The Promise Read online

  Dear Miss Wainwright,

  There has been a change in plans. I regret to inform you that I must cancel your performance at our dinner party. There is one more thing. I regret to inform you that my child no longer requires piano lessons.

  Cordially,

  Mrs Olive Parker

  More notes followed, each one nearly verbatim to the first. The women were not cordial and they showed little regret. No one smiled at me or had a kind word. No one asked for my version of the truth. Instead, behind my back, they whispered, and I did not have to be with them to hear what they said.

  ‘This is what happens when a woman goes to college.’

  ‘And never marries.’

  ‘And works for a living.’

  ‘And lives in a hotel.’

  January became February. The clouds were gray and low, and the snow was ankle deep. My income dwindled with each canceled performance and lesson, the undercurrent of gossip shattering my life. The family, even distant cousins, all sided with Edward’s wife. I stopped attending services at First Presbyterian, and invitations to family occasions ceased. In my sitting room, I turned on every incandescent lamp and tried to read my favorite novels, but the stories that once enthralled now unnerved me. Alone and with time on my hands, I imagined the whispers, rushing and lapping.

  ‘Did you hear?’

  ‘No. What?’

  ‘Catherine Wainwright has been throwing herself at Edward Davis for years. Since Alma first became ill.’

  ‘But she was living in Pennsylvania when that happened to poor Alma. In Pittsburgh, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Philadelphia, I believe. Edward Davis traveled there for business, but that wasn’t enough, not for Catherine Wainwright. He’s the reason she moved back to Dayton.’

  Dearest, I wrote to Edward, bills collecting on my desk. Together we can weather this. But I must see you.

  I dined alone at the hotel dining room. There, crystal chandeliers cast flickering spectrums of blue, yellow, and red onto my white linen tablecloth. Only a few of the residents – elderly widowers and bachelors – acknowledged me with smiles and brief greetings. I was just as restrained: two of the men had slipped notes under my door, their suggestions shocking me. The waiters in their black wool suits and long white aprons ignored me. I was the last to be served, and my meals arrived cold. It seems there has been an oversight, the hotel manager wrote at the bottom of my hotel bill. We have yet to receive payment for the past month.

  I refused to take my meals in my sitting room. I refused to hide. My friendship with Edward was not ugly and vile. We were companions; we enjoyed one another’s company. Divorce was out of the question; I had silenced Edward every time he considered it. His wife had suffered a paralyzing stroke minutes after the birth of their second child, and she could not be abandoned.

  Now, our secret exposed, I was shunned and forced to dole out my savings, draining the last of my inheritance from my father. I paid bits and pieces of the bills that came from the hotel, the dressmaker, and the milliner. I took walks as though the wind that blew from the river was not cold and brittle. I passed the churches on Third Street and the shops on Main. Wearing my navy wool coat trimmed in fur, my hands in a muffler, I stepped around thin patches of ice, the bare elm trees stark against the gray sky. On First, Wilkinson, and Perry Streets I felt the women watching from their parlor windows. Let them see me, I thought, my shoulders back and my bearing rigid. Through my years as a pianist I had learned never to show dismay at mistakes, never to wince, never to frown, but to continue on as if nothing had happened.

  On the first of March, I went to my mother and asked for a loan.

  ‘Marriage,’ she said, her eyes hard with disapproval. The etched lines around her lips deepened. ‘Do as I had to.’

  I heard the accusation in her voice. I was an only child and my father had doted on me. He was proud of my career. Prior to my return to Dayton, I was a pianist with an all-woman ensemble in Philadelphia and on occasion, he sent generous gifts of money to supplement my income. When he died from a weak heart four years ago, my inheritance, small as it was, angered my mother. She considered that money to be hers, not mine. Two years later, her money dwindling, she remarried.

  Now, as she wrote a bank check to cover one month’s expenses, she said, ‘You’re twenty-nine, soon to be thirty. You should have married years ago. You should have children by now. You should have a husband to look after you.’ She held out the check, and all at once, her voice softened. ‘Catherine, please. Find someone to marry. For your sake. Do it quickly.’

