right, I guess. But I’m not sure Father will be all right without you here.”
“Father will do fine.” I said the words to convince myself as much as Henry.
He nodded, wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “I’d better go back in.”
“Yes. I wouldn’t want the others to come trotting out here. I’d never get off. Lend me your hand, will you?”
My brother formed a cup of his palms and I stepped in as he lifted me upward toward Nellie’s saddle. He stepped back as thunder rumbled.
“I won’t forget you, Henry. I won’t.”
“I’ll close the barn door for you.”
I waved good-bye and pressed the reins against Nellie’s neck. Leaving Henry was the only hesitation I experienced in the questionable move forward I began that night. I was committed. I had to make it work. That’s what I repeated as the first drops of rain began to pelt.
The Diary of Eliza Spalding
1850
Rain falls like sheets of pewter, so hard sometimes I cannot see the oak trees across the yard. I’m grateful my husband and daughter stay in Oregon City and aren’t out riding in this weather. I’m glad Horace is here for company and for the care of my children. The one regret I had of our marriage in Ohio was that none of my family could be there: not Horace, not my five sisters, not my parents. It was good that before we left for the mission field we did travel back as husband and wife then, and my father gave us his blessings and one hundred dollars and a wagon that we took with us all the way to Lapwai. But the wedding was lonely for me. I had committed my life to the Lord and he had provided for me a good man, a reverend who had studied beside me, allowed me to learn Greek and Hebrew with him, and never minded that the languages came more easily to me than to himself. And he was a good husband, writing to my family, asking their permission for our not returning to New York to marry, though I wonder what he would have done if my father had forbade it. I was twenty-five years old when I married, a spinster. But still, I was surprised when he told me he’d written to my parents asking for my hand. I didn’t speak out or up. It was not my place. I lived with people who had taken me under their wing to allow me to be close to my intended with full expression of propriety. And we were proper, always.
Even on our wedding night I was not flummoxed, as my husband is a tender lover, a good man despite his temper, a temper never thrown to me. And I can calm him. I just can’t ever change his mind once he has it set. As with insisting Eliza go to the trial, to be deposed and testify. I wonder what state I’ll find her in and how long it will take for me to have her speak in normal childlike tones again, if ever I’ll hear her voice laced with laughter rather than despair? The nightmares grew more intense when Mr. S began speaking of the trial. I wonder how she fares. It’s not right that she is out of my sight, away from arms I might wrap around her in protection. Mr. S will not coddle her, but I think walking beside a child carrying legitimate fears is not a coddle but a balm, an act of mercy, and are we not compelled to love mercy? Mr. S uses the same Scripture from Micah 6:8 to remind me that “to do justice” comes before loving mercy, and Eliza’s presence at the trial is part of acting justly. But I grieve for the child that was and wonder if I abandon her when I submit to my husband’s will. I entrust her care to you, God—a mother’s constant prayer.
9
Anxiety Shifting
I longed for Mr. Warren’s loving arms to surround me with protection. I knocked on the door but no one came to answer. Wasn’t Mr. Warren staying there, at “our home”? I knocked again. The rain had lessened and a moon promised light enough to capture the beads of moisture on my cape. He must have gone to his parents’ with plans to meet me here in the morning. I shivered. Have I miscalculated? With Nellie unsaddled and cooled down, I spent
“Father will do fine.” I said the words to convince myself as much as Henry.
He nodded, wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “I’d better go back in.”
“Yes. I wouldn’t want the others to come trotting out here. I’d never get off. Lend me your hand, will you?”
My brother formed a cup of his palms and I stepped in as he lifted me upward toward Nellie’s saddle. He stepped back as thunder rumbled.
“I won’t forget you, Henry. I won’t.”
“I’ll close the barn door for you.”
I waved good-bye and pressed the reins against Nellie’s neck. Leaving Henry was the only hesitation I experienced in the questionable move forward I began that night. I was committed. I had to make it work. That’s what I repeated as the first drops of rain began to pelt.
The Diary of Eliza Spalding
1850
Rain falls like sheets of pewter, so hard sometimes I cannot see the oak trees across the yard. I’m grateful my husband and daughter stay in Oregon City and aren’t out riding in this weather. I’m glad Horace is here for company and for the care of my children. The one regret I had of our marriage in Ohio was that none of my family could be there: not Horace, not my five sisters, not my parents. It was good that before we left for the mission field we did travel back as husband and wife then, and my father gave us his blessings and one hundred dollars and a wagon that we took with us all the way to Lapwai. But the wedding was lonely for me. I had committed my life to the Lord and he had provided for me a good man, a reverend who had studied beside me, allowed me to learn Greek and Hebrew with him, and never minded that the languages came more easily to me than to himself. And he was a good husband, writing to my family, asking their permission for our not returning to New York to marry, though I wonder what he would have done if my father had forbade it. I was twenty-five years old when I married, a spinster. But still, I was surprised when he told me he’d written to my parents asking for my hand. I didn’t speak out or up. It was not my place. I lived with people who had taken me under their wing to allow me to be close to my intended with full expression of propriety. And we were proper, always.
Even on our wedding night I was not flummoxed, as my husband is a tender lover, a good man despite his temper, a temper never thrown to me. And I can calm him. I just can’t ever change his mind once he has it set. As with insisting Eliza go to the trial, to be deposed and testify. I wonder what state I’ll find her in and how long it will take for me to have her speak in normal childlike tones again, if ever I’ll hear her voice laced with laughter rather than despair? The nightmares grew more intense when Mr. S began speaking of the trial. I wonder how she fares. It’s not right that she is out of my sight, away from arms I might wrap around her in protection. Mr. S will not coddle her, but I think walking beside a child carrying legitimate fears is not a coddle but a balm, an act of mercy, and are we not compelled to love mercy? Mr. S uses the same Scripture from Micah 6:8 to remind me that “to do justice” comes before loving mercy, and Eliza’s presence at the trial is part of acting justly. But I grieve for the child that was and wonder if I abandon her when I submit to my husband’s will. I entrust her care to you, God—a mother’s constant prayer.
9
Anxiety Shifting
I longed for Mr. Warren’s loving arms to surround me with protection. I knocked on the door but no one came to answer. Wasn’t Mr. Warren staying there, at “our home”? I knocked again. The rain had lessened and a moon promised light enough to capture the beads of moisture on my cape. He must have gone to his parents’ with plans to meet me here in the morning. I shivered. Have I miscalculated? With Nellie unsaddled and cooled down, I spent
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