"It's a contract between them, then?" Ash asked. "And nothing more?"
"You aren't listening to what I'm saying. Yes, there are limits to their marriage imposed by his condition, I would say. She gave up some things in order to obtain others. That's what contracts are all about."
"And his part of this so-called contract? What did my brother give up? Where's his compromise?"
"How can you, of all people, ask that?" Charlotte could hear the gasp and the indignation through the open window and tears stung her eyes as they always did for all that Cabot had lost. "He will never father a child. What more must a man do without?"
"But that's not her fault, is it? Nor is it his choice. You can't give up something you don't have. She's the one who's given up children, she's the one who has given up any kind of physical love. From what I can see, she's given up any love at all. Was that part of their 'bargain'?"
He got up from the window, leaving Charlotte quite alone on the roof. But he was speaking loudly enough for her to hear him as clearly as if she were in the room with him, and she knew that what he said was as much for her benefit as for his mother's.
"He took her as his wife, not his partner. But he offers her no love, no comfort, no warmth. Didn't that contract call for him to love, honor, and obey? Aren't those the usual vows to which they had to say I do? Didn't he promise to put her above him, to cherish her?
"I want to know why she's the only one held to those vows, vows that he has never bothered to embrace, just like he's never bothered to embrace her."
"You should have taken up the law yourself," Kathryn said. "You present one side of the argument very well. But Charlotte herself knows the other side. Knows that she got what she wanted from the arrangement. Do you know how many lady lawyers there are in California? Do you—"
"So I've heard a great deal of lately. And I've heard about arrangements and contracts and agreements. What I haven't heard about is love."
"He can't," Kathryn said, her cane striking the floor for emphasis. "You know he can't."
"Can't what, Mother? Can't love?"
"You know very well what I mean," Kathryn said. She was standing by the window now. Charlotte, trapped, leaned back in the hopes of staying out of sight.
"I know that my sister-in-law is married in name only. I know that my brother has broken his vows to love and honor." He was standing by his mother now. Charlotte could see his arms on her shoulders, leading her away from the window.
"With whom did he break those vows?" she demanded.
"With his wife," Ash said, leaning out the window and looking directly at Charlotte. "There's nothing wrong with the man's arms, nothing wrong with his lips, and without being crass, I simply say that if he loved her, he could make her happy and make their marriage a real one."
"They have a real marriage," Kathryn said, "considering everything."
He ducked back into the room and Charlotte ran one finger over her lips. They were soft, pliant. She closed her eyes and pressed two fingers against them as she had every night since she had married Cabot. I will never, she told herself, barely able to control her breathing, kiss myself good-night again.
"A real marriage, you say? With you at the head of the table across from Cabot? How fortunate for you that Charlotte had no 'high calling' to become the lady of the house. Almost like having one of your daughters back, isn't it?"
"I didn't know you had it in you to be so cruel," Kathryn said. "Or perhaps so observant either."
"Oh, my God! The bird!" Ash ran back toward the window and looked out, his mouth open as the tiny black-capped chickadee flew past Charlotte and swooped unevenly down toward the trees below.
His eyes searched hers and reluctantly she shook her head. The little bird was gone.
"Has it made its escape?" Kathryn asked from deeper in the room.
"Yes," Ash said softly, looking at Charlotte. "It's free."
"Maybe you should go after it," Kathryn said. "I wouldn't be able to bear seeing Charlotte unhappy."
"Charlotte will find something else to love," he said, fingering the paint on the windowsill's edge, pulling away a rotting chip and flinging it out onto the roof. "And maybe this time it will be something more worthy."
"I see. You can tell her who she should love, as well as who she shouldn't. Isn't that really Charlotte's decision?" Kathryn asked. "I mean which broken bird it is that's worthy of her affection?"
"Her birds are all flight worthy, Mother. She'd do well to look after herself for a change instead of giving that heart of hers to anything she thinks needs it—even an ingrate who flies off at the first opportunity."
