I remember my Ed coming home from work. He would come into the kitchen and sit down at the table. I would have his drink ready . . . He would drink it and tell me about his day- not the business aspects, of course, they�re much too smart minded for me . . . but he would tell me who he saw at lunch, about Ida May�s husband and so forth.
He died when he was 58 years old, Lord love him. We had been married almost 33 years. I still wear my wedding ring, although he died nearly fifteen years ago. I now wear his, also. It fits snugly over my own band. Gold on gold, comforting me while I live out my days in our family home.
Our children, Della and Harold, are married with families of their own. Della Honoria (we couldn�t bypass tradition and not give her the name that has been in my family for three generations . . . a name I dicarded for my second name as soon as I could . . . hopefully she has had more joy of it than I had) married, like I did, when she was eighteen. A beautiful girl, quiet, mindful- she�d have been an asset to any man. Her husband works at the papers, like my husband and son. Jamison Bryant is a good man, and a good father to my grandchildren. I do believe that my lovely daughter has found happiness. . . indeed, her eyes sparkle as she tells me stories of her childrens� antics. I didn�t have Harold until our third year of marriage. It was a hard time for us- we wanted desperately to start a family. When Harold came, the house lightened with joy and celebration.
As I sit here, at the same table where my Ed would sit, I am nearing 65 years old. My body is growing tired, and my hands are frail. Harold is now 44 years old. For fourteen years he has been looking after me and managing the household expenses. His wife of twenty years, Annabelle Manning, is a loving mother and daughter, and often visits and brings fresh flowers to brighten the rooms, a centerpiece for the dining room, and vase for the hutch . . . Della and Harold have often tried to convince me to move in with either of them, but there is nowhere else I want to live. All the memories in this house . . . Edward smiling his sweet smile at me from across the firelit living room; our portraits hung in the main entryway; the kitchen table; the slightly tarnished silverware we received as a wedding present from his parents; the beautiful long stem wine glasses from my mother, they have been in our family since before we crossed over from England; the gentle curve of his pillow where I can imagine that he has just slept, and that I can still feel the warmth as I lay my own head down; the scent of his aftershave, still lingering on his dresser; his old pocketwatch, a gift for his 18th birthday; his father�s medal of honor from the Civil War(left to Edward in the will) . . .
Oh, my Edward, I miss you . . .Life has been so empty without you . . . I know that I promised to live for the children, and our grandchildren, but they don�t need me anymore, and I need you . . . I know that soon I will be joining you. Will you wait for me, my love?
I remember the summer of 1918 as clear as if it were last week. My brother had gone off to fight for the Allies. Mother and Father had begged him not to go until he had finished school, but he was as stubborn as ever, and would not give in. I was only fourteen, half the age that I am now, yet I can still hear my mother crying in the kitchen the night Harold left. That night I vowed never to cause my mother such pain. I remember how empty the house felt, strange and silent; how mother seemed so lost, always looking out the window, waiting for her son to return . . .
It was also that summer that I started wondering about my ancestors. I knew that my father worked at the paper, and his father before him, and my brother after them both, but I knew nothing of my mother�s side. One evening, as we sat on the sagging porch doing needlework, I asked about my grandparents.
�Mama, where did Nana and Grandfather come from? Have they lived in America their whole lives?� I barely knew my mother�s parents. I had seen them twice, once at my brother�s confirmation, and again at my first communion. I was told they came to my baptism, but I was quite a young thing and don�t remember.
�Why yes, child. Do you think we have a line of wanderers in our family? My great grandmother would roll over in her grave to hear you imply such a thing. After all the trouble she and her husband went to laying down roots, making somewhere entirely their own. For years, they had waited for Napolean�s reign to die out, but it seemed he never would, and they fled England in the height of his glory. The set out for America, a New World, ripe for the picking, and settled in a part of Massachusetts that later became Maine.� My mother looked thoughtfully at her cross-stitching. �In fact, I believe I have an old journal of Lady Honoria�s. Hmm . . .�
�Was that her name?� I asked. �Lady Honoria?�
�Yes, Lady Honoria Osbourne, all the women in this family are her namesake. I guess her father was a very influential man in London, and he arranged her marriage to Colin to increase his holdings. Luckily, they grew to love each other, and made the best of the match. She was in her early twenties, I believe, when they left England.� I watched my mother stand up and lovingly place her stitching aside, folding the cloth meticulously, each corner tucked in. �I�m going to go upstairs to the attic and see if I can�t find that old journal of Honoria�s.� As she climbed the stairs I remember thinking that it shouldn�t take her long, for she was as neat as a pin. It is, infortunately, one of the qualities that I have not inherited from her. Instead I received her gentle nature, golden russet hair and agility with a needle. My mother is a tireless woman, giving all of herself to anyone who needs her. I hoped to be very like her as I grew into adulthood.
