After he left she sat alone at the kitchen table. Getting up so early made the day intolerably long, filled with hours of waiting and only moments of excitement. Her thoughts traveled to Albert. She was supposed to meet him after he returned home with Natalie.
Albert thought nothing of that. He would take Natalie to tea with his mother. They would wait on the girl, fawn over her, make much of her, and then Albert would bring her back to the farm. Moments later he would leave to meet Rosalind in the hop pickers' cottage. There he would make love to her as if no comment were being made by the difference in his treatment of the two women.
Why did she go? She wouldn't. This time she
wouldn't. That would tell him something she often wished she had the nerve to say to his face. And tonight she would be extra nice to Peter. That would make up for everything.
Determined and feeling sorry for herself, Rosalind straightened the kitchen and walked with unusual speed toward the scullery. In a way it cheered her up. Meg would be completely nonplussed when she learned it was Rosalind up and about cleaning this morning.
"Most likely she'll think it was Anna, and that will be that." Rosalind, broom in hand, took another fast swish around the room and quickly passed over the idea of leaving a note informing Meg that it had been she who had been up so early and industriously.
Let her think it was Anna. Let her think anything she likecL Empty-handed now and already bored, she thought of the promised meeting late this afternoon in the cottage as she walked back to the staircase. She was safest asleep, putting off the hours of the day one at a time. She was stronger if she had less time to face all the weaknesses she didn't understand or like in herself.
Albert told her it was because she was ashamed of her father. Peter often teased her of having a chip on her shoulder. Meg said she was lazy. Natalie thought her mean and grasping. Her father said she was a slut like her mother. Rosalind didn't know what she was. They were all wrong about her, but they each had a part of the whole. She was always hungry for something. Always dissatisfied with what she had. Always worried that it wouldn't be real or lasting. Always wondering why she couldn't be like everyone else. Always hating it when she wasn't treated specially.
She slept, or let everyone think she was asleep, until
noon. Meg came down early and saw the kitchen. She promptly thanked Anna.
"But I didn't do this/' Anna said, shaking her head. "It must have been Natalie."
"Nattie didn't do it." Meg laughed. "You know Nat-tie; she'd forget to put the broom away or she'd leave the pans out. Well, whoever it was, I thank them."
At noon Rosalind came out of her room to find Anna busy as always in her sewing room.
"Did you just get up, Rosalind?" Anna asked smiling. There was no malice in Anna or her question.
"Yes, I just got up," she answered, feeling defiant and cornered for no reason. "Peter doesn't like to see me working like a common servant all day."
"I'm sure he doesn't. Peter is very proud of his pretty wife."
"And why not! I try to make myself attractive. I think it's part of a wife's duty."
"Oh, so do I," Anna agreed quickly. "You're fortunate nature provided you with so much beauty to start. You're very lucky."
Rosalind was never sure what to make of Anna. It seemed impossible that she meant all she said, that she was never jealous or spiteful behind her perpetually nice remarks. Anna was no beauty. Her soft brown eyes were her best feature, but even they were so softly colored and placid in expression that they blended into the general plainness of her face and body. Anna was sl cow.
Rosalind watched her methodically put away thread and chalk. How did you reply to a cow? How did one know what a cow was thinking or meaning with her amiable sounds?
"I think Callie woke up late today. Perhaps she'd have a bite to eat with you, Rosalind. She's downstairs with Mother Berean. I liked her quite well, didn't
you? She's a pretty little thing. I think she'll be regal looking—just like a queen when she is grown up and can carry all that height and hair. Oh, that hair! Natalie brushed and arranged it for her this morning. Callie looked positively beautiful! Nattie has such a way with hair."
"Nattie is a pest Maybe Callie didn't want her hair done."
"Nattie means welL She is kinder and gentler than most of us." Anna looked dreamily out the window. "Sometimes I wonder what it is like to be like Natalie. She is so appealing and helpless with her frail beauty."
