Bitter Eden

by Salvato, Sharon Anne

  That could not have been his sister. Not that wild-haired, wild-eyed creature with the distorted features and the clawing hands. He touched his neck where thin streaks of blood ran from the welting scratches.

  He felt sick at his stomach. Nothing was real. James wasn't dead. Couldn't be. That hadn't been his sister.

  Rosalind wasn't unfaithful. Nothing was true! Peter wiped his hand across his wet, sweating brow. He'd come so close to believing the rumors, Natalie's wild hints. His own wife—his father—his mind closed down on the jumble. He glanced at the small homely animal cradled trustingly against his chest, and felt sick again.

  He went back down the stairs, walking quickly past the parlor.

  "Oh, poor little Ugly," Callie cried and ran to the hallway. ^"What are you going to do with him, Peter? Don't hurt him!"

  "Hell be destroyed," Peter said through stiff, white lips.

  Tou can't! Peter, you can t hint him. He only did what he was told. Please don't hurt him. Give him away ... or let him run with the field dogs. Please! Please!"

  Peter struggled into his coat trying to look neither at Callie nor the dog, wishing somehow he could stop her pleading. His head was going to burst—he was going to burst

  Peter almost groaned aloud as Stephen joined them, taking Callie's hand and trying to soothe her. Stephen looked sympathetically at Peter, then said, "Let me come with you. I can help."

  T don't need help destroying one bloody little dog!"

  Peter looked at his brother, his head pounding. Stephen with his quiet honesty would make him face everything. Everything. Nothing hidden. Nothing avoided. Peter shut his eyes for a minute wishing he could turn the clock back, wanting to be as sure of himself now as he had been at the outset of the Swing riots. Everything had seemed so clear then, and so well-defined. He had known where his duty lay. He had believed so easily and trusted so fully. Stephen

  and Callie still had that faith. But he did not. He needed someone to take the blame, something to clarify what had happened. "I started this whole thing. Ill finish it."

  "Peter, no! Please. Think what you are doing. It wont help. Please!"

  He grimaced and shoved her aside. "Get out of my way, Callie. Let me do what must be done."

  Callie tore free of Stephen s embrace, pulling at Peter s coat. "You can t! It's cruel! You re mean and hateful. Ugly never did anything. It wasnt his fault You know that, Peter! You know that!"

  "Leave me alone!" Peter shouted, wrenching past them.

  He was shaking like a man in a fever by the time he walked to the area where Meg killed her chickens. He didn't dare look at the dog in his hands. It had to be done. James was dead. The dog had killed him. Not his sister. Not Natalie. Dear God, not his sister. The dog.

  As though he had seen it all, visions of Natalie commanding the dog flashed before his eyes. Ugly obeying every command, every wish she uttered. His father. . . . Peter shook. He couldn't breathe. It had to be the dog. The vicious dog. Mocking him, the dog moved in his hands, so small, so trusting, trembling as Peter was. He clenched his jaw against the sickness that pushed up into his throat. Eyes shut tightly, he strangled the dog.

  Callie was waiting with her face pressed to the glass of the front mullioned window. Everyone else had gone to bed.

  "Did you do it?" she asked coldly as he came through the door.

  He didn't look at her. He couldn't "He's buried behind the stables," he murmured.

  Stricken and unable to let go of it, Callie followed him as he hung up his coat. "It was wrong, and horrible. He was a poor little dog, wanting to be loved by someone. He was a good little dog. Ill never forgive you, Peter. Never."

  He turned to her. "Callie . . " Her face was closed, and he turned away. "Go to bed where you belong, and leave things that don't concern you to those they do concern." He brushed past her and went up the stairs.

  He felt dirty and tired. Callie's accusing eyes were the worst of all, because she was right He knew she was right and he couldn't stand the knowing. It had seemed that with the death of the dog, James's . . . accident would seem more understandable. It wasn't.

