Twilight's Burning

by Diane Guest

  Susannah stopped and waited for him before she went into her room. "Come sit with me," she said as they entered. "We have to talk."

  He kept his eyes down and she put her arm around him, surprised to find that he was shaking convulsively. "Why, Matthew, you're shivering like a leaf. Here." She put the quilt around him. "This should warm you up."

  He sat silent, withdrawing into the little house in the back of his brain where he hid when his father did terrible things to him.

  "Matthew." She put her arms around him and held him against her. "Your mother has died." She waited, but he gave no indication that he had heard. "Matthew?" she said softly.

  "Are you going to send me away? With him?" The words were a strangulation.

  Susannah held him away from her so she could look at his face. She had never dreamed that he would think such a thing and then she cursed herself for not having anticipated his worst fear. "Of course not, Matt. I'd never send you away with him. Not ever."

  "You mean I can stay here with you? I don't have to go back?" He was shaking without control.

  "Matthew." Her tone was a command to look up. "Do you trust me?"

  His stomach felt like it was trying to climb up his throat. He couldn't speak. His most loved person in the world? Of course he trusted her. He nodded.

  "Then believe me when I tell you that I will never let your father take you away from me while I still breathe. Never."

  In that instant, poetry was born in the soul of Matt Shepherd. He had never in all his life known the singular joy of being loved, of being cared about. He had worshipped Her at a distance, but now she was telling him that she meant to keep him with Her forever. His face grew pink and he smiled such a smile at Susannah that the excess of tenderness she knew to be her weakness exploded inside her throat and she almost began to cry. She pulled him against her again and rocked him back and forth like the little boy he was. For a long time there was no sound except her voice. "My poor little boy," she said over and over. "My poor little boy."

  It was Matthew who finally broke the rhythm. "Did my father kill her?"

  "Yes. He did."

  "I hope it didn't hurt too bad," he said with the quiet acceptance that made him such an unnatural child.

  "I hope not."

  "Is my father in jail?"

  "No, not yet." She felt him stiffen. "But soon. That's why you're going to stick to me like feathers on a quail for the next few days." She tilted his chin with one finger. "No expeditions out into the wild for you, young man. Not for a while anyway."

  She saw the fear fade from his face and he burrowed against her like a baby animal. Then he told her something he had never told a human being before. He told her that he loved her.

  Now, for the moment, Edwin Snell was alone. No one was in the room. No one. But he knew it wouldn't last. They didn't even leave him alone for long. They were afraid to. They were afraid of him. Afraid. And they had good cause to be.

  He drifted in and out of sleep, but each time he came to consciousness his mind filled with rage that she had dared to tie him in this bed. Dared to keep him from his appointed task. Dared to make a mockery of his sacrifice. Dared. Dared.

  A blue-purple vein at his temple ridged up against the plaster-white of his skin and he began to shake. He clamped his thin lips tight over his teeth and tried to move his arms up over his head, but it was a futile effort. They lay imprisoned on the bed, tied with thick, twisted ropes. Daughter of hell, he thought. Vile daughter of hell.

  He began to thrash violently around in the bed, wrenching himself first to one side, then to the other.

  Bitch. Bitch.

  But still he remained trapped. His breath was coming now in short, frantic gasps. He couldn't breathe. Red, screaming lights began to flash through his eyeballs and he began to sob. "Let me go, you hellish slut," he cried. "Let me go."

  And then, as suddenly as if he had been touched by a magic hand, he lay still. Perfectly still. He closed his eyes and relaxed.

  Edwin, Edwin, Edwin, he whispered in his mind. His breathing slowed. Don't let them see you. Don't let them know you care. He opened his eyes a squint. The room was still empty. Just wait, he told himself. She's a fool. You can make her let you go. Be patient and she shall have her punishment.

  John and Kate had invited Susannah to spend the evening with them. They wanted to tell her what they knew about Caroline Morgan. John was waiting to escort her to his house when she came downstairs. "Did you talk to Matthew?"

  "Yes."

