Bitter Eden

by Salvato, Sharon Anne

  The Bereans said little about the trials. There were still too many raw feelings about the night Peter had been arrested, and no one wanted any more division in the family than already existed.

  Peter was both relieved and ashamed at his narrow escape. Somewhere inside himself he continued to think that it would have turned out differently if the educated, landed people had dared to stand beside those illiterate masses who could neither defend themselves nor avoid being sacrificed to the fear of the times.

  It had been a long time since Peter had turned to his father. But since James had had his second attack, Peter had felt a closeness for him and a need to be near him.

  "I might as well be dead," James complained. "What good am I now? I cant eat proper food, nor even get out of bed." He roughly shoved aside his glass of chalybeate water. "Ill not swallow any more of that. What I need is a glass of Stephens best cider. Put me right back on my feet again." He looked at Peter. "What is

  it you have on your mind? Certainly hope it isn't my chalybeate water. Damned abominable stuff/' Peter did not respond to James's effort at humor. He watched Peter's thoughtful progress to a chair. He wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. He could not speak as well as he once could. "I've got more sores on my behind than if I'd been riding for a month," James said, again trying to make Peter laugh and not notice that he sometimes drooled. One side of his face was worse than the other, he thought. He angled his head so Peter could not see so much of his left side. "What is it, Peter? What's on your mind? Or must I pry it out of you a word at a time?"

  "They've transported nearly five hundred men. Nine hanged. Do you remember the Cooks, Pa?"

  James was relieved to learn that Peter's serious mood had nothing to do with his illness or the look of his deformed left side. "Yes . . . son a little older than Stephen . . . don't they?"

  "Henry. He knocked off the hat of one of the Boring family, I don't know who, but it doesn't matter. It was in the midst of one of the free-for-alls. They hanged him, Pa. He was nineteen years old and had done nothing."

  James shook his head. "Snow will never lie upon his innocent grave."

  "How do we live with things like that?"

  "We don't. We die with them, and we die of them. They are man's disease."

  "My disease," Peter said morosely.

  "I suppose you're thinking you should have stood by their side. I can understand the feeling."

  Peter laughed harshly. "Can you also understand that I feel glad it was them who were hanged and imprisoned and transported and not me?"

  "Well now, which is it? Are you bothered that you

  weren't hanged, or that you wanted a better fate for yourself?"

  Peter rose, gesturing helplessly. "Both."

  James stared at him, his mind suddenly blank. "You're leaving?"

  TE shouldn't bother you with this kind of talk. I guess I wanted to see if you would despise me as I do myself. Confirmation of sorts. It's a bad day when you discover you are a. coward."

  "You're not a coward, Peter."

  "Aren't I?"

  "No. You haven't found what you believe in. You thought you knew, but it wasn't so. Perhaps your sympathies were with the laborers, but did you ever really understand what your part was? Or was it just a lark? A good cause and a good reason to be out riding and playing the hero? Knowledge is but a small part of reality, Peter. It requires understanding and wisdom as well. We all know that what was being done to the laborers was wrong, but how to change it—that required more than just the mere recognition of a wrong."

  "I think I prefer cowardice to what you describe."

  "It is youth."

  "I am no youth. You can't call my failings the result of youth."

  *Tfou argue everything and gather no insight," James said irritably. He knew what he wanted to say to Peter to make him understand, but the words that came were words of habit. His mind would touch only the edge of the problem without letting him cut to the quick. Peter slowly moved through the door. James watched. There were some children about whom one would always worry no matter what their age. James wondered if he should have made one last attempt to talk to Peter. He sighed and tried to adjust himself

  more comfortably in his bed. It was so simple to think things out in his mind. It was amazing how difficult it had become to make those thoughts come out in words.

  Peter's ideas of cowardice were the opposite of useless heroism. Neither had true meaning, for they both rode the surface of the problem and never gathered depth. To be a revolutionary, one first had to know the most pivotal spot in which one could be of use. Peter had never been able to see beyond the glamor and apparent success of the night rides. Innocently, enthusiastically, he had aided in leading the rioters to an inevitable slaughter, and himself with them. Except for Callie's intervention, he thought.

