by Diane Guest
Suddenly conscious of her, he released his hold on her as if he had been suddenly awakened. She fell backwards, panting, and lay sobbing among the rotting apples.
"Susannah. My God. "He knelt beside her. "I don't know what came over me. Forgive me." He reached out but she shrank away, unable to speak. Only one thing was clear to her at that moment. She was afraid.
Dressed in their white linen tunics and broad-brimmed black hats, Edwin and his fellow proselytizers left the farm at mid-morning. No one was aware that these men who left amid shouts of encouragement and hearty best wishes were the very same fellows to whom had been assigned the task of bringing in the maize and barley, already cut and lying in the open field.
No one was therefore overly concerned about the pounding rainstorm that broke over their heads; in fact, some viewed it as a blessed escape from outdoor chores, until the word spread that six acres of harvest, much needed to help fill the granary, had been lost to the torrential downpour.
With the grim specter of starvation hovering over the farm came the grumbling and carping about those who were not carrying their load; the lack of will to continue set the members to fighting over their fair share in the enterprise. The community had hacked itself to death long before Edwin would admit, even to himself, that it was a failure.
Through the long, cold nights they sat and spun their fairy tales, those who had nowhere else to go, and those who, like Edwin, still refused to see that if the winter didn't destroy them, human selfishness or incompetence would.
On such an evening, Edwin broke away from the group and went upstairs to check on his wife. Susannah had not been well those early months of her pregnancy and the rigor of the New England winter had done nothing to ease her distress.
"How are you feeling tonight?" he asked as he came into the room. More than anything else at that moment, Edwin wanted to sweep her off the bed and will her to be better. How could she be so sick? What right had she to cause him such pain, such worry?
"I'm afraid, Ned. I fear for the baby." She choked and turned her face away. "I'm bleeding."
Edwin lifted her off the bed with little effort; she had grown so thin, despite the swelling just below her midriff. "God will help us, Susannah. You must believe that He will." He began to cry and to stroke her stomach. "This baby is proof of our love, our faith. It cannot die. It is not the will of God."
"Oh, Ned," she cried, pushing his hand away. "How do you know what the will of God is? Is it the will of God that I 'm only nineteen years old and I feel a thousand? Look at me, for God's sake!" The tears came in a rush, and although she knew that she had hurt him she didn't care. All she wanted right now was to be free of this hellhole, to be home, where there was warmth and food and comfort.
His face hardened and his eyes became bleak, cold as the sky outside the window. He laid her back on the mattress and spoke in a tone as still as death. "You have never had faith, Susannah. Not in me, not in God. That will destroy us." He left her then and Susannah lay on her bed, sick and alone.
She lost their baby, and all of their hopes and dreams were washed away in a tangle of bloody sheets.
Susannah watched the dreamer in Edwin die that winter. Her poet, her lover, was gone, leaving a strange, cold man sleeping beside her. She was afraid because she didn't know what was to become of them.
Soon after her miscarriage, she had become aware that he wasn't the same, not to her, not to the others. He had retreated into some private hell, a place where she could not follow.
He didn't touch her anymore, or hold her. He insisted that she keep herself covered as if looking at her body was a sin. They still had sexual intercourse but it was mechanical; a function performed, like eating or sleeping, an act void of any emotion. His lack of tenderness was more than she could bear and in her despair she asked him, "Do you blame me, Ned? For all the failures? For the baby? Do you think I caused it all?"
He looked at her but his eyes were expressionless, as if he didn't know her, almost as if he wished she didn't exist. "No, Susannah. I blame only myself."
"But why?" she choked. "How can you blame yourself? How could you have changed anything? You can't make people what they aren't."
"No, I can't. But the blame is mine for failing to see the evil in men. I once told you that John Calvin was wrong." He smiled but it was mirthless, cold, a recognition of the futility of man's efforts to save his immortal soul. "I was the one who was wrong. I turned my back on Almighty God. I have been punished. His justice is swift and terrible."
