by W. Arthur
July 14th 1888 should have been the happiest day of my young life. The weather that morning and afternoon was perfect - temperature in the 70s, low humidity with a light cooling breeze off Lake Michigan. I was about to marry a man that most women my age only dream about, a man similar in many ways to those described in the Bronte and Austin novels I so enjoyed reading.
Clayton, while perhaps not drop-dead handsome, was well put together; slim-waisted with a powerful upper body and rugged features. He was taller than most of the men his age - a bit over six feet. And he also had a pleasant smile and quiet temperament. I had known him all of my life, as he had been a very frequent visitor to our home. Thus I had come to regard him as a big brother and, as such, had great affection for him.
And that was a problem. Because I thought of him as a brother, it was difficult, in spite of the urging of my parents, to think of him now as a husband. Then, to make matters even more complicated, his burgeoning career as a corporate attorney (which my father had helped him obtain) would very soon take me two thousand miles away from the only home I had ever known.
A part of me was eager to become a wife because, after all, that was the role our society expected its young women to assume. But a darker, more secretive part of me was also a bit resentful. This resentment stemmed from two causes. First, at eighteen, I was thoroughly enjoying my life as the oldest daughter of a very prominent and modestly wealthy father. As such, I pretty much did as I pleased and lacked for very little.
Second, I had virtually no say in whom I was to marry, or when. In fact, one might say that my marriage to Clayton Edwards had been arranged in a field hospital in 1864, nearly six years before I was even born. My father and Clayton's father, Robert, had been captains in the 49th Illinois Regiment. Robert was mortally wounded at the Battle of Nashville in December of 1864. As Robert was dying, my father promised to always look after Robert's three-month-old son, Clayton.
Obviously, my father survived the war and came home to establish his own career, start a family, and fulfill his promise to his friend and fellow officer. Thus, as I have said, Clayton was a very frequent visitor to our home as he was growing up and even as he attended college at Northwestern. By the time I reached age twelve or so, everyone simply assumed we would marry once Clayton finished his education.
Not that there was anything wrong with Clayton. Certainly not! All of the other young men I knew in Evanston paled in comparison, and I knew I was indeed fortunate to have such a fine figure of manhood as a husband.
But, as a young woman I had often dreamed of love, of romance, of suitors lined up at the front door, clamoring for my attention. In my eighteen years, I'd had none of those things. Clayton said he loved me. I said I loved him. And perhaps we really did love each other. But was it the kind of love husbands and wives are supposed to have for each other? I honestly didn't know. In fact, I knew precious little about the physical attraction between men and women, what the older women sometimes whispered to each other and called sex.
I may have flushed slightly and even felt a small tingle in parts of my body that were considered dirty and untouchable when he smiled at me or brushed my hand with his, but I didn't know what that meant, if anything. I found myself wondering if, after we were married, he was going to do more than touch my hand or kiss me on the cheek. I wondered if he was going to take control of me the way my father sometimes did, or even the way Petruchio took control of Kate in the production of Taming of the Shrew I had seen once in Chicago.
In the weeks leading up to my wedding, which was rather hastily arranged because of Clayton's new position in San Francisco, I thought quite a bit about what my life would be like as a married woman, especially one whose mother is so far away. Up to that point, the only home I had known was the big house on Central Street in Evanston. The only family I had ever had consisted of my father, mother, and three younger siblings.
I wondered if Clayton would be anything like my father, who was both loving and strict. He was, without question, the head of our household and, as such, established a sense of order which he enforced through the use of occasional discipline. I have no doubt that his four years spent as an officer in the Union Army imbued him with a great appreciation for military efficiency and the need to punish those under his command who did something to violate or hinder that efficiency.
Growing up, I myself was on the receiving end of a disciplinary session on several occasions, as were my siblings and, I believe, our mother. While I certainly didn't enjoy these sessions, I never resented them either, because I understood that they were for my good and for the good of the family of which I was a part.
However, now I was to be a part of a new family. Naturally, I assumed my husband would be the head of that family, as was the custom in our society. But what kind of head would he be? What would he expect of me? And would he discipline me if I didn't live up to his expectations? I had so many questions and so much anxiety that I only went through the motions of preparing for the wedding and our move to California.