  "Meg! Where are you, woman? I'm dying of thirst, and not a soul to care," James shouted and felt better for having done it. Anger was nearly all he had these days. And far better than the nameless fear he felt for Peter. And for Callie. He couldn't fathom why he had these strange feelings about them, nor could he rid himself of them. They needed him just at the time he'd never felt weaker or worse in his life.

  A man knows when life begins to ebb. He was not getting better. And he was running out of time and the ability to tell his children all the bits of wisdom his years of living had given him. He wished now that he had called Peter back. He should have tried harder to make himself understood. He laid back on the pillows, seeing only the ceiling. He vowed he would be up and out of bed for the planting of the hops—or he would be dead with the trying.

  Chapter 15

  Callie wandered through the grounds bundled in her coat with her scarf wrapped tightly around her, hoping to keep the frost from nipping her nose and making it redder than it already was. She felt like a lost soul, abandoned by all guiding hands, seeking her way in an abysmal, endless maze. Longingly she looked back, wishing for the return of the days before the magistrates had moved to end the riots.

  They had all been so happy, each of them looking forward to the warm, comfortable, laughter-filled nights in the parlor after supper. It didn't seem possible that those days were gone. More, it didn't seem fair.

  Very little seemed fair when she thought about it. Nothing was right. Meg, always busy, was never to be seen. When she wasn't with James she was trying to soothe Natalie.

  Natalie had not been herself since the night of the fire. They hadn't been able to find out what had happened to her that night. Natalie had never told them,

  and James either remembered nothing or would not tell them. Like so many things, it seemed there would never be an answer to it; and one more bit of strangeness was felt among them. Callie no longer knew Natalie. The harpsichord was silent, for Natalie no longer played. Her flowers hadn't been dried that fall and the house was bleak without the summer colors they had always provided. She had changed and Callie found it frightening. The animosity between Natalie and Rosalind was unbearable, and no one seemed able to help. The last time Callie had tried to intervene, Natalie had run forward, butting Callie out of her room and slamming the door.

  Callie had tried to keep it from Meg, but somehow she knew. Callie stood helpless and hurting as Meg's eyes filled with tears. "Everyone is at one another's throat and poor dear James is helpless. It is killing him. Please keep trying to bring Natalie and Rosalind to an understanding, Callie. Please • . . for James's sake."

  Callie had promised to try. That had been yesterday, and still she hadn't found the courage or the ingenuity to change Natalie's mood or Rosalind's sullen-ness. She rewrapped her scarf and headed determinedly for the brewhouse and the comfort of the person she counted on most

  "Are you terribly busy, Stephen?"

  He was standing on the planked walkway high above her head, stirring the brew. "I'll be with you in a minute. Sit down and get warmed by the fire. You look frozen."

  Callie moved close to the sweet-smell
ing fire and put one stiff hand out, feeling the warmth creep slowly across her skin and into her bones. Stephen, stirring and watching her from the corner of his eye,

  finished his task, climbed halfway down the ladder, then leaped to land dramatically in front of her. "What brings you out in the cold today?"

  "I've been trying to think."

  "That*s a bad sign. One should never try to do anything too strenuous for oneself. What else!**

  "Don't tease me, Stephen. Aunt Meg wants me to talk to Natalie and Rosalind, but I don t know what to say. Aunt Meg doesn't really understand how different Natalie is . . . and Rosalind . • • Nothing I say . . *

  "How did you get saddled with this task?"

  "Because Aunt Meg says I am good for Natalie, that she likes me. She did, but not now. She's so unhappy; I don't think she likes anyone. And she doesn't want me around. She has a secret. Stephen, would Aunt Meg be angry if Nattie had a dog?"

  "Of course not We have dogs running all over the fields."

  "I mean a dog of her own. A pet ... for inside."

  "I don't see why she should. Ma likes dogs and so does Papa. Is that what you want to do, get a dog for Natalie?"

