August 23
Katrina,
The morning is bright, here at The Oak, and I am feeling strong this morning, more at peace, and I’m thinking that perhaps I have enough hope inside now to forgive those who have hurt me. Do you think, Sister, that all actions are deserving of forgiveness? All?
I remember the way George appeared that day, standing on the platform upon his return from the war, although the war had been over for some time. The trials of war had worn on him, his eyes having dimmed, his face having aged from the youthful boy that boarded the train to leave for war into a face that reflected the horrors the war had shown him. He seemed tired, tired in a manner that wasn’t the result of a long travel home. I should think that your son, named for his father, upon his return from a different war had the same expression upon his face.
That was the first time he had ever held me, hugging me tightly but saying nothing there on the platform. It was as if he were holding on to safety, holding on for dear life to something better in his future than what he had left behind. It was a moment that seemed to last forever and simultaneously vanish into the past as immediately as it had arrived.
As the driver drove us back to The Oak, George, almost immediately, began talking of plans for our wedding, our honeymoon, of the future. I was so excited, more excited than I had ever been about anything in my life up to that point, and I was relieved to see a familiar light in George’s eyes when he, too, spoke with excitement about the impending wedding.
George returned to the facilities where he had resided with the other farm workers that day because no job should be lost for time off to serve one’s country. Father taught us that. Sadly, George had no other place to go since he had no family to speak of and his military income had been minimal and, he said, regrettably, its entirety spent on his upkeep and travels home. I was told by George that the other workers welcomed him back warmly, many of them older than George and having served in the military themselves. Oddly, the head worker tried to meet with me a few days later, messaging that he needed to discuss George. I didn’t listen, thinking gossip inappropriate and disrespectful to George. George had plans, and that was all I needed to know.
It was several weeks before George was able to open up about his experiences in the war, the blood he had seen, the blood he had shed, a powerful guilt coming over his face that shadowed humanity with regret. He spoke of guns and tanks and corpses littering the ground like crumpled up pieces of paper that someone had simply tossed out as if they were worthless. He spoke of the terror of canons in the night and the nightmares that follow; the fear to sleep; the fear to breathe too loudly or cough, lest a location be given away and certain death to follow; of how cold the human heart can learn to react when faced with unmentionable darkness. He had never mentioned any of it in the few letters he wrote to me, mostly keeping a positive outlook in words as if nothing were wrong.
For days, it seemed that the war was all he could speak of; and I let him talk, hoping that it could somehow be talked out of his system, as if the horrors could be lost to time like a forgotten nightmare if he only told of all he had experienced. It was then that I realized that George was capable of stepping into Father’s shoes and running Father’s business affairs since Father was no longer here to do so, and I suggested such to George. I had been sitting in for Father since his death, but was somewhat bored with the details of daily business dealings. George thought the idea splendid, but admitted to there being much he would need to learn. He still maintained the dream of owning a farm of his own someday, not wanting to be seen as relying solely on Father’s money.
Since the war had removed any desire George may have had for world travel, we had decided to honeymoon by traveling across the country. Sister, we planned to see all the wonders, the canyons and mountains, the ocean, great waterfalls, and places of historic interest. We planned to travel by train and be away from The Oak for approximately a year. Father had built The Oak to be able to essentially care for itself, everyone here knowing their responsibilities and seemingly happy to help The Oak each day. So being away for a year didn’t seem like much of a struggle. General business transactions could be dealt with regularly from afar.
The days leading up the wedding were filled with a blend of excitement and dread. The dress was prepared, a gown of white that must have weighed fifty pounds with an outer garment of silk that seemed to shimmer like starlight. I felt like a princess in that dress, even during the fittings. The gown was smooth, since I had never had as much of a fondness for lace as you had had. George and I continued to make travel plans for the honeymoon, making certain to cover all of the details such as the order in which locations would be visited, how long we would be there, and where we would stay. I had traveled enough in my lifetime to know that I needed to take an appropriate amount of money, but wasn’t certain how much would be needed for such an extensive trip. We were to stay at some of the best hotels and dine at the most famous of restaurants in the most popular cities. Finally, after many suggestions to George that were deemed insufficient, we settled on an amount of ten thousand dollars that we would take with us. I missed Mother and Father and was saddened that they wouldn’t see me wed. You, with two young children and your husband recovering from a bout of pneumonia, were unable to travel, and my heart broke knowing that you, my Sister, would be absent from this important day.