She threw her arms across her face as if to shield herself from him. "Don't talk that way. It's too terrible." She flung herself at him and buried her head against his chest. "You weren't wrong, my darling," she cried. "Only that you tried to run before you could walk. All your truths are still there. You only have to find them. I'm here and I love you as much as ever."
He pushed her away and said in a cold, dispassionate tone, "I have confessed my corruption. I turned away from Him, and I was struck down in my ignorance. I will not fall again. You will stay with me, only never expect things between us to be as they were."
He turned away and left her alone to cry until there were no tears left.
They left Brisbane Farm in the spring and returned to Cambridge, where Edwin Dudley Snell, having been born again into a sense of sin, petitioned the Church for reinstatement to the ministry. In his letter to the American Board of Commissioners he asked for a mission post, "mat I might help wage war against the heresy of individualism that threatens the very soul of the Church. I do not ask for a life of ease, but only that I be sent to form a congregation in a place where God has been forgotten, where His Word is defiled, where each day hundreds are recruited by the legions of Satan."
SYLVANUS: SEPTEMBER 29, 1871
Long before the darkness gave way to the dull putty-colored gray of early morning, Sylvanus Morgan was awake. He turned his head toward the figure that lay beside him on the bed. It was still too dark to see who she was, but he knew one thing clearly: she was not his wife. Nothing new about that. He was quite accustomed to sleeping with women to whom he was not married.
He reached over the edge of the bed and fumbled for his clothes, cursing as he struck his elbow on the night stand. His head ached and he thought to renew his vow not to drink so heavily in the future. He managed to pull on his trousers, a feat of no mean accomplishment in his present condition, and stumbled over to the open window.
Christ Almighty, it's hot, he thought. The lack of fresh air did nothing to ease the throb in his temples and the acrid smell of smoke added insult to a throat already raw from the overuse of tobacco. In this house, so close to the edge of the clearing, the smoke outside hung heavy in the air and he made a mental note to send some of his men out later to check the swamps and make sure the bog-fires weren't spreading.
He took some crumpled bills from his pocket and threw them on the chest. He didn't know why he paid for sex when he could have had any woman he wanted for free. Maybe it was that as long as he paid in cash he could feel that he owed nothing. He couldn't remember whether she had been worth it or not, or even if he himself had been sober enough to realize some satisfaction. There must be a lesson here somewhere, he thought, but the pain in his head forbade any further consideration along those lines.
He smiled to himself, the thought passing through his mind that although he owned this house he was the one who always left. This was not Sylvanus Morgan's only house however. He owned most of Penobscot Landing, situated as it was in the middle of fifty thousand acres of Morgan timberland.
In addition to the fact that he had all the money he could ever want, he was also a man for whom most women would do anything. Not overly tall, there was a lean, catlike strength about him. He was clean-shaven at a time when a man without a mustache was regarded as naked. His short, raven-black hair and sideburns were kept meticulously trimmed, and his skin was bronzed by the sun to a shade rarely seen among white men.
He was
a handsome man, and although the expression of cool cynicism with which he observed life gave him the appearance of arrogance, for some perverse reason the same quality issued a challenge to the most sought-after of women.
Whether it was because of their availability to him or whether he held the female sex in contempt on general principles, Sylvanus Morgan, in all of his forty-four years, had met only two women he had ever respected, and both were dead. One had been his mother and the other his first wife, Anne.
Once outside the whorehouse, a muffled whinny led him around to the shed behind the house. Sylvanus Morgan's horse, Uncle Arch, like everything else he owned, was of first quality. "It's a pity we can't buy our wives the way we do our horses," he once told John Meade in a fit of melancholy. "A mean-spirited horse will show himself straight away, but a woman… you never know until it's too late just what the hell lurks behind her face."
Feeling the need now to talk to a friend, he wondered whether John might be up. No. Too early. Besides, there were things to be done at home. They would be starting repairs on the west side of the house today, unless it rained, and from the feel that seemed unlikely. He ought to be there to make sure the bloody fools knew what had to be done. And Nate Dolbeer, his woods boss, had asked him to come down to the mill to go over some work schedules. It wouldn't be long now before the log boom at the landing would be played out, the men heading for winter camp deep in the woods.
