P N Elrod - Barrett 2 - Death and the Maiden

by Death

  I backed away, found the door, and let myself out. The people waiting there with their questions drew back from me and went silent, then obligingly parted as I stalked down the hall to see Elizabeth.

  She was lying on her bed, turned away, hunched around a pillow, and sobbing into it. She hated to cry.

  Young Sheba was with her, but the situation was beyond her ability. I wasn't so sure of myself, either, when I dismissed her to fetch hot tea and some brandy from downstairs.

  I sat on the bed and put my arm around Elizabeth and told her it was over and that things were going to be all right. It was nonsense, but the object was to let her know she wasn't alone. By the time Sheba returned with her tray, the worst of the storm, I hoped, had passed, and Elizabeth was sitting up and making thorough use of a handkerchief.

  Pouring the brandy myself, I signed to Sheba to close the door. Both Anne and Lady Caroline had hesitantly come forward to offer assistance, and I'd thought it best to politely refuse. They knew nothing of the situation; Elizabeth and I knew it all too well. The door bumped shut, affording us some much needed privacy.

  1 felt cold. And distant. From myself, strangely, but not from Elizabeth. And my feeling for her was sorrow that she was having to experience such pain in both body and soul. On her cheek was the red mark of Mother's hand; it would turn into a nasty bruise soon enough. I urged her to take some brandy. She offered no argument against it.

  "Oh, Jonathan, how could I have done such a thing?"

  I had no real answer for her. "You should ask yourself how could she have done such a thing."

  But she wasn't listening. "Was it the Fonteyn blood showing through at last? Is that it?"

  "It was you, not your blood. You, Elizabeth, who had been sorely provoked beyond all patience."

  "Provoked or not, I shouldn't have done it. Something just came over me. It's as though I suddenly don't know myself."

  "Oh, yes, you do. We all lose control now and then." My voice caught as I thought of Nat and his big companion. But a few hours earlier, these same hands holding Elizabeth's had squeezed and snapped the life from two of God's creatures. "It's not always good... b-but it is understandable. You've nothing to reproach yourself for."

  "But I do. To have done such a thing..."

  "Is understandable," I emphasized. "Even if you don't understand it, others will."

  "I don't want others to know about this."

  "Very well." It seemed pointless to mention that others did, already. Cousin Anne had been flighty and mystified in the glimpse I'd had of her, but Lady Caroline looked to have drawn some perceptive conclusions. It wouldn't take much for her to decide Mrs. Hardinbrook would be her best source of information on what was going on in this house. And that gossipy lady would certainly be more than happy to supply a few dramatic details to the sister of a duke. Not that any of it mattered.

  "I feel awful," Elizabeth muttered.

  "Sleep will cure that."

  "And what about her!"

  Mother. "Beldon's with her. I expect she'll recover. If it's like the other times, she won't remember a thing."

  "How nice for her."

  "I think it's a pity."

  She sat up to stare. "What?"

  "For her to not remember is a great pity."

  "Why is that?"

  "Because if she did, then she might think twice before losing control herself again. The sad part is, she probably won't, therefore you need to be careful around her. We all do."

  "It's not fair."

  "No."

  Another idea sprang into her mind. "What about Father? Oh, God, what shall I tell him?"

  "The truth, as always."

  "How can I face him?"

  "I think he will have the same concern for you as I do now. You needn't worry. Just remember how dearly he loves you.

  Nothing you've done will ever endanger that."

  More protests, more assurances from me. In the end, though, she settled down, and I called Sheba in to help her get ready for bed. I left quietly and was surprised to find the hall clear. Beldon must have taken charge and sorted things out, God bless him.

  Order had been restored to my room: Mother was gone, the bed's coverlet smoothed again and turned down that I might occupy it, which was all sham. As ever, I would sleep in the cellar.

  I stripped out of my clothes. Perhaps Jericho could find someone in the servant's hall able to repair the cuts and tears, though I could take it all to Molly Audy some night. The thought of her warmed me up enough to draw out a faint smile. She and I had become very good friends over the last few months.

  But the smile faded as other thoughts crowded Molly's pleasant company from my mind. Poor Elizabeth. Poor me. Poor Barrett family.

  I washed my face and hands. Several times. What I really wanted was a scalding hot bath, but that was impractical at such a late hour. Pity.

  It was all so absurd. There I'd been, trying to comfort her for having lost control when I was far more seriously guilty of it myself. Absurd.

  And hypocritical, at least where my sister was concerned.

  For in my heart of hearts, I was glad that Elizabeth had done it.

  January 1777

  "A letter for you, Jonathan... I think it's from Cousin Oliver!"

