Marguerite

Words by Pippa Brush Chappell

Art by Kaci Ellison

It is mid-afternoon.  For the first time this year, the seventh year of her marriage, Frances notices the shadows lengthen across the lawn and the light fade around her.  It is becoming chilly, too, and she pulls her shawl more tightly around her.  Through the tall window, there is a definite suspicion of autumn in the sky and she notices the first unraked leaves on the lawn. She turns her gaze inwards, returns her attention to the embroidery in her lap. It does not interest her particularly, but she is determined to finish it before her mother’s next visit. The boys are in the nursery. And Matthew is in his study.   

She contemplates ringing the bell and requesting tea, but is deterred by the prospect of watching Tilly, the newest addition to the staff, stumble once more as she enters the room and blush deep crimson with each word—although there are so few—that she would be obliged to utter. Frances aches at the poor girl’s discomfort, wonders whatever possessed Matthew to hire her, and wonders how long it will take before she finds her feet, finds her voice.   

A door must have opened elsewhere in the house, as a sudden wave of distant voices breaks over her. The boys? A door closes, and she is left with the stillness and the quiet tide of time, the tick of the clock, the gentle swing, back and forth, of its pendulum. She smoothes her embroidery flat, finds the needle with its sea-blue thread, then sighs and places both quietly and carefully on the table beside her.   

Frances is almost certain of the new life inside her, but not sure enough to share the news with her husband. Matthew prefers clarity, the certain knowledge of the good that is to come, eschews speculation. He is rational, measured, sober. He will be glad, of that she is sure, and will love her for this next precious blessing—and will love the child. Perhaps a girl, she permits herself to wish. Then instantly retracts her recklessness and promises—herself? God? the child?—that all she desires is its safe delivery and a healthy infancy. Nights spent at her boys’ bedsides, pressing cool cloths to fiery skin, have taught her the value of not asking for too much.   

The bell at the front door breaks in to her memories, her expectations, and she listens to the footsteps, the creak of the hinges, the voices—too muffled to be distinct—of Tilly, poor dear, and the visitor on the step. The door closes, and the house is quiet again. No footsteps. No knock at her door, no stumbling Tilly balancing a card on the tray. She had hoped to herself that it might be her sister, someone in whom to confide her condition, but thinks now that perhaps it is a visitor for Matthew. He will not appreciate being disturbed in his study, and certainly not this late in the afternoon, but she rests assured in the knowledge of his endless careful politeness. Manners maketh the man.   

In the gathering dusk, Frances starts as the door opens without the customary knock. As she looks up, expecting to chide Tilly—gently though, poor thing—for her sudden entrance, Matthew surges in, borne on a tide of unfamiliar excitement. He rushes in, and he is smiling. Her breath catches—does he know? She had thought it all well-hidden, but he has the same pride in his eyes as when she had presented him with their darling Thomas, little Tom, now sturdy, tall for his age and strong. She permits herself a smile, her cheeks color just a little, and she rises to meet him, feeling as she does the press of her stays against her sides.   

“My dear.” His face is rapturous, lit from within. He strides to the bell and rings it vigorously. “We must have light, my dear. You are sitting here in the dark. Tilly!”  

Her husband is shouting, bellowing for the maid to come and light the lamps. Frances moves towards him, places her hand gently on the rough arm of his jacket. Looks carefully into his face. 

“Matthew, my dear. What can be the matter? Come, sit down with me.” 

“Tilly!” he roars. “Where the devil can she be?” He sticks his head around the door, peering into the hallway. "Tilly!" Frances’s face is like the moon, round and white and worried. The tide of her concern breaks over him gently. He grasps her hand, pulls her to him, holds her for a moment in his arms.  His whiskers brush her cheek as he kisses her face, and she realizes that he is holding something hard in his hand. He has been reading, clearly.   

Tilly falls over the threshold of the room, regaining her balance in enough time to blush and stammer something neither of them can interpret. Frances and Matthew move apart, Frances lowering her head and joining Tilly in her blushes. How unfortunate to have been disturbed in their embrace.   

“The lights, Tilly. It is like the grave in here.” Matthew watches, almost hopping from foot to foot, as the young girl fumbles with the lights, then dismisses her with a wave of his hand and a generous smile. He is a kind employer, Frances acknowledges silently, even if he does choose those with the most to learn.   