He turned his horse away from the bay and started home at an easy trot.
Morgan House was like no other in Penobscot Landing, or for some distance around for that matter. It stood alone about two miles beyond the town, on a point of land high above the bay. The drive leading to the mansion wound through endless columns of ancient timber, giving a visitor no hint of the house until, with startling suddenness, the drive opened out upon an immense landscaped clearing. The terraces and lawns stretched to the very borders of the forest, and in the center, amid meticulously manicured hedges and shrubs, the house stood, a perfect replica of the tidewater mansion in Berwick, Maine, the house in which Sylvanus Morgan had been born.
He hated this house with almost as much intensity as Caroline loved it. It was so cold, so uncaring. If like ever merited like, he thought, only one person could ever be mistress of Morgan House. Caroline. He smiled grimly to himself.
It had been at Caroline's insistence that he had had the house built. Sylvanus considered that he was the equal of most men in intellect, but the building of Morgan House was one instance where he considered himself to have been a colossal ass. The mansion, which had lent itself so perfectly, to the new England landscape, was a freak here in the Wisconsin woods, a futile attempt to recreate a life-style that could never exist again.
As he approached the house that stood white and silent in the dawn, he thought what a pity it was that it was a house without kindness, never off guard, gathered in upon itself waiting for catastrophe. Like its mistress.
He rode around to the service yard and handed over the reins of his horse to a stable boy who had appeared like a genie from out of the gloom.
"Quintal was lookin' for you a while back, Mr. Morgan."
"What for?"
"Few of the boys were clearing out by the west pasture. Ran into a hell of a brush fire. Quintal went out with a crew, not an hour ago. Thought maybe you'd want him to check it out."
"Tell Quint to come up to the house as soon as he gets back. A fire out near the west pasture might save us a lot of clearing time." A well-directed fire could save them hours of labor. No one disputed that it was the quickest way to turn an acre of forest into an acre of pasture. On the other hand, Sylvanus, like every other lumberman, knew that a forest fire was nothing to fool with. Loggers were a special breed, wild and intemperate, used to a hard-driving, perilous existence. Not much scared them. Not much, thought Sylvanus, ex-a roaring, white-hot, son-of-a-bitch of a fire out of control.
An hour passed before Quintal and his men returned. When they did, it was an uneasy foreman who sat down with Sylvanus. "I don't like the looks of it. I've got a feeling in my bones and it ain't good."
Sylvanus was startled. Quintal McCormick was a powerful man both in build and character, not easily disturbed, but he spoke with unsettling anxiety. "Those swamps are throwing off such blasts of heat we couldn't get near 'em. It's the God's honest truth, Mr. Morgan, that if we don't get rain soon, we're going to be in for one hell of a battle."
"How far out did you go?" Sylvanus walked to the window and looked out across the lawn toward the bay. He knew that it was not fog that hung so still over the water.
" 'Bout five miles west," Quintal said. "Them fires are lying low and burning deep, crawlin' up the pines, eatin' 'em from the roots up. A good strong wind will bring the whole lot of 'em down. I ain't saying it ain't nothing we haven't seen before, Mr. Morgan. But I ain't never seen the woods so dry. That's what got hold of my innards. If those fires get going, there ain't nothing going to stop 'em short of a goddamn flood."
"Do you think it's serious enough to set some backfires?"
"If the wind stays down, I don't think it would be a bad idea."
They were both aware of the risks involved in backfiring; they both knew that a sudden shift in the wind could turn the new fire away from the main blaze where it was supposed to be drawn with the cooler air, back toward its creators. It could threaten the very property they were trying to protect. Apparently Quintal thought the situation was serious enough to risk it.
"Let's get some going then," Sylvanus said. "Around the west pasture. Get the boys over there. You better have them clear the debris out of the road while they're at it. We don't want the road burning up on us. I'll be at the mill later this morning, but first thing this afternoon I'll ride out and take a look."
