Chapter 15 – February 1910 – Comforted by the fact that you know you tried
She insisted they have a proper dinner as a family every night from now on. They were going to sit nicely and talk about their day and play cards. Maybe they could even save up for a piano, and Abigail would play for them. And what about that car Noah had mentioned a while back – was that something they were still considering? Wouldn't it be lovely to be able to take a day trip together? Had she mentioned that the Weisses had gone to that exhibition in Calgary last summer? That sounded fun.
Noah, who had been silent throughout this frenzied thought process, finally blinked in confusion. "Calgary isn't a day trip."
"No, I know that, I just meant it's another option for something to do together. You would like that, wouldn't you, Peter?"
"Um, I guess," he said, looking a touch frightened of her.
A heap of mashed potatoes was served to each of them in determined scoops, and Abigail expressed a vocal appreciation for every part of the meal, even though she had made it herself. When they said grace, she squeezed Noah's hand, trying to wring some kind of emotion from it.
"Well?" she pushed forward with an expectant stare. "Tell me about your day."
Noah shook his head. "Uh, well, it was… it was a day." He turned his palms out to his son, begging for assistance.
"It was a day. It was a good day. You know…" Peter trailed off, nudging a pile of turnip bits around his plate. A thought brightened his face. "But why don't you tell us about your day, Mom?"
Abigail mustered a small smile at the attempt. "It was good," she said softly. She called back the reserves of energy she had been erratically expending before and pulled her mind through the conversation, making something up about a knitting project she hadn't touched since last month and mumbling about railroad expansion.
"And Gowen paid you for that coat, right?" Noah said.
Her shoulders tensed at the name. It had been less than a day and she already felt she might be sick if she had to keep doing this in front of them.
"Hm?"
"Gowen. He was back in his blue coat today. Peter said you sewed it for him," he gestured with his fork.
"Oh, yes, I was about to mention that."
"But he gave you money? I don't want him thinking he doesn't have to do proper business just because he's a big shot around here."
"I thought you liked him," she said, a little defensive.
"I do, and there are times he can be generous, but there are also times when he takes advantage of people, and I don't want you to be one of them. You're always walking around with your heart on your sleeve."
An involuntary sound escaped her, though she couldn't have said if it was a laugh or a sob.
"Well, you don't have to worry," she said, tearing at the bread in her hand. "He paid for the coat."
The men had scarfed down their meal and were now tapping their feet and letting their eyes travel the house as though some fascinating object they had never seen might suddenly appear in a corner. She sighed.
"You can be excused."
She stood and took Noah's plate. "We'll try cards another night," she muttered under her breath, letting it fall with a clatter into the basin. Bitterness gurgled up in her throat while she listened to the jostle of the chairs, the wary footsteps and murmurs fading into the stairway, forces she could not control. When the noises disappeared entirely, her shoulders slumped forward and her eyes fell closed. Holding herself up on the counter, she sighed heavily.
She already missed him.
The footsteps returned and descended on her again – Noah with a book, or Peter looking for something to write with – it didn't matter. This had been a ridiculous idea. Her family was not going to become something it wasn't just because she was trying to reshape it with the hammer of her guilt. It was her penitence that was needed, not theirs; it was her heart that was stained with infidelity, not Noah's. It made no difference at all what she would have preferred or what she wanted him to be – he was her husband, and she was his wife, and they would remain united, in life and in death.
The chairs scraped behind her again, followed by a tap, tap – everything rewinding. With a harsh sniffle, she turned back to the table. Noah was there, shuffling a deck of cards. He slid the pile down and Peter cut the top.
"What game were you thinking?" he said, gathering the cards back against his chest.
ooo
The dull weight inside of her was still there when she awoke, the heaviness matching her swollen eyes. She'd stared at the ceiling most of the night, tears slipping sideways onto her ears and into her hair. Sometimes she would clear them away, but mostly she let them sit, letting the wet droplets that soaked her pillow demonstrate to her how preposterous it all was. All of this… stuff, this infatuation with Henry – it was temporary, a novelty. It would go away. It was a stupid indulgence, the product of too many romance novels and too much gossip.
"You feelin' alright, sweetheart?"
