Peggy-O revisited

This morning I went back to my outline of Peggy-O and messed around with it a bit more. Honestly, I don't even feel a need to expand it anymore. It's pretty much a story already, albeit a very short one.

Peggy-O

A river of army, pouring down through the foothills along the dry, dusty road, weary men placing one foot in front of the other, following the twitching flanks of the horses through the hot, humid morning. A tall man at the front of the column, surveying the land.

A woman, pale and distant as the moon, her arms languid in the afternoon heat. A window, taller than she. A pause, a glance out; a glance up.

A ball to welcome the officers. Women arrayed in the same palette of colors as the houses lining the streets. The women whisper and bob and smile and dance. The officer crosses to the woman, escorted by her brother, who introduces them. The officer bows low over her hand. She says little; wonders if he can hear her heart thudding against her ribs.

“Margaret,” she replies, and her mouth curls up into the slightest smile. He asks her to dance. She’s afraid to look him in the eye; she has a hard time looking away again.

A walk along the creek. He holds a branch aside so she can pass through. She reminds him of a mourning dove. She might fly away at any moment. He takes her hand; she faces him, reluctant, not looking him in the eyes. His hand is callused; she has never felt such roughness. But he is so gentle. She looks up at his face. He kisses her.

Later that night, after dinner, her mother drops a hint. “Won’t it be nice when those military men move along,” she drawls casual, watching her daughter’s face like a hawk, but from the corners of her eyes. “So charming, but most of them don’t have a penny to their name.” Margaret rises, puts down her book with the excuse of a headache, goes to her room.

Only one candle lit in the room. She paces, pausing often in front of the open windows, looking out at the night sky over the city. A tap on the windowframe; she startles, then rushes over to open the window higher. He sits on the windowsill, removes his boots, lands light as a cat and bows. She smothers a laugh, glances towards the hall. They sit on the sill together, talking quietly, holding hands, late into the night. She lets him steal an occasional kiss.

“We’re moving on in two days,” he says. He asks her to marry him, his eyes intense but unafraid. She turns her face away, looks out over the city. She tells him she cannot, that her mother would be angry if she married a poor soldier. He turns her face toward him so he can see her eyes. “Peggy-O,” he pleads. She bites her lip, tries to blink back tears.

The next morning; she is calling on friends with her mother. They pass in the street. The captain bows; Margaret nods, can’t meet his eyes. They don’t speak.

That night, she again pleads a headache and goes to her room. She pushes up the window and sits on the sill, wrapping her arms around her knees and leaning her head against the windowframe. She hears quiet footsteps, and turns her head; he is coming. She puts her feet down, sits up straight, looks ahead. He walks up to her, doesn’t even sit down next to her. He just kneels at her feet.

He talks in a low, urgent voice, pleading the cause of love. She looks sad but resolute. He is holding both her hands in his. He cannot understand why she would forsake love for duty to her family. She gives him a sharp look. “Are you not a soldier?”

“I am more than a soldier,” he replies. He stands.

She stands, too. “I cannot marry you, William, though it may break my heart,” she says, her hand light on his cheek as the feathers of a bird. One last kiss. He leaves without another word.

An army cot, a thin, spare form under a ragged blanket. The sustained gasp of shallow breath. His fingers clench, lips mouth silent words.

Months later; another ball. A group of young officers chat with Margaret’s brother. He asks after William; they grow solemn. “Died on the march, just wasted away,” says one. “A bitter shame.”