Quintal rose to leave.
"And Quint. For the love of Christ, be careful." He knew it was an unnecessary caution, but for some reason it made him feel better to say it.
They walked to the door of the drawing room in silence. Quint turned in the doorway. "Mr. Morgan, would it be too much if I asked if my family could stay here at the big house for a while?" He paused and then added quietly, "That cabin of mine is pretty exposed."
Quintal McCormick did not frighten easily. He would never have asked such a favor if he were not scared. Deep-down, no-bullshit scared. "We'll make room in one of the wings," Sylvanus said, "I'll have Mrs. Deidrick see to it."
Relieved, Quint extended his hand. He was turning to go when he was stopped by the sound of Caroline Morgan's voice. Neither of the men had been aware she had been standing at the foot of the stairway until she spoke. It always astounded Sylvanus that while Caroline never raised her voice, it was impossible not to hear her. Like the sound of an Indian arrow, he thought. Quiet but deadly.
"Mrs. Deidrick will see to what?" she asked tonelessly, not really seeming to be concerned.
Sylvanus turned toward her. "Quintal is going to move his family into the main house until the fire danger is past." He turned back toward his foreman and they started toward the door.
"I think not," she said.
Sylvanus stopped but did not turn. Goddamn, he thought. What now? He ignored her, took Quintal by the arm, and continued toward the door. "See to the backfiring, Quint," he said. "I'll be along as soon as I can."
Quintal was embarrassed and obviously anxious to be on his way. Caroline Morgan was the most unnerving woman he had ever met. She had a faculty for making ordinary, easygoing people acutely aware of their shortcomings. More than that. Under the mask of frigid control, Quintal sensed that she was just about the meanest woman he had ever come in contact with.
"Before you go, Quintal," she said, walking toward them, "I think you ought not to make any plans to move into Morgan House. I'm surprised that Mr. Morgan suggested it without first checking with me." Her tone was still flat, emotionless, but there was an undefinable controlled anger in her voice. The usually self-confident Quintal McCormick wanted noth
ing more than to get his ass out of there quickly.
"We will ignore your rudeness, Caroline," Sylvanus said without looking at her. His voice was dangerously quiet. "Quint, tell your wife to pack whatever you need for your stay. Things will be ready here this afternoon."
Out of the corner of his eye Quintal threw a sideways glance at Caroline Morgan and his uneasy feeling was reinforced. Her face was still, set. She was beautiful, there was no doubt about that, with that white, smooth skin and jet black hair. He never did know just what color her eyes were because he had never quite dared to look directly into her face long enough to find out. If the Devil were a woman, he thought, there she be.
"Maybe we ought to wait, Mr. Morgan," Quintal said. He didn't know what went on between Sylvanus Morgan and his wife, but he knew it wasn't good and for sure he didn't want any part of it.
Sylvanus was furious but he didn't force the issue for fear of further embarrassment to Quintal. "Very well," he said. "But you are welcome should you decide to come. Just let me know."
Caroline turned and was halfway up the stairway when Sylvanus caught her and spun her round to face him. "You graceless bitch," he said, feeling his temples pounding in his already throbbing head. "What the hell was that all about?"
She stood staring at him for a moment and then said, in the same cold tone, "I thought you treasured our privacy as much as I do, Sylvanus. I was only thinking of your comfort."
"Don't give me that poppycock, Caroline. You never think of anyone but yourself. Furthermore, you have nothing to say if I choose to offer the safety of my home to Quintal McCormick. The sooner you understand that the better off we'll all be."
She gave no indication that she had heard him, but turned and continued up the stairs.
"If Quintal and his family want to live in this house, "he yelled after her, "he's welcome. And you, madam, can go straight to hell if you don't like it."
She turned at the top of the stairs and stood looking at him, her face showing no emotion. When she spoke her voice was low and quiet. "You needn't raise your voice, Sylvanus. I'm not hard of hearing. You may, of course, do as you please. You are master here, not I."