"She understands loyalty better than most," Kathryn said softly. Charlotte heard her cane strike the floor. "You should recognize the signs, Ashford. You're no stranger yourself."
"I understand the difference between loyalty and love."
"Is there a difference?" Kathryn asked. "Can you have one without the other?"
"Undoubtedly," Ashford Whittier answered with a sigh so deep, it rattled in Charlotte's own chest. "And it hurts."
"Loyalty is important, son, but I don't suppose that if you are lucky enough to have the opportunity, a body should have to live without love. Maybe it would be best if you go see whether you can catch that bird?"
"Someone else will have to catch it." Charlotte sensed him back at the window, but refused to take her eyes from where she thought the chickadee was. She watched the green leaves get blurrier and blurrier, and still she kept her head turned away. "I've been remanded to my brother's custody. Never forget that, Mother."
"Then she'll get away," Kathryn warned. Charlotte heard the door to Ash's bedroom open.
"With all my heart I hope so," Ash answered, closing the door behind his mother and returning to the window only to crawl out beside her.
***
He hated the roof, not surprisingly. It dredged up memories better laid to rest. Carefully he set his feet on the flattest part of the heavy slate shingles, and tried to block out the image of his brother coming toward him on two good legs, smiling, his hands out for balance, while Ash backed farther and farther away, clinging to the ridge of the roof in fear.
None of it ever made any sense. It had been Cabot, his bear of a big brother, coming to rescue him. And yet his strongest memories were filled with terror and confusion.
He pushed the thoughts back to the corner of his mind that was reserved for them, where he kept his guilt carefully preserved so as never to forget what he'd done, and eased himself down next to Cabot's wife, both of them leaning against the wooden slats that overlapped each other and cut into their backs. He was forced by the height of the window sash and all the moldings that punctuated the frieze to keep his head forward as if he were eager to tell her something that he'd vowed would never pass his lips.
"He'll die," she said at great length.
"No, he's stronger than you think," he answered, confused about whether they were referring to the bird or the man who had come to depend on her so heavily.
"Do you think so?" Huge hazel eyes, swimming in tears, were only inches from his face, so close he couldn't see them clearly anymore, couldn't see her clearly anymore, couldn't see anything clearly but the pain.
"Look," he said, pointing down to the garden, where Davis had just appeared. "What's he doing?"
They watched as Davis gestured toward one bush and then to another. He nodded his head and then pulled out his clippers. Before each move the boy studied the house, made elaborate motions with his hands, and then nodded.
"Somebody's directing him," Ash said, finally catching on.
Beside him Charlotte smiled tightly and brushed at a tear. "Cabot must be having him bring in some pussy willows. He likes to bring them indoors to bloom."
Cabot liked to bring everything inside, out of the sun, out of the natural order of things, and have it answer to his whim. He wanted to cultivate the woman who was huddled against the cold beside Ash, wanted to train her to g
row just the way he thought best, like some topiary taken to the extreme, and damn nature in the process.
"Cold?" Ash asked, rocking his weight forward so that he could get up and help Charlotte in. Beside him she made no move to rise.
"Are you sure he'll be all right? What if it gets cold tonight? What'll he eat? Where'll he sleep?"
He settled back, putting his arm out for her to lean against, and searched the trees below for any sign of Charlotte's little bird.
"There!" He pointed to one of her many feeders just as the tiny bird was lighting there. "You've taken care of everything, Charlotte. Just relax now. I'll open the doors to the carriage house tonight so he'll have a warm place to sleep."
"But he'll be alone...." She snuggled closer against him, robbing the heat from his body while stoking deeper fires they couldn't afford to risk.
"Not once he finds a mate," he answered, stiffening to keep some distance between them. "The right mate."
"Maybe if I left my window open," she began.
"A little Charlotte Russe," he said as he stroked her hair and inhaled the sweet freshness of her skin. "So sweet. There are a million starving souls, and you keep trying to feed the ones that aren't hungry."
