Salem's Daughter

by Maggie Osborne

  “Oh, Mr. Aykroyd,” she whispered. “I’m so miserable!”

  Taking her hand, Mr. Aykroyd leaned forward; he tilted his head, trying to meet her downcast eyes. “Some say I do be a good listener,” he reminded her softly. Settling back on the cushions, he drew on his pipe.

  And a torrent of words burst from Bristol’s heart, responding to the kindness in his tone and the understanding in his caring eyes. “I had a cat... and, Mr. Aykroyd, I loved Willie more than anything! He sat... and when I wrote letters, he... And he was mine! Only mine! I took care of him. I did everything for him.... and Willie loved me, too, Mr. Aykroyd, I know he did... he slept on my bed, and... he’d curl in my lap for hours... and there was never enough stroking and petting to please him. I wish you could have seen him, he was so... I knew all his habits, just where he liked to be scratched, what he liked best to eat, the spots he favored.” Mr. Aykroyd watched intently, seeing the pain mar her lovely features.

  “I loved Willie!” The longer Bristol talked, the more difficulty she had with the words. Her throat tightened, and her chest felt like iron bands circled it. The words came hard. “And then... and then, Diana... Diana took Willie away and she... and she killed him! A little at a time! She destroyed my Willie! It was Diana!” Bristol covered her face, and her body shook. “I don’t know what to do! I’ll never see Willie again, never hold him again... and it hurts so much!”

  As Bristol fought to control the sting behind her lids, Mr. Aykroyd expelled blue jets of pungent smoke toward the ceiling. Finally he put the pipe in a crystal bowl and wrapped his large hands around a knee. He waited silently until Bristol dropped her fingers and looked toward him with reddened eyes. “Gel,” he said gently, “we’re not talking about a cat named Willie.” He read the shocked expression in her wide green eyes, and he reached for her hands. “Gel, ye’re talking about the captain.” He went on, speaking quietly, his eyes on Bristol’s chalky face. And his understanding put Willie’s death in a bitter new perspective.

  When he finished, Bristol closed her eyes and swayed on the settee. He was right. She sensed it deep inside. She’d made Willie a surrogate, a vessel for the frustrated love she felt for Jean Pierre. And when Diana destroyed the surrogate, Bristol had clashed head-on with a personal misery she’d been too proud to acknowledge.

  “Jean Pierre is lost to me, isn’t he?” she whispered through bloodless lips. “Really and completely gone, with no hope.”

  “Aye,” Mr. Aykroyd answered, his eyes on her face.

  Bristol tilted her head toward the ceiling, watching it swim through a fog of moisture. “What can I do?” Each word weighed heavily with despair.

  “Well, now, gel, they’s a story ye might find a wee interest in hearing.” Mr. Aykroyd glanced at her, then leaned into the settee and centered his gaze on the fire in the grate. “Once, me and the captain put into an island for supplies. A jewel of an island she was, with proud, fine-looking people. While the boat be loaded, the head man of these people walked the captain and me on a tour of his island. In due course, we came to a long spit of sand and rocks. Beyond the spit was a stretch of sea, wild and foaming, and past that, on the other side, just close enough for the eye to see, lay another spit leading to another island.”

  Bristol lowered her eyes from the ceiling, and gradually, as she listened to his deep soothing voice, her hands dropped the bit of lace she twisted and lay quiet in her lap.

  “Captain and me, we started out on the spit to examine that piece of wild sea, but the head man, he said no. A man, Kemane Hano, stood on the spit preparing to swim to the other island, and Kemane Hano must not be disturbed. Well, the captain and me, we looked long and hard, but all we be seeing was sand and rock and some scattered bones.”

  One hand still clasped his knee; a cloud of sweet-and-sour smoke obscured his face. Mr. Aykroyd’s blue eyes looked into the distance of memory, and when he took up the tale, it was as if he returned from a faraway place.

  “Kemane Hano, the head man told us proudly, set out years before to swim the wild sea and explore the neighboring island. No one had ever done this before. The village gave feasts in his honor, and Kemane Hano strode out to the end of the spit, walking tall and confident. But when he reached the end of the spit, he saw what the captain and me saw when we explored that spit later. A deep channel ran there, wild and fast and filled with jagged rocks. If Kemane Hano wasn’t smashed on those rocks, he would surely be swept out to sea. Either way, to enter the water was to die.” Mr. Aykroyd turned his eyes to Bristol’s pale face. “So Kemane Hano stood on the spit. He could not go forward, and his pride held him from going back.”