"I doubt you'd like it"
"I think I might. She's so unlike me, Rosalind. All my life I'll work. I'll always be the strong, solid housewife. Someday I'll probably be called Mother Berean . . . and have a house full of grown children, and I'll still be working and worrying about Frank and the farm. I couldn't do anything else if I tried, but Natalie will never do any of that. She'll be taken care of, cosseted and cherished. She's different from you and me. Peter can look at you, and Frank at me, and know we're all right . . . capable of meeting whatever comes. But it won't be like that for Natalie. Albert will always provide for her. She won't ever meet with difficulty, because he will never let anything touch her. Don't you wonder what it would be like to have that kind of devotion poured on you? I do."
Rosalind watched Anna, aghast. Her nostrils flared, her ringlets trembled as she clenched her fists tightly at her side. "What nonsense! The only reason Natalie wont meet with difficulty is because she isn't capable of doing anything. I'm going outside for some fresh air!" She hurried down the stairs, stung and stronger in her resolve not to see Albert that afternoon.
"Let him have Natalie! Let him do without me and then see who he wants—me or his little butter lump that has to be kept at proper temperature or melt away to nothing," she muttered to herself- as she walked to the stable yard. She called to Marsh, the Bereans' factotum, in no ladylike voice to hook up the carriage and bring it round for her.
"Cant drive you today, Miz Rosalind."
"And why not!?"
"Bringm in the turnips. I've got to drive for Mr. James."
"Someone else can drive the cart. I need you to drive me to Seven Oaks. Surely you realize how annoyed Mr. Berean would be if you left me without a driver."
Marsh climbed slowly to the driver s seat. "Mr. Berean is going to be unhappy when he doesn't see me comin across the field wi' his cart. That's what I know."
Rosalind whiled away the hours in Seven Oaks until it was impossible to make the return trip in time to meet Albert. He would go to the cabin and find it empty. He would sit there, pulling out his watch and studying it every five minutes. He would walk to the small window and peer into the woods expecting the flash of her cloak among the trees. He would be angry and disappointed and humiliated.
She smiled as Marsh started for home still complaining that she had taken him from his proper duties. She paid no attention to the old man. Her head was filled with imaginary scenes of her triumph.
"Meet you? Oh! Oh, Albert . . . how could I have forgotten?" Or: "I was tired. I didn't feel up to it." "It was too cold." "Seven Oaks is such a place for meeting people. I lost track of the time."
There were so many things, and so many ways she
would tell him that he wasn't half so important to her as he thought he was.
It wasn't until she was nearly home that she had a sobering thought How could she know for a certainty that Albert had shown up? Suppose he hadn't gone to the cottage at all? What if he said nothing . . . didn't even know she hadn't been there? Suppose he never realized that she could turn her back on him whenever she wanted? It would ruin everything. Her whole long miserable day would be worth nothing.
In a twinkling her triumph of willpower crumpled. She returned to the house as uncertain and angry as she had been when she left
The first person she saw was Natalie, coming eager-eyed to the door to see who had arrived.
''Where did you go, Rosalind? Albert and I had the most lovely afternoon. His mother likes me! I think if she had her way Alber
t and I would be married immediately. She is so kind and thoughtful. She insisted Albert take me for a long carriage ride, and then we went to see their hounds. I saw the loveliest little puppy."
Isn't that just the nicest thing. Nice, nice, nice!" Rosalind fled up the stairs leaving Natalie standing in the hall.
Chapter 8
Natalie watched as Rosalind ran up the stairs; then she began to don her outdoor clothes. Her pale green coat fit snugly around her waist. In the hall mirror her reflection wavered in the uneven glass as she fastened the ties to her darker green bonnet. Her eyes, large and dark, stared back from the mirror, inviting her to confide to the one person who understood her— herself. As happened so often, the voices in her mind began to talk, mulling over the problems that tormented her.
She didn't blame Albert for his affair. It was Rosalind she condemned. Natalie knew her for the temptress she was. Hadn't she bewitched Peter? Hadn't she wormed her way into the bosom of Natalie's family to cause dissension and heartache?