  I wrote to the other two women in my ensemble telling them that I missed them and the music. If you need a pianist, I can be there within the week. They had been furious when I left a year ago. Now, they did not respond.

  My thoughts in turmoil, I was unable to sleep, and my complexion turned sallow. I searched through my storage trunks and sorted old correspondence. I wrote letters to former suitors and to friends who lived in the East. Such good times we had, I penned in letter after letter. It would be lovely to see you again. Every day, I waited for the mail. I am married, former suitors wrote. A visit would be nice, friends wrote. But the children keep me so busy these days.

  I considered the elderly sagging widowers and the whiskery rotund bachelors who lived at the hotel. Marriage to any one of them would be the final humiliation and the very idea of it repulsed me.

  I wrote to Edward.

  March 18, 1900

  My dear,

  You and I have spoken often of touring the art museum in Cincinnati, and I long to see it now. It would be so lovely to meet you there. We would arrive, of course, on separate trains.

  Yours,

  Catherine

  His response came five days later. Catherine. This is impossible. Find a new life for yourself. Go abroad, see the grand concert halls in Europe.

  Stung, I told myself that these could not be Edward’s words. Someone had dictated his response. He was caught in a maze of gossip as was I. His hands were tied, he could not see me, not now. The gossip would fade; it was a matter of time. I understood that we could not continue our friendship; I knew it was over. All I wanted was one final hour with Edward to say goodbye. And then what? I thought, but could not answer.

  I kept to my practice schedule as if all were well and as though I had upcoming engagements. I played mid-mornings and early afternoons on the Sohmer baby grand in the empty ballroom at the hotel. My fingers, though, were clumsy and awkward. Even Beethoven, Mozart, and Chopin had deserted me.

  In the bottom of one of my trunks, I found eleven letters from Oscar Williams, someone whom I had known since I was a child. He was a few years older than I, and his father had delivered coal to our furnace in the basement. After school and during the summers, Oscar worked with his father, the two of them driving through the alleys of Dayton, their wagon piled high with coal. ‘I like how you play the piano,’ Oscar told me once, ducking with shyness. He had stopped me on the lawn at Central High School as I was leaving with a few of my classmates. Oscar was tall and lanky, and his eyes were a deep green. My friends teased me and called him the coal man’s son but I was flattered by his compliment and by the admiration in his voice. There was something else, too. In spite of his shyness, he was direct and without guile, qualities that set him apart from most of the boys who escorted me home from school or who signed my dance cards at cotillions.

  Several months after Oscar had stopped me on the lawn, I realized that I hadn’t seen him at school. I made roundabout inquiries. Oscar’s father’s cough had worsened and he’d died from a lung disease. Oscar was now the coal man and supported his mother and his younger sister and two brothers. During the spring of 1887, though, he found the time to attend my public recital. Just as I had walked out onto the stage at Music Hall, I saw Oscar slip into the back row. After, he waited for me in the lobby. ‘Listening to you takes me someplace else,’ he said. ‘Someplace new.’

  The coal man, I reminded mysel
f. He was charming in an unpolished way, but he was not like the young men with whom I kept company. His suit was too small. His white shirt, although clean and pressed, was worn at the cuffs. Coal dust was ground into the skin around his nails.

  The summer of 1888, between finishing high school and starting at the music conservatory, I caught glimpses of Oscar at the Saturday evening concerts held at Lakeside Park. He was often alone, while I was usually with other young women, my former classmates from Central High. Alma, my cousin who would marry Edward a few years later, was one of these friends. Oscar would tip his hat to me and I’d nod, my smile faint as my friends teased. ‘Unrequited love,’ they said about him. ‘He’s always admired you. But …’ That one word was enough to dismiss Oscar Williams. We came from homes with pillared entrances and tall arched windows. Our fathers wore starched collars and their shoes were polished to a high gleam. Oscar was not one of us.

  That September, I received a letter from him, surprising me.

