The Rebellion of Miss Lucy Ann Lobdell (33 page)

I glanced at Marie, who had come in and seen most of it. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The order from Dr. Fromwitz took me from town and put me back in the garden where I weeded and planned revenge. I imagined a Calico Indian meeting him on the road at night. I remembered my father’s costume and thought I could fashion a decent imitation from the used clothes in the storeroom. Perhaps Marie would join me. It wouldn’t take much to scare Fromwitz. I thought of displaying knives and nooses while Herr Doctor quaked. And then leaving him on the road, without a thing to wear. I imagined him, pig naked, knocking on doors. And people telling him to go away.

I didn’t quite find the moment to share this plan with Marie. She was talking about us running off together, but I said no. I said that the trouble with Fromwitz would all blow over like a summer storm. After all, we had more friends than he did. Fromwitz might be able to order me into the backhouse, but he couldn’t keep me there. And as long as Marie and I could still be together, we were safer where we were. So we stayed, and nothing bad happened. Fromwitz came, and I managed to keep out of his way. He seemed just as willing to keep out of mine. I began to think that things would, indeed, blow over. Then one afternoon I came into to the house to find Marie crying.

“What’s happened?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I was in the kitchen and Sarah came and said that there was someone at the door asking for me. I went into the front room, and there was a man I had never seen before, a man with a waxed mustache and a derby hat. He asked if I were Marie Louise Martin, and I said yes, but I couldn’t think of who would know me by that name. The man looked at me and then said there was some mistake—that I wasn’t the Miss Martin he was looking for.”

“Well, perhaps, that’s it. Some sort of mistake.”

“But it wasn’t, Joseph, because I saw his eyes.”

I didn’t like the sound of this, but I told Marie that we should stay still for the moment. Wait for things to sort out. Marie agreed, and we didn’t go to Mrs. McNee about the man, but Sarah must have told her.

A week later, Mrs. McNee called me into her office. She had an official-looking paper in hand. She didn’t try to smile.

“I have a letter from a detective agency in New York,” she said. “I’ll read what it says.”

In your house there is a woman going by the name of Marie Louise Martin. We believe she is a woman named Marie Louise Perry who we are searching for on behalf of her family. We have sent a man, and her description matches that of the missing woman. As stewards of the law, you are required to tell us if this woman is really Marie Louise Martin. Or is she Marie Louise Perry?

It was done. Mrs. McNee was required to tell the truth, and I could not lie to her.

“Well, they’ve found her,” I said.

“And I must write to tell them. You know that, Joe.”

I nodded and said that I would go tell Marie. I found her in our room, and when she heard the news, she began to cry. “Oh, Joseph. I can’t go home. I’d rather throw myself in the river.”

I stayed by the door. “Perhaps,” I said, “going home is for the best.”

“I won’t do it,” she said calmly so I would understand. “I won’t. Joseph, we can take to the road. You can be my husband; I shall be your wife. We will go from farm to farm and offer ourselves for work. We’ll find someplace where we can live in peace and speak to people about the goodness of God.”

“But we would be paupers,” I said. “I’ve lived that way, Marie, but you never have. You should go home.”

“No!” Marie caught herself and lowered her voice. “No, Joseph, I wouldn’t survive a week. I’m not afraid of poverty. I’m not afraid of death. Whatever happens to me, I just want it to be mine. Of all people, you must understand that.”

I had stayed in Delhi under the threat of being locked away, because I believed us safer in the almshouse than out on the road. And I would have continued to stay were it possible. But it wasn’t. Marie and I would either leave together, or she would be brought home against her will and I locked up when the time came.

“Then I pledge myself to you, Marie,” I said, wondering what would become of us. “I love you and will never abandon you.”

“I pledge myself to you, Joseph,” she answered. “You will always have my heart.”

We sealed these vows with an embrace and then calmly talked about what had to be done. I sat with Marie as she wrote a letter home:

Dear Mother and Father,
You have found me. I have been living in the almshouse in Delhi. I am, as you may guess, no longer the wife of James Wilson. He was not the man I thought. It cost me everything to learn that. Please know that even though I betrayed you, I never stopped loving you. But I can’t come home. And so I do not expect to see you again in this life, but know that I pray that we will see each other in the one to come. Please follow me no more.