  "How did he take it?"

  "John, you wouldn't believe it," she said, putting on her bonnet.

  She told him about Matthew's reaction as they crossed the road to the Meade house where Kate was waiting in the hall. "I was watching from the front window," she said, taking Susannah by the arm and leading her into the parlor. "Just to make certain that neither one of you was snatched away."

  "What would you have done, Kate," John asked, "if Jake Shepherd had lurched out of the dark and thrown me to the ground? I 'm just curious to know how safe I am with you in command."

  Kate motioned to the corner of the room where she had left John's rifle.

  "Come on, Kate. You mean you wouldn't have given Jake a chance to defend himself?"

  His wife was quiet for a minute, considering. "I guess I'd give him about as much chance as he gave Bertha Shepherd."

  John wasn't really surprised. He knew that if Kate had seen Jake Shepherd she would have shot him dead. He wondered if he would have had the same nerve.

  Susannah backed up to the hearth where John had kindled a fire. "I can't believe I'm cold after the heat we've been living with for the past few weeks."

  "The first of October," Kate said. "It won't be long before the snow comes."

  "Can I get you something, Susannah?" John asked.

  "A brandy. But only on your honor not to tell Edwin." She smiled. "You know how he disapproves of the use of spirits."

  "Pour us all a glass," Kate said to her husband. "We need it."

  "I wonder if Edwin can hear me?" Susannah said. "Sometimes, I must confess, I think he can make himself invisible and go about the town as he pleases." She had meant it to be funny, but it wasn't. No one laughed.

  "I'm glad the children are going to Morgan House,"

  John said. "And speaking of Morgan House, how much do you know about the charming, inimitable Caroline Morgan?" John asked.

  Susannah thought. "Nothing really. Except that she's one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen." She paused to consider and then shrugged. "That's all. I rarely ever see her and then only at a distance." Then shockingly, she heard herself say, "Does he love her?" The question came so suddenly and was so out of place that she flushed.

  John and Kate looked at one another, then at Susannah. "Why would you ask that?" John said. "You must know more about the Morgans than you think you do."

  Susannah was embarrassed. "I don't. Maybe it's because he doesn't behave like a man who loves his wife."

  "Well, you're right. He doesn't love her. Why he stays married to her is a mystery to us all."

  "We suspect that it has something to do with Anne, his first wife, and his son," Kate said.

  "We don't know that," John said.

  "No. But we Meades have done a lot of speculating in the cold winter evenings, huddled before our fire," Kate said, "and we both agree that there's something about Sylvanus and Caroline's relationship that invites speculation. John hates it when I try to imagine what goes on up there, don't you, dear?"

  John shrugged and continued. "Anyway, Caroline Morgan is one of the only people I know—I've ever known, for that matter—who takes genuine pleasure in other people's pain."

  "Why did he marry her?" Susannah asked.

  "We certainly don't know," John said. "He never talks about it. He married Caroline right after the death of his first wife. And his son. Right after the war. I don't remember the year exactly. Sixty-five or sixty-six." He took a sip of brandy.
"Sylvanus and I go back a long way. We went to school together, you know, too long ago for me to care to think about it. After we graduated, he went back to Maine to work for his father. Big timber men, the Morgans. And that's when he married Anne." He watched the color of the fire reflect itself in the amber whirl of the liquor. "He was too young to be married, or so his family said. But I never thought so. Besides, Anne was one of a kind," he said. "Wasn't she, Kate?"

  "She was," his wife agreed. "Besides, he needed someone to quiet him down. And then David came along. Sylvanus adored his son, but there are no words to describe how he felt about Anne. They had the kind of relationship that comes along once in a lifetime, and for some, not ever."

  "They got along almost as well as we do, wouldn't you say, my love?" John said.

  Kate smiled at him and continued. "Sylvanus once told John that Anne was the only person in the world who really knew what he was like. It was one of those injustices of life that I have never quite forgiven God for, that she died so young." Kate's voice took on a bitter note. "Do you know how many people are married to people they don't give a damn about? Take Jake Shepherd, for one. Does God kill him? No. But Anne…" She stopped.

