The Reluctant Bridegroom (4 page)

She slept fitfully, rising at dawn to make a fire in the small fireplace. There was only a little coffee, but she fixed a pot and drank the brew as she waited for him to awaken. It was nearly ten before she heard him groan, and she quickly made breakfast.

He came in from the bedroom, and she said brightly, “Come on, Tyler. Let’s eat before the food gets cold.”

“Gotta hava drink,” he mumbled. Going to the cabinet, he pulled a brown bottle down and put it to his lips, not bothering to pour the whiskey into a glass. He shuddered, then took another drink before coming to slump down at the table.

She put the bacon and eggs on his plate, set it in front of him and patted his shoulder. “This will make you feel better.”

He stared silently at her with bloodshot eyes. They ate the food, and she filled his cup with the last of the coffee. When he had finished, he laid his fork down. “I hit bottom, Rebekah.” His hands trembled and there was a raw fear in his eyes that she’d never seen. “Do you understand? I lost everything!”

She tried to smile and reached over to put her hand on his. “It’s all right, Tyler. We’ll get by.”

“Never saw such rotten luck!” He took several swallows of coffee nervously. “Don’t know what to do.” Dejectedly, he set his cup down, swept aside the dishes and put his head down on the table.

Rebekah was frightened; she had never seen her husband like this before. Still, he was her husband, and for half an hour she tried to raise his spirits, talking to him in low and soothing tones as he sat there with his head down.

Finally he seemed to arouse himself. Lifting his head, he gave her a crooked grin. “You’re a good girl, Rebekah!”

She took a deep breath and said, “Tyler—I’m going to have a baby.”

The grin evaporated, replaced first by disbelief—then anger. Cursing, he leaped up from the table and began pacing
around the room before coming to stand over her, his face livid.

She said nothing, holding her head high as he raved on, until she heard him say, “We’ll have to get rid of it. I know a man—”

“No! I’ll never do that! Never!”

He stared at her, then said bitterly, “I should never have married you, Rebekah. How could you be so stupid! We can’t take care of a baby—I may have to leave the country to make a living!”

“It won’t be too hard, Tyler,” she said. “I can work. We’ll make it.”

“You’ll have to write your family. They’ve got money!”

“I’ll never do that, Tyler,” she answered softly, rising from the table. Tyler followed her around the apartment for an hour, alternately pleading and threatening, but nothing worked. At last he threw on his coat. “I’m leaving,” he said in a tight, barely controlled voice. “When I come back, you’d better have your mind made up to do something about this little surprise of yours! I won’t be tied down, Rebekah!”

The door slammed. She went to the window to watch him leave, his back stiff and his face a grim mask of anger. He did not look back once before he turned the corner. A sudden gust of wind loosened the dead leaves from the oak outside her window, and they fell heavily to the earth. She stared at them listlessly for a long time, then turned and left the window.

CHAPTER THREE

DISCOVERY

On the fourth day of December New York was buried under snow. All night long, flakes large as half cents and almost as heavy dropped out of the skies; and when morning came, people had to burrow—like small animals—out of their homes through the shoulder-high drifts.

Rebekah got up at dawn, shivered in the aching cold of the small room as she hastily drew on her robe and slippers before going to the window. There the view of the glittering world outside drew a muffled cry of admiration from her; for the grimy neighborhood, stained with smoke and cluttered with leaning outhouses and piles of trash, had been transformed into a gleaming wonderland. The trash piles were no longer jagged with broken bottles; they were smoothly rounded hills, glistening like diamond fragments reflecting the rays of the rosy morning sun. The street itself was freshly covered, without a mark on its immaculate surface. Along the eaves of every house, glittering icicles pointed downward with dagger-sharpness to the pristine glory of the snow.

Rebekah sighed, then resolutely turned to make a fire in the tiny fireplace that served them for heat and cooking. She lit the wood shavings with a candle stub in a small lid that floated in a pan of water, adding tiny pieces of wood until a blaze began to crackle. Putting on two larger sticks, she noted that there were only five more in the woodbox—not enough to heat the room all day. Holding her stiff hands over the tiny fire, she glanced toward Tyler, sleeping soundly in
the bed, and wondered if he had enough money to buy more wood and a few groceries.

