It was a sad day for me when August moved into Lady Spencer’s grand mansion in Boston. He promised he would not leave the city without telling me, but I would not see him every day any longer. He came and went through all my life, I suppose. Sometimes there were years between times I saw him, sometimes just weeks. Yet, now, with him so close but not in the rooms built for him under my roof, I felt as if he were lost to me.
By September, Patey seemed to shrink into the bedclothes as her breath became more and more labored. Many afternoons I spent reading to her, brushing her hair, sponging her clean, not knowing whether she even knew of my presence. With Amelia gone, there was little reason to go to Boston, and I began to neglect attending Lexington church. Indeed, it seemed I did little but cook and clean and tend Patience, but how could I do other?
In September, also, America Roberts agreed to marry Daniel Charlesworth. I was taken by surprise, for all this time I had imagined a well-concealed romance had carried on between her and August. He said nothing to me about it, until at last in exasperation, I had asked him outright, “Why did you not propose marriage to her while you could? I know she loved you.”
“One of the reasons I wanted to move to Boston, Ressie, is that I have a woman.”
“When will I meet your wife?”
“Not my wife. She is my woman. She goes with me. She asks little and takes little in return. Miss Roberts is a fine lady, Ressie. And yes, I see it in your eyes. I loved her once. Love her still. Too much to marry her.”
“But why let this happen?”
“She deserves the life of a lady. That, I could not give her. I will go to the sea.”
“You were born a gentleman.”
“Do not ask me to unlearn what I have learned of life. It is who I am.”
His words had stunned me. I went to do the milking and all I could think about was that what he had learned of life was who he was? Was that who I was? I asked America later if she were not affrighted that their children would all have a shrunken arm like Daniel’s, for I remembered Lonnie Hasken’s lopsided body and I was sure it was that way from the womb. I was ready to press her with insistence that she make known any feelings she had for August, and to reveal what he had told me about his feelings for her. “No,” she said. “Daniel’s shoulder was caused by being stepped on by a horse when he was but three years old. He was not meant to survive, but eventually he learned how to do almost anything the other boys did. He graduated Harvard when but sixteen. I fear only that he is older than I and that I shall have him not long enough.”
“Are there—no—others whom you love?”
She sighed. “There was. Once. I think you know. Your brother does not love me. Please be happy for me. Daniel and I will make a good home. He is kind and intelligent. Goodness and caring, that is more important than, than passion.”
I could not speak for several minutes. At last, I talked to her about her linens and laces and about making a special mantua for her wedding. And then I went to my room alone, where those words “I shall have him not long enough,” and “more important than passion” made me weep as I had not done since Cullah left.
The Reverend Mr. Clarke performed the ceremony on the first of October 1756, followed by a small supper at our house with sweet cake in my parlor. He spoke to them of fidelity and honor, and prayed with their three pairs of hands clasped after Daniel placed a gold band upon her finger. August stayed nearly invisible in a corner of the room; his eyes like slits, he watched with the mien of a hungry wolf. I was relieved when Reverend Clark left us and the couple readied to leave, stacking two trunks in a coach. None of America’s family had attended. It saddened me so to see America and Daniel leave for Boston. America had been part daughter, part sister to me. “Visit!” I called. “And tell me when your child is coming and I shall attend your lying-in!” I knew not if they heard me over the horses’ hooves, for they smiled only upon each other.
Patience had stirred not at all the entire afternoon, though all the merriment took place around her. I feared she had died during the wedding, but when I touched her head, she raised her hand and gripped mine. “Are they gone, then?” she asked. “Noisy peahens woke me up. Is it evening?”
“Yes, they’re gone. It is warm out.”
“Help me up. I would see the stars.”
August and I raised her as gently as we could, though it still pained her. I said, “The sun is not yet fully down. The stars may not show for an hour or more.”
We made progress to the door so slowly it awakened in me the memories of teaching my children to walk their first steps. Here we were holding Patey for perhaps her final ones. She sat upon the bench by the doorway. I asked, “Would you have a cloak?”
“Yes. August, tell me of the stars.”