She turned the roast, and glanced around the kitchen. The room needed something bright to make it more cheerful. She considered moving her mother's decorative plates from the dining room where she'd hung them, and decided against it. Every room in the house needed dressing up. She'd ask Pritchard for yellow gingham for kitchen curtains and a matching tablecloth.
When Hester had set her to righting the house that was to be her new home, Ariah had been appalled at what she'd found. Dirty dishes overflowed the sink onto the workspace, mingling with ancient editions of the Headlight-Herald, empty cartons, spilled food, and tin cans filled with dottle from Seamus's pipe. Piles of ashes and wood chips waited under the stove to ignite to the entire house. Dried food crusted the tabletop. Greasy fingerprints marred the walls.
The furniture was still dull and unpolished. The family of mice she'd discovered in the pantry refused to budge, and the scent of tobacco, rancid grease and wood smoke clung stubbornly to everything in spite of her scrubbing. Ariah doubted anyone had dusted, polished, or swept since the house was built the year before. She was sick of grimy windows and rebellious dust balls.
For two self-indulgent hours after Pritchard left that morning to relieve Seamus, Ariah remained in bed, pondering her situation. Her usual optimism was in a dreadful slump. No matter how she scrutinized the matter, there seemed no answer to her dilemma. She was in love with one man, married to another. Pritchard's favorite subject next to baseball was himself. He had never heard of Plato, called Shakespeare a fop, and insisted that the only birds worth bothering with were those that made good eating, like ducks, geese, robins, and Bartholomew's pheasants. His hands on her body left her cold as the sea in winter. His kisses had the appeal of the four-inch greenish-yellow slugs in the forest.
Was this how Hester felt toward Bartholomew? Was that why she locked him from her room the day after they were married? No, that wasn't possible. Gentleness and sensitivity were second nature to Bartholomew. He could have been no less tender with Hester than he had been with her.
Bartholomew. Ariah closed her eyes against the sting of tears. She would not give in to her need for him. How could she ever face him again? To see the pain in his eyes, because of what he and everyone else assumed Pritchard had done to her in bed last night would be more than she could endure.
She had bled after Pritchard's battering of her, but only a spot. And when she had examined herself, curious about this very intimate, very sore, part of her body which could inflame men almost to violence, and which, under Bartholomew's gentle talented hands, had given her a glimpse into heaven, she found the precious membrane still firmly in place, right at the mouth of her feminine opening. If she had her way, it would stay that way. At least until she and her new husband could come to some sort of understanding, and develop some sort of basis for mutual regard.
From outside came the clear, flute-like notes of bird song. Out the window she could see a bird as yellow as a buttercup perched on the porch railing. She gasped at its beauty, but before she could note its unique markings, it flew off toward the forest north of the house.
A strong need to be outside, to explore that tantalizing wall of greenness so alive with promise, had assailed her since the moment she arrived. Now the urge overwhelmed her. If she kept the house between her and anyone who might be watching, surely she could reach the trees without being seen. She didn't want to be spotted. Hester would be angry with her for not doing any chores and Bartholomew . . .
In a defiant bid for freedom, Ariah snatched her shawl from a hook by the back door and fled the house.
♥ ♥ ♥
A flutter of pink as bright as a wild rhododendron blossom caught Bartholomew's eye. He yanked the lace curtain aside and peered closer. Someone was running toward the forest beyond the compound, something fleet-footed and dressed in billowing folds of pink. Ariah.
His heart soared as he watched her slim vibrant figure vanish into the forest, taking the old Indian trail that led to the beach this side of Barnagat. If he circled through the trees from behind the barn, he might intercept her and Hester would never know. He let the curtain drop and forced himself to walk to the back door with a calmness that belied the excitement surging through his veins.
♥ ♥ ♥
Like a mother's arms, the woods enveloped Ariah in their soft, shadowed world. The serenity sank into her spirit, soothing her. Like a sponge, the lush layers of moss and evergreen needles absorbed the sound of her footsteps on the narrow, winding Indian trail that was as ancient as the Sitka spruce towering overhead.
