Chapter 6 insert-C

PROSPECTS OF INCREASE

It was with more than a few qualms that I returned to Foxworth Hall. I knew I'd find Malcolm as aloof as ever, but instead of wishing for what would never be,
I would, as my mother had often advised, blossom where my flower grew-or at the very least, abide by my own choice and bear disappointments with grace.
After my talk with John Amos, I felt a renewed readiness to do what was right for my family, what was right in the eyes of God. This was most acceptable according to my own values.

The train did not stop at the depot near Foxworth Hall on weekends, so I arrived in Charlottesville in the late afternoon. I expected to see no one but Lucas when I disembarked, but Malcolm himself had driven to the station to collect me, with Mal in tow. Malcolm was eager to hand him over to me at the earliest opportunity.

I received my husband's perfunctory kiss by way of a greeting, then I knelt as Mal ran, excitedly, to hurl himself into my arms.

"Mommy!"

"Darling, I missed you so much." I said, delighted. It had been a long few days, separated from Mal, and it must have seemed even longer to him.

I was grateful for Mal's presence-even his steady stream of questions; they would diffuse the tension between Malcolm and myself. We had not spoken more than a necessary few words since that unpleasant scene, before his departure from New London. I had seldom been so outspoken as I had been that night. Why had I so unwisely wished to push us to some sort of breaking point?

"Where did you go?"

"I told you that already, Mal. I have answered that question at least a dozen times." Malcolm said, more to himself than to Mal. He stood to one side, watching,
a tight, petulant look clouding his face.

I wondered, not for the first time, why Malcolm could not enjoy his children. The only time he seemed marginally at ease with them was when he was the only adult present. Perhaps he felt self-conscious, and disliked being observed interacting with them.

"I went to Connecticut. Can you say that?"

Mal concentrated for a moment, thinking, then shook his head.

"Already you've learned an important lesson, Mal. Never try something unless you're sure of success."

"Is this the kind of thing you've been teaching the boys, in my absence?"

"It's not as though he understands." he claimed in defense. "And I don't feel the need to wait for your absence."

"Are we going to work?"

"No, Mal. We're going home now. Daddy goes to work." I said.

"He's trying to say," Malcolm explained impatiently, "that we went by the office before your train arrived."

"I brought you a surprise present. One for you and one for your brother." I told Mal, lifting him up, hugging him close.

"Where?" asked Mal, looking around. His sky-blue eyes lit up with wonder.

"You can have it when we get home. Can you guess what it is?"

"Candy!" he chirped.

"Not candy." I said.

"Candy! Candy!" he insisted.

"You may have a sweet after dinner. Now see if you can guess what the surprise is."

"Tiger?"

"I'm afraid not."

Mal was fascinated by tigers, that spring. He had half a dozen tiger toys, his favorite small cup and dish pictured tigers, as did the quilt that covered his bed.

"I'm sure you can continue this childish game at home." put in Malcolm. "We should get started. Olivia, I meant to tell you that I received a call from-"

"Mommy, look!" squealed Mal, whose attention was so easily abstracted by the noisy commotion of the train station.

"How many times have I told you not to interrupt, when I am speaking?"

Mal watched his father, and grew silent.

"I got a call from someone from the Henderson and Irving factory. They're planning-"

Malcolm's explanation was interrupted by more of Mal's questions. He was now old enough to begin to need his father's attention, but in his limited understanding,
and in his world which consisted of attentive adults, Mal was still young enough to be confused by Malcolm's frequent indifference.

"I don't have time to answer another of these pointless questions."

"He won't be this age for long, Malcolm."

"As if that makes any difference." he muttered.

"How long does it take to answer one or two? Besides, I should think you'd be happy he's asking you something about one of our businesses."

The gibe was met only with a grunt of annoyance, and he ignored Mal, who kept up an unbroken stream of chatter which Malcolm refused to see as comical and endearing.

"He's not a baby; make him walk." directed Malcolm, as we started toward the car.

"Where is Joel?"

"I saw no need to bring them both. He's at home with Mrs. Stuart, and she can only stay for," he paused to consult his pocket watch. "another hour. We should be going. I'll get your luggage."

