Bitter Eden

by Salvato, Sharon Anne

  "Machinery, world trade, and international markets are the tools of politicians and industrialists. They don't help the farmer or the peasant," Peter said. "England still looks to her own production to feed her people. And as long as we keep having bad crop years our farmers cannot compete on the international market without subsidy, which means more money spent and more taxes gathered. It means Corn Laws, bread and food staples' prices rising so high at home they can't be purchased by the common man, which means more men on the dole, therefore more taxes to supply money to men who could make their own living if the government weren't so busy fixing everything. It's like a bloody teeter-totter. Help the industrialists, and the farmer is left begging. Help the farmer, and the industrialist is crying. We're making enemies of people who should be natural allies."

  "That's nonsense. No one has been made the enemy of anyone else," Frank said. "Tell me, champion of the laborer, isn't it true right now—this very day—that the farmer is sympathetic to the laborer's problems?. Wouldn't we all pay him more if we could, if we weren't already carrying the burden of taxes and duties levied on us? We don't turn to machinery to hurt our

  laborers, do we? No! We do it because we must, because the times and the conditions demand it."

  Peter rubbed his forehead, smiling. "I think that is what I've been saying, Frank. There is no choice but to crush the laborer, because of the way our laws and systems are set up. It is the law and the harshness and inequity with which it is applied that must change. In short, gentlemen, we need reform in England in many areas, not just for the peasant, but for all of us."

  "Succoring the cause of Captain Swing is certainly the wrong way to go about it, assuming anything you say is true," Albert said.

  "What's wrong with Captain Swing? His movement has the attention of several lords, and many more local magistrates, including you, Albert. They have shed no blood. It seems to me the Swing riots have quite a lot to recommend them."

  "They have one distinct quality against them," Albert replied quickly.

  'Which is?"

  "They must come to disaster. In the end we must enforce the law harshly and strictly, and then what happens to your peasants, Peter? They will be worse off than before. There will be mass arrests. It cannot be any other way, for if we allow them to have a say in the workings of our lives, we should all be at their mercy." Slowly he took up his wine glass, swirling the red liquid. "No, there is no question. Order must be preserved. It is the safeguard to civilization. My God, without it, we'd have another French Revolution right here in England."

  'The order is wrong," Peter said softly. "It is one thing to maintain law, but quite another when the existing law is squeezing to death a large segment of your people. Then the law itself must be changed, not the people. The order must be changed or we do not

  foster civilization, but stagnation/' There was no need for Peter to pound on the table or swirl wine in his goblet for emphasis; the whole look of him was emphasis enough. He believed what he was saying with a deep passion, and that belief could be felt throughout the room. His intensity was magnetic, attracting every eye and ear.

  It wasn't often that nature conspired to produce a man like Peter Berean, and Albert was painfully aware of this. Vain, and bearing the responsibility of having to enforce the law of the parish, Albert was too often unfavorably compared with Peter. He was also aware that he was magistrate only because Peter wouldn't accept the post. Though he knew he and Peter could never be friends, he seethed at the fate that had made them competitors. Albert couldn't count the number of times he had mentally tried to trim Peter down to commonality. He always failed. Peter was an intelligent man with an appetite for adventure. He was unafraid to state his beliefs and act upon them. The very thought of the coming confrontation between the magistrates and the Swing offenders led by Peter made Albert's hands clammy and his armpits itch in a way that his mother would have found disgusting and unmanly.

  Callie listened with rapt attention, unable to take her eyes from Peter as the talk went on, growing more heated.

  "You'll hear this until you know it by heart," Stephen whispered. "Neither one gives an inch, and the next time Albert comes over, which will probably be tomorrow, they will start all over again. If I were Albert I'd give up. Peter always wins. No one ever outdoes Peter."