  "No. I think that's her secret. She won't let me in her room, but I have thought several times that I have heard a dog whining."

  Stephen looked at her with a disbelieving grin. 'In her room with none of us seeing it? Why would she hide it?"

  Callie shook her head. "It sounds silly, doesn't it I'm probably wrong."

  "There's only one way to find out," Stephen said, clapping his hand against his knee as he got up. "Come along . . . we'll ask my naughty sister if she is hiding a dog."

  "If it isn't true, she'll think we're daft," Callie said.

  "You never know. She might be right Are you com-inf

  'Wait a minute . . . Fve got to fix my scarf," she said, struggling to get it back on as neatly and effectively as it had been. Laughing, Stephen took the end of the scarf and wound it around her head mummy-fashion.

  "Stephen! I can t see. Undo me!"

  He took the end of the scarf, gave her a push, making her twirl around as the scarf unwound, laughing and teasing until he had her laughing too.

  "Let's find Natalie. I want to see this dog or whatever it is she's got"

  Stephen knocked lustily at Natalie's door. "Nattie, are you in there? I want to talk to you. Open the door."

  "What do you want? I am busy."

  "Open the door, Nattie, or 111 raise a ruckus even you cant top."

  "Go away, Stephen."

  He banged on the door again, louder and more determined. Callie backed to the other side of the hall, her hands over her ears. Suddenly he began to laugh, and sat down cross-legged in front of the door. "I am sitting in front of your door until you talk to me, Nat, so you might as well give up now."

  "You are odious, Stephen! Go away!"

  He put his fingers to his lips and looked at Callie. By gestures, he told her to walk toward the stairs. Callie did, clumping to make her tread sound more like Stephens heavier one.

  "Ha! Got you," Stephen said triumphantly as Natalie's door opened a crack. Like lightning he put his foot inside and grabbed hold of the door, forcing it

  open the rest of the way. "Come on, Callie, we can talk to my unfriendly sister now."

  "I am going to tell Mama about this. You can t just force your way into my room!"

  "You wouldn't answer when I knocked"

  "I answered. I told you you are odious! Now go away."

  "Not until you tell us your secret. What are you hiding? Is it furry?"

  Natalie glanced quickly at her chiffonier. "I am hiding nothing. You can see . . . there is nothing hidden. Now go away. I have a headache. I don t feel well."

  "What's that noise?" Stephen asked. Both Natalie and Callie listened. "It sounds like a dog to me. You wouldn't have a dog, would you, Nattie?"

  She ran over and hit him on the chest. "Sneak! Spy! How dare you spy on me?"

  "She does! She really has one. Why hide him?" Stephen laughed, fending off her glancing blows. "Let's see him. No need to keep it a secret"

  "I'll make him bite you!"

  "Not if you value him. It'd be a short-lived dog."

  "All right. I won't make him bite you, but don't tell anyone about him yet. I don't want anyone to know until I am ready." She opened the door to her chiffonier, and a scrawny little dog crept out, bellying up to her.

  "That's a dog? That's the ugliest looking thing I've seen."

  'That's his name. Ugly."

  "Hello, Ugly," Callie said softly and got down on her knees, reaching for the dog. Ugly inched back toward Natalie, and then began to growl. "Don't be afraid. I wont hurt you. Come here, Ugly." Ugly dis-

  played a small uneven row of teeth and growled a little louder.

  Natalie laughed and nudged the dog with her toe. "Ugly is afraid of nothing and no one, and he does exactly what I tell him."

  "He's a stupid mutt," Stephen said.

  Natalie touched Callie's hair. "Be nice to Callie, Ugly." The dog's tail began to wag, and he walked over to Callie and placed his head on her lap. "Ugly is not stupid, Stephen. He'll do whatever I say. Anything at all!"

  Stephen silently watched, wondering still why Natalie had kept the dog a secret "Tell it to come to me."

  "As your friend or as my protector?" she asked with raised eyebrows.

  "What do you think?"

