‘You don’t have to. These arrangements are straightforward, Emma.’ According to Father, the marriage would be a business decision. Just like him and Abby.
Soon the suitors arrived. There was: John, a banker’s son, horrible breath; Isaac, farmer’s son, loved hunting; Albert, doctor’s son, too fascinated with blood; Thomas, too uninteresting to recall; and Eugene, a military son, thought art was a waste of time.
Months of having to put on a happy face for boring men. I had not liked any of them, could not bear to have them touch me in any way. The only thing I liked was when I was able to get out of the house for outings. Father made them leave a deposit behind each time they took me out to ensure good behaviour and that I would be home on time. The money went into his pocket and the outing would begin.
Once, Albert took me to Rhode Island to see the Atlantic Ocean, paid Father thirty dollars. A cool, rain-filled day, Albert viced his arm through mine, led me to the water’s edge. I looked out at the ocean, smelled salt and dead fish, thought of taking my clothes off and throwing myself in, for the water to wake me up from this boredom. I tried to think of ways to tell Father that, like the others, this man too was unsuitable.
Disappointed fathers. The world was full of them. Was I too picky?
Then there was Samuel Miller.
Samuel came for dinner, was tall, reeded, had a closed mouth. He presented at our front door, brought with him white, smooth hydrangeas. Petals drooped from the heat. I despised hydrangeas.
‘How lovely and thoughtful,’ I said. He smelled of peppered musk, made my knees second-guess direction.
He smiled, wide beam, sincere. Something I hadn’t anticipated.
Abby made a dinner of boiled potatoes, swordfish and white sauce, and roasted purple carrots. We all sat down to eat, Lizzie making sure she sat next to Samuel, and Father got down to the business of knowing the young man.
‘What do you do with yourself?’
I cut a potato with my fork.
Samuel pushed his dark hair out of his eyes. ‘I’ve just finished law school.’
Father smiled like a child on Christmas Day.
‘What are you interested in, Emma?’ Samuel asked.
My heart pushed against my chest, felt like it would jump out of my throat. Nobody ever asked me a question like that.
‘She likes boring things,’ Lizzie cut in. She smiled, eyed me like a jackal.
‘Now, now, Lizzie,’ Abby said, calm, a note of happiness. ‘Let Emma answer for herself.’ She winked at me. I wondered if she had only interjected to save me because she liked the idea that this time around, I stood a real chance of moving out, would be out of her way.
Lizzie didn’t let up. ‘Do you like dancing, Samuel?’
‘On occasion. With the right person.’ His eyes my way.
‘Maybe you can teach my sister to dance. She has arms for legs.’ Lizzie chuckled to herself, thwomped a chunk of swordfish into her mouth.
I reddened. ‘Don’t pay attention to her. We usually keep her in the attic.’
Samuel laughed, pointed his fork at me. ‘Your father neglected to tell me about your sense of humour.’
What else had been neglected?
Later, days later and beyond that, there was talk of books, of the wonders of walking for hours to clear one’s mind, of our favourite art.
‘My father pushed me into law,’ he told me. ‘I would have preferred to study music.’
‘What do you play?’
‘Violin. I can’t find the time for it anymore.’ When Samuel took my hand, he made my skin collapse under bone, bubble back to the surface, lava flow. I could not let go, a twin soul for me. I wanted more from this person. The things we could achieve. I was willing to live side by side. I imagined a new life with him, let myself be in that possibility. Then I let the words escape: ‘We should marry one another.’
I rushed through decades in my mind: us travelling, me painting in a room filled with violin concerto, us in bed, limbs still knotted together even as our bodies became old. I had to live that life before Samuel had a chance to refuse me.
But he leaned in close. ‘Alright.’ Then his lips on mine, a first kiss. I wanted more from this person.
We told Father. Abby held me in her arms, smoothed her hands over my shoulders, made me warm.
Later that night I told Lizzie she could be flower girl if she wanted. Her folded arms across her chest. ‘I don’t care.’
‘I would really like you to.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ Lizzie sulked out of my room into hers, slammed the door. I went after her and said through the door, ‘You’ll be able to have my room when I move out.’
Lizzie was the sound of bricks, throwing books onto the floor. I hoped she would get over it.
The engagement continued. Samuel visited and Father sat in on our appointments, the three of us in the sitting room together, the three of us in the parlour, the kitchen, a stroll down Second Street. ‘I want to make sure Emma doesn’t do or say anything to make him change his mind,’ Father told Abby.
What had I done to make my father think so poorly of me?
Then a rare opportunity presented itself: Father and Abby went to our Swansea farm. I invited Samuel over, sent Lizzie off to play with a neighbourhood friend. He arrived, that same peppered musk, and I took him upstairs to my room.
Once there, Samuel touched my white and gold brass bed, noticed the lilac-coloured ceiling rose above us. ‘I like that you’ve only got one fleur-de-lis in the centre. It’s very refined.’
I sat on the bed next to Samuel.
I reached out to him, stroked his stubble cheek, traced my finger over his thick, dark brow. Samuel smiled. I had never touched anyone like that before. The amazement of someone else’s body. He was a tremor underneath my fingers, excitement in the blood.
We kissed. The way our tongues touched, warm. Hands travelled across each other, made me prickle. I was an expert of self, wanted more. ‘Take my blouse off,’ I told him.
He nodded, he did. Samuel stroked my neck, my shoulder blades, made me feel like the sun had risen inside. He unhooked my corset and I breathed deep and full. The windows rattled. I wanted more from this person.
I removed my linen undergarments, sat bare-chested, took Samuel’s hand and placed it against my breast, my heart. ‘Get to know me without my father.’
Samuel undressed, skin brushed against skin. When Samuel kissed then licked my breast, when I stroked the inside of his leg all the way to his groin, felt how warm he was, felt the direction his blood travelled, I heard the opening of a door, pulled away from Samuel, turned.
Lizzie stood there, her eyes scorn, cheeks deep anger, lips becoming white. She said, ‘You’re not meant to be doing that.’ Lizzie backed away, thundered downstairs.
‘You need to go after her,’ Samuel said.
‘I know. I know.’
We dressed in silence. Samuel kissed me and I told him to leave the house through the side door. ‘It might upset her to see you.’
I found Lizzie sitting on the sofa in the sitting room, kicking her foot into the carpet.
‘Lizzie, you should’ve knocked.’ I tried to be gentle.