When we reached Foxworth Hall, the house was abustle with activity. Lucas was on hand to carry my luggage into the house and up the stairs, where Mrs. Steiner would see to the unpacking of my suitcase, as well as the trunks I'd brought back from New London. Mrs. Wilson came forward to say that she'd prepared a pot of tea; (I was grateful for the way she had of anticipating what was needed, and when.)

Mrs. Stuart explained that Joel was asleep. At that hour, it only meant that he would be awake during the night. I was not pleased by this carelessness. I wanted nothing so much as a cool bath and a short nap, neither of which I was to have.

Mal would not play quietly, or sit still. He would not be content until I examined and admired each of the new toys he had acquired during my absence (a tin cash register, a plush poodle and two new cloth picture books.) He pulled on my skirt and followed me about, dancing around in a continuous frenzy of energy. He told me in disconnected fragments about the days I'd been away, and ordering me-in a peremptory way which I'd have scolded him for if he were older-never to leave again.

Breathing in the fragrant steam, I drank my tea, and temporarily curtailed Mal's activity by asking him to draw various pictures.

"Blue," he said, holding up one of the colored pencils, "is for sky."

"Yes."

"Green," the education continued. "is for grass. And frogs. And-"

"Spinach? String beans?" I suggested. He gave me a scornful look.

"Frogs!"

After dinner, (and probably in order to avoid further time with the children) Malcolm claimed he had work to do. Before objections could be voiced, he went back into town, leaving me to a solitary evening, on my first day home. I did not mind this. I bathed the boys and put them to bed, and only then did I have the first spare moment of that long day.

I walked through the library into the office beyond. From here, I could hear Mal, if he got out of bed-the nursery, whose floor creaked, was directly above the office. There were many rooms in Foxworth Hall, but the house was so old that its insulation wasn't all one might wish, but when the children were young, this did have its advantages.

There was a pile of unsorted mail on the corner of the desk beneath the geode paperweight. I riffled through the envelopes, glancing at the return addresses, separating what was likely to require immediate attention... tomorrow, I decided, but I went out to the foyer, where mail was sometimes left on the cherry table next to the front doors, and where Malcolm's briefcase might be, when he neglected to carry it into his office. Malcolm had left there an envelope of photographs taken weeks before, during our trip to tour the fabric mills, in Georgia. Already, that seemed such a distant memory!

I stepped out onto the terrace where the perfume from the flowering lilac bushes was a bit cloying. I gazed at the velvety night sky. I stood there for a long time, thought of my father and, in the silence, felt peace mingled with my sadness.

Returning once more to the library, I straightened the desk, the room, and sat down to read a chapter of "East Lynne."

This library was full of treasure, if one enjoyed very old books, as sometimes I did. When I first came to live at Foxworth Hall, months had passed before I found here any fiction published after 1895. Most of these books had belonged to Malcolm's grandmother, but on the whole, the Foxworths, I guessed, had not been great readers.

Malcolm's ambition, I'd said to him half jokingly once or twice, was to become the next Jesse Livermore. But this slavishness to his work on a weekend was excessive, I thought, when, at nine-thirty, there was still no sign of Malcolm. Impatiently, I phoned his office, but disconnected the call before he had a chance to answer, before I could conclude that he was not there. Giving into fatigue, I finally went up to my room and slipped between the cool, clean linen sheets Mrs. Steiner had put on the bed that morning, and gratefully closed my eyes.

The days drifted by, all of us falling back into our former routines, and I noticed nothing amiss. Nothing, that is, until, crossing the foyer toward the kitchen one afternoon to plan menus with Mrs. Wilson, I was brought close to an attack of nausea by the scent of the lemon polish one of the maids had just applied to the French cabinets. Afterward, I went about the house, abstracted, with the weight of suspicion on my mind.

I felt the telltale ache, the twinges in my lower back that I expected, but days slipped by, uneventfully. Dismayed, and with a burgeoning panic, I counted days again and again, hoping I'd made a mistake, but the usual thirty-five had passed, and then more, justifying my worry. Dr. Braxten had been definite that what I suspected couldn't happen, but it was quite apparent that he was wrong.

