Chapter Four
Henry
Henry climbed up onto the window ledge in their bedroom and then offered Elizabeth his hand. She climbed up too and settled between his legs, her back to his chest. Each breath that she took rose and fell through him, her soft warmth an antidote to the chill that seeped in through the window. A lone car sailed by outside, the roar of its engine like a tide that surged and ebbed into the night.
She rested her head back, her hair silken against his cheek, and he wrapped his arms around her, surrounding her, their own little refuge. His lips brushed against the shell of her ear. "I'm here. I've got you."
She swallowed, then nodded, then began. "It was a week before my birthday…"
1983
Elizabeth
Elizabeth was sat at the small wooden desk in the corner of her bedroom. The golden glow of the late afternoon sun filtered in through the window behind her and filled the room with a lazy warmth. It mingled with the smell of baked potatoes that wafted up the stairs, and as she imagined their skins blistering in the oven, her stomach grumbled.
The pen slipped across the page of her notepad. "Shoot." She grabbed the bottle of white-out and applied a thin sheen to the paper. Then she blew on it—the surface ruffling—until it dried.
"You know, if you make a mistake, you can just cross it out." Will's voice came from the doorway—from the door that should be closed.
Elizabeth jerked her head up and scowled at him. "Get out of my room, Will."
Will flashed that smug smile of his; his sandy blonde fringe flipping forward into his eyes. "I'm not even in your room." And he motioned to his feet, his toes just a hair's breadth beyond the line between the bedroom and the hall.
Elizabeth's pulse throbbed through her temple. She took a deep breath. Then—"Mom!" She shouted. "Will's annoying me."
And Will's expression fell, his lips disappearing into a pout.
"Will—" Their mother's voice echoed through the house. "—leave your sister alone."
"But I didn't do anything!" Will shouted, and a flush of red rose through his cheeks. He lowered his voice and hissed at Elizabeth. "God, Lizzie, you're such a nerd."
Elizabeth smirked as she looked him up and down. "Better than being a loser."
Will's face pinched. "You're the loser."
"Hey. That's enough." Their father appeared in the hallway and placed a hand on Will's shoulder. "Don't call your sister a loser."
"But she—" Will's voice shot up.
"Dinner's almost ready," their father said, and he steered Will away from the door. "Go set the table. Your mother and I need to have a word." He turned back to Elizabeth and flashed her a smile. "Five minutes, sweetheart." Then he undid the clasp of his watch and handed it to her.
A hug-like warmth spread through her chest; he knew how much she loved that watch. Until—
"Don't work too hard."
She caught her smile before it faltered. He would never say that to Will.
Ten minutes later, Elizabeth bundled down the stairs and the fourth step creaked as she hit it. She hurried along the hallway to the dining room, the smell of jacket potatoes calling to her. When she pushed open the door and stepped inside, she was met with the whine of Will's voice. "But it's not fair."
Will was sat at the head of the table, their parents across from each other on either side. With his elbows rested against the wood, his head clutched in his hands, he looked as though he had just been grounded for a month, which given his latest school report would be totally justified.
"That's life, Will," their father said. "This is for your own good."
"So you've finally decided to send him to military school?" Elizabeth asked, and Will made a face at her as she took her seat at the opposite end of the table. She grabbed the salad bowl and began to load up her plate using the tongs.
"Actually," her mother said, and the hesitance in her tone made Elizabeth stop, "we've decided to hire a tutor for your brother."
Elizabeth's stomach lurched. She dropped the tongs back into the bowl. "What?" Her voice cut through the room. "How come when I asked for a tutor you said no, but he—" She glared at Will. "—gets one now? It's like you're rewarding him for being lazy."
"Your brother needs to improve his grades," her father said. "You on the other hand—"
"Should just settle for mediocrity?" Elizabeth's cheeks burned. She stood up so sharply that her chair screeched across the floor. "I mean, why waste money on my education when I'm just a girl?" She turned to the door, fists clenched at her side. "This is so unfair."
"That's life, Lizzie," Will said, and the mocking smile dripped through his voice.
Elizabeth bit down on the inside of her cheek, her blood boiling. She took a deep breath that bound her chest. Then she stormed out. Her mother called after her, but she didn't stop. She stalked along the corridor, pace slowing only to haul the front door open. She slammed it shut behind her and then jumped down from the porch and set off in a jog towards the stables.
"Elizabeth," her mother shouted into the fading light, "come back."