  Logs fell and resettled in the grate. Outside, distant sleigh bells sounded above the faint murmur of voices deep within the house.

  Finally Bristol broke the silence, her voice low and troubled. “Why didn’t the villagers call him back instead of leaving him to starve?”

  Mr. Aykroyd sucked on his pipe. “It’s possible they didn’t be knowing about the channel. It’s possible they salvaged Kemane Hano’s pride by pretending he waited while he prepared for the swim. It’s possible they refused to acknowledge his failure; they still see him there today. Whatever the reasons, Kemane Hano perished rather than admit his mistake and call for help.”

  Bristol slowly turned the story in her mind. “Are you telling me to go home? To return to New England?” she asked in a low tone. She thought of writing, of asking Noah if she could come home now; and she felt a stirring demon of pride.

  “Gel, I don’t be telling ye what to do. It’s not my place to make yer decisions.” He stared into his pipe bowl. “But aren’t ye standing on a spit like Kemane Hano? Ye can’t go forward.”

  When she didn’t answer, he added softly, “And like him, unless ye do something soon, ye’re in danger of perishing.”

  Bristol blinked. “Perishing?” Personal danger jolted through her mind.

  Mr. Aykroyd’s face hardened. He said soberly, “‘Tis a new idea to ye, gel, but not to some in this house. Think! Think of yer cat! The hand that turned against yer Willie could as easily turn against ye.”

  Bristol gasped. Her green eyes widened and paled to jade; she stared at Mr. Aykroyd, dry lips falling open. “Diana?” she whispered.

  “Aye, gel. Diana. Who do ye suppose she imagines as the greatest threat to her happiness? As the obstacle in her path? Yer dead Willie tells ye the answer.” Mr. Aykroyd’s blue eyes measured Bristol through a cloud of fragrant smoke. “Think on it, gel, think on it. And remember: them what is touched with madness don’t reason like ye and I. Don’t be fool enough to believe ye can outguess them or hang yer own morality on they shoulders. Ye can’t.”

  Bristol wet her lips and closed her hands, feeling a tension along her stiffly erect body. “I... You’ve given me much to think about, Mr. Aykroyd. I thank you.”

  “Don’t be taking too long about yer decisions, gel. Them what know ye, don’t like to see ye hurt.” Embarrassed, he rose to his feet, and Bristol stood also. Mr. Aykroyd pressed her hand and managed a grin. “They be a selfish reason here as well. If the tensions ease in this house, mayhaps I can move the captain back to sea and save me own house from the widow.”

  Bristol’s full mouth curved in a wobbly smile, and she clung to his hand. “Mr. Aykroyd... you’ve been a true friend, and I...” A mist clouded her vision.

  “Now, gel, don’t be turning sentimental on me.” He smiled below an infusion of color darkening his mapped cheeks. He patted her fingers awkwardly. “Bad enough the widow oozing sweetness on me. Now, don’t ye be starting too.”

  “Well, maybe the widow would be good for you,” Bristol teased. Pushing aside the new disturbing thoughts, she concentrated on leaving him with a smile. She abandoned an effort to thank him; it wasn’t necessary. The undercurrent of affection ran strong and swift between them, and Bristol realized it had no need of words.

  A crimson flush climbed Mr. Aykroyd’s scarred face. “Now, what would a good woman l
ike the widow want with an ugly old salt like me?” he muttered.

  Bristol kissed his cheek and smiled into his eyes. “You. Just you. And she’d be fortunate indeed to have you.”

  He shoved his pipe into his coat pocket and frowned at the floor. “The things what fall out of yer mouth, gel! No wonder ye’ve taken London in hand. Ye could charm the barnacles off a bow!” He grinned down at her. “Best fortune in 1691.”

  “Best fortune, Mr. Aykroyd.”

  From her front bedroom window Bristol watched his hired carriage until it disappeared in the snow-studded traffic jamming Pall Mall. A light fall of snow thickened as she stood at the window, hissing as it struck the panes.

