Velvet and Lace


Red velvet, he said. I'll bring you back red velvet, and lace, and pretty pins for your hair, and you'll be the finest lass in town. He had smiled down at me--the features were blurred now, years had washed away detail and line, but I remembered still the warm glow of his skin and his smile, and his blue eyes. Red velvet. Oh, I was a young fool, to be so taken in--but then, Ben always was one for the girls. I was merely the last before he left, aboard that big ship so fine; and I waited for him and his red velvet and lace, waited and imagined myself the envy of the town, on his arm as we strolled through the streets man and wife. I did have my imaginings, a secret smile curving my mouth as I churned or sewed, imagining his return. "Wait for me," he had said.

Well, waiting's well and good, but a body's got to look after herself. The first year I smiled and hummed through my work, thinking of his return; the second year I began to worry, though I didn't show it. The third year I feared for him, and cried, and moped about so that my parents feared for my humours and my health; and then I got angry. Not with Ben--well, yes with Ben, I'm fooling none. But I was more angry with myself for having been led on so, a dumb foolish ewe, dreaming of marriage while the other maids (I was quite sure) had been smiling behind their hands all the while.

The fourth year, I got married. All my cloths, and linens, and pewter--all that I'd been saving for that rogue, I brought with me to David, the carpenter of the town. Twas a good enough match; we got along well together, and he was kind enough, though a bit exasparatin' when he's got his mind set to something. He had the best house in the village as well, with fancy cupboards here and there, so cunningly hidden and tucked away you'd never see them. And though I swore I'd never think of Ben again, my thoughts would tiptoe over to him when I wasn't watching. I'd see a lady go by in velvet, and this wave of some feeling, I know not what, would wash over me as I stood over the dishes in my plain homespun and struggled against the tears.

The fifth year, young David arrived; and in the sixth, William. And I hadn't time to wish and wonder what had happened to my love of so long ago. Likely, I'd told myself a thousand times, he'd been drownded in the sea, or perhaps eaten by some monster of the depths. So I put him behind me and settled, finally, into the life I'd been given.

The seventh year, he came back.

When the stranger first pounded on the door of our cottage David was gone, off fixing some shutter or other, and me and the babes alone in the house. I looked out the window and knew he must be off the boat come into harbor that morning; I knew all the men in the town, and he certainly wasn't among them. So I put my head by the door, and asked, "What be ye wanting? The carpenter's busy right now, he can't see you." For I'm not so foolish as to say my husband weren't home, and I a woman alone in the house, to some stranger.

"I came to see you, May," a deep voice replied. It was rough, but in someways familiar. "I was told you live here."

"Well, he did know my name. . .I opened the door, young David on one hip and my hair straggling from beneath its cap. "What do you want?"

"May." The man smiled, a smile I'd seen many a time in my dreams, a smile I'd wished for and cried over for years. And like a fool I stepped aside and let him in.

"Ben," I said. My voice was steady, I had God to thank for that. After the weeping and fearing and anger, I felt empty; didn't feel anything for this man, anything at all. He was indeed a stranger. A rich, well dressed stranger, with a package in his arms that he set on the table. He set himself down, looking around.

"I heard you'd done well for yourself," he said finally. "I heard you got married."

Now I felt something, all right. "Yes, I got married," I snapped back, setting young David on the bolster and going over to stir up the fire. "You can't expect a girl to wait on your pleasure and waste her whole life doing so. We don't need you here." Not even a letter, I thought bitterly. Not even a word. "You can leave. My husband's returning any time now."

"May." he smiled, as if he hadn't heard me. "You look beautiful. Beautiful as ever."

"Oh, aye, ever a flattering word for the ladies." My throat was all closed up, and I wanted to hit him as hard as I could. "I'm beautiful as seven years of managing a house, and working from dawn to dusk without even a servant, and motherhood can make one. I'm beautiful as a princess, I am!" I dumped the risen bread dough out on the table and punched it again and again, giving it what I wished I could have given him.

"I brought something for you." Ben said. He took up the large, clothwrapped package, holding it out to me.