  I'd barely emerged from my cellar sanctuary when Elizabeth all but pounced on me, waving her packet. She usually reserved her greeting for later, after I'd had a chance to change clothes for the evening. Then we would sit in the library and she'd catch me up on the day's events. I was startled by this abrupt assault of news, but instantly recovered and eagerly accepted when she shoved it into my hands. The address was written in Oliver's sprawling scrawl and I wasted no more time before tearing it open.

  "What does he say?"

  I plowed through the first few lines. "All is well with him."

  "What about Nora?"

  "No mention of her yet. God, what writing the man has! I can barely make out... there's her name, let me see..."

  I read on and my heart fell right into my shoes. It was readily apparent to Elizabeth, who insisted that I share my knowledge.

  "Nora's no longer in England," I announced mournfully. "She's gone away and Oliver doesn't know exactly where."

  "Gone? What's happened?"

  I read a little more and shook my head. "Oliver thinks she may have followed the Warburton family to Italy sometime last

  November. He knows where they are staying, so he's written to them asking if they can find Nora for him. She was a regular visitor to Tony Warburton, y'know. Oliver thinks they might be able to get my letter to her."

  "That's something, at least."

  "Yes. More waiting for me. Probably months more."

  "I'm sorry."

  I shrugged. "It hardly matters now. Most of the questions I'd asked Nora have found their own answers after all this time."

  "But some have not."

  "True, but there's nothing I can really do about that. Thank you for bringing me this, though. What other news is there tonight?"

  "Not much. It's just been one more dreary winter day."

  "Did Lord James go with Father to Hempstead?" Last night he'd expressed a keen curiosity about Father's work and gotten an invitation to come and observe legal procedures.

  "Just after breakfast."

  "Lucky man." I should have been the one to go with Father, as I'd studied hard for just that purpose, but my condition utterly precluded it. Travel was no problem, so long as it was at night, but I'd never see the inside of a courtroom again, nor ever have the chance to practice law.

  Elizabeth knew what I was thinking, for I'd made enough complaint about it over the months. "Father's left a huge stack of papers for you in the library."

  More copy work, I thought. "Clerking, not real law. I'm like an artist who's forbidden to paint. The desire and talent are there, but the execution..." I flapped my hand in a throwing-away gesture.

  "We're in like situations, so I understand what you m
ean."

  "In what way are they like? You're able to stay awake while the sun's up."

  "And do what? Housewifery? Needlework? Gossip?"

  "Missing him, aren't you?" I asked, with sudden inspiration coupled to a desire to change the subject.

  That delayed further speech from her as we left the kitchen and climbed the stairs. She made no inquiry about whom I was referring to, there being no need. Elizabeth blushed for a portion of the trip and opened her mouth several times to reply, then snapped it shut again every time she caught my grin. The topic of Lord James Norwood was a tender one with her.

  "And he's been gone only a day?" I added.

  She looked ready to explode for a moment, then abruptly gave it up. "Yes," came her rueful admission. "All bloody day and probably tomorrow as well."

  "It will pass soon enough."

  "It's forever," she grumbled.

  "Does he know how you feel?" I paused at the door to my room.

  "Sometimes I think he does. I wish I knew how he felt about me."

  "You can't tell?"

  She looked entirely helpless. "No."

  "I could talk to him..."

  'Wo.' Don't you dare!"

  "But if it will end your uncertainty-"

  "No! I absolutely forbid it, Jonathan! Don't! Please promise me you won't!"

  "All right, all right. I just wanted to help."

  "I'll do my own helping, thank you very much. You promise not to say anything to him?"

  "I promise, though if you should change your mind... ?"

  Brows high, eyes wide, and teeth bared, she shook her fists at me in mock rage. I pretended to cower away from her and, laughing, took shelter in my room.

  Things had been easier in the house in the last few weeks as evidenced by our play and the shared laughter. Against all my expectations, it appeared that Mother had not conveniently "forgotten" the fight that had taken place between her and Elizabeth, after all. She never spoke of it, but since that time there was a marked change in her behavior toward us, particularly toward Elizabeth. So far there had been no more reproaches, no scoldings, no adverse attention or pointing out of our shortcomings. Instead, she utterly ignored us.

  The first day or so of this was puzzling, as we anticipated her to return to her old pattern of behavior once she had recovered from her bruises. But as the days (or for me, the nights) followed one another we saw that she was either purposely or accidentally overlooking us in all things. She never addressed us directly and should we be in a room with her, her eyes simply skipped over us as though we were invisible.

  The puzzlement was soon replaced by a grateful relief as we saw how things stood. We found it infinitely preferable to be ignored by her than to be subjected to her constant abuse. Even Father was benefiting from it as some of her more acidic commentary concerning him dropped off. She had become polite without the usual underlying tone of sarcasm.