Before Rosalind had come to live with them, Natalie had always confided in Peter. In many ways she had been closer to him than to her mother or father. She had always looked up to him, looked to him for understanding. It had, always been so until Rosalind had beckoned and bewitched him. Then it was as if
Peter had forgotten Natalie existed. There were no more quiet talks or shared moments of joy or sorrow.
Natalie loathed Rosalind, but Peter now came in for his share of the blame. She had loved him, put her trust in him, and he had betrayed her. He had left her alone with no one to confide in or to lean upon for strength. For that, Natalie had no doubt, Peter would have to pay, just as all the weak and evil people of the world would one day have to atone for their wrongdoings. She wasn't sure how this would come about, but there was in her a burning certainty that it would. Too much had happened for it to be otherwise.
Mrs. Foxe had told her of the shameless way Rosalind had thrown herself at Albert before Peter had fallen prey to her wiles. More than once Natalie had been tempted tp tell her brother what a cuckolded fool he was, but she was never certain that was a fitting punishment for him, so she waited and held her tongue. She would tell him only when the time was right—when he would feel the same despair and abandonment that she had known when Peter had married Rosalind, He hadn't needed to do that to her. It was cruel. He knew how much she needed him. But she would pay him in kind—when the time was right.
She smiled tightly, her bleak eyes becoming intelligent again as she forced her habitual optimism on herself. The world was supposed to be a glorious place— an Eden as God intended. It made her feel tight inside and frightened when it was not. Sometimes it was as difficult to trust God as it was to trust Peter. It didn't seem right or fair for a God to entice her with tales of Eden and then deny her their reality. Nor did it seem right that a God would bestow free will on the very creatures who would willfully destroy that Eden. But as always she laid blame where it was most easily tolerable. The world divided between evil and good.
Natalie remained heartbreakingly loyal to her wishes for a beautiful world and adamantly committed to crushing the evil interlopers whenever she could. There was beauty, she insisted to herself; it required only the faith and discipline to see it.
She looked out at the cloudy, lightless day. Her fists were clenched as she stared hard at the overcast sky. Then she relaxed, successful. She was in a world encapsulated by a silver sky, a heavy, heavenly sky.
Pleased with herself, she went to the stables. There were two new litters of pups. She had been waiting impatiently for Will, the stable hand, to tell her she could take the pups from their mothers. She greeted him cheerfully.
Will smiled broadly, shaking his head. "Just cant wait, can you, miss? Well, they're all yours now. Prettiest bunch of pups we ever had."
Natalie slid into the stall Will had set aside for the dogs, careful not to let any of the puppies out.
She sat on the straw, covering her lap with squirming pups. One, the runt, slithered off her skirt, squealing and struggling to right itself. Natalie laughed and was immediately enamored of the miserable little dog. She pushed the other puppies away and gathered the shivering frightened runt into the cradle of her arms. "Oh, ugly, ugly little pup. You must be my own. You are mine!" She held the pup up, touching her nose to the puppy's cold, wet snout. The dog sneezed, shook his head, and began licking her. His tail wagged f ranti-ically, making his small rotund body wriggle in her hands. She hugged him to her. "You are like me inside out. You're ugly on the outside and nice on the in. Perhaps you were sent to me—to remind me." She returned him to his mother, then rose to leave. At the stall gate she turned back. "Good-bye, Ugly. Remember you are mine."
For a moment Natalie stood outside the stables undecided. Perhaps the puppy really had been sent to her for a purpose. For days she'd been feeling one of her hopeless sad moods coming on. She tried to fight it, though it was difficult for she felt so totally alone. She hated those awful times when everything seemed so hopeless; people who were supposed to love her became heartless; nothing was beautiful and good. Natalie became so lost in the labyrinthine complexities of her warped reasoning, she often succeeded in hurting herself as much as others did. Even now she felt a growing anger, a temptation to walk to the hop pickers' cottage—to one particular cottage—and torment herself with the sight of the small room, the char-blackened hearth, the bed that always showed signs of having been used. The sight was painful, but it would also bring cleansing rage.