Brought something for me, did he? Well, I took the package, and opened it roughly, parting the layers of paper until the contents spilled out: Velvet. Rich, red velvet, the color of wine, the color of blood. And under that, the finest tatted lace I had ever seen, like faery lace.

I don't know what I did--I touched my cheek, and stepped back from the table, and said something stupid, like "Oh," And then, to my horror, I began to cry. In front of this man who'd sailed off and left me seven year gone, in front of the children, I stood there with the tears running down my face as I looked down at the velvet spilled onto the table, absurdly rich against the dull, flatwoven table carpet. "Oh," I said again, and Ben stood up and hugged me, in my own house.

And God's wounds, if I didn't stand there and let him.

I served him some small beer, in our one glass cup. We didn't say much, either of us; I was shamed for crying before him, and he didn't know what to say, I guess. I wasn't the bright-eyed, rosy cheeked maiden he'd left years before.

"I came for you, May," he said at last. "I wanted to come before, but I couldn't. But I finally did come back for you."

"Aye, that you did," I said. I sat quiet; I wasn't going to make this any more easier than I had to. And then he walked over to me, getting down on one knee and taking me by the hand, and he looked fiercely up at me.

"Come away with me," he said, serious, those eyes of his bluer than the sea or the sky. There were wrinkles around them now, and more around his mouth, and not all of them were those caused by smiles. This weren't no boy anymore; this was a man grown. And he meant what he said. "Come away with me, my love, I ask you," he repeated softly. I flinched at the intimate words. "I could have had a king's daughter to wife, that I could, but I'd choose you a thousand times over. I've a name for myself now. I've got a big house, with chandeliers, and a mirror. . .you can dress in velvet every day. I'll grant your every desire. You'll have servants, as many as you want, and never have to lift a finger again, if you want. I came for you, May. . .I'd show you the beauty and grandeur you were meant to have. I'd show you the white, white lilies that grow beyond the sea."

"Oh, well then," I said bitter-like, "You think you can just come and pick me up, like some Boston tart? One more ornament for your big, fancy house?" I flexed my reddened hands. "I don't think I'd suit. You're three years late, Ben Wilson. No letters, naught. I got on with my life, and there's no room in it for old loves that come prancing in with their--" my voice caught. "Their fancy cloths, and lace." I tighened up my mouth, hoping I wouldn't cry, and stared into the fire.

Ben touched my face gently, softly, bringing back memories I'd liefer do without. David never touched me so, hardly. With my husband, he did his duty by me and that was all; he'd not touched me so.

"Stop it," I said, grabbing his hand. "You stop that, Ben, right now. I'm a married woman. I've no time for rogues in fancy dress-" I closed my eyes. Choices made were choices made. If a few kind words and soft caresses could make me break my vows, I was a sorry excuse for a woman, indeed. "Go," I said. "And take your velvet and your lace and I don't know what all, and get you gone. Get you gone!" I shouted, pointing at the door.

Ben got up and walked over to the door--but then he turned around. "I always thought of you," he said simply. "Every day. I'd see a vase, and remember the curve of thy neck; I'd hear a song, and remember thy voice. I came as soon as I could. And I can give you what David never can: I can give you love. May, my beautiful May." He smiled, that old, familiar smile that used to set my heart a-thumping. Now it only made me feel cold and hurting inside. "I'll be at the ship," he said. "For two days. Come. I came back for you. and I swear, upon the good Lord and all the planets in their courses, that if you come I'll never leave you again, and you'll be mine forever." His smile faded. We made our vows before you and David ever married; I may have been delayed, but I'll not break them." He came back over to me--as if to kiss me, I thought somewhat dazedly,--but he only hugged me once more, long and tight. I remembered the smell of him, the feel of him, and I forgot for a moment that I was Margaret Carpenter and hugged him back.

"I love you, I love you," he whispered again and again into my hair. And then, gently loosing me, he strode back over to the door. "Two days, my love," he murmured, and he was gone.