Your loving daughter,
Marie Louise

The letter went out the next day, along with Mrs. McNee’s reply to the agency in New York. That week, I mended socks while Marie looked through the storage room for anything that might be useful on the road. She went up to Mrs. Caldwell’s house to secretly say our good-bye. I stayed at the almshouse, not wanting to do anything that might ruin our plan. I didn’t visit Sheriff Evans, and we said nothing to Mrs. McNee, though I’m sure she knew.

W
E CREPT OUT of the almshouse and down the Hamlin road, a bag over my shoulder and one over Marie’s. We walked while the moon was up and all the next day. We nodded small greetings to those we passed and feared the sound of anyone coming from behind. I knew Sheriff Evans wouldn’t let Fromwitz order him around, but I didn’t know how big a crime this was—my leaving Delhi—and who else might be set on my trail.

On the third afternoon, the Hancock bridge came into view, our passage to Pennsylvania and safety. I found myself trying to walk quiet—might we yet see armed men, or hear them coming at a gallop? But no guard was on the bridge, and the only horse to be heard was pulling a wagon.

I looked out at the Delaware and remembered another bridge that had taken me over that river, one that had carried canal boats—an enchanted bridge. Once across it, fishes and loaves had appeared, complete with raucous nights in a tavern, dinners with accomplished men, and the love of a beautiful woman. But that was miles downstream and sixteen years of water.

Marie felt none of my haunting. She let go of my arm and skipped across the bridge as if she were ten. I didn’t join her. Parts of me still felt like a woman, but no part felt like a girl. When I caught up on the other side, Marie had a mischievous look on her face. “I’ve been waiting to show you this,” she said, reaching into her bag. Her hand reappeared, and in it was a roll of paper money.

“Where did that come from?” I asked, fearing the answer.

“Our dear Elizabeth Caldwell. One hundred dollars!”

“That woman is not of this earth.”

“Oh yes she is,” said Marie, laughing. “And she told me to tell you that if you break my heart, you’ll have to answer to her.”

“You told her?” I said, feeling alarm. “I mean, not just about our leaving, but about us?”

Marie met my eyes. “She sends her love.”

* * *

In Pennsylvania, we didn’t have to stay out of sight or look over our shoulders. We could smile and say hello to strangers who would smile and say hello to us. And for the first time in many years, I was again posing as a man. It was easy. I looked the part now—the hard living in the woods had seen to that. And Marie was on my arm. People would look at her pretty face and not think a thing about me.

We followed the river downstream and later slept beside it. The next day, we traveled inland on a narrow road. It was late afternoon when we walked into the village of Galilee. The second house we passed had a fence with small white roses. At the gate there was a sign:
Dr. Arlyn Powell, Justice of the Peace.
I stopped walking and took Marie’s hand. “Marie Louise Perry, will you marry me?”

Her eyes grew wide. “Oh, yes, dear Joseph, yes! But do you think it’s wise?”

“That’s not a quality I’m known for,” I said, making her laugh. We had talked about living as man and wife and had even made vows, but neither of us had imagined a ceremony, until now. I put my hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “I want to be married and not pretending.”

I opened the gate and we walked up the path her arm in mine. The door was answered by a plump woman in an apron. I gave a slight bow. “Is the judge in?”

“He is. What may I say is your business?”

“We would like to be married.”

The woman’s face lit up. “Oh my, well, yes. He is here. Come in. When were you thinking of?”

“Today, if it can be done.”

“Today, yes, well. Let me call my husband, and he can tell you. Please take a seat.”

Marie and I sat on a cushioned bench in the small parlor. A few minutes later Judge Powell entered the room. He looked just like Mrs. Powell—they might have been a matched set of rag dolls at a church fair. The judge wore a vest and spectacles, and I could not tell right away if he would be stern or accommodating.

“So you’d like to get married,” he said, as though the thought were both question and answer. “Want to do it today. Well, I see no reason why not. Just give me a little time to finish what I’m doing and prepare the papers. It will be five dollars—three of that goes to the county.”

“Will you stay for dinner?” asked Mrs. Powell who had just joined us. “I’ve a chicken in the oven, and we’d love to have you join us.”

I looked at Marie and she smiled our acceptance. The world seemed perfectly happy to have us wed. Mrs. Powell went back to the kitchen, while Marie and I sat there, holding hands and whispering like school children.

