To our dearest Jane,
You looked so lovely on your wedding day, full of a life we haven’t seen in you in many years. I do apologize for the parade, which, knowing your temperament, might have been overwhelming, but we could not let our final child leave our home uncelebrated, and we knew that if we told you our plans, you would reject them. I hope you can forgive us our exuberance.
Mr. Cunningham and I are both very proud of you, you know. You are one of the few young people of our acquaintance who will directly identify and act on what you want with a detailed plan, and while Mr. Cunningham likes to take much of the responsibility for that, I think it rests entirely on you. You have always been very special.
And how is your doctor husband? Mr. Cunningham and I watched the two of you together, during the ceremony and throughout the parade. We suspect that it’s perhaps less of a business match than you had originally planned. Though your situation is unique, it is not so far removed from the commonplace. Most marriages, arranged or not, are begun knowing next to nothing about your spouse. Mr. Cunningham and I were such a couple, as were your parents. Most who marry under their own desires do not see that. They believe they know the other person, even if they met them only a month past, even if they have never seen their beloved in all seasons. You simply have no illusions. And trust, from my experience, that knowing your partner from the start has little bearing on happiness. The things we didn’t know were pleasant surprises, generally. I have faith you’ll find the same.
I implore you to move forward with an open heart and open eyes. Your plan to serve as little more than his employee is understandable. Numbers have always made things easier for you. But if you will take the advice of an old lady, be patient. And listen to him. You’ll learn a lot by listening.
With all my love,
Deborah Cunningham
Jane traced Mrs. Cunningham’s signature with her thumb, smiling at the page. They hadn’t always understood each other, but Mrs. Cunningham had always been an earnest, loving woman, not quite a mother but close enough to count. She was also perceptive in a way that had Jane blushing. No, this was not just a business match. Not anymore.
Jane was just about to set aside the letter when she saw on the back of the page a small postscript:
P.S. In the aftermath of your wedding parade, I spoke with several well-wishers, schoolmates from your time in Sharpton. It seems Dr. Lawrence acted as relief to Dr. Morton there, while Dr. Morton was dealing with his illness. Lindridge Hall is much closer to Sharpton than it is to Larrenton, and they expressed surprise that he had not returned after his government posting, as they were all quite fond of him. I know not what we have to thank for our good fortune, but I am grateful he chose our town, if only for your own happiness.
Sharpton—she had not thought much about her school days in recent years. Strange, to think they might have seen each other in passing back then. There was much about Augustine she did not know, Jane reflected. Not just his nature and desires, but his history as well. She found herself looking forward to hearing more of it, as much as she desired to share her own past with him.
She let herself drift with idle fancy a while longer, then turned to the ledgers.
As always, work was a relief. It quieted her other thoughts, helped melt away the hours. The rains, though gentler than they had been the night before, grew relentless, and the chances of the road being opened tomorrow were dwindling. The clouds also blotted out the afternoon sun far sooner than it would have set, and even after Mrs. Purl came by to turn up the gaslights, Jane soon stopped and capped her ink, rubbing her eyes.
Mrs. Luthbright and Mrs. Purl were once again in earshot, speaking in the dining room as they set out her supper. Jane rose and went to the sideboard, pouring herself a small measure of drink. She did not mean to eavesdrop, but their voices were soothing, and she drew close enough to make out the words.
“Mr. Purl ought to stop coming ’round to bring me home, when I can walk just as well,” Mrs. Purl was saying. “He’s going to get himself lost or thrown some night, with these rains. And you know, just last week, I was already in bed when he rides in over the hill between here and there, smelling like whiskey, and asks me about the ‘red-eyed woman.’ I kept telling him there is no woman, or if there is he’d better not tell me about her.”
“It’s a spirit,” Mrs. Luthbright said, all solemn sobriety. “He should wear his shirt inside out when he comes by, so as not to be bewitched by it.”
“It’s a spirit, all right.” Mrs. Purl snorted. “A spirit made of barley. He says he went to knock at the front door here, but the lights were all out, so he turned to go. And then there she was, looking at him. But, I ask you, if there was a spirit living in the house, wouldn’t we have seen it? In these past three months, I can honestly tell you I haven’t seen a single thing, here or on the path back home.”