Probably not,
she thought as she rose and looked into the food box nailed to the wall.
He’d have told me last night if he’d won.
There were three eggs in the rough cabinet.
One for me, and two for him,
she decided. There was enough coffee for the day, but no bread.
Have to have crackers—there’s a few left.

The thought of their early days came to her as she put the meager breakfast together, but she resolutely pushed the memory away. Putting the kettle on the small grate over the fire, she waited until it whistled. “Tyler? Breakfast will be ready soon.”

He groaned, opened his eyes, then shuddered as he threw the covers back and put his feet on the cold floor. He lifted them instantly, swore, and hunted for his socks among the bedclothes. “Your shaving water is hot,” Rebekah told him.

“Why shave?” he grunted. “Nobody’s going to see me.”

Rebekah was tempted to suggest that he see if there was any work available, but she held her tongue. She had mentioned a job to him once, and he had cursed and slammed out of the house, coming back to the room only when he was so drunk he could barely walk.

He had been forced to sell most of his fine clothes—and hers as well. He kept only two good suits, putting one of them on each night before he went to the tables or the races. The diamond ring he had worn on his left hand was gone, replaced by a cheap imitation stone. Helplessly Rebekah watched their possessions being sold off, little by little, and now they had reached the end. There was nothing left to sell. The apartment that had replaced the house was luxurious next to the places they had later moved to. Now they were cooped up in one tiny room on the second floor of a shabby hotel in one of the worst sections of the Bowery.

“Have to eat crackers this morning, I’m afraid,” Rebekah said, trying to sound cheerful. “We’ve got some of that
blackberry jam you like so much, though—it’ll taste good on anything.” They had only one small table beside the bed. She put his plate and coffee on it, then got her own plate and sat down in the other chair. “The snow’s beautiful, isn’t it? We never had snow much in Virginia—not like this, anyway. . . .”

She tried to get him to talk, but he only finished his breakfast quickly, then lit up a cigar and picked up a week-old newspaper. “Cold enough to freeze hell over!” was his only comment. She ate more slowly, watching him. She could not help but notice how the man had deteriorated. He had been one of the most fastidious men she had ever known, but no more. He had not shaved in two days and there was, of course, no way to bathe in the single room. His fingernails were ragged and dirt grimed the creases of his hands. He had been in the habit of going to a barber shop twice a week, but now his black hair was stiff with a cheap oil, and hung scruffily on the back of his neck.

What concerned her more than his physical appearance was his loss of spirit; she had not heard him laugh in weeks. Day by day he got up, left the hotel, and came home only when he was too tired and drunk to do anything else. There was none of the exuberance and forceful determination that he had possessed when they had met. Hard times had pared him down, leaving him fearful and uncertain.

He dressed hurriedly. “Here’s a few dollars—better see if you can get some food and wood,” he instructed, then stalked out of the room without saying goodbye. She went to the window and watched as he made his way down the street, struggling through the deep drifts.

She looked at the money, and tried to think of how best to spend it, but there was no way to make the money stretch that far. She dressed, then huddled over the dying fire, savoring the last warmth. By ten o’clock, the room was unbearably cold, so she put on her warmest clothes and left for the library, which had become her refuge against loneliness. It was now
a refuge against the cold as well, and she looked forward to the heat radiating from the huge stoves, well-stoked with oak.

The sun was out, but by the time she completed the hour’s walk to the library, she was exhausted and chilled to the bone. The shop owners had cleared off some of the snow from the sidewalks immediately in front of their establishments, but Rebekah’s feet were soaked from wading through the deep drifts between shops.

She entered the large Grecian building with a sigh, going at once to warm herself beside one of the stoves. Her legs were trembling with fatigue, and Mr. Mayberry, one of the librarians, hurried over to her. “Why, Rebekah Marlowe!” he chided, “you’ve soaked your feet! You come back to my office right this minute!” She followed him to a small room with a desk and chair and a small stove. Pushing the chair closer to the heat, the white-haired old man beckoned to her. “Now, you sit down here and thaw out.”

