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He still had bruises fading from his face when he said “I do.”
Whatever had happened had made Henry not only speak against the miserable war but cut his lovely golden hair short.
His hands were warm, and his voice strong, but there was always a shadow to his eyes. When they met, when they talked about the new home his family had gifted them, when they stood in the light of the marriage altar. Those shrewd eyes were dimmed.
“My dear,” He’d say, pouring the evening tea in his particular way. “How was your day?”
It was a nominal effort, more than many people could ask from their husbands of arrangement. She had to be thankful that he was neither a drunkard nor a scoundrel. She’d reply, with her recent cleaning efforts, the neighborly news, and she’d watch as he’d withdraw into his inner mind as her chatter eventually faded.
For the first year, they slept in the same bed but never touched beyond the courtly kiss he’d bestow onto her knuckles.
They’d say good morning and good night each day, never becoming closer than strangers that year.
She’d admired his perseverance to teaching the next generation and supported him in her own subtle way, with lunch boxes full of nutritious food and a small note of encouragement. Often, near finals and testing season Henry would stay at the school long after the sun had set. This didn’t bother her at all, he was not coming home smelling like anything other than the school’s cleaners and his own aftershave. His clothes were never marred with pink or red stains, only blue and black ink and graphite.
Then the nightmares started.
His hair had grown out enough to wear he could pull it back into a hair tie, but it was loose and frizzy as he passed through the door. His jacket was rumpled and his steps were heavy against the floor.
He passed straight to the bedroom, his clothes barely making it to the chair as he stripped down. She didn’t dare ask what had happened, staying silent as she shook out the fabric and hung each garment that needed to be aired out, and hampered the ones due for laundry.
A wet sniff pulled her attention away from his scuffed shoes, finding his face buried in the thin pillow on his side of the bed. Prone on the covers in only his boxers, she almost quipped that he was the very image of a distraught boy, but sobered with his aching sob.
“Henry…?”
“Good night,” he croaked, still suffocating himself in the cushion. “I do not feel well.”
Her hand, so close to touching his shoulder for a comforting rub, retreated to her bosom. Henry certainly wasn’t physically ill, but she let him be anyway, closing the door behind her.
To cover the sound of his sobs, for his own dignity, she turned on the radio to the classical station, drowning the sounds of sorrow with strings and woodwinds. In the melody, she poured herself a glass of spiced cider, wishing it were spirits.
She took her time in the bathroom readying for bed, minding her wet set with more precision than strictly necessary for a housewife and part-time librarian. Still, she spent the hour coiling strands of her hair into perfect coils and securing it with an X of hairpins. The scarf around her hair was fussed with and her nails filed to blunt almonds. She pulled a nightgown from the spare room turned drying room, careful not to disturb the art on her scalp.
Doors locked, windows secured, curtains drawn and coffee prepared to make in the morning, there was nothing else keeping her awake and out of bed. She could hear his soft snores in the darkness of the room.
She crept into her own side of the bed and laid down, hoping that a good night’s sleep would soothe his worries and pain in the heart.
~~
Kicking feet woke her, and Henry’s tossing head alarmed her. Nervous he’d thrash himself off the bed, she held his shoulders and shook him.
“It’s a nightmare Henry! Wake up… You’re safe here.”
She could barely make up the fluttering of his eyes opening but she could hear his voice well enough.
“Martha?”
It explained a few things about her husband if she was honest with herself.
A man in love with someone else, someone with no heart left to give, of course, he’d be so distant with his wife. A man who loved someone else would never try and initiate a kiss or physical relationship.
“Who?” was all the elegant answer she could give, and even in the scant light she could see the shimmer of tears track down his temple.
His face almost crumpled into a sob but then it melted away into an awful blankness as he turned his head away from her gaze.
“Martha is dead.”
She swallowed her own budding tears at the dead tone of his voice. “I’m sorry for your loss, Henry.”
His hands gave her shoulders a perfunctory pat, and he sat up, swinging his legs out of bed with a shake of his head.
“Go back to sleep.” he waved her hand off his body and stood. Her name hovered on his tongue but he merely sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Sorry for waking you, my dear.”
The bathroom door closed with a clunk and she laid back down in the bed, falling back into an uneasy sleep with a frown on her face.
~~
While the Henderson patriarch was eager for another child in the line of succession, Henry gave no indication of wanting a child.
“Henry,” she started during one morning breakfast.
“Yes, my dear?”
Nerves prevented her from eating yet, opting instead to twist her fingers under the table.
“I think I would like a child.”
She could hear the neighbor’s radio with how quiet their table had become. She watched his hands. The long fingers putting the silverware back onto the table, wiping crumbs on the napkin with the air of elegance he always strove for.
In a rumbling tone, he asked her something and it seemed to be very close to the reprimand of a teacher to a student.
“P-pardon?”
The mustache he was growing was doing a splendid job at covering the turn of his lips.
“I asked,” he repeated with deadly calm, “If you were asking permission for something that has already happened. Forgiveness if you will.”
Pain lanced at her limbs from the accusation. “Are you asking if I’ve ignored our vows?”
“I’m asking if you are already pregnant.”
She sucked in a breath and shook her head. There were times that the elegant mask he wore would fade to the shadows and that harsh man who was still bruised at their wedding showed himself.
But really, she’d tell herself after he left for work, it wasn’t that bad.
He never hit her.
He never yelled at her, or anything in her time with him.
Henry Henderson was a good man.
