The Wives of Henry Oades (16 page)

The man kneed John’s hand, pulling sideways on the reins, trotting off. “It’ll have to be, boy,” he said over his shoulder.

John called after him. “How far to Wellington?”

“Thirty-five, forty miles.”

“Follow this side of the river?”

The man hollered, “All the way into town,” and was gone, swallowed up by the trees.

John picked up last night’s clam shells and flung them hard against a tree. Above, unseen birds scattered noisily. Margaret touched his arm.

“We’re nearly there, sweetheart.”

John turned away, ignoring her completely.

Wellington

T
HEY’D BEEN ON
the slow march all day when Thomas Straw, a squinting tinker, a whiskey-breathed seraph, approached in a cloud of dust, driving a rickety one-horse wagon piled high with tools. He was eighty if a day, and horribly pockmarked, with a good portion of his upper lip eaten away. He knew well their suffering, he said, referring to the smallpox. He’d lost two siblings to it, but those were not modern times. These days, a body stood a good chance of surviving the wretched affliction. He himself had come through it just fine.

“As ye can plainly see.”

There’s more to life than a handsome face. It’s a fact, said Mr. Straw, not just words. He took a long pull on a silver flask, and came down, turning around horse and wagon, maneuvering gracefully on a wooden peg, responding all the while to John’s rap of questions.

The year was 1898, the month December. The old girl was still on the throne; she’d yet to kick the bucket. Sure, he recalled hearing about the poor Oades family.

“’Twas all the talk for a while.”

They’d be banner news again, he said, once he returned them. He wouldn’t be surprised to find the reward still on the table. “There’d be interest paid, wouldn’t you think?”

“I would,” said Margaret, not wanting to scare him off.

Years back, one hundred quid had been offered. “A pair of weasels claimed to know right where ye were. Wanted the reward up front, the fiends. Went to jail, one of them. Died there of dysentery, ye’ll be glad to learn.”

Mr. Straw offered the seat next to himself, the place of honor, to John. “Step on up, son. Be my navigator.”

John looked on the grateful verge of genuflection. “You’ll want to stay on this road, sir.”

Margaret and the children climbed up in the back and made a place among the rusty junk. There were dead clock parts galore, flour sifters, barrel hoops, gears, and hinges. They pushed it all aside and rode facing where they’d been, their legs dangling. It was dusk, balmy sweet. The weight had lifted from Margaret’s shoulders, back, limbs, and soul. She had a living daughter tucked beneath each arm. They were headed home, nearly there. For the first time she truly believed. She could visualize Henry’s wordless astonishment, almost feel the heat of his suffocating embrace.

Henry, dearest. You’re not half as surprised as I.

She belonged in hospital, as did Josephine. Henry would take charge; he’d see to things straightaway. The realization flooded her with happiness. With any luck, they’d set sail within a fortnight.

J
OHN WAS THE FIRST
to see the standing cottage. “Mum!”

Coming up the long gravel road, Margaret turned, straining to see. Smoke rose from the chimney. Her roses, yellow on the south side, red on the north, must have the bees in a swoon. And the hydrangea! They were breathtaking, blue as the sky, big as cabbages. Fire hadn’t consumed the place as she’d always feared. It was just as they’d left it, with the same green shutters and red door, which was opening now.
Henry!
She tumbled from the back of the wagon and went running, conscious of her face, ripe with blisters. It wouldn’t matter one whit to him. There was far more to life than a handsome face. The door was closing. She flew up the three porch steps, knocking then pounding with both fists. “Henry! Henry Oades!” Martha came running, clutching at Margaret’s skirt, crying, frightened by her shrieking banshee of a mother. John went up to the front window and boldly peered inside, his hands to the side of his face. Oscar cowered behind John, craning left and right.

“There’s a lady inside,” said John.

Margaret pounded hard, splintering the wood. “Madam! We are Mrs. Henry Oades and children of England, returned from captivity. Please conduct yourself to the door this instant.”

She heard approaching footsteps and stepped back, breathing hard, her heart thundering. The door cracked open, bringing a rich smell of onions cooking in butter. Worn gray eyes peeped around, a mottled hand held to nose and mouth. “I have children about,” the woman said, clearly afraid. Margaret did not blame the quivering little hausfrau. She’d hesitate before opening the door to her own putrescent self.

“We’ve been so long gone,” Margaret began, her voice a timid rasp, betraying her confusion. The cottage was not the same up close. The door with its ornate wolf’s head knocker was not as she remembered it. “I am Mrs. Henry Oades.”

The woman spoke behind her hand. “I know who you are, poor dear.”

“Are you Mr. Oades’s housekeeper then?”

The woman’s shoulders flinched with regal offense. “I am the lady of the house.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Margaret, an eddy of morbid thought whirling.
Was he dead?
“Has he relocated then, gone back to town?”

John demanded, “Where’s our father?”

“He’s gone to America,” said the woman. “Sorry to be the one to inform you.”

America!
“Impossible,” said Margaret.

“When will he be returning?” asked John.

“I don’t imagine ever. He left some time ago.” The woman lowered her voice. “Everyone assumed you were d. e. a. d.”

The crack in the door narrowed. Margaret stepped closer, panic rising. “We’re very much alive, thank you. Did he leave instructions for us? Money for food and lodging?”

“Not with me, dear.” The door began to close. “You belong in isolation,” she whispered. “You and the big girl both. I’d have you in otherwise.”