Elizabeth ducked into the shadows of the stables. The smell of horsehair and leather, hoof paint and saddle soap tinged the cool air, and the horses snorted and whinnied as she trod across the sawdust and bark that littered the floor. She made her way to the far end and then lifted the catch on the righthand stall. She crept inside. Dandelion turned her head towards Elizabeth, revealing the flash of her blaze. She snorted, and her chestnut coat shivered.
"Hey, girl," Elizabeth whispered as she stroked Dandelion's nose. And Dandelion nuzzled against her. At least she had no cares for whether Elizabeth was a boy or girl; she placed value only in a person's kindness. Elizabeth patted her shoulder and then reached up and threaded her fingers through the chestnut mane. "You're my favourite, you know that?" Then she chuckled as Dandelion nodded in reply.
"Elizabeth." Her mother's voice came from the entrance to the stall, and Elizabeth's smile faded. "Please can we just talk about this?"
Elizabeth's grip on Dandelion's mane tightened, and she glared at her mother through the diffuse light. "What's there to talk about?" She let out a sharp breath. "God, you're just as bad as Aunt Joan."
Her mother's nostrils flared, but she let the comment slide. "Your father and I just want what's best for you. There's no denying that you're gifted, Elizabeth, but you've got to realise—"
Elizabeth arched her eyebrows at her. "That I'm a girl?"
"Yes." Her mother tossed her hands up. Then she pinched her temples, and her gaze fell to the ground as she shook her head. "Your aunt's right about some things—the rules for men and women are different in this world. No matter what you do, you'll have to work twice as hard for only half the credit. And even then not everyone will take you seriously."
Elizabeth folded her arms over her chest. "So I should just settle for second best to save myself from disappointment?"
"It's okay to have dreams, but you need to be realistic too." Her mother took a step into the stall, and Dandelion dragged her front hoof over the ground, scraping it through the straw.
Elizabeth stroked the mare's muzzle and hushed her. "William Howard Taft said: We must dare to be great; and we must realise that greatness is the fruit of toil and sacrifice and high courage." She stared hard at her mother. "If I don't dare, how will I ever know what I can achieve?" Her mother opened her mouth, but in the hesitation, Elizabeth continued, "If we only think about the world the way it is, instead of what it could be, how will it ever change?"
The following silence bristled with the hot snorts of the horses around them and the rattle as shoulders and haunches bumped up against the stalls. Elizabeth's mother let out a long sigh. "We're just trying to protect you, Elizabeth. One day, when you have children of your own, you'll understand."
Present Day
Henry
"And I do understand." Elizabeth traced circles on Henry's knee, her other hand rested against his fingers where they interlocked over her stomach. "Ever since the kids were born, a day hasn't passed that I don't worry about them. I'd do anything to protect them. And I do fear that they'll be disappointed in life; and I want to protect them from that too.
"It's like when Ali applied to Rafferty. Of course I wanted her to get in, but did a part of me think maybe the competition was too tough and maybe—through no fault of her own—she'd be rejected? Of course. And that made me want to tell her to stick to a safer choice. Just like Stevie and Harvard. Seeing how disappointed she was made me wish I'd told her not to apply too."
Her hand stilled against his knee, and she shook her head to herself, her hair gliding over his cheek. "I don't know what experiences my parents had, what their upbringings were like, to make them feel that way. All I could see were the changes happening around me, and it never crossed my mind that being a girl would stop me, and it made me so mad to hear them talk like that. It felt like they were punishing me, not trying to protect me…I barely spoke to them for the following week, and then it was my birthday…"
1983
Elizabeth
"Why can't we just buy cakes like normal people?" Elizabeth said, and she shook out her aching hand. Her palm was red and raw from stirring the wooden spoon through the stiff batter, and it felt as though she'd never be able to grip a pen again, let alone write an essay.
"Because this is our tradition," her mother said from her seat at the kitchen table, and she smiled up at Elizabeth from behind her coffee cup.
"You know, just because something's traditional," Will said, "doesn't mean you should keep doing it." He leant back against the kitchen side next to Elizabeth, a bowl of chocolate frosting hugged to his chest. He dipped one finger in and scooped a dollop into his mouth, and then he pulled his finger out with a pop.
"Hey," their mother said, and she raised her eyebrows at Will, "at least wait until after breakfast before you get started on the sugar."
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "We wouldn't have this problem if we just got a cake from the store." She nodded towards the metal tins, thick with grease, that rested on the countertop behind Will. "Pass me those."
"Get them yourself," Will said, and he dumped the frosting bowl down.