  Bristol cleared a circle on her steamy window and gazed into the lane below. Lights appeared on the sleighs and carriages; snow obscured the festive bonfires. The traffic diminished, and deep resonant peals from the church steeples sounded muffled beneath the thickening fall of snow.

  Sighing, she let the curtains drop. Bristol had no desire to watch the merrymakers. Crossing the room, she sank into a chair before the fire and stared into the flames. Occasionally her green eyes strayed to the pewter cup on her desk, and she considered rising and fetching it. But she didn’t. Today she resisted the idea of home, of Salem. In her aching heart, Bristol knew Mr. Aykroyd had planted the seeds of her solution, and in the end, she’d do as he’d gently suggested. She saw nothing else for herself.

  But not yet. Later, she told herself, later this week she’d write to Noah. By the time Noah’s answer reached her, she’d have been in England nearly a year. Maybe her family waited to hear she was ready to come borne.

  But was she? Bristol wrestled the question through a solitary dinner and again as she sipped a glass of sherry by the fire. The answer was an unqualified no! She’d never be ready to leave London, not so long as a single shred of hope remained that Jean Pierre and she... But no hope remained. There had never been a basis for hope. Bristol’s fingers tightened on the stem of her glass. And yet... while here she could at least see him, hear his voice, exchange a few hurried words. And sometimes when their eyes met...

  But were stolen words and fleeting glances enough to build a life upon? Bristol knew she couldn’t continue as she had during the past year. Charles Easton pressed for a commitment; Louis Villiers pressed for a commitment. And considering either was unthinkable. But to refuse... Then the invitations would slowly dwindle. And as time passed and she continued to refuse the offers for her hand... what then? Would stolen words and fleeting glances be enough? Was she destined to become a faint shadow seeking such vague assurances? A troubled spirit nourishing on yearning stares and accidental touches? Could Bristol Adams be satisfied with melting slivers of an elusive whole? Living but a fragment of life?

  No.

  Bristol shivered despite the crackling logs in the grate. No, she could not. Living such an empty life, she’d become the dried-up, juiceless virago she’d once supposed Aunt Pru to be.

  Pressing a weary hand to her temples, Bristol leaned back in the chair. There was no choice. Not really. For her own sake, for the sake of the people in this house, Bristol understood she must leave and deal with the loss as best she could. No matter her pain; the pain of remaining would be worse.

  A quiet knock sounded at her door, and thinking it Molly come for the dinner tray, Bristol called, “Come in.”

  “Thank you, Bristol, I feared you wouldn’t see me.”

  At the sound of Jean Pierre’s deep voice, Bristol jerked to her feet, droplets of sherry sparkling across her fingers. She lifted a hand to her mouth, her anguished stare meeting his. For a moment she couldn’t believe it was really Jean Pierre and not a vision her own longing had created.

  “Jean Pierre?” Bristol stared, shocked at his appearance. Aunt Pru had reported Diana’s behavior following Willie’s death as worse than anything prior, but Aunt Pru had been purposely vague regarding the effects on Jean Pierre.

  Bristol clearly saw the terrible cost of his marriage written on Jean Pierre’s features. His eyes stared from dark sockets, and his face was thinner than Bristol remembered. His cheeks were hollowed and gaunt. No hint of his former arrogance shone in a weary stance; he stood like a man tired of existence. Strands of gray lightened his brow. The gray must have been there for some time, Bristol thought wildly, wishing it so; she simply had not noticed before. “Oh, Jean Pierre,” she breathed. The full impact of their situation saddened her low voice.

  “I brought you a New Year’s gift,” he said crossing the room and stopping before her. Bristol hadn’t thought to light any candles, but the firelight was enough to illuminate the deep fatigue in his face, the dull exhaustion in his eyes.

  Bristol longed to reach a hand to that tired face. Instead, she looked down and said, “I have nothing for you.”

  Jean Pierre smiled, his expression strained. “Good, little one. It’s better that way.” He winced at the hurt in her green eyes, then looked at her again with an attempt at his old challenge. “I have your gift, but you must find it.” He held his arms away from his body.

  Bristol stared at the firelight flickering upon his face, resisting his game. Suddenly she realized this was the first moment they’d spent alone together since his marriage. High color warmed her cheeks, and her body tingled with the nearness of him. She felt the tension in her stomach.