Then, there was Betsy. Betsy had been greatly saddened by Mother’s passing as if she had witnessed the end of an era with both Mother and Father gone. Betsy tried her best to be something of a mother to me, advising, comforting. Betsy was a beautiful soul. But, when it came to George, Betsy would not be quiet. She did not like George, and made certain that I knew that she did not approve of this union and that neither would Mother nor Father have approved. She never was able to point out exactly what it was that she didn’t like about George--just an instinct--so I paid her no mind and hoped that the three of us could live peacefully in this house.
The day of the wedding was beautiful. I had planned the wedding of my dreams; a wedding in the grand entranceway with a shimmering dress to wear as I descended the steps toward my husband-to-be; a wedding of white roses and white candles with golden candlelight that would shimmer against the walls and flicker to the rhythm of my heart as a twelve-piece played. The chairs for the guests were to be draped in white, as they had been at your wedding, and facing the strength of that front door, the entranceway to my future. The cake was to be tiers of white cake with snow white frosting, with white roses of frosting adorning its sides. Golden servers had been chosen to cut the cake, golden to reflect the candlelight. And, as at your wedding, I hoped that The Oak would bless George and I with her good fortune, her strength and endurance.
The morning of the wedding, a Saturday it was, the preacher spoke to me about new beginnings, about a wife leaving her earlier life behind to begin a new life with her husband, and he blessed the union although George was not with me when the blessing was received. The preacher, you know the one, Sister, who has known us since birth, asked of you and wished you and your family well. I don’t think I ever told you that. Betsy came in my room and prepared my hair, pulling it upward as she attached the veil. Memories of your wedding and photographs of Mother and Father’s wedding day kept flooding back to me that day.
As I stepped into my wedding gown, I exhaled an earlier life of childlike fantasy and hopeful dreams and inhaled a new reality. I was to be a wife, George’s wife, and, hopefully, one day a mother just like my own.
About an hour before the ceremony was to begin, I had already dressed, anxious and excited to begin my new life. I was quite surprised when George, who must have followed one of the house staff, popped in to my room. Other than the one time when he was in the kitchen with Father, I don’t think he was ever inside The Oak. But, in walked a member of the house staff and then ran in George. Although I was completely dressed, I ran behind the dressing screen, having heard that it was bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding. But, George, muttering and heard pacing on the other side of the dressing screen, said that he was anxious as well and could not figure out what to do with himself. Through the screen, we spoke of all the plans we had made, going over all the details, laughing. It was then I who suggested to him that he could spend some of the anxious time loading the car, preparing it for travel.
From the window, I watched guests arrive, top hats and long gowns walking up to the house from their cars. And, then, the time arrived. Betsy came in to the room and told me that we would walk to the end of the hall and wait until the music began playing before walking into view of all the guests at the top of the grand staircase. Although she did not like George, she wished me luck and wished me well. We walked to the end of the hall and waited and waited, but the guests grew restless and the music never played, and George was gone as was Father’s car and the ten thousand dollars that I had placed in my traveling trunk, as George and I had discussed during our planning, for safe keeping.
George had already had about an hour head start before anyone realized he was gone, and it was then that I realized that I had unknowingly already begun my new life. I knew at the very moment that Betsy and the preacher told me George was gone that I would never marry, that my young heart of twenty-one would grow old as cold and alone as it felt at that very moment.
Betsy, being the wonderful soul that she was, explained to the guests that there would be no wedding, although she provided them with no formal reason why. It wasn’t long, however, before rumors began about town about George leaving and the reasons why.
After the guests departed, I sat there for the rest of the day on the grand staircase looking about the room at a dream turned bad, soured like milk that had been out to long. But, there were no tears, only emptiness as I seemed to feel my heart harden within as hours passed, the light of my soul dimming with each echoing tick of the clock.
The cake and the food prepared for the reception were eaten by the house staff and farm workers. The tent where the reception was to be held was taken down immediately and the house removed of its wedding décor. And, I awoke the next morning a different woman in a war of my own.
It was only then that I sought out the head farm worker, asking him what it had been that he had wanted to tell me. He explained that he wasn’t certain that it was his place but that there had been talk in those early days of George’s return that George had been discharged from the war early, and that George had returned to this country and traveled, gambling away his military earnings until he had no place else to return except for The Oak. And, then there had been the rumors, he said, that George had planned this far in advance; winning the hand of an heiress; easy money swindled from a desperate heart.
Years later, I had heard a rumor from one of the farm workers that George had been killed, shot to death when he was caught cheating at cards. The report was never confirmed, and I cared not to investigate the matter.
If only I had listened, paid attention, none of this ever would have happened. Perhaps George is not the one who needs forgiving. Perhaps, after all these years, it is myself I have been angry at for not keeping my eyes open, for allowing it all to happen.
Do all acts deserve forgiveness, Sister? Do they?
Always,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
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