  Of course, he had not been pleased about what had happened, but his interview with Elizabeth on the incident had been a gentle one. He advised her to exercise more self-control, but so far she had been spared from testing herself further.

  Another expectation of mine that had gone unfulfilled was the speedy exit of our guests. It had been a highly embarrassing episode and I'd thought that the Norwoods would soon invent an excuse and leave, but they stayed on. Lady Caroline was most gracious about the business and chose to regard Mother in the same way as Father did: that the woman suffered from bouts of illness over which she had no control. Norwood had missed it all, so any impression it might have made on him when he heard of it from others was negligible.

  Cousin Anne was a bit less charitable, deciding that it was all "horrid" and "confusing," but she, too, stayed on, for she had nowhere else to go. As for Mrs. Hardinbrook, it was just another in a long series of unpleasantries that she found easy to dismiss after so much skillful practice.

  I'd asked Dr. Beldon for his opinion about the change in Mother, but he was not as candid as he might have been. "It seems to be for the good," he said, "but I won't hazard to say how long it might go on. Mrs. Barrett's condition has ever been an erratic one in the past."

  "But she's always been consistent in her poor behavior," I pointed out.

  "Ah, yes. One could say that. She has displayed a certain nervousness in her temperament." He was trying so hard to be tactful.

  "Let's be honest, Doctor, her temper has been consistently bad, especially toward her family. Now she's become almost congenial. Without making comment on how it was brought about, I'd just like to know how it may be continued."

  Beldon, so used to social pretense, floundered on that one. "I have no answer for you, Mr. Barrett. And as a physician I can hardly prescribe a reenactment of what happened between your mother and Miss Barrett as a course to take should the... nervousness return."

  I winked at him. "Still, it's something to think about, isn't it?"

  He covered his mouth with his fist and coughed trying to hide the smile there, but I'd seen it and thus did he confirm what Elizabeth and I had earlier determined: that a firm hand was needed with Mother. In other words, those few seconds of knocking about had done her (and the rest of us) more good than three years of constant placation and submission. Not that either of us planned to repeat the violence, but because of its occurrence it may have gotten through to Mother that she was immune to the consequences of her actions no longer.

  I had come to like the winter, even as the worst of it settled upon us like a vast white bird with icy wings. With the nights so closely following the short days, my time and enjoyment of the society of our guests was happily increased. With Father's permission, I'd worked my influence upon them, ensuring that they found nothing unusual in my daytime sleep in the cellar or avoidance of the supper table. And so when I came down after changing into more suitable clothes for the evening, no one remarked upon it, or even thought to try.

  I went straight to the library, planning to answer Oliver's letter right away and then get started on the work Father had left for me. However dull it might prove to be, I would do ray best to help him in all things.

  "Hallo, Cousin," said Anne, who was standing by the bookcase when I came in.

  "Hallo," I returned. "Finished with my Gibbon already?"

  "Hardly. He's very interesting, but I wanted something different tonight. Something a bit lighter than history."

  "Hmm. Let's see, what about this one?" I plucked down a volume of Shakespeare.

  "A play?"

  "A comedy. It's about twins, a boy and a girl who are separated by misadventure, so to make her way in the world the girl disguises herself as a boy."

  "You're jesting!" Anne found the idea to be a bit of a shock.

  "Then she falls in love with a nobleman, but can't reveal it to him, and then a lady, also fooled into thinking she's a young man, falls in love with her and so on. Elizabeth found it all very amusing and so might you."

  "But a girl dressing as a boy? It's so immodest!"

  I shrugged. "There are even a couple engravings in there showing it."

  Her jaw dropped, but curiosity won out over her objections. She seized the book and scurried off to explore its apparently vulgar pleasures, tossing a hurried "thank you" to me over her shoulder. I smiled after her and realized that I quite liked my cousin.

  Anne had a sweetness in her nature at odds with her Fonteyn blood, so presumably she'd escaped its dire effects. However, she was not an especially clever woman, and much of her conversation was of a repetitious nature. She was pretty, though, and at her best when singing, for she had a lovely voice. As there was nothing to dislike about her, she was generally liked by others as well, so long as the conversation was not too intellectually taxing.

  I thought that she might have a working mind hidden.away somewhere; it just wanted a little encouragement to emerge. From what I gathered in listening to talk about what things were like in Philadelphia, a girl was not expected to have much of an intellect, n
or was one needed. Pouring tea correctly, wearing a pleasant face no matter what, and keeping the servants in line was all that was expected of one; that, and being a good listener when a man was talking to you. I could see why Elizabeth had such a low opinion about what polite society thought desirable in women.

  "You're very kind to her." A woman's voice. Lady Caroline.

  I turned from the bookcase to find her at ease in Father's big chair by the fire. She had a book in one hand, her finger marking the place where she'd left off reading. I gave a little bow.