A little later, a neighbor, a Mrs. O’Connor, appeared with her young daughter. Mrs. Powell, who now seemed to be running things, told me to go join the judge in the garden. She and Mrs. O’Connor would attend to Marie. I found Judge Powell standing by a budding hawthorn. I stood quietly beside him and watched a humming bird make its rounds.

A few minutes later, little Karen O’Connor came down the path carrying a daylily. Some distance behind walked Mrs. Powell and Mrs. O’Connor. Then Marie, holding a bouquet of iris and columbine. Purple verbena had been woven into her hair, and she floated down the path like a seed of milkweed.

With Marie at my side, Judge Powell asked if I would love and honor her until the day I died. I said I would. Marie was then asked if she would love, honor, and obey me until the day she died. She said she would. I was then told that I could kiss the bride and that was the first time our lips met as married folk, and the first time we had kissed with anyone looking on. We didn’t have to hide.

When the ceremony was done, Marie and I went for a stroll. We walked a short distance till we found a spot under an old maple where we sat and listened as the birds made their evening calls. Marie’s hair, which had been pinned up for the ceremony, had begun to pull loose. Strands fell down the sides of her face, while her eyes danced like sunlight off a lake.

“Joseph,” she said, “I’ve been given a new life.”

“I feel the same,” I said. And yet as I spoke those words, I also felt a strong upwelling of sadness. It didn’t push the happiness aside, but it was there all the same. And I didn’t want to hide a thing from Marie, so I told her. “I feel like crying for some reason. Isn’t that odd?”

“I don’t think so,” answered my wife. “I could too. And I don’t believe they’d be tears of joy, as some would say. I think that when you feel happiness like we do now, you go deep into the well where all that has happened is stored. And you cannot draw water of any particular kind, for it has all mixed.”

“Surely so,” I said, looking into Marie’s beautiful face and wishing not to think of the dark things lurking in my well.

When we returned to the house, Mrs. Powell asked if we had a place to stay that night. We said no, and she showed us a room with a posted bed that looked out at the garden. “We keep this room for our son and his wife when they come to visit,” she said. “You will stay here tonight.” Marie looked at me with big eyes and then gave Mrs. Powell a hug that almost knocked the dear woman over.

At dinner, Judge Powell said grace. He asked God to protect us and provide for us. It seemed to me that He had already begun. On the table were greens, sweet potatoes, and warm chicken. “Where will you be going?” asked Mrs. Powell as the food was passed. “Do you have work?”

“No,” I said, “but we’re hoping to find some.”

“Well, I don’t know of anyone looking for help, but there are many farms to our west. I’m sure you’ll find something.”

“We also want to spread the good news of the Lord,” said Marie. I felt uneasy hearing these words. I knew that Marie was earnest in her desire to serve God, but I was not confident on how it would be received.

“Oh,” said, Mrs. Powell, “do you belong to a church?”

“No,” said Marie, “we believe that many paths lead to God. We follow the teachings of Jesus and those of Emanuel Swedenborg.”

Mrs. Powell turned to her husband. “Arlyn, have you heard of a Mr. Swedenborg?”

“Yes,” said the judge. “They had a church in Harrisburg when I was boy.”

Mrs. Powell seemed delighted and gave her benediction. “Well, I don’t know this Mr. Swedenborg, but if you follow the teachings of Jesus, you will never be lost to each other.”

That night, Marie and I slept in the Powells’ beautiful bed with its feather mattress. Our kisses did not last long, for we were tired from the walking. In the morning, I woke to see sunlight streaming through the curtain and my wife sleeping beside me. Marie opened her eyes and smiled to see me there.

After a breakfast of bread and jam, we said our good-byes and started up the road.

The land was indeed enchanted—the day before had proved it. We had been given flowers, good food, and a soft bed, all in exchange for declaring our love. I thought we might go from town to town and marry in each one.

* * *

We traveled west and every day found shelter, often doing chores for something to eat. But it wasn’t until we crossed into the next county that we found steady work. The farm, nestled in a narrow valley, belonged to the Spencers, an older couple whose children had left. I chopped wood for them, cleaned the chicken coop, and helped bring in the hay. Marie worked inside. Mr. Spencer, lean and weathered as a fencepost, was pleasant and glad for the help. Mrs. Spencer was his opposite. Just moving about the house brought on her heavy breathing. Her flushed face seemed locked into a frown.