“And then a few minutes after I met him, I went to the courthouse and married him.”
For a second Libby says nothing.
“Did he make you do this?” she asks a moment later, with obvious alarm.
“No. He didn’t make me, he asked me. In a letter, a few weeks before. And I said yes.”
“But... but you had never met him!”
“No. Not in person.”
“Good gracious! Why would you do that?”
The kettle starts to whistle and I turn off the flame. As I make the tea and then carry it to the little table, I tell her the barest minimum about having immigrated to America. I tell her about the horrible job and tenement in New York, and that I had seen Martin’s advertisement and had been very keen on having a new life and a child, because doctors in Belfast had told me I’d never have children of my own. As we begin to sip from our cups and share the little cakes with the children, I tell Libby that Martin has his own list of woes, with a tragic upbringing, in-laws who did not approve of him, and a sick wife whose wasting disease had stolen her from him and left him a widower with a five-year-old daughter.
“One of my brothers was already here in America when Icame. Mason had written me that there were jobs in New York. But I had only been in Manhattan for four months when Mason fell in love with a woman from Montreal, and he moved to Canada to marry her. I thought maybe he would ask me to come with him, so that maybe I could rent a little corner of his home with his new wife, but he didn’t ask. I had to find my own place. It wasn’t the best situation. It was awful. And then one day, I read Martin’s advertisement. I answered it.”
“I’ll be damned,” Libby murmurs, and then quickly adds, “Beg your pardon. I just... I’ve never heard such a story.”
I smile lightly. “Nor I.”
Libby fingers the delicate handle on her teacup, her brows knitted. Then she looks up. “So. Is Martin... kind to you?”
I know what she means. It’s the language of women, I suppose.
“He’s been a gentleman. In every sense of the word.”
Libby can tell my answer means something different than what those simple words suggest.
“Are you saying the two of you haven’t...” Her voice drops away as her face flushes.
“We both feel strongly now is not the time for that,” I say, which is not exactly the truth. I don’t know what Martin would have done if I’d said nothing about wanting my own bed in my own room, but I barrel on. “I think he still misses his first wife. She was sick for a long while, but she’s only been gone five months.”
“Yes, but... but then why did he marry again? Why did he not just hire a nanny for the child, if that’s all he wants?”
“It’s not all he wants. He needs to maintain his image and how potential clients look at him and his employer. He needs to look successful, not tragic. He told me people purchase insurance incase something terrible happens, but they don’t want to see the evidence that it can. He needed to look fortunate. Smiled on by Providence. So he needed a wife.”
Libby ponders this for a moment. I can tell there is so much more she wants to ask me, but it’s highly improper, I’m supposing, to discuss what we’re discussing. In front of children, no less. She takes another long and thoughtful sip of her tea and then sets the cup back on its saucer. She glances down at Kat and then back at me. “The child’s not said a word the whole time I’ve been here,” she whispers.
I know Kat surely heard the softly spoken remark.
“Kat may be quiet, but she’s also smart and strong and brave, and she misses her mother very much. I know she is thinking about what she wants to say, and when she’s ready, she’ll say it.”
Clarity falls across Libby’s face as she realizes those words were for Kat’s ears. She looks from Kat to me with a mix of chagrin and a bit of admiration.
“She’s very lucky to have you,” Libby says.
“As I am lucky to have her.”
Timmy, tiring of the pots and pans, toddles now toward the pantry.
“Well! We’d best be off. He’ll be needing a nap.” Libby gets up out of her chair to fetch her little boy, and I can’t help but think she is ready to go home for other reasons. I am not like Libby’s former neighbor, the doctor’s wife. Not by any stretch. Libby and I are not the same kind of wife and mother.
“Must you go?” I ask.
“We’ve outstayed our welcome, surely.” Libby scoops up her son. “And he truly does need his naptime.”
We begin to make our way out of the kitchen, Kat following.“I’m so glad you came,” I say, in a bright-toned attempt to recapture the hopes I’d had for our meeting. “And thank you for the sweets.”