  Dear Miss Wainwright,

  I have left Ohio and am Making my Own Way as a Hand at the Circle C Ranch. It is 22 miles south and west of Amarillo, Texas. It is Hot here and Flat. There is Not Much in the way of Trees. Some of the Fellows here are Mexican. They are Teaching Me the Tricks of the Trade. Anything is better than hauling and shoveling Coal.

  Sincerely Yours,

  Oscar Williams

  I had not intended to respond. In five days, I was to leave for Oberlin College in northern Ohio, but out of politeness I wrote him a brief note.

  Our correspondence continued for several years with months of silence between letters. I graduated from college and joined the ensemble in Philadelphia. Oscar left Amarillo, moved to Galveston – There is Water on all Sides, he wrote – and found work on a dairy farm. Eventually he bought the dairy and when that happened, he proposed marriage. That was six years ago, and my response had ended our correspondence. Now, in a fit of panic and unable to sleep, I wrote to him.

  March 30, 1900

  Dear Mr Williams,

  It is with fond memories that I think of you. My goodness, you have been in Galveston, Texas, for so many years now. Have you forgotten your Dayton friends? I trust that all is well with you and that your dairy business thrives.

  I have returned to Dayton to enjoy the company of my mother. She is well, as am I. I do, however, eagerly await the balmy days of summer. Do you recall Lakeside Park? And the concerts by the river? The newspapers report that the concerts will resume in early June. I wonder if the bands will be the same as the ones that once delighted our hearts.

  Sincerely yours,

  Catherine Wainwright

  April, and more bills. I sought distraction and several times a week, I found myself at the public library. There, I wandered the stacks of books or sat in the reading room with a book on my lap. One morning, I rode the trolley that Edward took to his office at Barney & Smith Railcar Works on Keowee Street. I sat in the middle of the trolley car, surrounded by men in business suits, my chin up but my heart turning at the sight of Edward as he boarded, so handsome in his dark blue pinstripe suit, his mustache freshly trimmed. When he saw me, shock, then fear flashed across his face. For a moment, I believed he was going to turn around and get off the trolley but there were people behind him boarding. Without looking again at me, he walked down the aisle and sat somewhere behind me.

  I considered moving to Cincinnati or to Columbus. I could place notices in the newspapers seeking pupils who wanted to study the piano. Mothers would invite me to their homes and interview me in their parlors as we sipped tea served in bone china. ‘Why did you leave Dayton?’ each one would say. ‘And what about your references? My husband insists, you understand.’ Their smiles would be sweet as if references were not important to them.

  A letter came from Oscar Williams. His penmanship was precise even if his grammar was not.

  April 22, 1900

  Dear Miss Wainwright,

  I was Surprised to hear from You. I figured You had Forgotten me. I figured you were Married.

  Do You still play the Piano? I recall your Music and how it was like Nothing I Heard before. As for Me, I have 33 Jerseys, most good Milkers. 2 Men work for Me. My farm is a half of a mile from The Gulf Of Mexico Sand hills. A Mile Behind us is Offatts Bayou, big as a lake. West Bay feeds into it.

  I have a Good piece of Land and the Saltgrass is Hardy. Fresh Water is Plentiful. I have a Son. He is 5. My Wife died the first of October.

  Sincerely Yours,

  Oscar Williams

  A dairy farmer. A widower with a child. Someone I had not seen in years. I set Oscar’s letter aside. Morning after morning during April, I rode the trolley, the oaks and elms along the avenues budding and leafing as the air turned mild. Edward came to expect me, searching for me when he boarded. Our eyes would meet for the briefest of moments but that was enough. Tomorrow, I thought. He’ll speak to me tomorrow. But every morning, he looked away.

  I reread the letter from Oscar Williams. Six years ago, his marriage proposal had shocked me. Surely he understood that I had maintained the correspondence out of kindness. I had a career. My ensemble played in concert halls and in the homes of Philadelphia’s leading citizens.

  Now, he was the only person whose letter was not cold or indifferent. I pushed aside the unpaid bills on my desk and composed my next note.

