The Wives of Henry Oades. Johanna Moran

son, she’s not. She’s resting. Let’s let her be now.”

      She’d marry him all over, Margaret thought vaguely, for his fathering alone. “Go look for whales, John,” she murmured. “This may be your lucky day.”

      Mrs. Randolph went to work the moment they left, preparing a basin of cool water and fishing a bar of scented soap from her bag. “Were you very far along?”

      “Not quite three months.” She’d lost two others. It never got easier. The first, a full-term boy, was stillborn. That was the unspeakable worst.

      Mrs. Randolph sighed. “It’s a terrible bleak feeling, isn’t it?”

      Margaret sat up and began to wash. “Have you children?”

      “None living.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      “Tut, tut, Mrs. Oades. No need for the long pussy face. I’ve not dried on the vine quite yet.” Through the wall came a male groan, a ghoulish sound. “So many ill,” said Mrs. Randolph. “Especially down in the women’s hatch. It isn’t right the way they have us situated alongside the animals. The girl under me is ailing. Spinster sisters both have a fever.”

      “They should be quarantined,” said Margaret.

      “The ship is chock full. Where would you have them go?”

      “Hammocks might be slung in Dr. Pritchard’s quarters.”

      Mrs. Randolph swatted the air. “And have the quack incommoded? He’d force oranges on the poor women and then fault them for dying, the same way he blamed Homer’s mum.”

      “He didn’t,” said Margaret.

      “He did,” said Mrs. Randolph. “The baby was fed tinned milk instead of mother’s. He’d be alive if not for that. The charlatan said it straight to the grieving woman’s face. I was there.”

      “How cruel,” said Margaret.

      “Men are.”

      “What would a dentist know about babies?”

      “What would any man, Mrs. Oades? Now where might I find a fresh nightgown?”

      Margaret pointed toward the corner. “In the trunk. Near the bottom.”

      Mrs. Randolph crossed the rolling floor, her arms spread for balance. She wore big, bold rings on both hands. Margaret had never owned a ring other than her wedding band. Her grandmother had been the same plain way, her mother was, all the aunts and cousins. Each generation bequeathed the austerity to the next, passed it sideways.

      Mrs. Randolph knelt and opened the trunk, picking up the porcelain ginger jar inside. “Here’s a lovely thing.”

      “A parting gift from my mum,” said Margaret. “A keepsake from home. It’s been sitting on her chimneypiece for as long as I can remember.”

      “My mum was the sentimental sort, too,” said Mrs. Randolph. She gently returned the jar to the trunk, pulling out the other nightgown and bringing it to Margaret. There were bloodstains on that gown too, flecks of Margaret’s mother’s, thanks to a lost thimble. They’d both sewed furiously preparing for the journey, talking without respite as they worked, trying to get everything said.

      Margaret slowly dressed herself. She and Henry had thought of names—Anne for a girl, after Margaret’s mother, Walter for a boy, after Mr. Whitman. “The dentist couldn’t have known for certain,” she said, setting the cold brick on the floor and lying back again. “Any number of ailments might have taken the child.”

      Mrs. Randolph said softly, “Just rest, Mrs. Oades.”

      Margaret closed her eyes. Never name a child before the christening. She’d heard it said often enough, but didn’t see how it mitigated the loss. Name or no name, Margaret loved them completely from the moment she knew. She fell asleep weeping, waking an hour later to Mrs. Randolph’s close whisper.

      “How is it now?”

      Margaret turned to face her. “You are kindness itself.”

      Mrs. Randolph arched an eyebrow. “You didn’t think so at first. Mounting your high horse the way you did down on the docks.”

      “Oh, forgive me, please. I shouldn’t be so touchy about my age. My husband is nearly two years younger. He likes to tease.”

      “I assumed the gentleman was your da,” said Mrs. Randolph. “I was merely making certain.”

      “Why?”

      “I took a slight fancy to him.”

      “You don’t mean it!” Margaret’s unsuspecting papa would have fainted dead away had she made an overture. “He’s an old man.”

      Mrs. Randolph shrugged. “I prefer a mature gentleman.”

      “My mum would have run you through with her umbrella.”

      They laughed a little, Mrs. Randolph’s hand brushing close, her dazzling red-stone ring glinting. Margaret felt an odd urge to try it on for size. “Captain Burns would be more your sort,” she said. “I happen to know he’s an eligible bachelor.”

      Mrs. Randolph waved off the suggestion, pulling a hankie from a side pocket, wiping her perspiring brow and neck. “No, thank you. His breath is foul, and he has a tremendous backside for a man. It’s every bit as broad as my own.” Her watery eyes shifted about. “The wind has died down, hasn’t it? Perhaps it’s time I fetched your husband.”

      Margaret sat up a bit. “Please visit a moment longer.”

      The cabin air was inhospitable, as warm and muggy as a coop’s. Still, Mrs. Randolph didn’t hesitate. She pulled the stool close and sat, buffing the ring with a sleeve and splaying her fingers. “Pretty, isn’t it? I noticed you looking.”

      “It’s lovely. A ruby?”

      “A garnet, actually. You should see how it does in a good light.” She tugged the ring free and pushed it down Margaret’s middle finger. “There now. Hold your hand to your cheek.” Margaret shyly complied. “Yes, like that. Isn’t it striking next to your dark hair? Christmas is coming. I’ll make a mention to Mr. Oades.”

      “He’d think us both daft,” Margaret said, studying the ring. Henry was always saying that she was a natural, a born beauty. She denied that she was, though of course she liked to hear him say it. Oh, she wasn’t a scare. Her features were arranged nicely enough. She was a tall woman, a bit too tall, though she walked erect as she’d been taught, in fear of growing a hump. Her wasp waist, considering the children, drew the occasional flattering comment from other women. Her eyes were clear, more gray than blue, and her complexion was even, unblemished. But her mannish hands weren’t right. The knuckles were too large, unworthy of the ring’s glamour.

      “You may borrow it one evening,” said Mrs. Randolph.

      Margaret removed the ring and returned it. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly.”

      “It was given to me by a circus performer,” said Mrs. Randolph. “A wild-animal trainer, a Persian living in Paris, a splendid masculine specimen.”

      “How romantic,” said Margaret. “And the blue ring? A sapphire, is it?”

      Mrs. Randolph nodded, smiling as if with fond memory. “An English gent surprised me with this one, a charming old dear from London. Rich as Midas. George. I don’t recall the surname. We’d just been to the Lyceum to see Sarah Bernhardt onstage.”

      “Sarah Bernhardt. Really.”

      “It was the highlight of my life. She sleeps in a satin-lined coffin, you know.”

      “I didn’t know.”

      “Am I tiring you, Mrs. Oades?”

      “Not in the least,” said