Noah cocked his head at her from the doorway of the bedroom. Thoughts from her sleepless night had already been roiling again in her mind while the rest of her slowly roused itself, and she hadn't noticed he was no longer beside her. She blinked at him.
"What time is it?"
"Little past five."
Calloused hands did up his buttons, that dark flash of hair falling into his face as he watched their progress. Sympathy welled up inside her, and it felt like loss.
"Come here."
He answered her outstretched arms, forcing the edge of the mattress down under his weight. She draped herself around him and pushed her weary body up, driven by remorse if nothing else. Darting her tongue over her pouty lips, she offered herself to her husband, her body begging him to win this battle for her soul. But his kisses were cursory, unresponsive to the passion she was working to invite.
"Abigail, I said it's past five. I've got to get ready."
"Don't you have a little time?" she pleaded, keeping her mouth pressed to his as he fought her. He reached back and pulled her arms down from his neck, placing them back on the bed. Defeated, she averted her eyes.
"Hey," he said, chasing her, "What's gotten into you?"
"Do I need a reason to want to kiss my husband?"
"No, but I'd like a reason for all this up and down you've had going on since last night."
"I just want us to spend time together, Noah. I want us to be okay," she pleaded.
Noah blinked. His body retreated with a halting caution, his blue eyes clouding with injury.
"…I didn't know we weren't okay."
She shook her head and parted her lips, trying to find something different – a denial, a comfort – but nothing came out. She had no other words to explain it to him, not that she could say out loud. The pause continued to stretch like a chasm between them.
They never did this, she realized. They never just stopped and tried to understand what the other was feeling. If they tried, they might have to admit to themselves that they already knew.
The mattress heaved with his withdrawal. Her stomach dropped.
"Noah…"
He readjusted his shirt and grabbed a watch off the nightstand, but didn't put it on. His fingers toyed with it, searching for a memory. "I'll let Peter know you're not feeling well. We can manage for breakfast."
"No, please, I'm fine. I can make something for you."
The cold floor stung her feet. Noah stood motionless in the middle of the room as she neared, padding over the creaking boards. Wrapping her arms around him, she brought her head to rest on his back. At their respective heights, she only reached the middle of his shoulders, but it had always seemed to her like the perfect spot. There was no reaction there now, nothing to envelop her. The chill of a wounded Noah was not something that touched her often, but when it did, it ran through her bones. She pressed a hard kiss into his vest and disappeared down the stairs, tears threatening again.
ooo
In the back of the church, there was an open field. The winter had turned it brown and green, with white patches of lingering snow. Two stone benches faced each other across the wilting space. Abigail put a hand out to clear one, swiping the slush and leaves away and settling in her overcoat onto the chilled granite. It was here she made her confessions.
She did love her husband; she would not have married him if she didn't. But what she felt for Henry was also love. It was a deep affection and admiration… a contentment that was not complacent… a constant wanting that she had never felt for her husband. It was not a love that overwhelmed her in his presence, or stirred itself into the dramatic fervors of youth. No, in fact, from the very beginning, being with Henry had always felt utterly normal. The love – she had finally understood – was the sense of loss that grabbed hold of her heart when he left.
She could have pretended that this meant nothing – that it was only because she and Noah had never been kept apart that she didn't experience her marriage the same way. But she was also honest enough with herself to admit that it was this thought – the idea that she was being kept from Henry – that made her love for him so terrible.
Her head tilted back into the cold air, the sun offering no comfort from behind the clouds. Despite coming here to unburden her heart of its crime of infidelity, she craved his closeness even now. She found herself imagining that when she opened her eyes, Henry would be sitting across from her. What would she look like to him, right now?
With a derisive scoff, she answered herself: she would look like Peter Stanton's mother, and Noah Stanton's wife.
To have such thoughts about another man was not only a sin but an embarrassment. Who was she to dream of romance or trysts? To expect that someone as powerful as Henry Gowen would be willing to risk scandal for her? That he could feel any great passion for her at all? And the truth of it was, a man like Henry – if he had wanted to risk it – would have already done so. Men in his position have always taken whatever they want.
It was not a generous view, nor was it the most righteous reason to purge this absurd attachment from her mind, but in that moment, it was all that helped. Giving up the delusion that anything might ever come of it would temper her actions, and in time, that would give her control of her heart.