  "Well, I've heard more than enough for tonight," Meg said. "I can't see why you men always talk of

  something we all hope will never happen. Please, no more tonight/'

  As the talk momentarily quieted, Meg took her advantage. She hurried Natalie and Callie from the room, wishing she could as easily forestall the rift that was forming in the family. Frank sided with Albert more frequently and more openly, and his hostility toward Peter was barely concealed these days. And Stephen nearly idolized Peter. Peter was as close to a hero for Stephen as anyone would ever come.

  Anna and Rosalind followed Meg from the dining room into the parlor. Callie automatically turned there also, but Meg gently took her arm. "For you two there is no more talk, and no more cider or wine this evening. One of you looks as tired and sleepy as the other."

  "But I haven't said good night to Albert."

  "Albert will understand, Natalie. You know as well as I the men may be barricaded in James's study half the night talking their infernal politics."

  "But Rosalind . . ."

  "Never mind Rosalind."

  "But Mama, Rosalind will talk to him. She'll wait . • . she'll say good night to him and I won't be there."

  Meg made an exasperated sound through her teeth. "Natalie!"

  "But Mama . . . I'm as strong as Anna or Rosalind. Why must I go to bed so early? I must be here to say goodnight. Please! Why don't you believe me? Why won't anyone ever listen to me? I know Rosalind better than any of you. She—"

  Meg put her finger firmly on Natalie's lips. "Not a word! Not a word against your brother s wife. I will not hear disloyalty in this house!"

  Chapter 7

  Rosalind waited what seemed an unendurably long time for the men to emerge from James's study, confident her intent would not be obvious. The others would think her a faithful and perhaps touchingly eager young wife. She could count on the Bereans to think the best, and she could also count on each of them to follow a predictable pattern for the night

  When the door to the study opened and expelled the men with a heavy cloud of cigar smoke, Rosalind smiled into the strikingly handsome face of her husband. Her hand as she touched him was possessively ladylike.

  He took her hands in his,^ smiled at his father and Albert, showing her off a little and pleased that she was there for him. "We were long-winded tonight You know Albert—like a bull terrier with a bone/'

  "Speak for yourself," Albert said.

  "I know you all. The only hope we women have of seeing you is to wait for you. But in a few more minutes this woman would have been knocking to gain entrance to that smoky den."

  "We're finished now and Albert has not gotten the last word for once. Now, go on up. Ill be there shortly."

  "Oh, Peter—it's so late, and I've waited for you so long. You're not going to check the fields tonight, are you? Let them go this once." She pouted as he told her how necessary his nightly overseeing was; she smiled in resignation as she heard his familiar words. Her eyes sought Albert's.

  As always Frank said he would join Peter. He kissed Anna on the cheek and sent her upstairs. Frank would do only as he said. He would look over the fields and return promptly to his wife's side. Rosalind knew Peter would go on, riding off into the night, not to return for several hours. She watched with detached interest as the two men put on their coats.

  "Coming with us, Albert?" Peter asked. It was a taunt.

  "Not tonight, old man. As you hoped your talk has worn me out I am going home and to bed, as I would advise you to do. One of these nights I'm going to catch you at your rabble-rousing, and there won't be any more jokes."

  "Good night then, Albert Have a care on
your way. Never know what you might run into."

  James had already started up the stairs. "Will you be waiting for Peter, Rosalind?" he asked. "He may be a while."

  "Then I shall wait-for a while."

  When James's bedroom door closed, and Peter and Frank had left, Rosalind swung around on Albert. "You knew I would be waiting for you. Sometimes I think you deliberately prolong these conversations. You like to see me wait." She pouted. His hands encircled her waist.

  He looked down at her, an amused expression on

  his face. "Well now, Miss Rosalind, the next time the evening drags I shall excuse myself. 'A thousand pardons, Peter, old man, but I must break up this happy meeting so that I can go make love to your wife.' *

  Rosalind laughed and leaned against him. "Can you think what his face would look like if you said that?"

  "Not so well as I can imagine what mine would look like when he finished with me/'

  Rosalind forced the merriment on longer and laughed harder. She liked to laugh with Albert. It always seemed in retrospect that when they laughed together the evening had so much more meaning.

