"Oh Gawd, please don't," she begged over and over again as, with eyes pressed shut, she ground her head backwards into the grass.
But James was impervious to everything save the desperate need to wipe the impudence off her face and replace it with tearful, pleading submission.
Just as he was on the verge of accomplishing that goal, a strong, familiar female voice joined with the racing wind to cut through his purpose. "Let her go!" the voice commanded.
He did not need to look, not even when the voice came again, almost incoherent with anger. "Let her go, I said. This minute."
Slowly he raised himself and turned. Behind him he heard the girl scramble upward, mouthing some stupid expression of gratitude to her benefactress. With a surge of vindictive pleasure, he thought, what a fitting way to commence his apology. He listened again, with his back turned, curious as to the precise tone her lecture would take.
But when after several minutes he had heard nothing, he looked over his shoulder, surprised and a little disappointed to see her trudging back up the slight incline.
He heard, in his imagination, Sophia's voice raised in anger. A reconciliation must be effected— To that end, he swallowed his mortification, his damaging sense of a man reduced to a small boy, and called sharply after her, "I'm sorry. Mother—"
Then he tried to imbue his voice with a softer tone. He added, "For everything."
At last she turned to face him and as always, in spite of their differences, he was again struck by her eloquent simplicity, though he thought she looked cruelly old in the relentless light of day. He was accustomed to seeing her under the artificial and becoming light of lamp and candle. Now he saw clearly the streaks of gray in her hair, her neck flesh withered, the inevitable script of time around her eyes and mouth. He noticed something else as well, slight traces of moisture on her face which rendered him powerless.
When still she seemed disinclined to speak, he stepped up the incline toward her, trying to sort through the list of offenses for which he had to apologize. He shoved his hands into his pockets, smiling. "She seemed cooperative at first," he began. "How is a man to know when a female has changed her mind?"
Still she held him locked in a tight gaze. "From what I heard," she said, her voice faint over the wind, "she was clearly signaling her displeasure."
"And I apologize," he said. "To you, to her, to the whole damn world if necessary."
Really, he had no appetite for this at all and again turned away. To his surprise, he was aware of her presence behind him. "There is no shortage of willing ones, James," she said. "And neither is there a shortage of beds in the castle. Before we were married, your father always preferred the small room off" the Buttery. He had a very comfortable couch installed there and a secure lock. In the future, consider it yours," Her voice rose with just a tinge of lightness. "Out here, you run the risk of frightening the gulls. Birds are very graceful in their copulation. It almost resembles a dance. I'm quite certain they would be terribly put off" by the sweating, grunting human ritual."
In a mixture of amazement and amusement he caught the light in her eye. "I'll remember in the future," he smiled. He hadn't realized how much he had missed her during their silent warfare.
While she had not yet returned his smile, she seemed willing to follow after him a short distance removed from the place of his encounter with the young girl as though that spot now were corrupt ground. Carefully he selected a grassy area which afforded a breathtaking view of the channel.
Without words, he assisted her down, and lingered a moment to see if she was comfortable, then sat beside her, his knees drawn up, the two of them gazing, unspeaking, out across the blue water.
Long minutes passed before he could bring himself to break the silence. Although he was well aware of his numerous offenses, his mind was preoccupied with another train of thought. "You mentioned the small room off the Buttery," he began. "After you were married, did Father—I mean, did he—"
A smile which spoke of faint embarrassment caused her to duck her head. "Oh, for heaven's sake, I don't know, James," she scolded lightly. "I didn't set a guard on him." She shrugged and cast an exploring hand over the soft grasses.
He noticed now a becoming blush on her cheeks. In a way his question was not without motive. He simply wondered how a woman, transformed into a wife, felt about a man straying.
Now he was aware of her staring at him as though she'd seen through the question to the motive behind it. "I'm grateful for this privacy, James," she began. She shook her head. "Sometimes I feel as though every room in the castle has grown invisible ears."
He knew what she had reference to. The Cranfords. The constant and predominant source of irritation between them. With a sigh he sent his eyes back across the channel. "If you're so distrustful of them, Mother, why don't you dismiss them?"
She laughed openly at the bait. "For the simple reason that I'd lose both my son and daughter if I did, as you've pointed out before," she said.
He looked earnestly at her. "They mean you well, they really do. They are intensely loyal to our entire family and would do nothing—"
He sensed a stiffening in her and stopped speaking.
Apparently she too dismissed the unsavory subject and returned to her earlier sentiment. "At any rate," she went on, "I'm glad we're here alone."
"As am I," he smiled. Then because the feeling was so pleasant between them, he rushed on, getting the damnable apology out of the
way. "And I am sorry, Mother," he murmured, "for making you so angry. It was not my intention."
Almost sternly she shook her head. "I'm as much to blame." Earnestly she returned his gaze. "I do understand, James, how difficult it must be for you."
While he appreciated her understanding, still he looked away. "It is a muddle, isn't it?" he commented softly.
"It's deplorable," she agreed. "I want you to know that I intend to talk to Edward, see if he would be agreeable to a more equitable arrangement."
He laughed, remembering the countless times in the past when they both had launched the subject. To no avail. "Talk all you like, Mother, but you know the outcome as well as I."
