I cannot fathom such sentiments. The thought of Sophie bearing our child overpowers me with joy.
It would have been better if she could have returned to Vermont. The Washington Territory is yet too wild a place for a woman alone. I am all the more pressed to return within the year. I have no desire to spend the winter with Indians. We must make it up the river before the ice breaks, but our pace so far is lacking. I had thought to be through the canyon already.
My dearest Allen,
I wonder where you are now as you read this letter? Have you encountered the Wolverine tribes yet, and are they peaceable, or are you alone with your men in some icy wilderness? Are the mountains as grand as I imagine, and the land as wild? Are you warm and safe? Oh how I wish I could be there with you, to see what your eyes see.
Just now as I write this letter to send with you, the steamship is in the harbor, and you briskly pace the house and check off lists. Your shirt sleeves are rolled to the forearms, an intent furrow to your brow, and you speak quietly to yourself. It causes me a spark of mischievousness, this stalwart manner of yours, so all the more I want to kiss you on the ear and wrap my arms around your chest, to distract you from your work and tempt you into our bed.
How is it that your leaving is suddenly upon us? So much has occurred these past days?—?you go off to Alaska without me, I will not see those northern shores, but instead I begin a different adventure. I am dizzy with it all. Can you imagine, Allen? When you return, I will greet you with our child in my arms.
I dread these coming months of separation. Filling pages with such unhappy thoughts will bring relief to neither of us, however, so I must search out words that might cheer you when you are far away.
Let me write this instead: do you know the precise moment when I fell in love with you? You would probably think it was the evening of the military ball, when you first escorted me in your dress uniform. You looked striking that night, and I was smitten, I assure you. I had never attended such a grand affair on the arm of such a man. I was dazzled by it, the officers and ladies swirling around me, your sure steps, the splendor of it all.
Yet what of love? That is another, more solid thing; it is not tricked by fine lights or spirits. It is more of earth and time, like a river-turned stone.
It began with a walk. Do you remember? New England seems so very far away, yet that day with you I can still recall like a clear sky. You came to the schoolhouse at the end of the afternoon and asked me to follow you to the pond. I hesitated, not knowing your intentions, but the sunshine and breeze beckoned, and I yearned to be free of the musty, shaded room where I had been sorting books. I closed up the school and followed you along the path. You said you had a gift for me. I asked why you could not have given it to me in the schoolroom, but you kept your secret.
When we came to a poplar sapling at the water’s edge, you stopped and went to one knee. I will confess to you now?—?I thought you meant to propose to me, and I am ashamed to say that my mind spun like a top and I did not know how I would answer. You see, I wasn’t yet sure of my feelings for you. I enjoyed your attention, and I admired your strong bearing, but long ago had I passed the girlish age when that alone could charm me.
You surprised me and slapped at your knee, as if you wanted me to sit down upon it. I must have frowned in confusion, because you explained that I should step up, and you pointed into the branches of the tree.
“There is something you must see,” you said.
I worried I would injure your leg or embarrass myself by toppling to the ground, but you held out a hand, and I trusted you. I knew it suddenly and surely. I took your hand and stepped upon your knee.
“What am I to look for?” I asked, and you said, “There. In the crook of that branch.”
I took hold of the trunk of the small tree and peered into its lowest branches, where at last I saw it. The smallest, most precious thing?—?the nest of a ruby-throated humming bird. The nest was not much larger than a child’s cupped hand, and cradled in its thistle down and fern were two white eggs the size of peas.
Days before I had mentioned to you how I had once seen a humming bird near the schoolhouse. I had watched it hover among the jewelweed and blue phlox, such a tiny, feathered burst of life. As it turned in the sunlight, it flashed crimson and velvety purple, so much light and movement concentrated in its small form. More than anything, I told you, I wanted to see the nest of this tiny bird.
I could have remained there for hours, studying the fragile curve of egg-shell and the intricate weave of thistle down and spider silk. But I heard a muffled groan, and I knew my weight and the hard heels of my boots were taking their toll after all.