  "A great lady," John said. "A very great lady. It's been a long time since I've thought about her. I ought to do it more often. In this depressing world, we ought not to forget the pleasant things. And she was one of them."

  "Well, I for one hate to think about Anne Morgan," Kate said. "And what happened to her."

  "How did she die?" Susannah asked.

  "She had a boating accident. Up in Maine. She and their son David. We never did get the full story. Sylvanus never talks about it. He was down in Georgia when it happened. We were already out there. The only one who was around at the time of the tragedy was her sister, Caroline."

  "Caroline?" Susannah's eyes flew open. "Not this same Caroline?"

  "The very same," John said. "But if there was ever a case that defies explanation that was it. There they were, Anne and her sister, two seeds from the same plants, growing together in the same pot, and look what happened. One grew into the most delicate orchid, the other into an absolute stinkweed."

  "That's an understatement if I ever heard one," Kate said. "I'll tell you what she is." Kate turned to Susannah. "She's a death-cap mushroom. All white and perfect on the outside, all poison inside." She shivered.

  "From what we could piece together," John said, "from what friends and relatives back in Maine told us, Caroline was living with Anne and young David, acting as a companion of sorts while Sylvanus was away at war."

  "How old was the boy when he died?" Susannah asked.

  "Oh, let's see. He must have been about eighteen," John said.

  "Oh, John, he was younger than that," Kate interrupted. "He was born the same year we were married—1849. And he died just before the end of the war. So he was just sixteen, or nearly so."

  "I stand corrected," John said to his wife. "Not that it matters now."

  "I think another touch of spirits might improve my memory even more," Kate said, holding up her empty glass.

  John poured refills and then crossed to stoke up the fire. "Sylvanus went out of his mind when he heard that they were dead."

  I am sorry, Sylvanus Morgan, Susannah thought. I am so very sorry.

  "As a matter of fact," Kate said, "John and I came out here because of old Mr. Morgan. He's the one who offered John the position of company doctor. But then you knew that."

  "Yes," Susannah said, but still couldn't rid herself of the overwhelming urge to tell Sylvanus how much she had felt his pain.

  "It was a shock to us when Sylvanus arrived in Penobscot Landing with Caroline," John continued. "We didn't even know Anne was dead." He stopped talking, remembering his disbelief when he was introduced to the new Mrs. Morgan.

  "Do you remember, John? How she walked in this door and told us that Anne and David were dead?" Kate said.

  He nodded. "Sylvanus never said a word. It was as if they had never existed. But she—she told us about it in the same tone of voice you would use to tell someone to close a door or open a window."

  "They stayed with us a while, he and Caroline. You remember," Kate said to Susannah. "They stayed here until the house was ready." She made a face. "We got a good dose of the lovely Caroline then, I can tell you."

  John closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. "It makes me sick to mink of it," he said.

  "I never liked her," Kate said. "And she's never done a thing to change my opinion. She has the most uncanny knack for making people feel like fools. And I can't say I've ever seen her laugh. Or cry, for that matter. Or really get angry. Just flashes, like summer lightning, gone before you can really see them. It isn't because I'm jealous of her either, although I must admit that I always feel a little like a sea cow when she's around. But even before we knew her well—if anyone can ever know her well, that is—there was something awful about the things she did. Hard to put a label on."

  John stretched his legs out toward the fire and sipped on his brandy. "We knew that Sylvanus hated to have anyone mention either Anne or the boy," he said. "Anyone could have seen his pain from the first."

  I did, Susannah thought. I saw it.

  "But Caroline never lost an opportunity to bring up the subject. And always in such a way that it was impossible to fault her. She always did it in the name of love or some other such nonsense. But we could feel Sylvanus's pain. And at first we thought that she was so lost in her own feeling that she was blind to his. It was only as time went on that we realized she did it deliberately. Just to hurt him, to see him flinch."

  Kate looked across the room at her husband. "Remember his birthday?" she said.