With Tilly gone, Matthew guides Frances back to her chair, gently seating her there and kneeling at her feet. He knows, she thinks. He does know. How clever of him. How pleased he must be. She allows herself a thrill of anticipation at the thought of the conversation to come, the months ahead, her confinement, their shared joy at the little girl ... no, the blessing, the healthy child. He takes her hand and, as the joy in her heart seems to threaten to break forth upon her lips, he lays in her lap a book. 

“My dear,” he breathes. “My book. My poems. The publisher’s boy just delivered this." He nods at her, then gazes, beaming, at the book resting on her skirts. "It is here!” 

Frances looks at her husband. His eyes are shining in the newly-lit room, his lips parted as if to kiss her, his breath held, his hands resting on either side of the volume in her lap. He does not know. She breathes in, as if for them both, and takes the book in her hands.  The leather cover is cool and smooth beneath her fingers. The embossed lettering on the front—his name, her husband’s name, and simply Poems—is exquisite. She had not known.   

“What a wonderful surprise,” she ventures, unsure of what else she can say. Her disappointment rests heavy on her tongue and she has to put aside the news she had planned to share with him before she could find the words he so clearly desires her to say. 

Frances opens the cover. The flyleaf is simple, elegant. The publisher has done all credit to what she is sure will be her husband’s beautiful words. She could not have imagined him as a poet, has never read his work, but she trusts him enough to believe in his genius. 

She smiles again, reassuring him, and turns the page.  Her eyes, accustomed now to this new light, dwell on the poems’ titles.  They are much as she might have expected, had she been expecting any such thing. Ideas, ideals, intellect. How she loves him for it, for all that he reminds her that it separates him from her.  She reads on. 

To Marguerite

WE were apart: yet day by day,

I bade my heart more constant be;

I bade it keep the world away,

And grow a home for only thee:

Nor fear'd but thy love likewise grew,

Like mine, each day more tried, more true.

The room darkens around her, all light pooling on the page in her lap. To Marguerite. She feels the tightness of her dress around her waist, the pull of the collar at her throat. Her hands burn on the page, and her cheeks redden. Marguerite. Thy love ... Like mine ... more tried, more true. 

“My darling Frances,” he begins. “My darling.” She cannot look at him. She cannot raise her head to meet his expectant eyes. “Are you pleased?”  He takes her waist in his hands. "Are you proud of your husband?"

With all that is within her, her heart, the scrap of new life, the promise it offers, she pulls back the tide that threatens to break upon her cheeks. She closes the book, smoothes over the cover with her hand, and returns it to him.  

“It is a beautiful book. How very clever you are, my dear.”   

He lowers his head, kissing the hands she has now folded in her lap, resting his cheek against her fingers.  Frances gazes, unseeing, at the thinning hair on the back of his head. She raises her head enough, just enough, that the hot salt tears do not fall upon his proffered devotion, but slide down her face where she can hide them on her tongue. 

A God, a God their severance rul’d  

And bade betwixt their shores to be  

The unplumb’d, salt, estranging sea. 

"My dear."  She summons all her strength. The decision is made. "It is a very beautiful book. You have been very clever." She places her hands on his shoulders, rests them there. And the tide of her resolve smooths over the steps it appears he has taken without her.

About the author

Pippa Brush Chappell is a writing coach, teacher and fiction editor living in the UK. Her short fiction has been published in print and online, and she has a particular love for historical fiction and the worlds it allows us to explore. Her novel-in-progress is set in the latter half of the seventeenth century, exploring the life of a radical Quaker prophet who believes she speaks with the voice of God.  

About the illustrator

Kaci Ellison, a mother of two children from rural Western Kentucky, lives in a log home on 10 acres of forest. The homestead is also home to bunnies, chickens, a cat, and a dog. An art major from Murray State University, she works as a home designer for Champion Homes. Her hobbies include gardening, illustrating, hunting, fishing, running, and watching her children play sports.

Kaci Ellison is enchanted by nature. She loves bird watching. Sunrises and sunsets remind her everyday is a new beginning. Kaci is passionate believer in God. She believes everyday kindness is the lifeblood of our own happiness.