by Diane Guest
As she approached their gate, Susannah thought to remind Kate Meade of her promise to help at the school next month while Abby was away. Susannah sighed. Abby was going back east for a visit and Susannah had wanted desperately to go with her, but Edwin had forbidden it. Two days ago she might have gone and ignored his protestations: now the possibility was as remote—she glanced up at the brass-blue sky—as remote as the possibility of sudden rain.
Not bothering to knock, she let herself in through the side door and stood in the entry. "John? Kate?"
"In here."
Susannah walked down the hall to John's office and stopped in her tracks, startled to find that he was not alone. Sylvanus Morgan stood by the window, staring at her from across the room.
"I'm sorry, John, I didn't mean to interrupt. I'll come back later." She turned to go.
"You're not interrupting, Susannah. Sylvanus's is purely a social call."
She looked thoughtfully over at the man who still stood without speaking. She knew him hardly at all, but in some inexplicable way, he always struck her as belonging to a past century of medieval streets and castle turrets. Perhaps it was the aloofness with which he seemed to regard life, or perhaps it was his reputation with the ladies. For whatever reason, a man like Sylvanus Morgan was beyond the realm of Susannah's experience and she didn't know quite how to behave, although she was determined not to feel awkward.
"Mr. Morgan." She acknowledged him with what she hoped was cool sophistication. If he thinks he can rattle me at my age, she thought, he is much mistaken She threw him a defiant glance and straightened her shoulders, aware only at the last minute that in so doing she exposed the full curve of her breasts for his rude evaluation.
Sylvanus had been hit with a feeling of discomfort when Susannah walked in and he observed her now with almost hostile reflection. He had ridden into Penobscot Landing that morning to discuss precautionary measures to be taken at the mill in case the fires got worse. If Susannah had not seen the fire in the sky last night, Sylvanus Morgan had. He had not been prepared to see Susannah again so soon, and was disturbed to find that she evoked in him the same unreasonable impulse to protect her.
He had to admit that she was poised. It was the rare female who didn't flinch under his bold and frankly critical state. Even so, he wished she hadn't come in.
Susannah moved to a chair, consciously forcing herself to walk slowly, willing herself not to act like a flustered ninny. She was so intent on not acknowledging Sylvanus in any way that she almost jumped when John spoke.
"How did Edwin spend the night?"
She came back to reality. "That's why I'm. here, John. It wasn't good, at least I don't think it was." She cast a glance at Sylvanus, not wanting to say any more in front of him.
Her reluctance hung in the air and Sylvanus was quick to recognize it. "I'll leave you to talk," he said, and crossed the room to the door. Susannah watched him, in spite of her determination not to do anything of the sort. He moves like a wildcat, she thought, and is probably just as dangerous. She smiled to herself. Susannah, you read too many fairy tales. First, he's a medieval knight, now he's a wildcat. All the same, she was at a loss to remember when she had ever seen a man so purely sensual. He's like a stag in rut, she thought crudely and her smile widened. Well, things can't be so bad, Susannah, she told herself; you haven't lost your taste for your own private vulgarities.
The secret smile was not lost on Sylvanus Morgan. Turning away from the door, he met her eye to eye. She felt her smile fade as the thought occurred to her with a sudden wave, of dismay that Sylvanus Morgan did not like her, though why she should care she didn't know. After what seemed to her an eternity, he said coldly, "I hope your husband recovers from his…his accident. It's a pity he wasn't more careful."
The unkindness of the remark confused her and brought a flush of color to her cheeks. It was not lost on Sylvanus and he was suddenly furious with himself for having hurt her. Without another word, he turned on his heel and was gone.
John had himself been startled by Sylvanus's lack of sensitivity. "Don't let Sylvanus disturb you," he said, lighting his pipe for the seventeenth time that morning. He was keeping track. "Sylvanus can be—well, to be truthful about it, he can be brusque. Even rude."