  John nodded and they both sat without speaking for a minute, the soft hiss of the fire the only sound in the room. "One night," he said, "the three of us—Kate, Sylvanus, and I—were waiting for her to come down to dinner. Because it was Sylvanus's birthday, Caroline said she wanted it to be special. Something he'd always remember."

  "I'd venture to guess he hasn't forgotten it yet," Kate said. "When she finally came down, she stood in the doorway and didn't say a word. Just stood there with the faintest twist of a smile on her face. She looked so exquisite, so ethereal. I'm forced to admit even now that I couldn't take my eyes off her. Not until Sylvanus said, 'What in the name of Christ do you think you're doing?' "

  "I wasn't even sure it was Sylvanus who had spoken," John said. "His voice was that strange. And the look on his face…"

  "Without another sound, he walked past her and out of the house. He didn't come back for two days," Kate said.

  "What was the matter with him?" Susannah asked.

  "It was Anne's dress," John said.

  Susannah was stunned. "Why did she ever do such a thing?"

  "She told us that she couldn't imagine why he hadn't been pleased, that she thought it would make him happy, bring back pleasant memories of his wife—not to mention the fact that Anne's wardrobe would not go unused. She had actually packed every single piece of Anne's clothing and brought it out there with her."

  Susannah shuddered. "Surely she didn't honestly think it would make him happy."

  "Not for a minute. At least John and I never thought so. We looked at her motives from every direction and finally decided that the only reason she did it was to let Sylvanus know in no uncertain terms that Anne was dead, and that she, Caroline Blackthorn Morgan, was his only wife, with claim to all that was now and all that had ever been."

  Susannah felt another rush of sympathy for Sylvanus Morgan. It seemed to her in that moment that Sylvanus must have had a powerful reason for marrying a woman so cruel, so unfeeling, a reason far more compelling than just that he was beyond caring. I wonder why he bleeds so privately, she thought. I wonder why he never speaks about them, not even to John?

  "That wasn't the only horrid thing she ever did, either," Kate was saying.

  "Perhaps if they had had children…" Susanna
h said, thinking about how empty her own life would have been without hers.

  "Children! Dear God, pity the poor child that has Caroline for a mother," John said. "I'd as soon have a vampire. As a matter of fact, she was pregnant when they came to Penobscot Landing. And she wasn't happy about it. Not one bit, although it did seem to put a spark in Sylvanus's life. But it was short-lived. She fell down the stairs at Morgan House not too long after they moved there and miscarried."

  Kate snorted. "I wouldn't be surprised if she did it on purpose, she was so disgusted with the idea of having a baby."

  John stood and crossed to the window. He could see what looked to be snowflakes, drifting lazily against the pane. "Excuse me, ladies, but I do believe it's snowing."

  They all got up and walked into the front hall. John opened the door and stepped out onto the stoop. "Sweet hell," he said, looking up. "It's not snow. It's ashes."

  Just as he spoke, the mill whistle went off, blasting a hole in the thick night air. A figure ran by in the dark.

  "The mill's on fire!"

  With quickness born from years of experience living with the threat of forest fires, the three grabbed the water buckets that John had left beside the door and ran off as fast as they could toward the landing, leaving behind the specter of a motionless, unsmiling Caroline Morgan.

  The breeze had picked up and was blowing with gentle but steady persistence out of the southwest, bringing with it all the little flakes of white ash from the heart of the forest; now and then a partially burned leaf floated down, as seemingly harmless as a firefly, only to ignite with blinding speed whatever it touched.

  Through the darkness they could see a column of heavy smoke, illuminated by the fire, wending its way up the sky. The main blaze in the pile of sawdust roared up beside the mill like a giant blowtorch.

  Susannah and Kate took their places in the bucket line that stretched to the water's edge, and John went to look for Nate Dolbeer to see if anyone had been hurt. They worked without speaking as fast as they could, transferring the buckets from one to the other, one bucket line hauling water to douse the fire, another line wetting down the roof and the side of the mill.