He left the velvet. It looked outlandish on the rough table-carpet. William was crying for his dinner, and as I sat and nursed him I stared at Ben's gift, wondering what to do with it. I had to get rid of it, certainly. Throw it in the fire, watch it burn till there was nothing left. But something in me balked at the thought, that so much beautiful, soft fabric should be destroyed, and I reached out a hand and stroked the redness, smooth as a cat's fur, as a rabbit's. There was an ache down below my heart, one I'd thought I had gotton rid of with marriage and motherhood; but I hadn't. I'd just hidden it away. And then, for the second time that day, I bowed my head and wept.

I was a wife. I was a mother. I told these things to myself over and over again two days later as I washed the dishes and put the children to bed. I had duties. Any thought of leaving was ungodly and sinful and stupid besides, how I could believe the words of a man who'd shown up on my doorstep with no explanation of his whereabouts (king's daughter, indeed!) was beyond my understanding.

David sat by the hearth, whittling, smoking his pipe, lost in thought. He'd never notice I was gone, I thought bitterly, then sternly chastised myself for such a thought. But I knew it was true. Though I could tell myself over and over again I was a wife and a mother and a good godly woman, I knew I was going. The velvet was wrapped in old cloths and in a basket by the door. My heart was being torn in two parts. I loved little David and William, but Ben. . .Ben. . .I was just a stupid woman, and I loved him more than my vows of marriage and my honor, and I hated myself for it.

"I love you," I whispered to the children as I put them in their bolster, hugging them tight. Then I stood, looking around this house one last time. Putting on cape and muffler, I picked up the basket and walked out of the house.

David never even looked up.

The ship was a dark shadow against the orange sky, a huge shadow. I walked down the street of the town towards the wharf. You're a wife, you're a mother, pounded through my head with every footstep, and I still kept going, with my velvet and lace. The neighbors looked, and stopped, and stared.

He was waiting on board ship. Tall and dark against the fiery sky, he was waiting when I climbed up the rope ladder and onto the strangely shifting deck.

"May, May," he said, holding me tight. "You came, thank God you came." At his word, the sailors set about hoisting the rigging, and I felt the boom and shudder of wind catching the wide canvas sheets. The ship slowly set out to sea. I looked back at the town where I'd lived my whole life, standing there on the foc'sle as the sun sank into the coming night and the moon took its place. Chandaliers. Velvet and lace, and mirrors. Oh, the foolish man--if he'd come to me in rags and offered me a hovel to live in, I'd have come. I told him so, and he smiled.

"Oh, my love, I could offer you nothing less than the best." Then he sobered, looking out at sea with a lost, dreaming look. "The best," he murmured, and for some reason the grue went down my back. I looked up at the moon, to find it hidden by clouds rolling in, and the wind had taken on a strange note. Moaning. Keening, almost, and the ship began to sway.

'Storm's brewing," I said, trying to hide my nerves. "Should we not be down below?"

Ben looked down at me, his eyes dark in the moonlight that gave a strange, bluish cast to his skin. "I came back for you," he whispered, one ice-cold finger running down my jaw. "I couldn't leave my vow unbroken. . .I came back for you, as I promised I would. Didn't I? And you came. Thank God for that, thank God. . ."

I jumped up and staggered backwards, more scared then I'd let myself admit. "Ben," I said, trying to sound firm, "You stop this. You stop this right now. . ."

His hands closed around my shoulders, his flesh like ice. His eyes were two pools of darkness.

"May, my May," he whispered. The keen and moan of the wind was in his voice. It was growing colder, my body feeling number by the second--yet I couldn't move. "I came back for you, " the man--was it a man?--holding me said. "Let me show you riches, May. . ."

"Stop." the sound would barely leave my throat, ice creeping up it even as I spoke.

"Let me show you lilies. . ."

"Ben, please. . ." my body was gone now, only a spark of warmth left. My thoughts were slow, slower, even fear was gone. Everything was gone. His voice was all there was at the last, a thread spinning me down, down into blackness.

"Lilies, May, beautiful lilies. . .at the bottom of the sea. . ."