The Fear of Becoming a Stepmother: Eliza Shunned the Widowers Proposal
The stepmother saw plainly that Eliza had no wish to marry the widowernot because he had a young daughter, nor because he was older, but because she feared him deeply. His cold gaze pierced to the very depths of her heart, and in her terror, her pulse quickened, as though her heart sought to shield itself from the arrows of his stare. Eliza kept her eyes fixed on the ground, unwilling to lift them, and when at last she did, all could see they were brimming with tears.
Those tears rolled like an avalanche down her cheeks, flushed crimson with shame. Her hands trembled; her small fists clenched as if to fend off the stepmother and the suitor she had brought. Yet, traitorous words escaped her lips: “I will marry.”
“Then it is settled. To refuse such a home, such a mantwould be a sin! Why, he treated his first wife like a lady of the manor. She was soft as clay, frail and sickly, forever coughing. They would walk, he three steps ahead, she one behind. She would pause, wheezing like a winded horse, and he would embrace her, soothing her without complaintunlike your father, the drunkard.”
When she was with child, scarce a soul saw her about. She lay abed, and after the birth, ’twas he who rose to tend the babe at night while she faded further. So said his mother.
“But youstrong as an ox! Hell place you in the finest corner of the house. Skilled in all thingsscythe and sickle, spinning and weavingtis a sin to waste you on some untested lad, his character yet unformed. This man is known, his ways plain. What fortune shines upon you!”
She would send away the strongest maids, they would hold a quiet gatheringno need for grand wedding revels, lest they trouble the dead with dancing. The widower forbade a trousseau, saying the house lacked for nothing.
Jacob had wed his first wife for love, knowing Audrey oft fell ill, frail as she was. Yet his mother insisted a man so handsome and strong needed a wife, not a child, but neither reason nor persuasion swayed himAudrey was all he desired.
Whispers spread through the village: Had she bewitched him? Only a man cursed, unversed in life, would choose a sickbed for his home, a life of suffering. The physician declared Audreys lungs weaka mere chill led to fever, then to asthma, and beyond, who could say?
Jacob believed his love might ward death from his wife, that care and devotion would drive illness away. At first, after the wedding, all seemed well. The newlyweds could scarce contain their joy.
Then, when Audrey quickened with child, her very frame seemed to rebelconstant weakness, dizziness, a drowsiness so deep she could neither wash nor milk the cow, nor even comb her own long, fair hair.
The physician called it a passing malady; birth would restore her strength. Jacob tended her without reproach, but his mother berated him day and nighthe had brought not a helpmeet, but a burden. Like a starving eagle guarding its nest, he shielded his wife and bade his mother stay away.
Audrey bore a daughter, and Jacob hoped strength and joy would return to their home. Happiness didbut briefly. A winters chill took hold of Audrey, and she never fully recovered, wasting away before his eyes.
They took her to hospital, where the doctor spoke plainly:
“Her lungs will not endure.”
Audrey knew her time was short. At first, she bore it silently, forcing smiles that mirrored pain, her eyes betraying fearfor the morrow, for her child.
Her gaze seemed to bid farewell, pleading to be remembered happy, whole. Her ribs stood stark beneath her skin, her chest sunken, fingers withered, shoulders slumpedall silent heralds of deaths approach.
Knowing her end near, Audrey begged her husband to heed her wish.
“None may barter with Gods design. Our love has wearied in its fight with death. I can bear the pain no longer. Forgive meand our daughter. I was born to suffer, and I have made you suffer with me.”
Jacob clasped her fevered hands and kissed them. Her breath came ragged; he knew she had but minutes left.
She spoke of her love, her fears for their child, her voice failing. Then, with effort, she whispered:
“Marry Eliza. She will be a good wife, a good mother. She has endured muchstepmothers, cruel kin. Her spirit moves me. My own mother knows her family well; her eyes are sharp as a hawks. Eliza is gentle, diligent, patientshe will not harm our child. In time, she will love you. Treat her as you did me. Forgive me for saying so, but my soul, like my lungs, is shadowedI fear for our daughter. God will guide your choice, but remember: do not let her grieve, lest I curse you from beyond.”
Her last words were slow, deliberate. With failing strength, she squeezed his hand.
Jacob wept, his tears falling upon her face. He felt her slipping away. Her expression grew serene, a faint smile lingering. Her grip on his hand held firm.
He kissed her from brow to foot, whispering promises to fulfill her wish. And so, a year after her passing, he came to court Eliza.
The stepmother had been urged by Jacobs mother-in-law, who, ailing herself, feared she had little time left. She wished her grandchild and son-in-law settled.
None knew his sorrow as she did. For his kindness to her daughter, she would have kissed his feet and prayed for his happiness on bended knee.
The betrothal passed as in a haze. Seeing his childs loneliness, his own need for a helpmeet, he resolved to honor his wifes plea. He had watched Elizameek, dutiful, fair, even bearing Audreys likeness in her hair, her smile, her gait.
At times, he yearned to embrace her, to hold her in silence, seeking Audrey in her face. Eliza herself could not say why she consentedweariness of her stepmothers cruelty, pity for the child, or dread of her drunken fathers return.
Yet, in agreeing, she knew her trial was yet to come: to love Jacob, and be loved in turn.
After the betrothal, Jacob brought Eliza to meet his daughter.
Violet seldom left the house, keeping always to her fathers side, doting upon little Rose. Sometimes, waking in the night, he would find his wife bending over the child, whispering as though guiding her for the days to come.
Jacob could not think of it without tears. Rose was a true home child, clinging to none but her father, grandmother, and one cross old aunt.
Jacob led Eliza inside, that she might see the child, away from the stepmothers crowing, as though a barren cow had been led from the yard.
Eliza stayed, silent mostly, noting Jacob was not stern but courteous, attentive. He asked plainly if she loved anotherif so, he would withdraw. Of Audreys plea, he said not a word.
The house enchanted herfine hand-carved furniture, paintings in lacquered frames, rooms bright and spacious. Rose, upon seeing Eliza, behaved oddlynot fearful, but coquettish.
She fetched her dolls, begging Eliza to play. She reached for the strangers hand, studying her with bright eyes, smiling now and then. Eliza, in their games, embraced her, smoothing the childs golden hair.
“I should plait thisyou would look a princess.”
Jacob watched their play, their ease, and his heart swelled with joy.
He had feared wedding Eliza, for Rose oft asked after her mother, peered from the window as though searching the lane, rushed to greet each visitor, hoping it was she.
He had tried to explain, but Rose was but fourher heart needed no words, only a mothers gentle hands.
Jacob knew no love of his could replace a mothers touch, her warmth. He feared misjudging Elizabut seeing Rose pout, near tears as Eliza made to leave, peace settled upon him.
Rose took Elizas hand, led her to her room, threw back the covers, pounded the pillows like a little mistress, then leapt upon the bed, bouncing with glee.
Eliza remembered her own stepmotherthe withheld bread, the sweets given only to her own daughters, the cuffs for tasks ill-done, the drunken father she would cover with her own blanket, her heart aching. She recalled the stepmothers curses, the threats of casting her out like worthless chattel.
With a lump in her throat, she drew close to Rose, embraced her fiercely, and lay beside her till the child slept, content.
Jacob, overjoyed, scarce knew how to act. They took tea, smiling at one another in silence. He did not let her leave.
He did not let her leave at all.
A wife belongs with her husbandnot where she is unwelcome.
