Read Online All He Ever Wanted by Anita Shreve - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anita Shreve
Tags: Fiction
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might be lost.
“I’ll call on Tuesday, then,” I said at her door.
She nodded, but she seemed distracted. I could not let her stand in the snow a moment longer.
“Go inside,” I said.
She nodded again, and she stepped into the house. She glanced once at me before she shut the door. I walked back to the sleigh,
suddenly painfully aware of the snow, which was now considerably higher than my boots.
As it happened, Etna became ill with fever the next day, a development for which I chastised myself unmercifully. Had I warned
her sufficiently of the perils of the storm — as any decent man would have done — she would not have taken sick. (Although
it did occur to me that the preternatural flush I had seen upon her cheeks in the Bliss vestibule might have been due to incipient
fever, but never mind.) I did not discover this until Tuesday, when I called at the accustomed hour and was told so by Mrs.
Bliss, after which it was necessary to endure an interminable cup of tea and an intolerable conversation in the parlor (in
which I must say Mrs. Bliss seemed to thrive like a rare tropical flower, or was she, too, coming down with the fever?). I
could think of little but the fact that Etna might be lying in her bed not ten feet from my head. She was sick for a week,
after which she was able to come down into the parlor for brief intervals, the evidence of the contagion in her cough and
reddened nose. On my visits, I brought sweets from the baker and hothouse flowers and, on one occasion, a rare orchid from
the college greenhouse that the Biology Professor, Everett Tucker, had given me. And, of course, I brought books for Etna
to read. Despite these gifts, our conversations in that parlor (Etna settled in a chaise, myself sweating profusely beneath
my suit jacket and waistcoat) were always desultory and unconvincing — and whether this was a result of our confinement in
that dreadful room or of the unfortunate contrast to the brisk animation we had known together in the college dining room,
I could not tell. Needless to say, it was with a feeling of tremendous relief that Etna determined she was well enough to
again venture forth.
During our courtship, I was generous with my gifts, most of which I purchased at Johnston & Herrick’s in Hanover. I remember
a pair of topaz earrings Etna particularly liked. (Have I said how much Etna attended to her dress and accessories? In a modest
way, of course, but with an arresting mix of artfulness and taste.) I also gave her a moonstone necklace, and even now I cannot
forget the pleasure of fastening the clasp at the back of her neck. Was I wrong to imagine that if I offered these gifts (a
jet brooch, a tourmaline comb), and she accepted them, she was accepting me and my attentions, each present given and received
an entry to my credit in the ledger of our courtship? And so I had hope, even some confidence, and began to think about a
proper occasion on which to ask her to marry me.
It happened on a mild afternoon in March. It was unseasonably warm, the first good day we had had in weeks. The college had
paths for walking that prior to that afternoon had been covered with snow and shortly after would be too muddy to negotiate,
but on that day, betwixt the winter and the spring, the ground was hard enough for travel.
We left the Bliss household, and I led Etna to the head of the college paths, a walk already longer than any we had taken
together. I was in a state of considerable anxiety, as any suitor about to make a petition will be, but I took heart from
the fact that Etna did not demur at the entrance to the meadows. Indeed, I think she hardly noted it, so great was her restlessness,
as if her limbs were suffused with the very fluid that was rising in the maples all around us. The path we embarked upon kept
to the water’s edge, the river boisterous that day with early freshets. Not only was the air mild, but so also were the
“I’ll call on Tuesday, then,” I said at her door.
She nodded, but she seemed distracted. I could not let her stand in the snow a moment longer.
“Go inside,” I said.
She nodded again, and she stepped into the house. She glanced once at me before she shut the door. I walked back to the sleigh,
suddenly painfully aware of the snow, which was now considerably higher than my boots.
As it happened, Etna became ill with fever the next day, a development for which I chastised myself unmercifully. Had I warned
her sufficiently of the perils of the storm — as any decent man would have done — she would not have taken sick. (Although
it did occur to me that the preternatural flush I had seen upon her cheeks in the Bliss vestibule might have been due to incipient
fever, but never mind.) I did not discover this until Tuesday, when I called at the accustomed hour and was told so by Mrs.
Bliss, after which it was necessary to endure an interminable cup of tea and an intolerable conversation in the parlor (in
which I must say Mrs. Bliss seemed to thrive like a rare tropical flower, or was she, too, coming down with the fever?). I
could think of little but the fact that Etna might be lying in her bed not ten feet from my head. She was sick for a week,
after which she was able to come down into the parlor for brief intervals, the evidence of the contagion in her cough and
reddened nose. On my visits, I brought sweets from the baker and hothouse flowers and, on one occasion, a rare orchid from
the college greenhouse that the Biology Professor, Everett Tucker, had given me. And, of course, I brought books for Etna
to read. Despite these gifts, our conversations in that parlor (Etna settled in a chaise, myself sweating profusely beneath
my suit jacket and waistcoat) were always desultory and unconvincing — and whether this was a result of our confinement in
that dreadful room or of the unfortunate contrast to the brisk animation we had known together in the college dining room,
I could not tell. Needless to say, it was with a feeling of tremendous relief that Etna determined she was well enough to
again venture forth.
During our courtship, I was generous with my gifts, most of which I purchased at Johnston & Herrick’s in Hanover. I remember
a pair of topaz earrings Etna particularly liked. (Have I said how much Etna attended to her dress and accessories? In a modest
way, of course, but with an arresting mix of artfulness and taste.) I also gave her a moonstone necklace, and even now I cannot
forget the pleasure of fastening the clasp at the back of her neck. Was I wrong to imagine that if I offered these gifts (a
jet brooch, a tourmaline comb), and she accepted them, she was accepting me and my attentions, each present given and received
an entry to my credit in the ledger of our courtship? And so I had hope, even some confidence, and began to think about a
proper occasion on which to ask her to marry me.
It happened on a mild afternoon in March. It was unseasonably warm, the first good day we had had in weeks. The college had
paths for walking that prior to that afternoon had been covered with snow and shortly after would be too muddy to negotiate,
but on that day, betwixt the winter and the spring, the ground was hard enough for travel.
We left the Bliss household, and I led Etna to the head of the college paths, a walk already longer than any we had taken
together. I was in a state of considerable anxiety, as any suitor about to make a petition will be, but I took heart from
the fact that Etna did not demur at the entrance to the meadows. Indeed, I think she hardly noted it, so great was her restlessness,
as if her limbs were suffused with the very fluid that was rising in the maples all around us. The path we embarked upon kept
to the water’s edge, the river boisterous that day with early freshets. Not only was the air mild, but so also were the
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