  Peter's fondest wish had always been to be away and free; now it was something, a thought, a longing, that would stay with him night and day. Everything had become cramped and dirtied. He didn't dare think or question what had happened. He no longer had the pure vision that could provide him with truthful answers, and he couldn't stand the muddied thinking that would lead him from one question to another without the courage to accept any of the answers. So he longed for the dream of a new start, a new life that was clean and unblemished. It was a hard despairing dream for nothing had gone right, from his part in the Swing riots to this day when his father died.

  He held on to the railing as though he might not make it up the flight of stairs if he let go. Natalie heard him coming. She stood at the head of the stairs clad in her nightdress, her hair loose and flowing but somewhat neater than before.

  "What are you doing here, Natalie? Go to bed. You 11 catch cold/' he said tiredly.

  "I want to talk to you, Peter."

  "Well talk tomorrow."

  "Not tomorrow. Now, Peter! I want to talk to you now, while you still have Ugly's blood on your hands, and his smell in your nose!"

  "Quiet!"

  "What did you do to Ugly? How did you do it?"

  "Ugly is gone."

  "You killed him and took away what I loved! Do you know what it is to lose someone you love?"

  "I said he was gone. Leave it at that," Peter snapped.

  "I pray I see your immortal soul in Hell . . . burning. Ill hate it and hate it for all eternity."

  Peter's dark brown eyes opened wide.

  Natalie's face was tense with the effort it took to keep her mind on what she wanted to say. She shook her head wildly. "Oh, Peter," she gasped. "You destroyed what I loved, but what you did to Ugly is nothing compared to what I can do to you."

  He tried to touch her. She shrank back, crossing her arms protectively over her chest. "Oh, no ... no comfort . . . not for me . . . not for you. Not tonight. Not ever. You are as alone as I am, and just as bereft of love."

  "Natalie," he said with an overtone of awe. "I don't know you. What has happened to you? It's not just the dog. It's more . . . worse. I did what had to be done."

  "And what I am about to do must be done. We both have our reasons, don't we, Peter?"

  He was trembling again. He didn't know why. He wished she'd smile. Come to him for comfort as she

  had when she was younger. Her pain was so raw. Everything was slipping away from him.

  "Do you remember the gypsy, Peter?"

  He nodded, then wiped his hands across his eyes. He was tired, so tired his mind would work no more. "Good night, Natalie."

  "Oh, no! YouTl listen!"

  "Tomorrow . . ."

  "No! Now! Indulge me, Peter. That much you owe me."

  Peter slumped into the chair by her door. "Be quick then. I'm tired."

  "Of course," she smiled. "The last time I saw the gypsy, before Callie went with me, she told of the future. Now, HI tell you, for it concerns you as much as it does me."

  "I don t care what the old woman said, Nat." He straightened in his chair, looking at her curiously. "Natalie ... do you know ... do you realize what happened here today . . . about Pa?"

  "Your wife is not your wife alone, Peter."

  "Natalie, for the love of God! Listen to me! Pa is dead!"

  "She lies in your bed only at night," Natalie shouted.

  It all flooded back. He thought perhaps it was he who was mad. The confusion, the unreality, the sickness and dreadful suspicions. "My wife lies in my bed at night, and in my bed alone. In the day she is in the house with my mother. There is no more than that."

  "And when she gives birth to a child—the image of his father—then will you admit I have spoken the truth? Will you then see that she loves Albert? Not you! Never you! She loves Albert! She wants him! Goes to him! Albert
! My Albertr

  The ruined door slammed crookedly as Peter fled the room.

  Peter slowed when he reached the door to his own room. It was quiet. There were no small rustlings of the sheet to indicate Rosalind was awake waiting for him. But he needed her. She had to make him believe again. Surely she'd know, be able to sense the chaotic tumult that raged inside him. She was his wife. None other's.

  Peter was not a man who cried. He had always believed it was a sign of weakness. But as he lay beneath the sheets that night tears stung his eyes. Rosalind's still form lying beside him seemed to confirm the hate-filled accusations Natalie had hurled at him. Though he wouldn't turn to his wife—couldn't—he was tense, despair making his chest and stomach hurt as he waited hopelessly for her hand to bridge the chasm he couldn't. He waited for the slightest movement of contact that would free him.