Imminent motherhood was a state I should have welcomed. Malcolm would welcome the news, but that did not change my own feelings, which were, for the most part, no longer contingent upon his. Pregnancy made me feel impervious to him, and to the rest of the world, which was, I suppose, how I got through that strange, homesick first year at Foxworth Hall. Now, I had none of that first-time fascination left to mask my true feelings. I should have to pretend delight;
I should have to endure the heightened regard people would suddenly have for me, which struck me as disingenuous.

I had accepted that I would have no more children, and so my feelings were mixed. I wanted to be happy, but happiness was always short-lived and not to be trusted. What could be trusted, however, was Dr. Braxten's word... or could it? If all went well, this would be the only blessing of the year, a Thanksgiving baby, born near the end of November-a gift to counteract the sorrow of losing my father.

That this wasn't the first time did not lessen my innate shyness about speaking of my condition. A week passed. There seemed no opportune moment in which to tell Malcolm. The boys were always present, and on the following Saturday, Matthew Allen and Anson Bromley lingered at the house for what seemed the entire evening, even staying to dinner. They talked of getting a weekly poker game together.

Finally, after the boys were asleep, I ventured into the trophy room, something I tried never to do. Malcolm disliked being disturbed there, and he'd retreated there because he hadn't had a moment to himself, all day. He was sprawled across the couch, and didn't move when I knocked and opened the door.

"I want a word with you." I said, not wanting to go farther than the doorway, but I crossed to a rocking chair, enjoying the luxurious feel of the fur rug under my bare feet. The rug was the only enjoyable thing about that room, for the trophy room, despite its spaciousness and the glow from the fireplace and one pewter bridge lamp, seemed oppressive. The black velvet curtains were drawn, and I noticed that most of the ashtrays were filled. "I've seen the doctor."

Malcolm poured himself a drink, and took on a self-satisfied expression, pleased with himself and proud of what he viewed as his own accomplishment.

"You shall have a daughter this time." he stated with a disquieting certainty.

I knew better than to try and reason with him.

Surmising Malcolm's reaction to any of Dr. Braxten's edicts, I disliked speaking of such things as I had to bring up next.

"There's something else," I said hesitantly, leaning forward. "Malcolm, there's to be no-" I twisted my ring, then tucked my hands into the folds of my skirt to end that nervous habit. "no physical stresses which would... endanger the pregnancy."

His expression soured, once he understood my meaning.

"But not until you're further on."

"No, he definitely warned that these first months... Malcolm, this is entirely different from before. You know what Braxten said-"

"Naturally."

"Naturally WHAT?" I asked, incensed. "This wasn't designed merely to inconvenience you."

I rose, and hastened to the door, before he could tell me to calm down.

"You do want this child born healthy, I presume?" I didn't wait for his affirmative answer. "Well, do try to keep that in mind."

Twice, Malcolm asked after my health, the only indication he gave that made me think he'd taken Dr. Braxten's concerns seriously. My appetite was good, and I experienced no sickness. But Malcolm, his grudge and mistrust of the man intact, insisted on engaging another, younger doctor to see me through my term.

When I expressed doubts of my own, Malcolm shrugged them off.

"I almost lost Joel, and-"

"But you didn't. You'll come through it, as you did before."

"I just wish you wouldn't tell anyone, right away."

"Nothing is going to go wrong." he said, dismissing my concerns.

Malcolm's interest in the details would wane as the months passed, just as it had when I carried the boys. During my first pregnancy, I tried to talk to him about it, but he kept himself distant. This was not unusual; men were not interested in such matters, but I had no one else to talk to, and it was, after all, Malcolm's child.

The knowledge that he would soon be a father had not made any impression upon Malcolm then, but I thought I'd seen the wonder of that reality dawning, for the briefest minute. Perhaps he'd been thinking of all the plans he had. His child would be spectacularly different from any other.