  "Since I don t want you to wring his neck, I guess it had better be as a friend—this time. Go to Stephen, Ugly," she said as she touched her brother. The dog cocked his head looking from his mistress to the tall stranger. He ambled toward Stephen. Standing on his hind legs, he placed his head on Stephen s lap as he had Callie's.

  "You've trained him well," Stephen said, scratching the contented dog.

  "He is my servant, my slave. My devoted slave who obeys my every command, serves my every wish, cares for me, and acts for me. He is my friend. My very special, faithful friend."

  "I think it is wonderful, Natalie. I wish you had let me know though. I would like to have helped you with him," Callie said and moved to Stephen's side, patting the dog.

  "I don't think you would have liked it." Natalie laughed as only she could with the tinkling bell-like sound that carried an air of secret thoughts and sights.

  "But you are wrong. I love little animals." "Why have you kept him a secret, Nattie?" She looked at Stephen. "I haven t completed his training. He will know so many cute tricks when I am finished. I want to surprise everyone . . . especially Albert. You know I sometimes think he believes I am an empty-witted helpless creature. Won t he be surprised when he sees what Ive accomplished with Ugly?"

  Everyone was surprised. Meg was pleased. "Why Nattie, I do think you have quite a way with animals; but I don t see why you plagued the poor little creature with such a name as Ugly." She bent down to give the dog a tidbit of meat. "You know, Natalie, so many silly townspeople want dogs . . . for lap dogs and show and the like. You may be able to breed dogs for them. After you and Albert are married it could be quite an occupation for you. I do think it is important for women to have their hand in something."

  Natalie picked Ugly up. The little dog nuzzled the side of her neck. "Do you think people would want to buy dogs that look like Ugly?"

  "Well, perhaps not Ugly, but there are other dogs. You could choose whatever breed you wished. Albert is well enough off to give you a start."

  "But it is Ugly that I like."

  "You would," Rosalind said as she came into the room. She walked past Natalie and Meg and went to the pantry.

  "What are you looking for, dear?" Meg asked.

  "I missed dinner. There must be something left."

  "You wouldn't have if you hadn't been out walking," Natalie said softly.

  "I was asleep."

  "I saw you walking."

  Rosalind stopped her search and turned to look at the back of Natalies head. You're daft"

&
nbsp; "I saw you."

  "You did not." She turned back to the pantry.

  "Oh, but I did, Rosalind.. I always know where you are and what you are doing. You cant hide from me. I saw you and I saw Albert"

  Paling, Rosalind looked dubiously at Natalie, then at Meg. 1 ... I don't know what you're talking about. I was asleep ... I wasn't walking with Albert. Tell her, Mother Berean."

  "If you didn't get so upset at every mention of you and Albert, she wouldn't tease you about it," Meg said, and laughed a little.

  "I'm not teasing," Natalie said in a thoroughly teasing voice. "And for being such a bad girl and walking out with my young man, I think Ugly should give you a little bite. Bite her, Ugly."

  With small jagged teeth bared, Ugly jumped from Natalie's lap and dashed to Rosalind, who stood stock still in fear and disbelief. Rosalind shrieked as the small dog tried vainly to bite through her abundance of skirts and petticoats.

  "Natalie!" Meg dumped the bowl of turnips on the floor as she ran to help Rosalind. "Call this little monster off. Hurry! Stop that laughing and do as I say. He'll hurt her!"

  Still laughing, Natalie clapped her hands twice and the small dog ran over to her, tail wagging and look-, ing hopefully to her for a reward. "Oh, such a good doggy, such a good little doggy," she said, patting at him and holding him close.

  "Don't let him near your face!" Meg cried, shaking from the last experience and afraid of another. Rosalind was sobbing, slumped down where she had stood. "We must get rid of him. He's liable to hurt you."

  "Don't be silly, Mama. Ugly is as gentle as a lamb. He does exactly what I tell him and he doesn't like Rosalind."

  "You are a beast ... a mad, mad beast who ought to be locked up!" Rosalind gasped. She backed from the room.