"It's different now," she said.
"How different?"
"You're to be a bridegroom."
"And do you think that will make the slightest impression on Edward?"
"I think it will." She leaned closer. "Please try to understand him, James."
He closed his eyes and rested his head upon his raised knees. With despair, he recalled a lifetime trying to understand his older brother, taller, fairer, wittier; everyone in the castle, except their father, seeming to draw nourishment from his antics and charm, while he, for the most part, was made to feel like a blight on creation.
Remembering the unfairness of his childhood, he lifted his head and murmured sarcastically, "Poor Edward."
"Yes, indeed," she agreed quickly. "James, the trouble is," she went on, speaking urgently as though her time was limited, "you see him only from your point of view."
"It's the only one available."
"No. Try seeing it from his."
"How I wish that I could," he retorted. "How comforting it would be to be able to sit here and know that everything within my sight belongs to me. The castle, the headlands, that coast, the estates, a fitting inheritance to pass on to a son, wouldn't you say?" He shook his head.
Obviously she was listening closely. When he'd finished speaking, she drew herself up. "I'm going to ask him to deed half of it to you, as a wedding gift."
Clearly she had expected an enormous reaction. When he did not
respond in any way, she asked, "Did you hear, James? I said I was going to ask—"
"I heard."
"Well?"
"I wish you luck," he smiled. "For all our sakes. It's never made any difference in the past."
"I think it will now."
"Why?"
"According to Sir Claudius, Edward has gone through a period
of intense suffering."
Again James looked away. "When one chooses pimps and whores and pickpockets for companions," he said to the sky, "I should think that suffering, intense or otherwise, would be the order of the day."
He sensed a kind of reserve settling over her now. "All I'm asking," she concluded quietly, "is that when he arrives, we receive him warmly, that instead of incessant warfare, we try peace for a change." He thought she was finished, but looked up in time to hear her say, "If you have no natural affection for him, try to simulate it in the glorious hope that it might become genuine. Whoever his companions may be, I know him to have a generous heart. He will meet you halfway. I'm certain of it."
Speech concluded. In order to keep peace between them, he nodded, all the while thinking, how futile. Was he half a Lord? Half a peer of the realm? No! Sophia and Caleb were right. As distasteful as it was, it would ultimately require a lawsuit and perhaps an unsavory trial to wrest from the bastard what was rightfully his.
Obviously she saw something in his face which she misinterpreted as acceptance. "Thank you, James," she smiled, and for the first time reached for his hand. Watching her closely, it seemed that her emotions were perilously close to the surface. Seeing her mourning clothes again, he remembered her recent loss, recalled that the news had come while they had been maintaining the angry silence between them. Now he enclosed her hand between his own. "I'm sorry," he murmured, "about William Pitch. But the man had a full and productive life. Perhaps mourning is not so much the order of the day as—"
Quickly she nodded and withdrew her hand, fumbled now for her handkerchief "You're right, of course," she said, dabbing at tears which had appeared at the mere mention of the name. An unconvincing smile broke through the tears. "I do agree with Dr. Johnson, though, that we never do anything consciously for the last time without sadness of heart. The last letter I penned to William was on the day of
his death, an invitation for them to come and share your happiness—"
In an attempt to offer her a degree of comfort, he said, "Aunt Jane will be here soon, and Sophia said she thought that Jennifer was coming—"
He saw her turn hurriedly to him. "Is it for certain?" she asked eagerly. "There was some doubt—"
He smiled. "I believe Sophia convinced her, knowing how much it would mean to you." The smile broadened. "Now, does that thoughtful gesture sound like the impulse of the enemy?"
She gave him a most peculiar look, as though he were still a child and not capable of understanding the complexities of adult relationships. He resented such an expression. Feeling that everything had been said, he started to rise.
Abruptly she restrained him. "One more thing, James," she began, as he settled back again to the ground.
"The coming festivities," she began.
"Yes?" he said quietly. "What about them?"
"The time will come when I must speak to Lord and Lady Powels about—"
She faltered. He supplied the word. "The engagement?" If he could bring this rambling to a close, there still would be time for a ride with Caleb.
"Yes. The engagement."
"What about it?"
She smiled. "Forgive the nature of the interrogation. It's a mother's right." She looked directly at him. "Do you love her, this Harriet?"
He had not expected so blunt a question. Solemnly he tried to give her an honest answer. "I feel an affection for her—"
"Based on what?"
He felt a pinch of annoyance. "She's—suitable," he replied.
Still she waited expectantly as though he'd said nothing at all.
"She's—agreeable—"
She continued to gaze at him, her eyes unblinking.
He found his annoyance increasing. Remembering his recent incident with the serving girl, he joked, "and she's willing."
"And on these points you'll bind your life to hers forever?"
Shades of the romantic girl surfacing in the shriveled old woman. He scoffed openly. "You make it sound like a prison sentence."
"If there's nothing more in your feelings for her, it will be," she replied sternly.
Abruptly he fell to searching for the words she wanted to hear. "She has a graceful neck, auburn hair, sober eyes. She's clean, articulate,
though shy—" He looked sideways at her. "I think you'll like her."