"Everyone's hungry," she said, her head against his chest so that he could feel the words penetrate his shirt and tease his skin.
He had thought he knew all there was to know about hunger, how it rose from his loins, how it swelled his manhood. But all these years he'd mistaken mere desire for absolute need. Now it was as if someone had set fire to his skin where her body rested against his side, and no ointment, no salve, no cream, would ever be able to cool or soothe it.
Words strangled in his throat, played havoc with his tongue, and mocked his sincerity. Hadn't he said I love you to a hundred women before her? And now wasn't he forbidden to even relish the thought?
He had stolen from his brother the chance to be a real husband.
Someone else would have to take away the man's very real wife.
CHAPTER 11
Charlotte's hand was on the conservatory door when she heard Cabot's voice. "Slowly," he said. "This isn't a race, it's a lesson. And it ends not at a set hour, but at a set goal. Do you understand that?"
How well she remembered that creed. You research a case until you're done, Miss Reynolds. The facts, not the clock, dictate your completion. Charlotte waited along with Cabot for Davis's answer. There was no response.
"I don't hear nods. A simple yes will suffice. A yes, sir, would actually please me, and a yes, sir, Mr. Whittier, might get you the sight of me spinning a little circle in this chair."
"Yes, s-s—sir," she heard Davis's halting answer. "M-M-Mister Whit-ta-ta..."
She pushed the door open slightly. If Cabot was doing roundabouts, Charlotte was not about to miss them. "I do believe I'll have to start practicing those circles," she heard him say. There was almost a lilt to the man's voice, nearly a chuckle in his tone. "Now, you will stay in this room and practice while I take care of a few matters. You will water all the flowers on the far wall, but this time not more than this beakerful, understood?"
"Yes, s-s-sir," she heard Davis respond.
"Pressed for time as I've been, I've still done a good deal of study on the subject of stammering and stuttering—you do realize there is a difference and that you are a stutterer?"
The boy nodded. No! she thought. Answer him!
"Your affliction will not be overcome with a nod of the head, but by perseverance, determination, good diet, good habits, good morals, and, most importantly, good teaching. Is that understood?"
"Yes, s-s-sir." If she had a nickel for every Brussels sprout he'd insisted she eat, a penny for every glass of water—oh, he was a tough taskmaster, Cabot Whittier was, and never had she learned so much. She remembered coming into his office from the brisk walks he insisted she take, her cheeks tingling from the excitement of some new discovery, thinking herself a genius for figuring out the lessons of the law. Of course, he always set her straight, but that rush of exaltation—it was almost like being in love.
The thought stopped her cold, and she listened with only half an ear while Cabot issued orders to her charge.
"There is a bicycle in the carriage house. I can think of no better exercise for a youngster who has completed his studies, eaten his vegetables, and performed his chores."
"Yes, s-s-sir."
The man who had started her dreaming, had pushed her along when her hopes had faded, and had propped her up when her confidence had faltered, was focusing intently on Davis's mouth, manipulating the boy's jaw, examining his teeth. "There is, according to this book, and more importantly to my own observations, a certain rhythm in all good speech, a stroke of the voice followed by a partial rest. Lewis here recommends the use of poetry."
The boy yanked his head away from Cabot's prodding fingers and stood just out of the chairbound man's reach.
"Excuse me for assuming that you wish to recover from your affliction. If I am wasting my time, I'd sooner know it now than waste another moment on a boy as lazy as Ludlam's dog."
"No p-p-p-"
In the overheated greenhouse, frustration seeped along with sweat from every pore of Davis's body. Cabot sat in his chair, watching the boy without offering so much as a guess at what he wanted to say, though clearly it was a comment on the idea of poetry. Charlotte bit her tongue, caught between her admiration for Cabot's devotion and her need to rescue Davis from his own inadequacy.