Many years later, as I thought about that night, I realized that subconsciously I was trying to save my mother pain, for if she became absorbed in the past, she wouldn�t have time to worry about the all too uncertain future.
January 7, 1813
America is enchanting! Encased in drifts of white snow, the trees glisten and the houses sparkle like candles on our old Christmas tree. We celebrated the holidays in our new home, sparsely furnished, yet it was still home. We shared memories of our first dance together, and our first outing . . . Colin came to pick me up in his father�s buggy, the horses had freshly brushed, oh it was so romantic. We were so young back then, still teenagers, playing with the idea of love, yet truly we were in love, even back then.
On my 18th birthday, when Father announced that he had made arrangements for a suitable marriage for me, I was terrified and angry. Colin had secretly asked me to marry him, and I had said yes, even though we knew it was never likely that my father would give consent over a trivial thing such as love. However, when he announced that I would be joining into the Osbourne family, I could have wept, I was so relieved. Never, never, could this have come to pass if Colin�s father hadn�t owned the deeds to over 1,000 acres of land in the rolling countryside of England.
Anyway, the light from the fireplace is dancing over the wooden surface of the floor. My rocking chair gleams by the window, reflecting the moon through the open curtains. My husband is sleeping on the sofa, resting after the large meal we just ate. I have two more spice cakes to bake before the night is through, and I think I am with child. My heart flutters to see the words in print, so long I have dreamed, hoping for a child . . .
August 24, 1813
We have a daughter! She is beautiful and her name is Violet Honoria. Colin insisted that she have my name as her middle name. I wanted to refuse, but he wants to honor me, and what better way than with a name like Honoria?
As she was growing inside me, I felt the strings of something tugging at my heart. I felt a need to protect the unborn babe. I wrapped my winter coat around me tight when I went out into the wind, I ate with care, and a little extra, not wanting my babe, our babe, to be hungry. As I cradle her in my arms, I think, here she is. This little tiny creature that grew inside me . . . Here she is. She rests, contentedly suckling my breast, and I feel my heart start to pound at the love I feel for her. I would do anything to keep her safe. At this time I can understand why mother bears attack humans, their need to protect stronger than their need to understand.
One summer evening, a few days after we had first looked at Honoria�s journal, I saw my daughter thoughtfully biting her lip. As I look at the brown flecks in her eyes, I am reminded, as always, of my son. How my heart yearns to see him again, to hear word of his troop . . . My son, so stubborn and reckless. He is just like his father used to be- the perfect newspaper man. Always willing and eager to catch the scent of a story, following leads. He is absolutely brilliant, but so naive. He believes he can make a difference in this war, this struggle with the Germans. Maybe he can, but I would rather have my son here, sitting with us on our front porch that badly needs painting.
�Mama,� my daughter asks, jarring me from my memories, �what was Violet like?�
�My grandmother . . . I don�t know how she was as a child, but I imagine she was willful. She was never one to back down. I remember listening to her talk to my mother- I was amazed that anyone had the power to sway her. Hearing them, I realized where my mother came about her stubborn streak.� I punch my hands into the dough, kneading it back and forth. Sprinkling some flour onto the counter I say, �I remember a doll that Grandmother gave me when I was a young girl. It was beautiful. She told me that she had bought it because it reminded her of me, with its dark brown hair and sparkling blue eyes . . .� I attack the dough with the wooden rolling pin, silently daring any air bubbles to pop through the surface.
Suddenly Della says, �Mama, I�m going to help you.� She grabs a few apples from the bag on the table and begins peeling them. Silently, we work in harmony, mother and daughter. I wonder if Violet and Honoria had ever done this. I look over at my fourteen year old daughter, brow furrowed in concentration as she painstakingly peeled the red layer of skin from the apples, and feel a sense of overwhelming content.