The rest of the land was densely carpeted in multiple shades of green. Trees, logs—even the bogs—were verdant with moss and lichen, making forays off the trail treacherous. Except for the path, there wasn't a square inch of ground or bark naked of growth. Ferns higher than her waist lifted feathery fronds to the filtered sunlight that prevented total darkness beneath the towering trees. Tri-petaled trillium blossoms, fading from white to rose as they aged, mingled with thimbleberries and false lily of the valley. Broad leaves hiding small spikes of tiny white flowers scented the air with a vanilla-like aroma. Everywhere Ariah looked she saw a land as primeval as the day God created it. Formidable, forceful, enduring, yet soft as velvet, it encompassed her like Bartholomew's embrace.
A loud caw brought up her head in time to see a bird flash past in a blur of blue and black. There was no sign of the yellow bird she had seen on the porch. She was crouching at the side of the trail, examining a sprawl of redwood sorrel with rose-pink blossoms the exact shade of her dress, when her flesh prickled as though caressed by unseen hands. Slowly she rose to her feet and turned. He stood not more than thirty feet away, his dark hair gleaming in a shaft of sunlight. He looked at home there in the woods, among the wild, aromatic vegetation and the rich, fertile earth. Primal. Ariah let out a glad cry and ran toward him, but he held up his hands.
"Don't try to come closer." Bartholomew gestured to a low spot between them that was dank with stagnant water and bright with large blossoms that looked like sheaths of yellow satin encasing golden phalluses. "There's a bog here."
They stared at each other across the smelly morass, while insects buzzed and tree frogs belched from hidden nooks.
"Are you all right?" he asked finally.
She nodded, wanting desperately to throw herself into his arms and tell him how awful her night had been, but she knew that would only make him feel worse, and she feared making a fool of herself by bursting into tears.
Bartholomew found her more seductive than ever, surrounded by the lush wild greenery. His wood nymph. Her hair hung loose over one shoulder, making his fingers itch to caress the silky strands.
"I saw a Steller's jay,” she said lamely.
He smiled. "Did you?"
She shrugged. "We don't have them back East. What are those odd flowers called?"
"Skunk cabbage. Because of the stink."
Another long silence yawned between them. There seemed so much to say and yet so little. The important messages were evident in their eyes. Longing, need, sorrow. Finally, he lifted a hand, then let it fall uselessly to his side. "I'd better get back. It will be time for me to relieve Pritchard soon."
Ariah bit her lip to keep from begging him to stay. He backed up one step, another, and still she said nothing, only stood staring at him and trying not to cry.
Bartholomew forced himself to turn away. He had gone only half a dozen feet before he wheeled about to find her where he'd left her. "What was it you said to me in Greek before the ceremony when I gave you over to Pritchard?"
Her words came slowly, soft and rich with emotion. "I said 'We have eaten bread and salt together'. It means that we have shared food, suffered hardships together, discovered mutual joy, and nothing can break the bond that ties us." Her voice broke as she added, "Not even death."
He stared at her a moment, pain in his eyes. He nodded, turned and vanished into the trees.
Ariah returned home a short while la
ter to a house reeking of smoke and Hester flapping her apron over a scorched roast.
"Have you got a cerebellum in that head o' yours?" Hester railed. "You could've indicted the house on fire, going off and leaving meat on a hot fire like that."
Ariah rushed to the stove. The meat was black char on one side, raw on the other. Hester moved it to the sink and opened the windows to air out the room. "I'm sorry, I—"
"Save your worthless exculpations. Knew you was a useless piece the moment I laid eyes on you, but Pritchard had to have you. Well, let me tell you, Miss High and Mighty—" Hester hovered so close Ariah could smell the tonic the older woman was always sipping "—you best make him happy or . . ."
"Hester." Bartholomew stood in the open doorway, his dark eyes like chips of obsidian, cold and dangerous.