  Turning aside, Bristol drew a shaky breath. To search his pockets was out of the question—impossible; it was wrong of him to ask it. Touching broke the unspoken rules. The rules that made their life possible, endurable, at Hathaway House. She knew—utterly believed—if they once broke the rules, their lives could never again be the same; life would be unbearable, worse than the torment they now experienced, a thousand times worse.

  A small mewling noise sounded from the opening of his dark buff coat, and a tiny orange head emerged near Jean Pierre’s shoulder. Black button eyes blinked once and darted back inside the coat.

  Bristol gasped. She lifted her eyes to Jean Pierre’s smile, then stared again at his coat. A fluffy orange ear and one dark eye peeped back at her from the ruffles of Jean Pierre’s cravat. He reached inside then and withdrew a ball of orange fur. “Shhh. Tranquille, petit chat, this lady will love and care for you. Quiet, now.” He placed the tiny hissing kitten on Bristol’s shoulder.

  Small needles clung to her gown, and an orange ball burrowed into the hollow of her neck, the little body trembling with fright. Bristol murmured soothingly and stroked quivering orange fluff; the kitten scarcely filled her hand.

  She looked past the fur tickling her chin and felt a scald behind her lids. Swallowing hard, she managed to say, “Thank you, thank you. I love him already.”

  Jean Pierre’s lips rose in a tired smile of pleasure. “His name is Seven.” He laughed at the expression on Bristol’s face. “The little cat was already named, but perhaps he’ll not mind a new name if you prefer.” Jean Pierre reached and ran a finger down the kitten’s spine. Bristol felt the heat of his hand radiate against her cheek. They looked at each other across the small space separating them.

  “Oh, Jean Pierre,” Bristol whispered helplessly. She could never afterward recall who moved first; they came together as naturally as two people who had never been apart. His arms folded around her, and she pressed her cheek against his broad chest. He leaned his head against her hair. They stood in quiet closeness, taking warmth and comfort from each other, feeling no need for words.

  Not until Seven exhibited a tentative urge to explore did they step apart. Bristol smiled uncertainly and turned to her bureau to make a temporary home for Seven. She felt shaken by a deep sense of shared intimacy. Behind her, she heard the clink of glass as Jean Pierre poured sherry for them both. He waited while she transferred a pile of frothy underthings and gently placed Seven on an old shawl in the drawer.

  “May I sit with you for a little time?” he asked.

  Bristol’s heart moved in her breast, hating that their situation was such th
at he must ask her permission. “Of course.” She returned to her chair, sitting where she could see Seven’s orange head peeping above the drawer. For the first time in her relationship with Jean Pierre La Crosse, she felt a lessening of the tensions between them. She didn’t sense the familiar challenge and a need to meet that challenge. Watching his gaunt tired face in the firelight, she felt only a deep tenderness and a love that flowed beyond the demands of flesh.

  Jean Pierre leaned his dark head against the velvet chair back. “It’s quiet here.” He sighed. “Quiet and clean and peaceful.”

  He felt it, too. Bristol observed his body slowly relaxing and realized how tensed he’d been, as if primed to instantly respond to sudden danger. Perhaps he was, she thought sadly, her eyes deepening to emerald. “This week has been bad, hasn’t it?” She stated a fact.

  Jean Pierre ran his hands over his eyes, and stretched his neck against his fingers. “Willie’s death was... as hard on Diana as on you, though expressed differently. For her, it was an act to be forgotten by further violence, by larger, greater emotions to obliterate the one at base.” He closed his eyes. “There’s no point in relating the events of this past week, it would only upset you. I’m glad you kept to your room.”

  Seated in the chair across from him, their feet almost touching, Bristol folded her hands in her lap and watched the shadows moving about his tired face. An understanding welled in her heart. The companionship of loving was as great a part of men and women as any instant of ecstasy in one another’s arms; perhaps, she thought, the companionship was the more important of the two. She remembered seeing Noah, worn and battered from a day’s struggle in rocky fields, sit quietly in her mother’s company and later rise refreshed. She pictured Aunt Pru, tired and wilted from her parties, turning toward Lord Hathaway’s room instead other own. And Lord Hathaway... tenderness in his eyes despite the agony of a gouty foot. And now Jean Pierre had come to her.