35. While from the Shore Arose Such Lamentation

1865 APRIL 11, TUESDAY

35

Brett's belongings arrived the next day, wrapped in brown paper. On top was a square, polished, oak box. When I opened the box, my hand flew to my mouth. There, lying in the velvet-lined box, was an honorary medal. Round and golden with a blue-and-gray ribbon. On the medal was the head of Lincoln, and surrounding him, along the edge, was inscribed: "With malice toward none. With charity for all." On the other side were the dates of our long-fought Civil War. I marveled at the medal and touched its cold surface and the silk ribbon.

Below the box was the worn and rugged edition of Lucan's Pharsalia. I picked up the book carefully, the binding loose, and opened to a place marked by a piece of paper. I noticed the handwriting as my own, and I recalled what I had written in my last letter. I did not need to reread it to refresh my memory, which was filled with brief descriptions of house chores and gossip. Instead, I went directly to the text:

'Twas through her that Fortune gained

The right to strike thee. Wherefore did I wed

To bring thee misery? Mine, mine the guilt.

I had not heard truer words. I was a wife unworthy, only to bring him misery. Surely, I broke Brett's heart. I skimmed the page, noticing that Brett had underlined a passage in charcoal.

In the boat

He placed his spouse: while from the shore arose

Such lamentation, and such hands were raised

In ire against the gods, that thou had'st deemed

All left their kin for exile, and their homes.

I knew after reading the marked text, as if peering into his soul, that he was sending me the most heartfelt and intimate goodbye he could possibly send. He understood me more than anyone ever had, and yet he loved me with unfaltering conviction.

"Thank you, Brett," I murmured.

Setting the book aside, I picked up the folded clothing. A single, cream-colored shirt, spare pants, undergarments, and his uniform jacket. I held them on my lap, caressing my hands on the fabric as if I were touching Brett. I pressed the clothes to my face and inhaled his scent. It still smelled like him—like soap and cedar—but I could smell the strong, pungent stench of battle and war still clinging to its fibers. Brett's sweat and the acrid scent of gunpowder intertwined with wood smoke.

I started to unfold the shirt but stopped when I realized the shirt had a tear on its side. I stuck my finger in the tear and noticed, at once, a large, white spot surrounding the tear. It appeared as though it were a stain of milk, but I knew by putting my finger through the torn material that it was the hole of the bullet that killed Brett. Somebody bleached away the bloodstain, trying to help his widowed wife not be subjected to the stain of her own husband's death, but unfortunately, they did not know me. If I had been there, I would have told them to leave it, not conceal the truth. He was dead. It was not necessary to spare us the sight of his own blood. Oh, how I wish they had let the stain be!

I peeled open his jacket. There, nestled inside, to keep from breaking, was my pocket-size, framed photograph he had carried with him through battle. The glass was unbroken, and there were a few finger smudges blemishing its surface. I puzzled at the woman within the gilded frame. I could not hold a smile, I knew, but there was a tiny blur of movement around my lips, as if I was trying not to laugh at something. The rest of my face was pale and serene, my eyes small and looking away from the photographer at something in the corner, at a distance. My hair appeared lighter than in person because of the light used in the photography studio. It looked like a halo around my head, the curls hanging down my neck like coiled, gold shavings. The dress, one of my best taffetas, was plaid-patterned, decorated with silk fringe on the bodice and sleeves. I appeared amused by something, but it was as though I was trying hard to look innocent and angelic. I was none of those traits. I tried many times to follow my mother's example, but I continually failed. Too stubborn and strong-willed.

A knock sounded at the door just before noon, and Miss MacKenna ushered Mr. Chisholm in. I offered him a seat beside me in the small parlor.

Mr. Chisholm cleared his throat, eyeing the contents of Brett's belongings before me. "I see you received Brett's things."

"Yes, they arrived today." I could feel the discomfort and grief radiating off him.

"I'm certain my wife will be wanting to see those at home."

He was right. I had no right to Brett's belongings, but I wanted to keep some part of him. His father was going to make this harder for me than I thought. "All due respect, Mr. Chisholm, but these were sent to me, his wife. I would like to keep them as a remembrance of him."

"Your marriage was short." So was his speech. "We'd appreciate his possessions with his family."

"If you must, may I at least keep his book and my picture?" I asked, touching those things beside me as if to protect them.

He thought for a moment and let the silence settle around us.

He nodded in acquiescence. "You may keep his book and your picture. We have no need for them."

"Thank you," I said, gripping the book and picture frame to my side.

"Now, about the property. Brett bought it on a loan from me, but unfortunately, we are going to have to sell it. We do not have the financial means to maintain two properties."

I was taken aback. "Perhaps we can profit from the orchard and the garden?" I wanted to find some solution to keep the house for Katie and me. We had no other place to go. "Between Seth Mathis and me, we spent many days cleaning it up and preparing it for new growth. There should be an abundance of apples by September."

"I know how you've been tending the grounds, but even if you were able to sell your produce, you would still not have enough to pay back the loan. This is a time for us to be reasonable. Not only can you not afford it, but there is no possible way you can maintain this house without the help of servants. I'll pay off their services today, but I cannot continue paying their wages. Since you have cleaned up the property a great deal, I'm certain I'll be able to sell it for a profit, and that will be sufficient for the amount I will lose in servants' wages. There is no way around this. I'm sorry, Ella. It may be best for you and Katie to return home to your father."

"I won't be able to return to York," I told him. I did not want to share Pa's arrest.

He did not ask why. "I'm sorry to hear that." He neither said more nor offered a place in his home for his son's widowed bride. I wondered if Clara had something to do with this.

I bowed my head, convincing myself they were grieving and doing what they thought was best.

"This is a difficult time for all of us, I know, but there is nothing that can be done. You're going to have to dismiss the servants, and I will send them their wages for the time they have been with you."

"When do we have to move out?" I asked, resigned.

"Well, I don't want to rush you, but as soon as you have packed and found a place to live. I won't let my son's wife be homeless."

"And yet you're kicking us out of our home."

"I didn't expect this to be easy for you. It is not easy for us either. He was my son."

"And he was my husband."

"Yes, you are right. Still, there is nothing to be done."

"Sir?"

"Yes?"

"I did not deserve Brett," I confided in him.

"Perhaps not." The truth stung.

"But he chose us."

"You're right. He loved you, and you made him happy. I'm thankful he left this earth with you choosing him." His voice caught on his words, emotion pinching his face.

Mr. Chisholm dismissed himself before he could let me see his tears. Leaving me clutching what remained of him and me.