Hester immediately set to defending herself. "She went off and left a roast on the stove. She—"
"Hester!" He moved to the sink and studied the roast. "Only one side is burned. Cut that part off, the rest should be fine." The raw side was speckled with a reddish-brown substance. He scooped some on his finger, sniffed, and tasted it with the tip of his tongue. "You used cayenne on this?" he asked Ariah with a grimace.
"Cayenne?" she repeated. "What's that?"
A small tin sat near the sink. He picked it up and showed it to her. "You didn't use this on the roast?"
"No, why would—"
"What's that filthy thing doing in here?" Hester screeched, pointing to a barn cat calmly licking her tail.
"That's Toots. I locked her in the pantry so she would catch the mice in there." Ariah went into the passage between the dining room and the kitchen. The door to the pantry stood open. "I don't understand how she got out."
"I believe I do." Bartholomew tossed the tin of cayenne pepper into the air and caught it deftly with his other hand, his hard penetrating gaze on Hester.
"Why are you looking at me that way?" Hester retorted. "She's the numskull who can't tell cayenne pepper from regular and can’t be trusted to do a simple thing like season a roast."
"But I didn't put the pepper—"
"It doesn't matter, Ariah. Simply wash it off." He turned to his bristling wife. "Come along, Hester. You can get back to your own business now."
"Speaking of minding your own business, what're you doing here?"
"I was headed to the light and saw the smoke. Come on, I'll walk you back to the house."
When she opened her mouth to argue, he said softly, "Or do you wish to cancel that little bargain we made?"
With uncharacteristic meekness, Hester left through the back door. Turning back to Ariah, he cocked his head toward the cat. "Toots?"
Ariah stifled a grin. "She's always hungry and good at catching . . .mice."
His eyes softened to charcoal. He chuckled, and was gone, leaving her to wonder about the bargain he had made with Hester and why she suspected it had something to do with her.
♥ ♥ ♥
artholomew left Hester at the porch of their house and went on to the light. Dreading the sight of Pritchard's smug, satisfied face, he opened the door and closed it softly behind him.
"Evening, Pritchard."
The young man jumped halfway out of his chair. "Oh! Uncle Bart." Pritchard settled himself at the table and went back to staring at the logbook lying open in front of him.
Bartholomew frowned. Something was troubling his nephew, but he had no intention of asking what. He started up the stairs, taking them two at a time until he heard Pritchard call out. Gritting his teeth, he peered at the young man over the curved metal railing. "What is it, Pritchard?"
"Could I speak with you a moment?"
The nervous edge in the boy's voice did not bode well. Feeling like a crab in a baited cage, Bartholomew retraced his steps. Pritchard avoided his uncle's direct gaze—another bad sign—giving all his attention to the barometer on the wall.
"I was wondering if . . .do women who haven't . . . you know, virgins . . . is it always . . . difficult the first time?"
Bartholomew's shoulders slumped. He didn't want to hear this, didn't want to learn how miserable Ariah's wedding night might have been with an inexperienced, insensitive cub like Pritchard. "I'm afraid I've had very little experience with virgins, Pritchard."
"You mean, except for Aunt Hester?"
Bartholomew's pause might have been answer enough for a more discerning man, but Pritchard only stared at his uncle, waiting. "Yes," Bartholomew finally said, "except for your aunt. If you are referring to the initial tightness—"
"Initial tightness?" Pritchard's laugh contained both relief and fear. "Yeah, well, that gets easier, doesn't it?"
A question formed in Bartholomew's mind. A question he did not want to ask. He had known a man once who had claimed an inability to consummate his marriage until his wife's hymen was surgically removed. How Bartholomew hated to think of Ariah having to endure such pain and embarrassment.
"It's like learning to be patient, I guess," Pritchard said hopefully. "Each time is easier?"
"It's a simple matter of learning control, Pritchard."
Pritchard tried again to laugh, but it came out hollow and desperate. "Yeah, without that, a poor fellow would find himself making a mess on the sheets like a thirteen year old, instead of where he ought to. Glad I don't have to worry about that. It would be—" his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard "—humiliating."
