Valley of the Moon

“Goody!” said Fancy, clapping her hands. “There’s so much we have to talk about.”

Suddenly I was aware of how bad I must look. My shirt was smeared with mud. I smelled of Wilbur, of barnyard. I tried to smooth my hair down, untangle it with my fingers, but it was hopeless.

“You’ll want to clean up,” said Martha.

“I’d love a quick shower,” I confessed.

Martha filled two large pots with water and put them on the woodstove. “Fancy, help me with the tub. It’s in the scullery.”

The two women carried a tin tub into the kitchen. There was no such thing as a quick shower here.

“I didn’t mean for you to go to all that trouble. I’ll just wash up at the sink. Or in the bedroom,” I said, remembering the basin and pitcher.

“Nonsense,” said Martha.

She emanated calm. She was a woman who dealt with the facts. I was here. I was dirty. I needed a proper bath.

“Your clothes will have to be washed. Get her something to wear in the meantime, Fancy,” said Martha.

“You mean like a corset?” Was Martha wearing one right now? Her waist was tiny.

“I don’t wear corsets and neither should you, Lux,” said Fancy. “Constricts the lungs and the liver. Death traps. I believe in a more natural look.”

The conversation had taken a disturbingly intimate turn.

“You may find me in the parlor when you’re done,” said Joseph, disappearing.

“There is nothing natural about your look, Fancy,” said Martha.

Fancy’s brightly colored silks were definitely not the norm, but I appreciated them.

“It’s the latest style, I’ll have you know. From Shanghai,” she sniffed.

Once the water was hot, Martha poured the contents of the two pots into the tub, retrieved a towel and a cake of soap, and handed them to me.

“Martha makes the most brilliant soaps,” said Fancy.

I smelled the soap. Lavender.

Martha abruptly left the room without speaking. Had I done something wrong?

“Don’t take it personally. She’s not good with hellos and goodbyes,” said Fancy. “We are going to be friends, I just know it.” She smiled. “Would you like to know a little about me? I’m sure you’re very curious.”

She gazed at me expectantly.

“Of course,” I said.

“Well, I’ve never been married. I’ve come close. I was engaged to Albert Alderson, but I called it off at the last minute, and do you want to know why? He had horrible breath, like blue cheese. Edward, my father, was so angry. He said, ‘You’re calling off a marriage because of halitosis? Give the poor man a mint! Or breathe through your mouth.’ Yes, Father dear, I’ll breathe through my mouth for the next fifty years. Ah, poor Edward. I’m afraid both his children gravely disappointed him. Are you married, Lux?”

I hesitated. “Yes,” I lied. If she really was from an earlier era, I didn’t want to put her off.

“Really, you lucky girl! There’s nobody interesting here. What’s your husband’s name? Tell me all about him.” She leaned forward, her eyes bright.

“Oh. Well, I sort of misspoke. I was married, but I’m not anymore.”

Her face fell. I could tell what she was thinking. Was I a divorcée? To her, that was probably even worse than having a child out of wedlock.

“I’m a widow. I have been for a while. He, my husband, died years ago.”

Who knows? Maybe Nelson and I would have gotten married if he’d lived. It was another lie, but it wasn’t that much of a stretch.

“Oh, Lux, how awful.”

“It’s okay, we don’t have to talk about it.”

“I’m so sorry. How rude of me to interrogate you like this when we’ve only just met.” She stood. “I’ll go upstairs and gather up some clothes. You have a lovely, long soak.”

I didn’t have time for baths at home. Something about the experience made me feel like a child. I trailed my hands through the warm, soapy water and took inventory of the room. Pots of herbs lined the windowsill: chives, tarragon, and mint. On the shelves, stacks of simple white crockery. On the wooden table, bowls piled high with fruit and vegetables: peaches, plums, a basket of corn. It was so perfect—I still couldn’t shake the feeling I was on a movie set.

My mother once told me impossibility was a circle. You started at the top and immediately fell, plunging down the curve, all the while saying to yourself, This can’t be. Then you reached the hollow at the bottom. The dip. A dangerous place. You could lose yourself. Stay there forever, devoid of hope, of wonder. Or you could sit in that dip, kick your legs out and pump. Swing yourself clear up the other side of the curve to the tippy-top of the circle, where impossibility and possibility met, where for one shining moment they became the same thing. I pointed my toes underwater in the tub and gave a kick, so small it barely disturbed the surface of the water.

When had I grown so cautious?

The clothes were surprisingly comfortable. A pale blue blouse, velvety soft from being laundered so many times, and an oatmeal-colored cotton skirt, loose enough that it didn’t bind at the waist. I felt strangely liberated wearing the outfit, grateful to leave my jeans behind. Fancy had given me a tortoiseshell clip, but I had no idea how to use it to pin my hair back. Instead I braided it loosely and bound the end with a bit of twine I found on the counter.

Finally I made my way to the parlor, where I found Joseph sitting in a leather chair, his eyes closed, listening to opera on a gramophone. An Italian soprano keening in a minor key.

The room felt intimate and cozy. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A piano and a large mahogany desk that was covered with letters, papers, a microscope, sheet music, and—was that an ostrich egg? The air smelled pleasantly of candle wax and tobacco.

“All freshened up?” he said.

How long had he been watching me?

“It’s a beautiful room. Inspiring.”

“Inspiring? How?”

“I don’t know. It just makes you want to do things. Discover things. Get out into the world.”

“Ah,” he said.

I was tongue-tied, seemingly incapable of saying anything intelligent while still occupied with casting about for an explanation. I needed to find some sort of strategy to calm my mind. I decided I would act as if this was really 1906, without truly accepting it. In that duality I was able to move forward.

“Are you feeling all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine.”

“You look—” He trailed off, as if he thought better of what he was about to say.