Abruptly he gave a gleeful little giggle. Sweet heavens, how rapidly Fate could turn her face about. Irresponsibility! How he loved the word. But now he must get to work and send a detailed letter to those steady hands at Eden Point. How pleased she would be to hear of the Prince of Eden's return, of his increasing madness, of his—irresponsibility.
"Clerk!" he shouted, pleased with the sound of authority in his voice.
"Clerk!" he cried again, doubly delighted at the sight of the terrified young man in the doorway. Before he issued his spate of orders, it occurred to him that the world naturally divided itself into two classes of men: one, the weak and witless, and two, the cunning and powerful.
There was not a doubt in his mind concerning the class to which he belonged.
,/SJ7
On occasion, Harriet Powels had trouble remembering that she was back from the dead and out of the isolation of the fourth-floor storage attic. In the first month of her hard-earned freedom, not once had either of her parents looked directly at her.
Rather, they viewed her as something to look around, or through, or avoid altogether, as her mother was doing now, bent over her needlework, in the wing chair by the far window of the morning room.
"He said that you were to wait for him here," Lady Powels murmured. "I would suggest that you obey. We both have serious reservations about your—outings—on that horse."
From the doorway, Harriet started to protest, then changed her mind. She was in no position to protest anything. And if she did, she was half afraid that her mother might look directly at her, forcing her to witness firsthand the expression of grieving embarrassment which constantly emanated from that maternal face.
Instead, she quietly removed her riding gloves, resigned to a delay, and eased into a new chair which provided her with a perfect view of the opposite wall and the painting that hung there, a lovely Italian Renaissance work entitled "Virgin and Son."
Son.
She closed her eyes. From across the length of that vast room, she heard her mother's voice, solicitous yet distant, "I trust you slept well."
"Very well. Mother. Thank you."
"That horse isn't suitable for you. Pm sure you know that.'*
"Why isn't he suitable, Mother? He's been suitable for years."
"He's ailing. Your father said he's not to be trusted."
For a moment, Harriet foundered, unable to see the connection between a state of health and a state of trust. At last, dragging her eyes away from the cherubic infant sitting in the Virgin's lap, Harriet stood, pacing lightly. A thought occurred to her, momentarily dampening her enthusiasm for her reunion with old Falstaff. It had been over a year since she had seen the handsome horse and shared with him their secret revelry in the meadow. But how the thought of seeing him again had sustained her. Now it occurred to her that perhaps, in the past, her parents had had her followed, had been given reports of her behavior, the scandalous manner in which she had removed her garments so that she might straddle the horse and ride him with the wind.
To be true, her father had expressed strong disapproval last night at table when Harriet had announced that she was riding today. Then she had thought it to be merely his prevailing attitude of gloom, censoring everything she did save for those quiet intervals in her room when she read.
"Must you pace like that?" her mother now scolded, still not lifting her head from her needlework.
Quickly Harriet moved back, aware that she was causing new distress. She sat in the opposite wing chair and again saw her mother lift her eyes and speak to the vacant place at her feet.
"It's really too soon, you know," Lady Powels said.
"For what?" Harriet asked.
"For—riding. For—being seen."
There it was again, that tone of complete mortification. Harriet started to lean back in her chair, then changed her mind and sat primly on the edge. "It's been a month," she said quickly. "The thought of exercise appealed." Before that bowed gray head and trembling hands, she added softly, "I can't stay in my room forever."
She saw her mother's eyes lift to the windowsill, the needlework in her lap clenched inside her fists.
As the shadows of morning sun dappled the carpet at Harriet's feet, she bowed her head and felt as though she were in an immense dream. In the wing chair she distinguished the ghostly shadow of her mother, growing uncannily larger. In the moment that her mother had lifted her eyes, Harriet had seen something in them that she'd never seen before, a quality of expression, a judgment, as though the creature before her was utterly repulsive to her.
In her eagerness to move away from such an expression, Harriet rose
and her steps took her as far as the door. Now with her hand on the knob, she considered leaving, disobeying her father's command that she wait for him, and running directly to the side exit where surely by now old Rudy was trying to rein in her horse.
Only at the last minute did Harriet remember her vow not to cause them any more grief, to be the model of obedience and decorum, all still part of the price she was paying. She would wait for her father, receive his daily dosage of gloom, then she would be free to go and find her horse and together they would return to the meadow, the high sun, and that redeeming, sustaining interval of freedom.
Thus resolved, she returned to the straight-backed chair and tried to keep her eyes away from the Italian painting and the little boy. She withdrew her gloves from her pocket and commenced pulling them on, finger at a time, though it was very difficult, her hands were trembling so.
Finally she gave up altogether and sat docilely with her head bowed, eyes closed, and in order to keep her mind busy and her eyes off the painting, she tried to conjure up visions of the meadow, old Falstaff prancing and snorting, carrying her with the wind, the feel of sun on her arms, her legs astride his flanks, the sensation not unlike—
Without warning, she saw his face, the green glen. With sudden and pleasurable shock, she discovered that it was not dead and gone. Those sensations were as real to her now as they had been over a year ago. How rich she felt, how invulnerable to the martyrdom they were putting her through. And if the memories were so alive here, sitting in this stifling room, how gloriously alive they would be atop old Falstaff.