  Albert placed his hand over her mouth. "Shhh! You'll have James hobbling down the stairs to see what's going on."

  She couldn't force the laugh out anymore. "Why is it that you would care more than I if James did find out? That's a curious thing, don't you think?"

  He kissed the tip of her nose, indulgent and determinedly gentle. "Not at all. I have far more sense than you, dear one, and what's more I look to consequences that would never enter your pretty head."

  "Natalie?"

  "For one."

  "Do you know how it makes me feel when I know Natalie is always lurking somewhere inside your head when you are with me? You kiss me and still she is there. She is some sort of untouchable little princess, while I am nothing."

  "I am going to marry her. We won't change or be changed by that. It is something that exists. That's all."

  "That's all! How you lie!"

  "Do I? How willing are you to have Peter walk through the door now and see us?"

  "He wont. Peter isn't going to find out anything.

  He doesn't look for anything." She shrugged. "Anyway he's all agog over that simpering Callie. I hate her!"

  "How venomous." He grasped her clenching hands, holding them until the jealous anger in her eyes cooled. "Calm down—remember it's Peter who's infatuated, not I." He really didn't like her when she was like this. She was put out over her long wait, discontent with things he didn't understand or want to understand. He looked down at her; the self-centered look of having been wronged was firmly etched on her mouth.

  "You should have married me," she said. "We'd be happy now, and not having to be snatching moments in corners. And you would have done it if you ever truly loved me."

  "But I did—and I do! It wasn't a lack of love that held me back. Be reasonable. You know there was nothing I could do."

  "You could have married me. You could have defied your mother. You just didn't care. You know she wouldn't have really disinherited you. You're her only son. The truth is that you never did love me. Why don't you admit it?"

  He felt cramped, hemmed in by her accusing tone. He wanted to leave her as he had so often wanted to leave the sound of his mother's harping voice. But he smiled reassuringly, caressing her neck and shoulders with his fingertips. "You're a witch, Rosalind. Why do you put me through this? You know I love you. Why else would I be here every day? Why would I risk Peter finding me and blowing the brains right out my head? Only because I love you."

  "Make me believe you, Albert."

  He pulled her close, caressing her and kissing her repeatedly, more warmly each time to prove that he meant it And he did in a way. "You know what you

  do to me. Meet me tomorrow at the cottage. Say you will."

  "Maybe. I can t just leave whenever I please, Albert. What shall I say I am doing? It is a little cold for a long walk."

  "Say you're going shopping. Say you have to see a dressmaker. I don't know what you should say—think of something. You can if you want. Be there, Rosalind. We'll have the whole afternoon, sweetheart. Think of it—no moments in corners—the whole afternoon." He buried his face in her shoulder. "Say yes. Say you'll come. I can't stand being without you. You know that. I need you."

  "I'll be there," she whispered breathlessly. "I always come, don't I? You've only to beckon and I follow. Oh, Albert, I am a fool. I should make you suffer as you have made me."

  "I have ... I have. Every time I think of you with Peter . . . oh, God, I hate to think of his hands touching you . . . knowing what I know . . . wondering if you ... I dream about it, am tormented by it. But we can make it up to each other, can't we? Tomorrow? Tomorrow there'll only be us."

  At a sound in the upper hall, Albert glanced toward the staircase, momentarily frozen, expecting to see James—or worse, Natalie standing there viewing his guilty love. "I must leave. Frank is sure to be coming in soon. Till tomorrow, my love. Till tomorrow." He kissed her hard and hungrily, then forced himself to draw away from her warm, inviting body.

  Rosalind watched from the window as he mounted his horse; then she turned down the lamps, leaving one to light the way for Frank and Peter. She went to her bedroom determined to be asleep when Peter came in. Peter could do nothing but make cow-eyes at Callie, and she hated him for it, and Albert had some-

  how managed to leave her feeling used and dirty, a tavern girl once more.