“Thank you,” Rebekah said gratefully and settled wearily into the seat. Mayberry studied her a moment, his bright black eyes thoughtful. They had become well acquainted, for she had often spent the whole day there; he had been helpful finding books for her, recommending his own favorites. Several times he had insisted on serving her tea.

And so it was not strange that he did so now, saying, “Now, you get those wet stockings off and put them to dry in front of the stove. By the time they get dry, we’ll have a late breakfast—tea and some of my wife’s cakes I took with me this morning.”

His kindness brought tears to her eyes, which she tried to blink back, not trusting herself to answer him aloud. He pretended not to notice. “Hurry now! I’m hungry!” he said gruffly, leaving the room quickly.

She pulled off her soaked shoes and put them close to the stove and watched the steam rise for a moment before hanging her stockings on another chair to dry, then settled herself back into the chair, holding her feet up to the delicious warmth.
Slowly she thawed out, and twenty minutes later, she was able to put her stockings and shoes on, warm and dry as toast.

Mayberry entered with a tray. “All dried out? Good! Now then, it’s time for high tea.” The two of them cleared a place on his desk, and as he poured the rich India tea, the sharp aroma filled the small office. “Try some of that marmalade on the cakes, Rebekah,” he urged. “My daughter’s recipe. Delicious!”

As they ate he carried on a lively conversation, and his sharp eyes took in every detail as his mind probed for clues. Mayberry was a man of books, but he was even more a student of the humans who read them. He noticed that Rebekah’s cheeks, so full and rosy that summer, were now pale and slightly sunken. She had lost weight, and he later told his wife, “I think Rebekah’s in trouble, Helen. She used to dress in the finest styles—but lately she’s been wearing the same dress every day. I’m afraid there’s some kind of problem.”

As they sipped their tea he tactfully began to find out what he could, but he soon discovered she was not one to complain. When he asked about her husband, she hesitated. “His business isn’t doing too well, Mr. Mayberry, but we expect it to pick up soon.”

Out of work,
Mayberry thought. To her, he said only, “Well, times are hard, but come spring, things will begin to hum again.” He talked with her for half an hour longer, then said, “Why don’t you stay in here, Rebekah? It’s more comfortable than in the reading room. I’ve got a couple of books I’d like you to read. Let me get them for you.” Without giving her a chance to answer, he rose and went out of the room, returning with two books in his hand.

“Have you read
The Deerslayer?
”

“No. I don’t know it.”

“It’s written by a man named James Cooper,” Mayberry said. “High adventure about the noble redskin. It
is
an amusing diversion—though I couldn’t say how accurately he portrays the savages.” Putting the book down, he handed her
the second book, thinner than the first one and bound in red leather. “Now
this
is more to my taste, Rebekah—real life adventure!”

Opening it, she read aloud, “
The Journal of Gilbert Winslow.
” Looking up, she asked, “Who is Gilbert Winslow, Mr. Mayberry?”

“Oh, he was one of the firstcomers on the
Mayflower.
He never became very famous, like John Bradford or Captain Miles Standish, but he was quite a man, Rebekah—quite a man!”

Rebekah leafed through the book and smiled. “I’ve never read a journal before. It seems like such a personal thing.”

“Ah, that’s
exactly
why I like them!” The librarian’s eyes sparkled, and he spread his thin arms wide with excitement. “All the fiction that’s sweeping the country . . . it’s all very well. But when you compare it with
this
book”—he paused to nod at the book she held—”why, there’s more life in those few pages than in a hundred novels! The blood and sweat of real men—such adventure and excitement!”

Sheepishly she asked, “Is there a love story in it?”

He smiled. “Of course! Gilbert Winslow could have married the daughter of the most powerful noble in all of England, but he chose to marry a poor girl named Humility Cooper—though not before they had endured many hardships, you understand.” He paused and a pensive look crossed his face. “This country has changed, I’m afraid. Gilbert Winslow and the others on that ship suffered a great deal in order to accomplish something they thought was worthwhile: to find a place where they could worship God as they chose. I’m not sure they’d be too happy with what they’d find if they were alive today.”