Tentatively, I'd taken heart at the momentary interest, but Malcolm's ideas were so firmly set and so specific, when he spoke of his son, that I was troubled. I thought back to that time, remembering it with wistfulness for a chance at making a better beginning, for that transition time, when I must have made some mistake. I wish I had known how to share the secretive, happy feeling of the baby's movements-of discovering something extraordinary-and surely, one's first child should be thought of as extraordinary.

"It's a natural process, Olivia. I don't see what there is to be amazed by, in that." he had said. It was all "sentimental nonsense," and so he retreated into a world his mind could grasp, the safe world of business, of numbers and the wealth they represented.

I did not expect any difference now, although occasionally, he talked about our daughter as if he knew what she would be like, and despite my misgivings,
I suppose I began to think along the same lines.

I might call her Ellie, or Clarisse; I would know what was right, once I saw her. I dreamt of a little girl with auburn hair and azure blue eyes. She would be the perfect combination of our best qualities-a beautiful child, and more than just beautiful, she would be everything I hoped a daughter of mine would be. And yet, knowing the lack of patience and tolerance Malcolm displayed toward our boys, especially Joel, I did not feel altogether happy about bringing another child into our family.

Malcolm created things for a purpose, and once they were in being and serving that purpose, his concern with it diminished. Children were no exception. His interest would last for the first few weeks after the birth, and whenever the opportunity arose to show off his child to those whom might be impressed. He used to carry Mal around, like some prized trophy he owned, not seeing Mal as a small person with a unique personality, separate from his own identity and ambitions.

Despite all that I envisioned, I didn't want the new baby as I thought I should. I felt almost no connection to the intruder in my body and in my life.

I don't know why, at twenty-eight, I suddenly became so weary of my life. This manifested as physical exhaustion, my only awareness that there was a deeper problem.

Malcolm sometimes asked how I had spent my day, and it was a query I grew to dread, for I could not answer truthfully. After breakfast, once he left for work, I'd leave the boys in the care of Mary Stuart, and retreat to my room, emerging again fully dressed and with hair arranged, shortly before five o'clock, when Malcolm was due home. Before that hour, I slept a great deal, or simply lay on my bed, looking at the leaves carved into the cherry posts, or up at the satin canopy above, and I could not have said what my thoughts were. With all this inactivity, I still felt perpetually tired.

I didn't have the energy for another infant; I still had one. Joel, at nine months, was just beginning to crawl. He was still sickly. He rarely slept through the night, and I was just beginning to recover from the sleep deprivation of his first few months.

At four o'clock one morning, I sat rocking Joel, trying to quiet him, to get him to settle. Malcolm bustled through the door, strode across the nursery, and peered coldly down at me. He looked disheveled and tired, as did I, sitting there in my nightgown, with tangled hair.

"When does he sleep?" he asked, his voice raspy and desperate. I expected a tirade, and I knew I could not endure it.

"I don't know! When do I sleep?"

I stood up shakily, trying to suppress tears that were always so near the surface, ready to spill over. I put Joel into Malcolm's arms and fled the nursery.
I rushed down the stairs and across the foyer to the darkened, airless parlor. Going to the window, I hooked my finger through the iron ring on the wooden frame, and pulled the latch to let the window swing inward. A breeze rang the minor notes from the wind chimes, and ruffled my hair as I stared out into the sweet-smelling spring night, and tried to get hold of myself.

All kinds of fears that I'd been trying to suppress rose up in my mind. What if the new baby was born with some defect, something more severe than Joel's frailty-which wasn't even a handicap? If Malcolm had such a problem caring for Joel, how could I hope for a better reaction this time, especially if the baby wasn't Malcolm's idea of perfection?-and God forbid, if it wasn't a girl?

I was not one of those women who enjoys pregnancy. This would have been true even if I'd had friends and family to pamper me. I knew I would spend the long winter days ahead battling uncontrollable emotions that must be subdued and hidden, sudden unexplainable bouts of anger and tears. It was easier to ascribe this to the turbulent emotional state of impending motherhood, than to recognize it as symptoms of any other unhappiness.