"He doesn't think much of women, does he?" For some reason it made her feel better to think that it was not just she alone whom he disliked.
John raised an eyebrow. "True. But I'm surprised that you know that much about him. Most people would say that Sylvanus Morgan thinks of nothing else."
"It seems to me that he considers us creatures put on this earth solely for his pleasure." She didn't know if it was true, but she felt a need to explain his coldness. "Of course, I'm sure that he thinks he gives far more pleasure than he receives."
John had to laugh at that. "You're probably right there, too," he admitted. "But in his defense I have to and that a man never had a truer friend than I have in Sylvanus Morgan."
Susannah was sure that was true and for some reason it made her sad. "I doubt that he ever had a woman for a friend."
John reflected. "Well, maybe one, once, a long time ago."
Susannah was interested. She felt an impulse to learn more about Sylvanus Morgan. But not now. "Someday, John, when my mind is not preoccupied, you can tell me about Mr. Morgan. Right now I have to talk to you about Edwin."
"How does he seem?"
"Physically, he seems to be holding his own. But John, he's… well, he's not himself." She shivered, although perspiration was beginning to soak through her dress. She reached up to untie her bonnet, wiping the beads of sweat from her brow, and settled deeper in the chair. "Edwin thinks he has given us a sign from God. A last chance to repent. He thinks everyone is flocking to the church to see him." The absurdity of it made her smile in spite of herself. "And the frosting on the cake is that he thinks I've locked them all out."
Neither spoke for a minute while John tried to sort all the implications of what she had just told him. "Tell me exactly what he said."
She repeated her conversation with Edwin word for word. "And John, it wasn't just what he said. It was his voice and that self-satisfied grin. Unnerving to say the least." She looked down at the nail she had just bitten with such passion. It was bleeding. "You know that I have never knuckled under to Edwin. Not ever. Call it pride, stubbornness… But always, even at his worst, I was never afraid of him." Her lower lip began to tremble. Oh, no, you don't, Edwin, she thought, and sucked her lip under her front teeth. I've come too far to let you frighten me now. "What I need now is knowledge, John. If I understand, I can cope. It's not Edwin that I fear. It's the not knowing."
John drew on his pipe. "The truth is, Susannah, none of us understands much about insanity. We're only now beginning to recognize that dropping people through trap doors into buckets of ice water doesn't help much. Not too many of the patients leap out of the vats screaming, 'I'm cured, I'm cured.' So much for the strides of medical science."
Susannah's mind flew back to the only encounter she had ever had with insanity. It had been the summer of her eleventh year. Zero Zeena. That was what the children had called her.
She could still feel the panic of that lazy summer afternoon, still hear the squeaking of the gate, still smell the musty, oily odor that had come when the old woman had skewered her with that one, bloodless, mindless eye and tried to stroke Susannah's hair.
Susannah had shrieked her throat raw and run home to the comfort of her father's arms. He had assured her that the old woman had meant no harm, but all the same three days later Zero Zeena made chopped meat out of little Michael Russell.
She met John's glance. "Is it possible that he could hurt someone?"
John stood and walked around the desk. "I don't know. I wish I could tell you. I wish I knew myself. One thing, though, that should be of some comfort to you."
"What?"
He put his pipe down. "He's lost a lot of blood, so physically he's not going to be ab
le to do much. Not for a while."
"You mean he won't be able to drag one of us over to the mill and saw our arms off?" She smiled bitterly.
"You don't really think he'd want to do that, do you?"
"I'll be damned if I know, John. I think I wouldn't be surprised at anything Edwin would do. If he could."
John came to her and took both of her hands in his. "Susannah, listen. The first thing we'll do is get someone to stay with you. We'll go out to Sugar Bush and talk to Mame Keefe. She's been alone out there on the farm since the old man died. She'll probably be glad to come into town for a while, especially with all the fires around." He lowered his voice and his next words hung suspended in the air. "She's a big woman, Susannah. A lot stronger than Edwin."