Suddenly she clamped her lips together for fear a sound of joy might escape and cause her mother new grief. As she continued to sit there, the picture of docile obedience, she found it increasingly difficult to disentangle dream from reality, and something within her urged her not to try. Again she was aware of an important confirmation, that in spite of everything, she would survive.
At that moment she heard footsteps in the corridor outside the morning room. She sat up and made an attempt to straighten herself. All that was required of her was to endure the paternal lecture, the paternal outrage, the paternal condemnation, and let them both, in concert, remind her of who she was and what she had done. Then she would be free. In eager anticipation, she stood.
She listened closely. The footsteps were drawing nearer. She waited as though at attention and heard her father now speaking to someone on the opposite side of the door. It was a woman's voice, she thought, vaguely recognizable. Nelda. Her maid. Puzzled, Harriet stepped
forward. She'd dismissed Nelda for the rest of the day, had no need of her, and preferred privacy after her time with Falstaff. Then why-Then the whispered voices ceased and the door opened. The first glimpse she caught of her father was alarming, his face as angry and wretched-appearing as she'd ever seen it. In order to relieve herself of his face, she took in his apparel, mussed and smelling, and there, caught in the heels of his boots, pieces of straw, as though he'd recently been in the stables.
At first he did not acknowledge her in any way beyond a token glance. Then he proceeded immediately to the center of the room and stood with his back to her, facing her mother, some unspoken message passing between them.
And when for several long moments, no one seemed to feel the need to speak, Harriet step
ped forward, eager to face her daily dose of punishment and get it over with.
"You wanted to see me, Papa," she began cautiously.
Still he said nothing, did not acknowledge her in any way.
"Papa?"
Suddenly he leaned forward on the table, his arms stiffly braced, his head hanging limp between his shoulders.
Then all at once that stern head lifted, though his eyes were shut, and his voice, when he spoke, bore no resemblance to the father she once had known. "You are foolishly garbed. Lady," he said, the words seeming to choke in his throat.
Her apparel seemed a peculiar starting point for a moral lecture. "I'm riding today. Papa," she reminded him quietly.
She saw his hand then move to his side as though he were seized with a spasm. Beyond, she was still aware of her mother, silently watching.
He now strode away from the table and her closeness, the stitch in his side apparently receding. "I think not," he said, a new calmness in his voice.
"There's no harm," she countered lightly. "I feel—"
Then he turned on her, the distance of the room between them, an angry flush spreading over his face and neck. "What you feel is totally unimportant. Lady," he said, his voice low.
Calmly she waited. Let it come, all of it, like a daily purgative, alternating punishments, one day silence, the next words. Today, obviously, it was to be words.
But where were the words? Surely he'd caught his breath by now. And when she looked back, she saw him staring at her, abysmal shame in his eyes mingled with bitterness. Then the only words she heard
coming from those lips were simple ones, softly spoken. "Go to your chambers," he ordered, and turned away as though he were finished with her.
"I said I was riding, as soon as—"
Now he commenced to strip off his jacket, as though the morning heat were pressing down upon him.
And when he still did not reply, she stepped closer. "Did you hear. Papa? If you are finished I—"
He turned to her. "The horse is dead," he said, so quietly that at first she was certain she hadn't heard correctly.
"I—beg your pardon?" she inquired politely, stepping to the table, one hand outreaching.
He didn't look at her, but rather repeated the message to the floor. "The horse is dead. He's been—ailing. We had to—put him down—"
Put him—
Quickly she glanced toward her mother, as though for confirmation that her ears had deceived her. But that good woman was bent rigidly over her sewing, the needle flying in and out. She looked back at her father. He too had slipped into a chair, his legs outstretched, relaxed appearing, as though at long last a score had been evened.
She felt a cry rising in her throat. But still she pinned her hopes on a slender thread. On occasion, her father had a way of mumbling, so that the message was never quite clear. "Papa, I didn't hear—"
Suddenly he was on his feet, repeating the words so she'd be bound to hear them. "The horse is dead," he shouted, that tinge of red growing on his neck. "Now get to your chambers and get out of that foolish garb. Need I make it any clearer?"
A weakness swept over her. The table was close. All she had to do was reach out for it. But she wouldn't permit herself that luxury. Dead.
No. She wouldn't give him that satisfaction of seeing her falter. Instead, she lifted her head and walked erect from the room, the word still following after her.
In the corridor outside, she saw her maid, Nelda, waiting a distance away, her young face creased into angles of concern. "My Lady—"
But angrily Harriet shook off" her concern and sympathy and started down the long corridor in an awesome display of strength, though once the floor beneath her feet wavered and she reached quickly out to the wall for support.
Dead. The price was becoming increasingly dear. Could she pay it? She must. All the way up the stairs, she was aware of Nelda following closely behind her, her father's servant now, pleading his case. "The animal was poorly," she whispered. "He hadn't taken food in—"
Still Harriet moved forward, grasping the bannister for support, doing all her weeping invisibly, moving resolutely back to her prison.