Elizabeth groaned. "God, Will, you're so—"
But before she could say anything else, Will snatched a handful of flour from the open bag and flung it at her. It exploded into the air, a burst of powdery white. She squealed and beat the cloud back from her face and then spluttered as she drew in a lungful. She coughed into the crook of her arm, and daring to open her eyes, her glower fell upon her brother. "Will! You're so dead."
"Hey, hey, hey." Their mother stepped between them as Elizabeth lunged at Will and he jumped back, a wicked grin plastered across his face.
"That doesn't sound like baking." Their father's voice interrupted from the doorway. His gaze found Elizabeth, his eyes alight with a glimmer of amusement. "Lizzie, you've got a little something—" He motioned to her whole face. Will laughed, and even her mother bit back a smile.
Elizabeth's cheeks burned. "This is why I hate birthdays," she said, and then she marched out of the kitchen and up the stairs, wiping the flour from her face with the back of her pyjama sleeve.
Once in the safety of the bathroom, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. She looked like one of those old ladies who applied too much powder, until they took on an almost spectral appearance. Not a good look. Using one of the towels from the rack, she dabbed the flour away, focusing on the hairline where it clung to her roots. No doubt she'd have to wash her hair again, but at least she had gotten the worst of it out.
"It could be worse," her father said as she stepped out of the bathroom. She jumped, and her heart pounded at a heavy-hoofed canter. "You could be turning fifty."
"It's not my fault that you're getting old." Elizabeth pushed past him and headed for her bedroom. She flung the door shut behind her, but her father caught hold of it and followed her inside.
"I wanted to talk to you," he said, and he lowered himself onto the edge of her bed.
Elizabeth retreated to the window ledge at the far side of the room, forcing her father to twist round so that he could keep his gaze on her. She leant back against the wall, and curling her fingers over the cill, she pursed her lips and cocked her head to one side. Talk about what?
"I wanted to apologise," he said, and his gaze dipped away for a moment before it met hers again. "You're a remarkable girl—" He shook his head. "—a remarkable person, Elizabeth, and I'm sorry if I've been anything but supportive of you. At the end of the day, I'm your father and I worry about you. I see all the potential you have, all your dreams, and I fear for you—I fear that they'll be crushed."
"I'm not naive." Elizabeth folded her arms across her chest. "I don't need wrapping in cotton wool."
Her father paused. He nodded to himself as if pondering that point. Then he continued. "The problem with youth is that everything in this world is far more complicated than you think it is right now." He let out a long breath. "But I guess that's something that you need to learn for yourself, and who am I to deny you that?"
Elizabeth frowned, her pulse a jitter. What, exactly, was he saying?
"If you want to reach for the stars, reach for them. If you want to compete with men, do it." He threw his hands up. "Hell, if you want to be the first female president, go for it." His face softened. "What I want you to know is that I'll be here to support you, always, and I'll be here when things get tough—because they will. And I'll be here, waiting for the day when you achieve all these things that I never thought possible, and when you come back to tell me that you've proved me wrong."
Elizabeth tried to resist the smile that tugged at her lips, tried to remain mad at him, but the warmth that flooded through her in that moment was too much, like trying to hold back a river with her bare hands. She pushed herself away from the window cill and flung her arms around her father. She hugged him tight, grasping the back of his shirt, and breathed in that scent of safety and home.
"I love you, Lizzie, more than you can know." He clutched her, his fingers twisting through her long hair. "Now, about your birthday present—"
Elizabeth drew back. Knelt on her bed, she looked down at him.
"I haven't bought you anything this year—"
Elizabeth's heart sank.
"—but…I have arranged for you to have sessions with a tutor."
The tide of warmth rushed back. "Seriously?"
Her father nodded. "You start next week."
Present Day
Henry
"They died three days later."
And though Henry knew what was coming, his heart wrenched. "Elizabeth, I'm so sorry."
She leant forward and clutched her knees to her chest whilst silent sobs wracked her body. With his arms wrapped around her, he pressed his forehead to her back so that every shudder, every hitch of breath, every throb of her heart—her precious heart—coursed through him. He would absorb them all, he would carry the grief for her, he would free her from that pain. If only there were a way.
Elizabeth's hand found his own. She squeezed tight, tighter than tight, tighter even than she had when Stevie was born. She could crush every last bone, and still he wouldn't utter a sound, for her touch held the words she couldn't speak. Words of horror, guilt and despair.