The evening before the wedding, I finally got the courage to ask my mother these questions, after all, she had been married for nineteen years. I knew she had married my father when she was seventeen in 1869 and had four children by the time she was twenty-five. Surely, she could speak from her own experience.
Sometime after dinner, as the house was settling for the night, I called Mother to my room, the room I was about to leave and to which I would never return. We sat down on my bed. I took her firm and familiar hand in mine and lay my head on her shoulder. She looked at me and gently kissed my cheek. "Tomorrow is the day," she said.
I nodded. "Yes, tomorrow is the day," I replied.
She tried to smile but stopped as, no doubt, she saw the anxiety in my face. "What's troubling you, Kath?" she asked.
I took several deep breaths to steady myself. "I'm very frightened," I said finally.
She did smile this time. "That's understandable. All new brides are a little anxious before the wedding."
"I know. But... I... I'm not sure what it means to be a wife."
She smiled again and tightened the grip on my hand. "Kath, you're a beautiful and intelligent young woman, and you're on the verge of a great adventure," she said. "And Clayton is a good man who will make a good husband."
I wasn't satisfied with the answer. "But... Mother... what will be expected of me?"
"What do you mean by expected? You've seen the older women. You've seen me. You will be expected to manage a household, perhaps do domestic chores. You will be expected to bear children and obey your husband, to conduct yourself in such a way that does him honor."
I was getting frustrated. "Yes, I know all that," I said. "You have provided me with a good model in all things but one."
"What's that?"
I flushed slightly as I struggled to ask what for me, was the most important and immediate question. "I know that... that husbands have certain... wants and needs. I assume Clayton has those as well. But... I know nothing about how to satisfy those wants and needs, and it frightens me to think about it."
Now it was Mother's turn to flush. "Oh... that," she said. "I guess I've never discussed this before. Have you not read about it in those books you like to read?"
"No."
"And you have no notion of what you and Clayton will do together when you're alone on your wedding night?"
"No, Mother."
"Oh, dear," she said, clearly uncomfortable. "I don't know where to start." She paused to gather her thoughts. "Are you... attracted to Clayton?"
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, dear," she said again. "Honey, husbands and wives are supposed to naturally feel attracted to each other... in such a way that they want to join... physically."
I wanted to ask what she meant by join, but I could tell by Mother's face that she wouldn't give me a good answer, or at least the answer that I sought. "I... I'm just not sure what to do," I said finally.
She patted my cheek in a reassuring manner. "When the time comes, as it probably will tomorrow night, I believe you will know. Clayton will help you."
That answer did provide me with a small amount of comfort, especially as I remembered that Father and Clayton had a long conversation earlier in the day, hopefully to discuss some of these same questions. Still, my mind was not fully settled.
"Mother, will Clayton punish me if I don't do what I'm supposed to do?" Whatever that was, I thought, but didn't pursue that question.
Mother took a deep breath, no doubt recalling some of her own experiences. "As your husband and head of your household, Clayton will have the responsibility of guiding you in your role as his wife. It will be your responsibility to listen to him, to follow him and not argue or be disagreeable, even if you don't always agree with him. The way he guides you may take different forms, including the way your father has sometimes guided you and your sisters and brother. That will be up to Clayton to decide, and you must not question him."
Again, I wanted to ask her about her own experiences, especially with Father's guidance method, which I'm sure she knew well, although I certainly had never been witness to it. However, instead of asking, I turned my body, put my arms around her neck, and pulled her into an embrace. "Thank you, Mother," I said. "I shall miss you terribly."
She gave me a wide smile that was full of sadness. "Perhaps," she said. "But not as much as I will miss you. I sometimes wish..." But she stopped herself. "No. You and Clayton are both young and strong. You must live your life as it takes you, even if it's all the way to San Francisco. You must write me often and tell me all about it." A tear formed in her eye. She quickly brushed it away.
Before I could respond, she extricated herself from the embrace, kissed me on the cheek, and left me alone. I could hear the sound of her dress brushing the floor as she moved. I had always been comforted by that sound. Now I was saddened by it.
I lay down on my bed and let myself cry. Perhaps I was about to embark on a grand adventure with a man who everyone thought would be an ideal husband. But at that moment, lying alone in the near darkness, I felt more like a little girl about to trade everything I ever knew for a future full of uncertainty and probable hardship.
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