The first stars had come out. There was but streaky light left in the sky. This woman was their only prospect tonight. Margaret brought Martha forward. “Will you take my well ones in, kind lady? My youngest here and the two boys? Before dark sets in? It’s turned quite chilly, hasn’t it? They’re quiet, well-mannered children, really. You’ll hardly know they’re about.”

“Please, miss,” said John.

It was no use. Margaret could see it in the harridan’s hard little eyes. There’d be no pillows and blankets offered, nothing added to the onions and butter to make it go around. Still, she gave a last try.

“If you knew what my children have endured, madam. I’d do the same for you, certainly. My big girl and I shall make a bed on your porch. Just for the one night, of course.”

The woman shook her head. “I’d rather you didn’t,” she said, closing the door. No amount of pounding would cause it to open again. Margaret turned in her sick despair and called to Mr. Straw, who was staggering up the front path, swaying lantern in hand.

“Are you acquainted with Mr. Cyril Bell, the sailmaker?”

Oscar fell to weeping at the mention of his father. It occurred to Margaret that Cyril Bell had run off to America as well, leaving her to rear his sob-baby son. She comforted Oscar as best she could, but her heart was not in the trying.

Mr. Straw said he knew of Mr. Bell and offered to take them down to the docks. “Ye’ll be sure to tell who found ye?” Margaret promised she would. “We’ll leave straightaway then,” he said, shouting for Oscar’s benefit. “Just as soon as the wee lass here dries her crocodile tears.” Oscar glared and sloped off toward the wagon, softly blubbering.

John kicked hard, dirt flying. “How could he leave?”

Margaret took her girls by the hand. “At least we know his whereabouts.”

“You start at the near end, Mum,” said John. “I’ll start at the far. We’ll meet in the middle of America. Shouldn’t take more than fifty years to find him, eh?”

“Gently does it, John.” It was something her dad used to say when at a complete loss.

T
HE ROUTE TO
the docks felt only vaguely familiar. There was no nostalgia associated, no sense of having returned to a particular beloved place. Their travail was not over, not with Henry in America, a vast ocean separating them. She might have guessed that he’d feared them dead, but that did not satisfactorily explain his leaving. She would not have left had
he
vanished. Without absolute proof of death she would have waited, until her own dying day if necessary. The deserter would have expected no less of her.

They found Cyril Bell mending torn canvas. He threw himself on Oscar, weeping into his hair. Oscar clung to his father, eyes closed in ecstasy, nose running. Margaret stepped back to allow them their reunion, thankful that the man had been found. Surely
he’d
help. She’d cared for his son all this time. Oscar might not have survived if not for her. Margaret was fully prepared to remind him.

Mr. Straw had her sign a paper stating that he’d found them first. He bowed, wishing them well, and disappeared into the starry night.

Mr. Bell pulled away from Oscar, looking at Margaret, shaking his head in disbelief.

Margaret flicked a smile. “Mim would expect you to assist us, Mr. Bell.”

His droopy eyes were full of moist sorrow. “You and the children were sorely missed, Mrs. Oades,” he said. “You were powerfully mourned.”

“As was he,” murmured Margaret, wondering how long Henry had waited before deciding them dead.

Mr. Bell brought them to his house and pulled out the copper tub first thing. He heated the water and rigged a privacy curtain. Margaret went last. The dirty water rose like a blanket of warm scum, entering her ears, drowning out sound and thought. She fell asleep in the tub, waking to Martha’s solemn brown eyes peering down at her. “I thought you were d. e. a. d.”

“Don’t be silly.” Margaret reached up and gently finger-combed Martha’s wet tangles. Martha resumed her wandering, picking up a fork from the table and examining it closely, furrowing with curiosity.

“It’s a dinner fork,” said Margaret. “To be held in your left hand as I taught you.”

Martha nodded and went again to sit in Mr. Bell’s soft reading chair. She leaned back smiling. Her baby bottom had never known such luxury.

M
RS
. V
IRGINIA
W
ELLS
, Mr. Bell’s intended, stopped by the next afternoon. “Bell’s Wells,” she joked. Mr. Bell did all but scatter rose petals in her path. He spanked her chair clean and delivered tea, hovering close like a whelping pup.

She was a widow with two daughters of her own, a rather formidable lady with startlingly blue eyes. “You’ll make a fine, sturdy brother for my girls,” she said, shaking Oscar’s hand. He’d bathed, yes, but was still a far cry from presentable. His hair needed a scythe put to it. His fingernails and toenails were tinged with green fungus. “Will you call me Mother, son? And may I give you a mother’s hug?” Oscar melted in her arms.

Margaret felt a hot pang of envy and was ashamed. Oscar was the first to find a home, when she’d thought all along he’d be the last.

“And you, madam,” said Mrs. Wells, turning to Margaret, who stood in the far corner like a leper. “We must get you straight to hospital.”

Margaret came forward, lifting her chin and displaying her ruined face. Mrs. Wells was obviously a patron of wretched cases. “I must first see my well ones properly situated,” said Margaret.

Mrs. Wells frowned. “They cannot stay in this bachelor’s hovel.” Mr. Bell shook his head in agreement. “I’ll take them,” she said.

There was no other option. Mrs. Wells was her Hobson’s choice. Margaret was relieved she hadn’t had to beg.