Cabot, for his part, sat very still. His fingers didn't tap, his lips didn't twitch. "Think what you wish to say," he told the boy. "Let the words become clear in your mind."
Davis pointed at the watch that sat neglected in Cabot's hand.
"I have as long as it takes," he assured the boy. "You were about to tell me something with regard to poetry, I suspect."
The boy struggled to answer him and Charlotte lost the battle to remain outside the room. "He probably hates it," she said, coming in and approaching the pair. "Boys always hate poetry."
The boy nodded emphatically. She'd only seen him from the back, but coming around him she found a new bruise had joined several other faded ones on his face. She hated boxing, hated fisticuffs of any sort. Still, she couldn't help wishing that once Moss Johnson could go a few rounds with Ewing Flannigan. Without gloves. Or a referee. Or a bell for him to be saved by. All right. Twice. Or every day...
Davis glared at her, daring her to say something about his appearance. Instead she continued her attack on poetry as if she hadn't even noticed that anything was so terribly, critically, crucially wrong.
"What use has a boy for Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?"
"A poem, Charlotte, is many things for many people. For some men it is merely an illusion used to feign culture and refinement, and for others it can be a trick to appear in love or worse—besotted. More than a few women have been known to use a poem as a yardstick to measure the affections of their suitors, always finding them inadequate when compared to Mr. Shakespeare. A teacher employs a poem as a test of memory and devotion to study. An intellect, praised be the lonely soul, can be amused, fascinated, and entertained by a poem.
"For Master Flannigan it will be a tool with which to train the tongue."
He snapped shut the green cloth volume that had lain open on his lap. In gold lettering across the cover, the tide proclaimed the volume to contain the Practical Treatment of Stammering and Stuttering. Illustrated, no less.
"You will remain in this room until you have repeated the alphabet no fewer than five times, noting, on a tablet, in one column, which of the letters cause you difficulty and, in a second column, those sounds that do not."
The boy's eyes widened, his split lip trembled.
Cabot closed his eyes and shook his head in utter disbelief. "You don't write, do you?"
"No, s-s-sir."
The disappointment on Cabot's face was replaced by a grin so sly that Charlotte squinted in search of ye
llow feathers sticking out of the man's mouth while he handed Davis a book.
"Copy the letters in this book. Fill three pages with the smallest letters you can make. We'll make sense of them tomorrow."
"I could teach him his letters," Charlotte offered. "After he's..."
"He's what, Charlotte?" Cabot asked. "What is it you're thinking?"
"Davis," she said, bending slightly so that she was on eye level with the boy, "I'd like to file a suit against your father."
The boy shook his head, as vehemently as she supposed he could do without causing himself great pain.
"He's hurt you again," she said softly. "I can't let him do that. You deserve better than this and I can—"
"No!"
Well, she'd found a way to cure his stammering. Just threaten to take him away from his father.
"I can't let your father do this to you," she said.
Again he shook his head.
"You will stay here," Cabot said. "And I'll work you twice as hard as your father ever did and you won't enjoy a moment of it. But you won't have any scars to show for it, I promise you that. You'll have diplomas and degrees."
The boy looked doubtful.
"Don't let Mr. Whittier frighten you," she said. "He only wants what's best for you. As do I."
"You'll file the papers on Monday, Charlotte, when you get the extension in Ashford's case," Cabot said, beginning to wheel toward the door. "And you can do an extra page for the trouble you've caused," he shouted over his shoulders at the boy. "As small as you can do it."
"Cabot, there's no reason to punish the boy," she said as she closed the conservatory door behind them.
"Really? Then why do you suppose he stays with his father?" he answered. "And if he's so eager to be punished for something, at least I can oblige him in a way that won't do him any harm."
She wondered whether Cabot might be right as she followed along behind his chair, studying the top of his head. When she'd met him, his hair had been dark and sprinkled with the occasional silver strand. Now it was more silver than black. Ash's hair was a soft brown. Soft on the eye, anyway.
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