Susannah blinked back the tears that threatened to overwhelm her. Damn you, Edwin. Damn you, she thought, and in that instant made a decision. "I'm going to send the children home, John. Back to Massachusetts. Now. To my mother. And I'm going to take Jenny out to her father's farm. At least for now. So they'll be safe. If they're safe, I can handle Edwin."
She relaxed and leaned her head against the back of the chair, no longer afraid that she was going to cry. I win this round, Edwin, she thought. If the children are safe, I can handle anything. Even you.
Sylvanus Morgan was angry as he led his horse the short distance from John Meade's house to the sawmill. The crushing expression of sadness was gone from her face, but it hadn't altered his reaction to her. He didn't know why she affected him the way she did and he determined to put the lady out of his mind once and for all.
He tied the reins securely to the hitching post in front of the mill. Normally, he wouldn't bother to be so careful. Uncle Arch knew better than to wander off, but the horse had been as skittish as all hell lately and Sylvanus didn't want to lose him. Uncle Arch had sired a colt last spring, but both the mare and her baby had disappeared one morning through a break in the fence down in the lower pasture.
"Don't worry, Arch," he said, patting the horse's neck. "You'll get another shot soon again."
He walked around the mill to the water's edge and stood watching as the men with their long pike poles pushed the logs within reach of the bull chains, then onto the chutes that led up into the mill.
"Watch what you're up to," Nate Dolbeer bellowed to the men above, who were operating the levers that drove the jawlike "dogs" into the logs to hold them in place, "We're almost done here," he said to Sylvanus, pointing to the remaining logs still corraled in the mill pond beside the landing.
Sylvanus nodded. In spring, the bay had been jammed with logs packed so tightly together that a man could walk across, shore to shore, without even getting wet. An experienced river pig, that is. He remembered last summer when two young jackasses drowned trying to take a short cut across the log mass. Their heavy boots had cemented them to the bottom like a pair of granite tombstones.
"How many more days work do you figure?" he asked Nate.
"Five days, a week at the most."
Sylvanus picked up a handful of sawdust from the pile that towered almost to the roof of the mill and trickled it through his fingers. "Nate," he said, "I want the saw shut down today. I want all the fire buckets filled with water. Tell the men to wet down the roof. Keep it as wet as you can."
Nate narrowed his eyes. "You expecting something?"
"I don't know. But I 'm not taking any chances." He threw away what was left of the sawdust and walked back toward the road. Nate watched until he was out of sight around the corner. Sylvanus Morgan was no fool, nor coward either, Nate knew. Mr. Morgan had seen his mill burn down twice before, and Nate couldn't blame him for not wanting to see it happen again. He pushed his hat to the back of his head and yelled out as loud as he could, "Shut down that goddamned saw."
He knew that no one would hear him over the whine of the machinery, but he really didn't care. Sometimes it just felt good to yell.
Sylvanus got on his horse and turned down the road, back the way he had come. He passed the Snell house and slowed, noting with distaste its complete lack of architectural style. He found the house ugly and graceless. Exactly the kind of place I'd expect that sanctimonious little prig to build, he thought, and was disturbed to find that he disliked the thought of Susannah living there with Edwin.
A sudden movement caught his eye. Darting out from behind the house, a small figure vanished into the schoolyard next door. Then another, leading a young colt. Sylvanus raised his eyebrows. Even at this distance, he could see that it was no ordinary piece of horseflesh. He hitched Uncle Arch to the post in front of the schoolhouse and walked quietly to the corner of the building.
A small boy was leading the colt around a makeshift ring. "C'mon, Boy," he urged. "Lift your feet like you did before."
Sylvanus stared. He would have known Uncle Arch's son anywhere, but how. in the devil did he come into the Snell household, he wondered, and even more peculiar, why hadn't anyone let him know the colt was here? Surely they knew that the horse belonged to the Morgan stables.