  He remembered as clearly as if it had been yesterday, the day, during their courtship, that he had taken Rosalind to Seven Oaks the first time. She had worn a simple white organdy gown she had designed and made herself. It accentuated the sweet innocence that should have been hers had her father not robbed her of it. Her long hair fell softly to her shoulders. Her hazel eyes, almost blue that day, with the golden flecks sparkling, looked to him trustingly. He had never been prouder than he was that day to have her by his side. Perhaps it was the first time he realized she was his in every sense of the word. She needed him. She loved him. And he loved her.

  He remembered the shy, shocked surprise in her eyes when he had boldly introduced her as his future wife. She had expected him to be ashamed of her. But

  he hadn't been. Never had been. He had introduced her to Mr. Richards at the oast house, and then to Mr. and Mrs. Beggs, proprietors of the inn where he boarded when business kept him overnight in Seven Oaks. How she had looked at him! And how beautiful she was. All he had been able to think was, "She's mine!" His thoughts had begun and ended with that. Away from her father and the tavern, she was the softest, most loving creature God had created.

  He had been so sure he could keep her that way. And yet, tonight, he lay in his bed beside her and ached with doubts and bitterness, no longer certain that she was faithful to him or loved him.

  Again the salty tears stung his eyes. If only they were free, away from everything, everyone. Rosalind in the white virginal gown, the soft adoring smile on her parted lips, the love glowing on her face, floated tantalizingly close, yet disappeared before his eyes.

  Not daring to find out if his longing hopes or his despairing doubts were the truth of his marriage, Peter stayed as far from his wife as he could. He lay awake, aware of her sleeping warmth beside him until it was dawn.

  Before Peter could escape the house the following morning, Stephen came in to have his breakfast. "You are certainly a lie-abed today," he said testily. "I needed you to help prepare the wagon."

  "I will." Peter pushed his plate aside.

  "'Will' is a useful word. It's been done," Stephen said. He looked disinterestedly at his food.

  "You've finished it, Stephen? I'm sorry ... I hadn't meant to shirk."

  Stephen shook his head. "Forgive me. Nothing is right this morning. Even the sky is gray like a lead shield." Stephen looked out the window into the gloom of a rainy day. "For once I understand your

  desire to leave. I never really have, you know, but I do now. It isn't so much like home as it was/'

  "Since yesterday," Peter muttered.

  "Before that. Papa died before that, I think. It hasn't been the same since the night of the fire. Something . . . the spirit of things has gone out of us. I don't know what I'm talking about. It is the day and the funeral coming that has me this way. I'm going to see to the last touches on the wagon."

  Peter nodded and went back to his morose thoughts.

  James, with all the regalia of a farm funeral, was buried two days later. With great disapproval his London friends followed after the simple procession bereft of their normal splendored phaetons and carriages. Meg had insisted. She and James had started out humbly in spite of James's superior birth, and he would go to his reward with the same humble simplicity. So it was a gaily bedecked and freshly painted farm wagon that carried her husband. Gallantly she ignored the appalled looks of some of the mourners and turned a deaf ear to the titters that spoke of her quaintness, and the ever present reminder that James had married beneath himself when he married Meg.

  She supposed it was true. But one other thing was true. Without beauty of face, or accomplishment or family name, Meg was the one James had chosen to be his wife, and he had been happy with her. To be sure there were times when he had tried to convince her they would do well with a house in London to spend the winters, and that she should allow her cook and servants to take over her chores in the kitchen and house. She had tried but it never took. Within days she was back in her kitchen. She loved it there and felt both useful and sure of herself. The kitchen

  and the nursery were her natural domains, and after several futile attempts James had given up trying to reform her. He had settled for a farmer s wife dressed in a lady's clothing and loved her all the more for it.