A rational man.
A passionate man.
And maybe someday, one day, he’d decide to finish his last duty as an heir to his family legacy.
Doing it out of love was something she knew she couldn’t hope for.
~~
His breath smelled like bourbon, but he didn’t kiss her mouth to give her a taste. His hands were cold and light against her skin, his mustache tickling and harsh against the tender skin of her back.
It was always dark and he wasn’t inclined to talk when his body was pressed against hers.
“You deserve a better man.” Henry slurred into the crook of her neck the first night. And sometimes, when he was particularly lost from his sanity and gentlemanly veneer, that name would slip from his lips on a prayer.
It only took one month of duty and soon enough their daughter was born to the world, bright-eyed and curious.
She was no longer quite so lonely in the world with her daughter around.
But it was too much to ask of a child to fix something that had never worked in the first place.
Henry was a good father, and there for a while, the shadows in his eyes receded as he helped her practice writing and read her books.
After his father died, and their daughter started her education, Henry no longer turned to her in the night.
His duty was done, and there was no point in appeasing a dead man.
As for his wife, there was no point in trying to compete with the memory of a dead woman.
~~
They had gone out to the opera as a family, with Henry’s connections securing a box seat in the theater. Their daughter watched in amazement and even her husband’s eyes alighted with true enjoyment.
It was perfect and of course, perfection is not meant to last.
“Oh! Mr. Henderson!” a boy called as they exited. His dark hair was falling out of its combed coif and behind his excited steps were three adults, two that were clearly his parents and one that might have been a nanny with her starched dress of dull blue and long blonde hair coiled up in a bun.
“Ah, Mr. Blackbell!” her husband greeted the student, clasping the boy’s eager hand in his own. “Pleasure to see you here!”
Pleasantries were exchanged and Mrs. Henderson could understand why her daughter often likened her classmate to a puppy.
“Mr. Henderson, you must meet my Nanny!” The young man insisted, gesturing to the woman. “Ack, or Governess. That’s the right word for your job yes?”
The nanny gave a small smile and nodded, eyes still fixed on the floor. “Yes. But it’s not wrong to be called a nanny.”
And at her warm voice, Henry’s head popped up, with more intensity and vigor than she had ever known him to have.
She didn’t have to see his face or hear his hitch in his breath, to know that this was Martha.
She knew it by the heartbroken smile on the nanny’s face.
Mrs. Henderson averted her eyes and tried to smile through the tearful reunion between two old flames, not meeting either of the faces from the Blackbells.
She could feel the pity in their gazes.
Her daughter put her hand in her grasp, giving it a small squeeze.
~~
Knowing that Martha was alive made everything both better and worse.
Henry was so spirited now, so much more talkative and attentive to their daughter. He’d teach her how to waltz and regale her with stories of a headstrong girl and an elegant boy. Except for the invisible wall that separated their sleeping spaces in bed, he was the perfect father and decent husband.
But now there were doubts that crept into her thoughts.
“I thought you said she was dead.” she broached during a clear night, with the stars visible even in the heart of Berlint. Her skin felt fragile as if one wrong move would shatter her from top to toe.
It didn’t help when his bright eyes darted up from the pot of tea he still insisted on in the evenings.
“Who are you talking about, my dear?” he deflected, no longer meeting her eyes and focusing on the tea leaves that swirled in the pot.
“Martha, my dear husband. I’m talking about Martha.”
“I thought she had died. The women’s combat unit was decimated. I had no allusions that she would have made it out.”
“But she’s alive!” she snapped, well aware of the story after hearing it five times over at the mother’s group the past week.
“Yes. She’s alive. She’s alive and working as a nanny when she could have-” he cut himself off, clenching his jaw.
“What? Martha could have what?” her voice rose, sounding shrill to her own ears, an echo of her mother’s and grandmother’s voices that always chimed her failings.
“She could have married me!” he snapped, slamming his fist down on the table, sending the chinaware into a clatter. “If I knew she was alive I would have never married-!”
The “you” was left unsaid.
It was the truth.
Plain and simple.
She could see it so clearly now. The lackluster reciting of the vows, the reluctance to start any intimacy, his insistence for their daughter to take dance classes. All in want of his one true love.
“I see.”
He hadn’t poured the tea yet, so she merely turned her cup over in the saucer and left the table.
Their daughter was still at the Blackbell’s for studying, but she debated calling her daughter home anyway. After all, for all their friendliness, Martha was there.
But that wasn’t fair to Martha, who had lived in Berlint for well over 5 years without attempting contact with Henry. No need to burn bridges that could help their daughter live a comfortable life.
The receiver in her hand felt heavy, but she dialed anyway.
“Hello, I’d like to make an appointment with a real estate agent for …”
~~
To anyone who had bothered to ask, Mrs. Henderson moved to the countryside to take advantage of the fresh air. Some said she was sickly, and others wanted to believe that she was merely weary of the city’s hustle and bustle.
She had waited until her daughter had grown into the age of majority and made it clear that the move was never her fault.
But her daughter knew.
Just like she knew why her father stayed on campus overnight more often, and knew why her mother’s eyes dimmed.
While she was thankful that her father never ever implied or pushed for political ties through marriage, she still didn’t tell her father about her boyfriend until he became her fiance.
If he had ever bothered to visit Mother, she would have told him years ago.
“Will you be happy with him?” Was the only question he had for her.
“Father, I think I’ll be happier with him than you ever were with Mom.”