Henry kissed her through her dress, a delicate trail that curved up her spine. A shiver broke through her sobs. She twisted round, and throwing her arms around him, she buried her face in his neck. Hot tears rolled down beneath his collar and soaked through his shirt, and her breaths quivered against his skin. He rubbed her back, whilst the fingers of his other hand tangled through her hair. She felt so small and fragile, a feather tumbling on the wind.
She drew back enough to rest her forehead against his, their noses touching, tears still spilling down. "He never turned fifty. He never saw me go to college, or marry a man who would cherish me, or find a career where I felt equal and empowered." She clung to the back of his neck, her fingernails digging in with a dull sting. "He never got to see me prove him wrong." She let out a long breath, and as she shook her head, her nose bumped against his. "And now with all these comments and stupid photos, it feels like maybe I'll never get that respect, never achieve what a man in my position would, and maybe I was the one who was wrong all along."
"You weren't wrong," Henry said, his voice claggy from his own tears. "You're a woman, Elizabeth, but not just a woman, an incredible woman who improves the lives of millions of people across the world. I'm sorry that some people will never see past your appearance; that they're too ignorant or afraid or whatever it is that compels them to act this way." He rubbed her back, fingers trailing up, down, up, down. "But that shouldn't detract from your value, your own self-worth, because it certainly doesn't detract from all the amazing things you've achieved. The people who know you, who love you—" He touched his lips to hers. "—the people whose lives you've affected…they know what you're worth and they respect you."
His hand stilled against her lower back, and he pulled away enough to look into her eyes. Glossy with tears, they flickered, barely able to hold his gaze.
"I never got to meet your parents—that's something I'll always regret—"
Her gaze lowered, and he caught hold of her chin and dipped his head down until she met his eye.
"—so I can't speak for them, but I can speak as the father of two intelligent, strong-minded, beautiful girls growing up in our society today." He brushed away the tear that trickled down her cheek. "I empathise with your parents' fears—just as you do—but having those fears doesn't make me any less proud of our daughters, if anything it makes me respect them even more, and I think your father would feel the same way."
When her gaze fell this time, there was nothing he could do to draw it back to him.
"I know you want him to see who you've become, and I know there's nothing I can say to take that pain away. All I can do is to support you, to hold your hand when things get tough, and to tell you that I'll always be here beside you, in awe of you, as you push the boundaries of what so many people never thought possible."
He tangled his fingers through her hair and pulled her close so that he could press a kiss to her forehead, and then he held her there.
"You asked if this is a game that you can't win. But you can. Just be you, do what you've always done, and keep making up your own rules."
A chill whistled through the window and prickled over his skin. The air between them thickened, a palpable presence, and it was in moments like these that he glimpsed the scope of God. The infinite threads that bound their lives, the paths they wove, how a single cut would scatter them to the wind. Elizabeth shivered. And though she did not believe, perhaps she felt it too.
She gave him a watery smile. "They would have loved you."
It was a risk, but he had to take it. "Well, I am easy on the eye."
She laughed. And how empty others' lives must have been not to have heard that beautiful sound. She clutched his head to her chest and pressed a kiss to the top. Then cupping his jaw, she brought him to meet her eyes—still puffy and glistening, but bluer than before. Crystal skies.
"Let me hold you?" he said.
She nodded. She steadied herself against him and climbed down from the window ledge and then watched as he followed. With her back turned to him, she rested her chin against her shoulder and sent him a look. That look. Akin to the one he had seen so many times before, though different somehow. Vulnerable. Pure. So much more intimate.
His fingers trembled as he slid down the zipper on her dress. Down, down, down. Then a shrug, and the material pooled on the floor. Her shirt was next, discarded on the end of the chaise longue. She stepped towards him, and he caught the tremor in her hands too as her fingers slipped from button to button. She pushed the shirt off his shoulders, and once freed from him, she clothed herself in it, claiming it as her own. Sometimes, after he had returned from trips, his shirts would carry her scent, and though she had never said—and he had never asked—he felt sure that this was what she did when he wasn't there to wrap her in his arms.
He laid his trousers down next to her blouse on the end of the sofa and then held out his hand for her own. She placed her fingers in his palm, and with her other hand clutching the front the shirt that dwarfed her frame, she let him lead her to their bed.
They lay facing one other, fingers intertwined. He held her gaze as he leant in, and then paused when his nose bumped against her own. His voice was thick when he spoke. "I love you."
She nuzzled against him. "I love you too."
And his eyes slipped shut as she closed the gap between them. The kiss was gentle, like the ruffle of the breeze. And it ached through him, pulling at the depths of his soul, because if it weren't for all her pain—the loss, the suffering, the grief—he might never have held this woman in his arms.