  "Well, what's wrong with being a tavern girl? It was good enough to make you look twice, Mr. Foxe," she fumed as she fished through a pile of rumpled bedclothes for her robe. Her activity made her feel warmer but no calmer, for she knew there was nothing wrong with being a tavern girl.

  It was being Rufus Hawkes's daughter that was wrong; it was marrying the wrong man to keep a worse fate from befalling her. She was guilty of both.

  She had been born Rufus Hawkes's daughter and couldn't help that, but she had been coldly calculating when she had married Peter Berean without loving him. Had she not, she would have ended up the wife of one of the men who frequented her father's tavern. She had sought any means of escape.

  She was very young when she had learned that the men who gathered in her father's tavern weren't nice. At thirteen she had been embarrassed and humiliated when they had smashed their wet, liquor-soaked mouths against her still virginal lips. She had been terrified as they forced their soot-stained hands down the front of her bodice, pinching and hurting her, their hard fingers and dirty nails digging deep into the soft dark tips of her breasts. And she had felt defiled the first time one of those dirty hands found its way up inside her full skirts to the tender moist parts of her that her mother had said were for privacy and love. But Rosalind, through her tears and the ragged remains of her female pride, could look at these men with their yellowed teeth showing like dog fangs and know that though they had done evil things to her, she herself was clean and good. She was only the victim, sharing in no way their lust and hatred—until one

  night after the tavern closed, and Rufus came to her room.

  Rosalind had started at his entrance, quickly grabbing her discarded petticoat and pressing it against her naked breasts. Rufus laughed softly, proudly. He took the petticoat from her. Without lust, his hands fondled her, not so roughly as the filthy tavern patrons', but thoroughly, with the prodding curiosity of an entrepreneur evaluating the quality of his goods. Rufus pinched and teased her nipples to hardness, then studied his daughter's face for signs of response. Satisfied, he smiled and ran his hand through her hair as he had when she was small and believed a father's love must always be kind.

  "Ye're a witch born, Rosie—the devil's own. Ye'll make us a merry music with ye're band o' creakin' bedsprings and the clinkin' o' change in me till."

  Rosalind had cried herself to sleep that night and many thereafter. Nightmare chasing nightmare banished her purity. The men had done dirty things to her, but she wasn't dirtied i
nside. Her father, however, had made her suspect that the clean soul she had been taught to nurture in church was merely a stone on which the devil had not yet carved his story. But he had begun. Rosalind couldn't forget the hot watery feeling her father's hands on her body had produced deep inside her. Nor could she forget lying that night in her bed restless and confused and wanting. Then she felt the ultimate shame when she reached beneath the sheet with her own hand to complete what her father had begun. Rosalind never again felt pure or whole or worthy. She lived with an insatiable hunger for release from the demons of doubt and desire and longing.

  Her easiest outlet was her imagination. She saw beautifully coiffed women in splendid gowns riding

  Bitter Eden HI

  through town in their elegant carriages. They lived in a fairy-tale world of courtesies and gallant men who adored them. Enviously Rosalind watched these women until each of them bore her own features. With all her being Rosalind longed to be a lady. She knew deep in her heart that had fate not chosen her as a devil's child, she might have been the most glamorous, most sought after of all those enchanted ladies. Her childlike dreaming led her to her second hard lesson.

  Occasionally, by mistake, ignorance, or misdirection, a nicer sort of man found himself in Hawkes's Tavern. Rosalind sensed these men liked her, that some even desired her. Bravely, and with all her dreams of grandeur her only armor, she gave them what they wanted. Rufus smiled. The bedsprings creaked, and the cashbox rang. The devil's music played.

  But Rosalind's hopes and dreams withered. She was someone the "nice" men wanted to fondle. Someone they wanted to bed discreetly. But no more. Even when a man thought he loved her and was willing to marry her, as Albert Foxe had been, the families of these "nice" men were not willing to allow it. No, girls like Rosalind were to be used for young men to sow their wild oats, providing, of course, the girl was "clean and of good nature," as the saying went.