  May 1, 1900

  Dear Mr Williams,

  I am saddened by the news of your wife. Please accept my heartfelt condolences. Surely it is an unspeakable loss, and I fear that my expression of sympathy does little to ease your sorrow. But, Mr Williams, it lightens my heart to hear that you are not alone. You have a son and my goodness, so many cows. However do you manage it all? I greatly admire your many accomplishments.

  Yes, I still play the piano. It is kind of you to remember.

  With affection,

  Catherine Wainwright

  His response came three weeks later. It was brief but filled with details about his dairy farm. The Barn sits on a Raised up bed of Oyster Shells and dirt. It can rain hard here. It is big enough for Five more Cows. Then, My boy’s name is Andre.

  By the end of May the note from the hotel manager carried a different tone. I was four months in arrears. If I did not settle my account immediately, I was to vacate my rooms by the end of June.

  I responded to Oscar’s letter and expressed interest in his barn and in his son. I sorted through my jewelry and sold two necklaces and a pair of earrings to a jeweler whose speculating glances further humiliated me. I considered asking my mother for another loan but that would call for begging. It would mean she could dictate what I must do and whom I must marry. I considered again moving to Cincinnati or to Columbus but my courage had slipped. As unforgiving as Dayton was, I could not imagine being alone in an unfamiliar city, my money almost gone. I made arrangements to move to a boarding house where I would share a room with another woman. I wrote again to Oscar. Whatever is it like to live on an island in Texas?

  Near the end of June, I received the letter I had been waiting for and yet dreading.

  Dear Miss Wainwright,

  I am not a Rich Man but I am not Poor either. My Dairy is Fair sized and I am free of Debt. Miss Wainwright, will You consider Marrying Me? My Son is in need of a Mother. I am in need of a Wife. I will make You a good Husband and Provider. But there is Something You should know. Galveston is not like Dayton. And there is Something else. Me and my Boy are Catholics. I converted and my Boy was baptized one. But I will not push It on You.

  Sincerely Yours,

  Oscar Williams

  I held the letter, trying to put together the images of a farmhouse, a small child, and a life of rituals far removed from my own. I tried to put shape to Oscar, but with the arrival of his offer his image had blurred, reminding me how little I knew him.

  I reread Edward’s correspondence, touching his cursive script with my forefinger, tracing each letter on the linen stationery. I enjoyed our conversat
ion, he had written two months after we’d met during the Christmas season of 1895. His penmanship was slanted, the j and i not dotted, but the t crossed with a brief dash. I will be in Philadelphia next month, he’d written in April of 1897, his wife a confirmed invalid by then. Perhaps you might accompany me to the art museum there. Three years ago, that invitation both shocked and thrilled me. Now, I saw his words as his wife might. He had pursued me. Surely, if I reminded him of those letters, he would be willing to provide for me.

  The silk drapes at my sitting-room window rustled in the mild summer breeze. Below, the street was busy. Several buggies passed by, and on the sidewalks, women wearing feathered hats carried shopping baskets. At the opposite corner, two men in business suits and derbies stood talking. All of them were going about their day, occupied with their lives, their worries and problems perhaps nibbling at their thoughts as they searched for solutions.

  Blackmail. I had fallen to that. Edward would despise me. Just as I would despise myself.

  I read Oscar’s letter again. He offered escape from my debts, from my mother’s rejection, and from certain poverty. He offered escape from myself.

  The next morning, I sat at the baby grand in the empty hotel ballroom, the keyboard covered. My face was drawn and my eyes ached from lack of sleep. I had sent my answer in yesterday’s late afternoon post. Yes, Mr Williams, I responded. I will marry you.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Galveston, Texas

  The wind gusted. The train rocked. Sea spray splattered the windows. I gripped the armrests of my seat as we skimmed above choppy white-capped waves. I had understood that Galveston was an island but until now, I had not realized just how unattached it was to the rest of Texas.

  The train’s ventilation system had stopped and the car was stuffy and warm. The woman who sat across from me opened her silk fan, unfolding a painted picture of snow-covered mountains. ‘We’re crossing West Bay,’ she said to me as she waved her fan before her round, glistening face. Her words were drawn long with a Southern accent. ‘Our bridges are the longest in the world. Three miles if they’re an inch.’