He watched unseen. Even at this distance, it was clear that the two boys had no interest in anything but the colt. They were so involved that he suspected he could have walked right up to them and never have been noticed.
His first impulse was to confront Susannah Snell and demand an explanation as to the manner in which his prize colt came to be housed in her stable, a pet to her children. Horse stealing was a considerable offense in these parts, and he meant to have some satisfaction in the matter.
He started toward the door when a memory of another woman, another boy from another life, brought him up short. He was shocked at the intensity of the pain he felt. I need time to think about this, he said to himself, and turned back to his horse. "Arch," he said, "despair no longer. I think we've found your long-lost son. Though I'll be damned if I know what we're going to do about it."
He rode back to Morgan House at a gallop, forced twice to detour where the road was on fire. Damnable nuisance, he thought. These plank roads were more trouble than they were worth. He was anxious to see what progress Quint had made on the wide trench he had ordered dug around the main house. He really didn't know why he was doing it. He would not have been unhappy to see the goddamned place burn to the ground. But then what would he do with lovely Caroline?
He was in no mood to talk to her, but to his dismay she was waiting for him in the library. "I've made the necessary arrangements with Mrs. Deidrick," she said calmly. "Quintal McCormick may move here anytime he chooses."
"I know that," he said evenly, ignoring her intimation that she was doing him a favor. She had a faculty for trying to turn things around, for trying to make black seem white, cruelty seem like kindness.
"You needn't be short with me, Sylvanus. After all, I do my best to please you." Her tone of voice never changed.
Sylvanus looked at her with quiet amusement. How like you, Caroline, he thought. Kick a dog as hard as you can, beat him, break both his hind legs, knock out all his teeth, and then expect praise and thanks when you offer to nurse him back to health. "Indeed you do, Caroline," he said in a mocking tone. "You are the very soul of kindness."
She turned away. "I must have learned it from Anne," she said softly, and her voice dropped to an almost inaudible whisper. "Or perhaps David. Such a fine young man, wasn't he, Sylvanus? How sad that they both had to die. We certainly all have felt the loss."
Sylvanus drew a sharp breath. "Shut up, Caroline."
She turned back toward him, her face even whiter than usual, her mouth set, cold.. Her eyes opened wide, their curious slant giving her a tribal look, hinting that beneath their opaque surface there dwelt a cruel, wild thing. But her voice was low, in full control. "You have no reason to speak to me like that, Sylvanus," she said. "I suffered as much as you did when they died, she and the boy. Maybe more."
Sylvanus took a step forward and then stopped. Why let her goad him into anger? That was what she wanted. She would remain calm, cool, t
he injured party, while he would blast away and end up feeling like an undisciplined savage. "You don't fool me, Caroline," he said, and was surprised at how tired he felt suddenly. "I know that you only bring up their names to hurt me. I didn't always know that, but I do now." His head ached." You love it, don't you, when you know you've drawn blood?"
The ghost of a smile touched the corners of her mouth and was gone. "I have no thought to hurt you, Sylvanus, '' she" she said softly, as if to a child. "I only mention them because I loved them so. You know I did."
Sylvanus crossed to the window and stood silent, looking out over the lawn, dry and brown now, like the inside of his mouth. When he spoke his voice was tired. "I know you, Caroline. So I know that I'm wasting my breath, but I would be eternally grateful to you if you would never mention my wife or my son again."
"But Sylvanus," she said, and her voice was like death, "I am your wife."
"You are," he said wearily. "More's the pity. But I won't ask you again, Caroline. One day you'll push me too far."
"As you wish," she said.
As I wish, he thought. Until the next time. He turned and stood facing her across the room. It struck him again how very beautiful she was, and how totally without feeling. "One of these days, Caroline," he said coldly, "you'll be asked to pay for the pain you've caused." He turned away. "I have a lot of things to do now, so if you'll excuse me…"
