Somewhere in the World

Chapter 23

June-July 1863

Lovell, Massachusetts

It was a hot day and the dry dust churned up in small clouds with the movement of every passerby or carriage wheel. The sky had promised rain for several weeks now, but none had come. Farmers gazed anxiously as the sun rose and dejectedly as it set, searching the horizon for moisture in the clouds. Even the leaves on the majestic elm trees lining the town streets were covered with a thin film of dust and drooped with the heat. Margaret felt like one of those trees, her hem covered in dust and her spirits dampened by the extreme temperature.

A trickle of sweat threaded its way from her neck down her spine, and she shivered with the precious moment of cooling. She wore her lightest cambric dresses on days such as these, but could not forgo pantaloons or petticoats. Thus, she felt muffled in layers of hot, dark cloth that clung to her skin. The sun was merciless as she made her way along the street toward home. At six in the evening the heat should be waning, but not on this hottest of summer days. She had a passing thought of hailing a carriage, but just as quickly put the thought behind her—the expense was unwarranted, even if a carriage could be found.

Dr. Donaldson had insisted that Margaret depart earlier than her usual time that evening; she appeared to be sleepwalking—she had swayed on her feet as she assisted him at various patients' bedsides and had stumbled several times. "Go home and get some rest; you are of no use to me in this state," he had grumbled, but the concern in his eyes gave lie to the gruffness of his voice. And so she had departed without argument, for she was indeed tired and intended to seek her bed as soon as she was able.

The hope of a letter from her husband kept her moving purposefully toward the shuttered gates of Chilton Mills. The newspapers reported the Army of the Potomac was stationed near the nation's capital, but recent accounts hinted at an imminent movement northward. Was he nearing home? Her heart leapt at the thought of his return to Lovell; it was the fulfillment of all of her dreams and prayers.

She dreamed of him every night—that she was held close in his arms, high upon his chest, clasped in a warm embrace that comforted and inflamed her by turns. She could swear that she felt the smoothness of his skin and the cool thickness of his hair beneath her seeking hands, so real were these ghostly visitations. She awoke each morning to bite back a cry of disappointment that he was not there, and rushed to her bed each evening, anxious to slip into the dream world that offered such carnal comfort.

Upon entering the house at Chilton Mills, she heard a spirited conversation in the parlor; they had a guest. She felt a stab of annoyance; she was in no mood for polite conversation. Her ears picked up the sharp, questioning tone of Mrs. Thornton, followed by what she instantly recognized to be the mild voice of her father. Her annoyance disappeared; it was not often that her father came to Chilton Mills without an invitation. He had become a hermit since the death of his wife, content to remain in his library until Dixon called him to meals or forced him to sit in the parlor so that she might tidy the often messy room.

He had grown quieter since the death of her mother; never a loud or showy man, he had become much like a shade, content to sit in the background at gatherings and listen without speaking a word. Margaret feared that she was the only thing tethering him to this world and tried to visit him as often as she could. She was glad he had come to visit her this day, despite her fatigue, and stepped sprightly toward the parlor. At one glance, her heart plummeted in her breast.

Her father was in the bright blue uniform of the Union Army, the buttons shining like newly minted coins. Her mouth dropped open and in a voice that sounded nothing like her own, she rasped out, "Papa, what have you done?"