As she drew near to the door of her apartments, she glanced ahead and saw the dark narrow staircase which led to the fourth-floor storage attic. Once, a month ago, she had vowed to herself that she would never again in her life set foot in that grim room.
Now she cast a searching eye in that direction. A shudder crept over her. Then she was moving again, a curious lassitude settling over her limbs while behind Nelda protested vigorously, "No, my Lady. You don't want to go up there no more. Come with me. We'll—"
Who was that speaking behind her? She couldn't identify the voice and it made no difference anyway. She wanted to sec again for herself that place of horror. There was always the remote possibility that it would help to alleviate the new pain which had invaded her body.
To that end, she slowly climbed the narrow staircase and pushed open the door, then closed it behind her and shut out that voice which was still pleading with her. For a moment she stood in silence in the room.
There it was before her, that cot, old linens still stacked on the near table. And there, the partitions still in place which had separated the old Swede's bed from her own. And there, still attached to the iron frame of the cot, were the strips of muslin which had held her wrists and ankles rigid.
As a soldier revisits an old battlefield in search of new meaning to meaningless pain, so Harriet methodically, deliberately took note of all aspects of her battlefield. Of purpose there was little, of meaning, none. And the only activity which even came close to raising her out of her misery was when she took up her position on the cot, first leaning forward and rebinding both her ankles to the iron frame, then stretching backward, her hands clasping the frame from behind, as though they too were bound.
Thus self-restrained, she closed her eyes as if in a hypnotic trance, welcoming the memory of pain, the memory of dead Falstaff", of the green glen, of the son lost to her forever, of Edward ...
'i;/sj7
Elizabeth turned over on her bed, under the new down coverlet whose smooth hemmed edges almost touched her face. Though late, almost nine o'clock, it wasn't bedtime and she was far from sleepy.
Nearby, so close she could touch it, was the pretty new cradle, and inside was the babe. Now, as though to confirm the baby's nearness, she reached out and touched the polished rosewood, and with a shiver of delight withdrew it quickly, as though happiness, like pain, was best taken in small doses.
Fully clothed in her new dress of pale blue, she lay still beneath the coverlet, gazing up at the ceiling where the fire shadows formed images of dancing bears. Coming from the other side of the partition she heard his pen scratching.
Him!
She closed her eyes and again shivered. Was it heaven? Was this what the old priest at St. Dunstan's meant when he spoke of "the peace that passeth all understanding"? How had she been so gloriously transplanted from that dismal other life to this?
Again, in bewilderment, she looked about her and tried, in her limited way, to assess the changes. Surely they had commenced on that miraculous day two weeks ago when she'd chanced to glance out the third-floor window and had seen the dusty carriage, had seen old John Murrey, then had seen him.
Yes, that had been the start. And since then, the changes had come so fast she could scarcely keep track of them all. Endless deliveries had
been made to the house on Oxford Street. First the beds, not only her new one, but beds for the children as well with real feather mattresses and stacks of warm blankets and new linens.
And while that parade had been coming in the front door, an equally long parade of tradesmen had been coming in the back door bringing fresh meat, white flour, sugar, coffee, tea, eggs, sausages.
Lying still beneath the coverlet, she found herself smiling in the semidarkness of her little partition. What was it that he called her now, his nursemaid
, and her only duties entailed looking after the baby, that mysterious little bundle who was turning rosy and fat at the nipple of the wet-nurse in the kitchen.
For just an instant a small cloud marred her brow. His son, or at least that's what he said, with the cuts on his small chest, healed now. Still—where was the mother? Had he loved her? Had she loved him? And if so, why wasn't she here?
Well, Elizabeth knew this much. If it had been her—and at that moment she reached out and lightly rocked the cradle. In a way, it was her now.
As though to confirm her thoughts of him, she threw back the coverlet and moved slowly to the foot of the bed, to an angle where, leaning slightly forward, she could just see him, sitting at his bureau, in the light of an oil lamp, his head bent over ledger books.
For reasons she was not capable of understanding, her eyes filled with tears. At that exact moment, to her chagrin, he looked up from his ledger, as though summoned by the intensity of her gaze.
"Elizabeth?" he murmured. When she didn't respond immediately he laid down the pen and lightly folded his hands over his work. "Is anything wrong?" he inquired kindly.
Quickly she shook her head. She pulled the coverlet over her and held it clasped under her chin as though taking refuge behind it. In the expanding silence she knew she had to speak, but all she could think of was the silliest question. "This bed, will it always be mine?"
Softly she heard his words. "The bed is yours, Elizabeth, will always be yours."
She nodded as though to assure him that she understood, that now he could get back to his figures and books and she'd not bother him again.
But he didn't. Instead he leaned back in his chair and laced his hands behind his neck and stretched as though he were fatigued and continued to look at her.
Dear God, how she loved him. She shouldn't be staring at him so. How was it possible that he made her feel so beautiful when she was so
ugly? How was it possible that now, under his gaze, she felt that if she spoke, she would be witty and quick and clever?
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