August 24, 1823
Colin and I spent hours last night making every detail perfect for Violet�s tenth birthday party today. I must have spent hours in the kitchen, baking treat after treat- the neighbors must be well fed. When we were finally finished with the preparations, we stood in the doorway to Violet�s room, watching her sleep. Over the years, the maternal instinct hasn�t dimmed at all. It has only grown stronger. Violet is a very headstrong child, she goes after everything she wants, and it frightens me to know that I won�t always be able to protect her. We live near an open meadow, where all the children play together during the summer. Usually it�s a safe haven for the kids to play, and the mothers to not have to worry, but occasionally we catch sight of a wandering cow aimlessly tromping through the grass, heading straight for the rambunctious children. Fear always clutches at my heart until I see the laughing children simply move their play to another section of the field.
Childhood is so innocent. They play all day, oblivious to how many of their little stunts have their mothers wringing their hands, clenching their teeth, or biting their lips.
December 28, 1823
My dreams of a houseful of children have come to an end. Violet will have no brother or sister to play with. Colin and I have tried for years to conceive another child, but to no avail. My heart feels heavy, laden with sadness. I am grateful eternally for Violet, but I have always wanted a large family because of my years as an only child. I always yearned for brothers and sisters, but my dreams were never answered then, and they shan�t be now. So I lay down my pen, and will try to sleep, providing my heart doesn�t break through the night.
I can�t describe the pain that I feel, it�s almost physical, like someone reached out and punched me in the stomach . . . I must seem ungrateful for what I have, but that is entirely untrue. I just regret what I, we, will never have . . .
Every day, my mother and I would read from Honoria�s journal. We learned of her fears during her pregnancy, the surprise birthday party her husband planned for her 25th birthday . . . Soon, we felt like we truly knew this woman who had given us our name. We knew how her heart twisted every time Violet skinned her knees playing with the boys, and how she cried to learn that she would never have another child.
When, towards the end of the journal and Honoria�s life, Colin died, Mother and I wept for hours. Her entries surrounding the time of his funeral were heartbreaking. I guess I learned about true love for the first time that summer.
The night we read those entries, my father came home to find us sniffling at the kitchen table. �What�s wrong with my girls?� he asked.
Mother had told him about the journal and tearfully explained our sadness. He just squeezed her hand. I remember leaving the room quickly, feeling uncomfortable witnessing my parents� affection. I heard her whispering �it wasn�t so much that Colin died, than I just kept thinking about you. How ever am I going to live without you?� Her voice broke with raw emotion.
�Hush, hush,� he said, holding her tight as I peeked through the doorway.
Colin died today. Well, not today, many years ago, but we read the entry today, and the wounds are still fresh. He died slowly, painfully, leaving Honoria a headstrong 17 year old to contend with. The subject of death is not settling well with me, for still we have had no word from our son. He has been gone for months, and no word. I tremble with pain whenever my eyes glimpse his picture on the wall. Motherhood is painful, I have learned. Yet it is so rewarding. This summer has been a balm for me . . . Della and I have grown closer, and explored our past together. I have learned from Honoria�s strength. She had to carry on when her husband died, she had to protect her child. She had no son to help her manage things, yet she got by. She lived. That fact has given me strength, and hope. I will survive when my dear husband and I are parted. Even if my precious son is taken away from me.
The summer ended slowly, whispering into fall. Harold returned just after Thanksgiving dinner had been cleared from the table. What a wonderful gift to be thankful for, our whole family under one roof . Mother shined with happiness. I felt the strain of the entire summer being lifted from her shoulders . . . yet Harold was changed. He no longer laughed easily, now tense and nervous. He kept looking over his shoulder, and tapping the table with his hands. I remember my older brother before the war as calm and laid-back. My heart mourned the loss of his spirit. Eventually, the uneasiness wore off. The walls no longer seemed to be closing in on him- he was home.
* * * * * *
And now, fourteen years later, I look over at my own husband who is sleeping on the couch after the large Sunday dinner. I smile and reread the first entry of Honoria�s journal. At the end of that summer, we�d trudged once more to the attic, trying to find something, anything else to prolong the legacy of the woman named Honoria. Instead, we found her granddaughter, Margaret Peabody, my obscure grandmother, in the pages of another leather bound journal. We also found the only remaining clue to Violet�s mystery; a poem about her mother after Colin passed on. I reach for her journal now and take it upstairs with me. On my way down the hall, I stop and tuck my eight year old daughter, Honoria Violet, into her warm bed. As I climb into my own bed and settle down, I open the journal to page one and begin to read.
May 17, 1833
I am nineteen years old and I was married today. My name is now Margaret Honoria Osbourne Peabody . . .
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