more disappointment by turning to God. Her prayers were as certain to go unanswered now as all the others had in the past.

A week after she and Alexander began exchanging letters, Josephine and her mother were invited to tea at the Blakes’ plantation. As their carriage drew to a halt out front, Jo was amazed to see Harrison hobbling across the yard on crutches, slowly making his way toward the rail fence that marked the boundary of the cotton field. She paused to stare for a moment before going in to tea and felt a surge of happiness for Priscilla—and for him.

“It’s so nice to see Harrison walking around,” she said as she spread her napkin on her lap.

“I have you to thank for it, Josephine. You and Dr. Hunter.” Mrs. Blake smiled as she poured tea into each of their cups.

“Does the doctor still come by?” Mother asked.

“Not every day. It isn’t necessary now that Harrison is doing so much better. He stops in maybe once a week. More if he happens to be out this way.”

Josephine wondered why Mother was asking, then realized that Dr. Hunter hadn’t paid a visit to White Oak lately. Not since the
night of the dance, in fact. In the weeks before that, he seemed to visit quite often, even taking Mother for carriage rides.

Mrs. Blake moved to the edge of her seat, as if too excited to sit still. She hadn’t touched her tea. Josephine could tell by her flushed cheeks that she had something on her mind. “Eugenia, dear . . . I understand your girls have been seeing suitors. No, that’s not the right word. But you told me, didn’t you, that you wanted to see your girls happily married? And I saw both Josephine and Mary dancing with young men at the gathering, and . . . well, I will be blunt. I would be so happy if you would consider Harrison as a suitor for Josephine.”

Jo set down her cup, fearing it would slip from her shaking hands and shatter on the floor. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t!

“As you can see,” Priscilla continued, “Harrison is doing so much better now. He walks everywhere with his crutches, and he even rode a horse the other day. The work on the plantation is going smoothly; we have servants and workers and livestock again.”

Josephine wanted to shout,
No!
But she couldn’t speak, couldn’t move.

Marrying Harrison would be even more horrible than marrying Henry Schreiber.

Mother replied for her. “Why, Priscilla! I never imagined! What about his engagement to Emma Welch? Might she return now that he’s doing so much better? I wouldn’t want Josephine to be accused of stealing another girl’s beau.”

“It’s over between him and Emma. She moved to Norfolk, and her mother tells me she is seeing other suitors.” Priscilla reached to take Jo’s hand, which had fallen limp on her lap. “I grew so fond of you while you stayed with us, Josephine. You helped me through the most trying time in my life. I already think of you as my daughter. You’ve been so good for Harrison and me. And, Eugenia, you’re my dearest friend,” she said, touching her arm, as well. “This match would be the answer to my fondest wishes.”

Jo still couldn’t speak. She loved Mrs. Blake and was glad she’d
been able to help her. But she could never marry Harrison. Never. The thought made her want to throw up.

“I think it’s a wonderful idea!” Mother said. She looked happier than she had in a very long time.

“What do you think, Josephine?” Mrs. Blake asked. “No one is going to make you marry against your will. But when I heard that you were considering Henry Schreiber, I wanted to ask you to consider Harrison, as well. I feel as though you already belong here with us.”

The two women looked at her, waiting for her answer. She tried to speak but nothing came out. She cleared her throat and tried again. “W-what does Harrison say about it?”

“I talked it over with him and he promised to think about it. But it’s up to the parents to get things started, don’t you think? Nudge things along? Eugenia, I know you’ve been trying to turn Daniel’s thoughts in the direction of marriage, and I feel the same about Harrison.”

“That’s true,” Mother replied. “It’s what needs to happen in order to move forward and get things back to normal. What could be more normal than joining two families in marriage?”

The women chatted on and on about weddings and shared grandchildren, but Josephine was too horrified to say anything at all. She could barely keep a pleasant expression on her face, barely avoid bursting into tears. She wouldn’t hurt Mrs. Blake’s feelings for the world, but the conversation seemed like something from a nightmare, and she wanted to wake up.

They were nearly finished with their visit when Josephine heard the back door open and close, then the scrape and thump of Harrison’s crutches on the wooden floor of the hallway. She could tell that he had halted in the parlor doorway, though she couldn’t bring herself to turn and look up at him.

“Harrison! Come in and say hello to our guests,” Priscilla said. Again Josephine heard the scrape and thump of crutches as he entered the room.

“Good afternoon, ladies. How are you today?”

Josephine finally looked up as her mother greeted him, hoping to see the same revulsion for this idea that she felt, hoping he would think of a way to dissuade his mother without hurting her. Instead, Jo was surprised to see that he had managed to smile. He had gained weight since she’d last seen him and no longer resembled a skeleton, his skin healthy-looking from the sun.

She shuddered as she remembered wrestling with him to get the razor away, his blood pouring out along with his curses. Alexander had come and saved them both, stopping the blood, helping her subdue him . . . piecing her shattered mirror together. He was trying to help her piece her life back together in the same way, but it was proving to be impossible. As impossible as a marriage to Harrison would be. As impossible as her feelings for Alexander.

Her mother and Mrs. Blake continued to talk and plan as they headed toward the door to say good-bye. Josephine managed to pull Harrison aside in the hallway and whisper, “Are you aware of what they’re planning for us?”

“Yes, my mother mentioned it. And just look how happy she is.” He gestured to Mrs. Blake at the same moment that a burst of her laughter filled the foyer.

“You agreed to this?” Jo knew that she had left herself open to his scathing reply, that he might try to hurt her the way he always did, but she needed to know.

“Why not?” he said with a shrug. “I’m shocked that you would need to ask. This is what you’ve wanted for me all along, isn’t it? Aren’t you always telling me to get on with my life and, most of all, to be nice to my mother, to make her happy? You have to admit that the idea of our marriage has made her very happy.”

Jo turned to go, too upset to reply, but he gripped her arm to keep her beside him. “If you refuse this marriage, you will be the one who is hurting her this time.”

She saw that the glint in his eyes was sparked by anger, not happiness. He would go through with this marriage so that his mother would have a companion, then probably kill himself as he’d wanted to do all along. Alexander wouldn’t be able to save
either one of them this time. “Do you truly hate me that much, Harrison?”

“Hate you? I’m simply returning the favor. You saved me from suicide; now I’m saving you from spinsterhood. You made an important choice for my life, and now I’m choosing for you. We should both be grateful to each other, don’t you think?”

She pried his hand off her arm. “I hate you,” she whispered.

“Well, I don’t hate you, Josephine. In fact, I admire you. It’s my own life that I hate.”

She struggled to hold her feelings inside during the ride home, trying not to cry, half listening as her mother talked on and on about Jo’s good fortune and how Priscilla was such a dear, dear friend. As the carriage pulled into their lane, Jo realized her mother had asked her a question, and she didn’t know what it was.

“I-I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well. What did you say?”

“I asked what you thought about courting Harrison.”

Once again, Josephine feared she might vomit. “I-I have no feelings for Harrison.”

“Well, of course you don’t. Not yet. Do you have feelings for Henry Schreiber?”