But it was wrong. There was a time when she understood why it was bad for her to go to the cottage and allow the rage to well up inside. Now she no longer knew. Reasons had become vague and confused, as had so many things. There remained only the residue of a memory that taunting herself with the cottage was taboo.
It was difficult for her to tear her eyes from the path through the woods that would lead to the cottages. Though she knew perfectly well that Rosalind was in her room, Natalie could all too well see her skirts swaying as she hurried down the path to Albert.
She shuddered, the mood creeping up on her. A fleeting moment of panic enveloped her, making her terrifyingly aware that she trod a narrow line between sanity and madness. She lived in dread of crossing that thin line, and now frantically pushed her confused mind toward some activity to protect herself. She began to walk, then run, to the potting shed.
I
Once inside its fragrant interior she felt better. Everything would be all right now. The potting shed held no fears; she had filled it with beauty. From the beams hung great bunches of flowers she had dried last summer and fall. Along the narrowly shelved walls were jars of crushed rose petals and perfumed spices. She selected several flowers. Her small delicate hands moved gracefully and nimbly as she fashioned the lovely blue and violet flowers into a pleasing arrangement Singing now, she carried the flowers to the house.
"Callie! Callie, where are you?" Her voice sounded cheerful even to her own ears. She was surprised, for the effort to be happy was becoming more difficult. The vision of a forest path to the pickers' cottage kept intruding. The only emotion she was still able to feel honestly welled up in her, making her pulse race. With her jaw clenched she allowed the fearful hatred to seethe and flow out of her. Then she saw the image of her brother's handsome, laughing face. It took on the countenance of a jeering death's-head, and Natalie clapped her hand over her mouth to keep the wild laughter from escaping. How anxious she was to tell him of his wife's faithlessness. How good it would be not to be so alone, to have him share her deadly quiet panic. Together, she and Peter would feel nothing. Pain, hope, trust, disappointment, would die. Frightened again, Natalie hurried to the steps. The stairwell she ascended was distorted. Sounds rang in her ears too loud to bear and too soft to grasp. "Callie!?" Natalie ran the last few steps to Callie's room. She forced herself to slow down, catch her breath, and smile. Her voice was high and childish. "I have a surprise for you."
Callie looked up
reluctantly from the novel she was reading, her finger holding her place. Then she
dropped the book, her face lighting with pleasure. "Former
"Yes, for you. A gift for my new sister." NataKe held out the bouquet. "The blue flowers match your eyes and the violet . . ." Natalie paused, suddenly confused between herself and Callie; then she went on, ". . . they match the sadness of your heart. Next time 111 bring you a pink bouquet ... or a gold one . . . for happiness. I don't know why I chose violet. It seemed . . *
Callie buried her face in the flower petals. "They're so beautiful! My father used to bring me flowers. I'd keep them until they wilted. I never knew you could preserve them like this. Would you teach me?"
Natalie looked skeptical. The mood stirred and threatened to take over. Then it vanished again. "Would you really like to learn?"
Callie nodded, her attention on the flowers.
Natalie sighed and tried to take Callie at her word. It was so hard to believe in the goodness of others when the mood kept threatening her. "I'd like some help drying the flowers. There are always so many to be done. It's a big job and I must always do it alone. Rosalind isn't interested, and Anna and Mama say the hop picking is too important for them to take time out for my flowers; but it is important! All winter we have brightness in our house because of my flowers. You like them, don't you?"
"Oh, yes," Callie breathed. "I love flowers."
Natalie smiled. "I hoped you would. Oh, Callie—I think you are truly going to be my sister . . . and my friend. I've never really had a friend . . . not a real one." Natalie sat down on the edge of the bed. "Friends should be someone special. They should understand. You understand, I think."
"Understand what?"
"Things. How important it is to be happy . . . like my flowers. They make the house look happy even when the cold and rain and wind howl in the dark outside. It's even more important to feel happy when you're afraid inside."
Bitter Eden Page 11