Bartholomew cursed wordlessly. On the one hand, he was thrilled to think that the boy hadn't been able to take what he coveted himself. But on the other, Pritchard's fear of losing control was bound to cause more problems. Guilt ate at Bartholomew as he fought the urge to enhance Pritchard's fear rather than ease it.
Abruptly, Pritchard shoved the logbook into a drawer. "I'd best get home." He tried for a grin that came out more like a grimace. "I have a wife waiting for me now."
Before Bartholomew could utter a word, the young man bolted out the door.
Chapter Eighteen
Her toes were black. Hester could see them peeking out from under her skirts after she'd kicked off her shoes.
She poured the last of the hot water into the tub, set the kettle back on the stove, and tested the temperature with her elbow; her hands couldn't seem to tell blistering hot from warm anymore. She checked to be sure she had soap, a towel and her clean nightrobe. Locks clicked as she secured the three kitchen doors. The rustle of fabric followed the sound as she removed her clothes. She wobbled a little as she stepped out of the undergarments, her strength uncertain, as was common lately.
Only after her clothes had been hung over a chair back and she stood naked as God made her, did she allow herself a good look at her feet. It was as she had feared. Heels, arches, toes— black as midnight. And icy cold. They looked dead. A shiver ghosted over her.
Before Bartholomew’s last trip to Portland, she had blamed the dark color of her feet on the dye from her old black shoes. But he had bought her new shoes in the city; tan, Paris kid, button boots. No matter how she scrubbed her feet, they looked as if she’d rubbed coal on them.
There was no escaping it; God was punishing her. How could He be so unfair? Hadn't she suffered enough for her sin? She had been so young when Lenny Joe took her, had barely known what he was doing to her. Ever since that day, she had devoted her life to keeping her body pure. 'Course, there was the one time when she had gone to Bartholomew's bed, but surely that didn't count; they were married the next day. Only adultery and fornication outside of marriage counted as sins.
Whatever turned her feet black must be what caused the cramps in her legs too, and the constant pain and cold in her feet. Could it explain her unquenchable thirst? The loss of weight, no matter how much she ate? The nausea and diarrhea, the blurred vision, the sores that refused to heal?
Hester propped a foot on her knee so she could see it better. There was a red spot on her heel that was puffy and sore. She bent closer and saw that a blister had burst open. From the new shoes,
she supposed. It looked more painful than it felt, but she'd noticed lately that her feet, like her hands, weren't worth a tinker's damn for feeling anything.
She climbed carefully into the tub and sank down into the warm water. Could Bartholomew be right? Was she being punished for denying him her bed? She had promised to love, honor and obey, but why in hell did that have to mean letting him rut in her body whenever he damned well wanted to? But maybe if he had her in his bed, he would stop lusting after Ariah.
He had snuck off to the woods that day and Hester reckoned that was where Ariah was too, 'stead of tending to her cooking as she shoulda been. Wedded one day and already meeting in the woods with the wrong husband. Hester knew better than to count on her dolt of a nephew to put a stop it; he was too gone on his new wife to see her for what she truly was—a sneaky, husband-stealing slut. Hester would have to see to everything, just like she always did.
♥ ♥ ♥
Next door, Pritchard glanced at the mantel clock for the hundredth time since supper. Twenty after nine, finally; surely that was late enough for going to bed. He set aside the stiff new padded baseball mitt he'd been rubbing with mink oil. The new mitts had only been out a year now, and most of the players still used the old unpadded ones, with a raw beefsteak inside to protect their hands. As soon as he had enough money saved, he'd order him a pair of the new shoes they were making with heel-and toe-grips for traction. He rose and made a display out of yawning noisily and stretching as though very tired.
"You ready for bed?" he asked Ariah.
Seated on the living room sofa, Ariah took another stitch in the skirt she had managed to tear somehow on her jaunt into the woods that day. Her husband had been unusually quiet all evening. She had begun to hope he was too exhausted to want to make love. Yet, as she looked up at him now, she noted with a sinking heart the telltale bulge in his trousers. Quickly, she averted her gaze. "You go ahead. I wanted to finish my mending first. I'll be up in a moment."
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