"Whether I like her or not is unimportant."
"She will produce healthy children," he added, "—something that your three offspring have thus far been unable to do."
She continued to frown at him. Then apparently as weary of the encounter as he was, she concluded, "Then you wish me to speak of banns with the Powelses?"
"Why not?" he replied hurriedly. "I rather thought that was the point of all this."
She nodded, a solemn look upon her face, as sad and preoccupied as the one she'd arrived with. He had hoped to walk back through the castle gates with her smiling, on his arm, a pretty family portrait which he was certain would please Sophia.
But apparently it was not to be. As she started to rise, he again gave her generous support. He was sorry that she had cooled toward him. And he was doubly sorry that he had been unable to fill her romantic old head with avowals of passionate love. Of course she had yet to meet Harriet. All of his encounters with the young woman in the past had been at cotillions at country house parties, and the fortnight which he'd spent at Hadley Park in Shrewsbury. Now, thinking on the shy, timid, rather stern-appearing girl, he doubted seriously if there was a single impulse in her entire personality which would in all honesty be called passionate.
He laughed openly and placed a loving arm around his mother's shoulder. "Don't worry," he soothed. "It will be a workable marriage. The Powels blood is even bluer than that of the Edens. In the marriage race, Harriet and I are the leftovers. In that respect, we were made for each other. And I promise you that she will make a good wife, and I'll try to be a good husband, and we will both try to give you suitable grandchildren."
The echo of his words sounded right upon his ears, the dutiful son giving his mother all the reassurance he was capable of giving her.
Therefore he was a little surprised and annoyed when she walked away from him without speaking, moving slowly down the long promenade which led, a distance away, back to the stone bench and the family graveyard.
"Will you lunch with me, Mother?" he called after her, remembering how in the past it had pleased her when he would forego luncheon with the Cranfords and dine with her instead.
But obviously it meant less than nothing to her today as she continued down the long walkway, her head bowed, as though, inexplicably, she was weeping again.
"Shall I accompany you, Mother?" he called again.
No answer.
"You've mourned long enough, you know," he shouted. "Please return with me to the castle—^'
But still she continued on, a small figure growing smaller. He continued to watch her and thought again of Sophia's warning: "She's growing quite senseless."
Although the thought was ugly, it occurred to him that he'd rather see her dead than mindless.
Weary now of watching her, he turned away and started back toward the castle gates.
He increased his step until he was running. He was in sore need of the Cranfords' company, the only two people within the realm of his society who looked upon him with proper deference and respect, who considerately reminded him daily of who he was and what was rightfully his ...
By the light of a single candle, Jennifer Eden carefully folded the last of her garments, placed them in the valise, and laced it shut. The silence of the school echoed about her. They were all gone, the young girls to friends and families for summer holidays, the teachers, most of them off for seacoast holidays to Bridlington and Whitby, except for herself and the peculiar Miss Bronte, with whom she had shared a silent supper. All during the meal. Miss Bronte had read a book; her head dropped so far over it that her nose had nearly touched it.
Still Jennifer l
iked her very much. She kept to herself and afforded Jennifer the same right, unlike some of the noisy, nosy, chattering co-teachers.
Now with a rueful smile she sat heavily on the edge of her cot, thinking tonight how much she would have enjoyed some of that chattering female company, thinking how heavy Miss Bronte's silence had been during the meal, giving Jennifer time to dwell with dread on what lay ahead of her.
Slowly she reached for the opened letter resting on the near table. Here was one terror, the letter which had arrived a week ago from Daniel Spade, begging her to come to London before she returned home to Eden Point.
Not only one terror there, but many. Her brother for one. Daniel's letter hinted at an unprecedented deterioration without listing any specific cause. Not that Jennifer needed any specific listing. She'd read in the last issue of Blackwood's Magazine of William Pitch's death, the
renowned editor of The Bloomsbury Gazetteer. She'd thought then how devastated Edward would be, the closest of all three children to their mother's lover.
Abruptly she sat erect, as though she somehow felt it was her responsibility to serve penance for her mother.
She stood up and took Daniel's letter nearer to the candle. Dear heavens, why had he summoned her? She was in no way equipped to deal with Edward's flagging spirit, and she loathed London with its noise and filth. Lovingly she touched her portfolio of music, packed for the dreaded journey, slightly bulky now as she'd tucked her Bible and Book of Common Prayer on top of her music.
Her hand trembled as she made a mental inventory of what was ahead of her. First, come dawn, the long chill ride in the open gig across the moors to Leeds, where for the first time she would board one of the new railways, the black monster she'd seen from a distance, belching smoke, traveling with the speed of the wind.
Reflexively, her hand crumpled Daniel's letter. Perhaps it would be God's blessing that she not survive such a trip. While she did not particularly look forward to being mangled in a railway accident, it did seem a superior fate to what was ahead of her if she survived and arrived safely at Euston Station in London. For there she would find Edward, her beloved though troubled older brother, involved in an adultery scandal. The Leeds Mercury had been full of accounts of the trial, had covered all aspects of it for the past month, including the ultimate death of the poor young woman.
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