When my body grew awkward to live in-heavy and burdened, I would feel restless, inconsolable in my changes, the whole ordeal seeming to last forever. It was not the rainbow world of my fantasies. Reality seldom was as bright, but soon enough would come the months of serene acceptance, and when the baby came, I would love it, free of blame for the pain it had already inflicted in its brief existence. It was this certainty that I must cling to.

Joel had ceased whimpering and was finally asleep when I, somewhat less distraught, went back upstairs.

"I am sorry," I said quickly, before Malcolm spoke. "I shouldn't have..." Excuses were pointless. Malcolm should not have been disturbed. "How did you get him to sleep?"

"By giving him some gin." he muttered. "What do you think, Olivia? I've been walking."

It seemed I had been humming and walking with Joel for hours, to no avail!

"Do you think," Malcolm said softly, glowering fiercely, "you could take this baby of yours, now?"

I wrapped Joel in a blanket and laid him in his crib, relieved that he did not wake at the sound of our voices.

All was quiet, but for the clicking sounds as the wind stirred the wooden animals on the mobile suspended above Joel's bed.

"It wasn't like this, with Mal." Malcolm grumbled as he left the room.

After my uncharacteristic reaction, I doubted that I would see Malcolm in the nursery at that hour ever again. He did not speak of it, and I was quite embarrassed,
and determined that such an outburst should never again occur.

Several times, I took my mother's diary from one of the pigeonholes of the escritoire in the salon, and paged through it in a daze of indecision. I read and reread her notes, the instructions and recipes she'd left. There were cryptically worded treatises on herbal remedies for all sorts of conditions and ailments. The one I kept going back to instructed one how to deal with "delayed" courses, if there was "the usual reason for concern."

As I surveyed the stock available on the drugstore shelves, I felt insufficiently informed to be making such a choice. There was already a jar of alum in my medicine cabinet, and such things as tansy, blue cohosh and cotton root were suggested in my mother's pages, but not to be taken in combination. The labels on the small opaque bottles weren't helpful, and I knew I must find another solution.

One afternoon during the boys' nap time, I went for a long walk, ostensibly, I told myself, to see if Olsen had trimmed the boundary hedges, but my true purpose was to search for some of the plants mentioned in her book. Once, I thought I'd found what I would need, and knelt on the ground, mesmerized by the power of possibility, gazing for long moments at the flowering plants. I did not have to be powerless... But I straightened, smoothed and dusted off my skirt, and made my way back to the house, empty-handed.

My emotions and my resolve were in a state of constant vacillation. For days I would eat well, just as I ought to, and on others I starved myself, fury simmering inside me, as Malcolm's child flourished, seemingly healthy. Malcolm's selfishness had put me in this position, making me terribly fearful after Dr. Braxten's veiled warnings.

Sometimes I felt ashamed; how could I not want this baby? Mal and Joel were the only source of joy in that gloomy house that confined and comprised my world.
I loved them dearly. I marveled every day that they were mine, that together, Malcolm and I-amid all of our unhappiness-could have created anything as precious and different from ourselves as the boys were... but that didn't mean we needed a third child.

I was amazed by my sons' resilience, amazed that they could adapt and thrive in our tumultuous atmosphere. Malcolm's frequent indifference to them made me love them more, and made me more protective than I might otherwise have been, especially of Joel. They amused and fascinated me with what they could do, and how rapidly they learned.

Even at the age of three, Mal had a quick intelligence and an analytical mind, as he learned his numbers and letters, and struggled to put puzzle pieces in the proper places. (He even began to pick up a few German phrases from Mrs. Steiner, though Malcolm frowned upon this.) Joel struggled to stay healthy and had to be coaxed to eat, but I was convinced he would improve. My time was consumed with the two of them, watching them play, teaching them and caring for them. They were enough; my life was complete.

I waited for the clear conscience that doesn't come easily-or perhaps never comes-in such situations as mine. I searched for the reserves of courage that I knew I had, the courage which would let me dare to use the knowledge of the plants I had learned. My mother had left that knowledge to me, trusting that I would have gained the wisdom to be my own adviser. But I continued in a state of indecision, and nature took her course.