  She wouldn't change now. All the sniggers and comments in the world would not stop her from giving James the kind of final send-off he would know he could expect from Meg. Laugh though they might now, she would lead them down the hill behind the wagon. They would march to the graveside and, in the country way, walk three times with the sun around the churchyard cross before laying James to rest. They would follow in the procession, having to admire James's carefully tended fields and the tall straight-backed sons who would carry on for him. And they would follow her back to the house and be pleased for her talents as they ate her food, prepared that morning and the night before.

  Meg left her guests when they came back to the house. Not many of them stayed for long, and those who did would understand that she wanted to be alone. It was so much easier for her to feel close to James when she was alone. She went to the bedroom that was hers alone now and tried once more to reach him somehow, so that he could tell her how to deal with the problems ahead.

  Chapter 17

  Callie could never remember feeling more saddened or oppressed than she did those days after James's death. It was not like when her father had died. That had been a deep knife wound that had cut hard and cruelly, making her hurt and afraid, but this—this was far different and much worse. A knife wound healed. The Bereans showed no sign of wound or healing.

  Perhaps too much had happened and too much had gone unanswered for any of them to come to terms with James's death. She didn't know, but she felt alone and more alienated than she ever had.

  Stephen, upon whom she could always count for a good talk or a romp along the gentle ridges of his mountain, had buried himself in the brewery. For once he closed her out. She missed him. She missed them all.

  Each of the Bereans had vanished to live solitary lives and struggle with solitary suffering in the private houses of their own minds. She missed them and went off, wondering if in solitude it was possible to reach upward to touch God, who alone touches each

  life. Could He ever bring them all back together again? She went to Stephen's mountain; from there she could look back on happier days and remember scenes from a warmer time.

  Peter waited for a month before he told anyone of his plans. He waited and looked on as Meg settled into listless sadness. She had turned to Natalie, pouring on the girl her affection and attention until she was bone-dry for the rest of them. By January he knew that if he were ever to speak, the time had come.

  "I've given it full consideration, Rosalind. Well be leaving the farm," Peter said too loudly, the words seeming strange on his tongue. He had thought about leaving for so long and had done nothing, that now it sounded as though someone else had said it.

  "Peter! Do you mean it?" She rose from the bed, going to him. "When? Where will we be living? London? No, not London . . . Manchester maybe, or the Cotswolds. Te
ll me!" she cried, putting her arms around his neck. "I am so happy. I thought we might always live here ... in this house. Peter, Im so happy."

  He leaned back and gloried in her approval. It pleases you that much?"

  Tve wanted it for so long. I know you'll do much better on your own. Frank is not half so bright as you," she said, kissing him. "And we'll live as people of our station should. We can entertain and go places . . . and our house will be the pride of the town. It will be the prettiest, most fashionable house you've ever seen. Peter, I'll make you proud of it . . . and me.

  He frowned as he listened to her go on. "Rosalind, it won't be here."

  She looked blankly at him. "We would leave England? Where is there to go?"

  He laughed "There's a whole world to choose from. I was thinking of the colonies. I'd like to begin anew, start fresh."

  "Colonies? Indial Oh, yes . . . yes! Arimintha Dowling has recently returned from there. She says one can live like royalty. She has three servants for herself, Peter. Oh, we could be quite something. Why, I'd never have to lift a finger. Oh, and I'm sure Albert's family would be pleased to help you get a position with the East India Company. Why, we would never have to see another field or pig or cow again. It would be heaven!"

  "My life is those pigs and fields and cows you speak of. It's all I know, and all I care to know. I am a hop man, Rosalind. It's the American colonies I have in mind."

  'That's a wilderness . . . whatever would we do there? They're not even British now."

  "I've been corresponding with a man in New York State. He says the hop gardens there are as fine as they are here."

  "Corresponding? And not a word to me! For how long?" she asked, then shook her head before he had a chance to answer. "I don't want to go there. It would be worse than going nowhere. The women work like field hands. You can't expect it of me. I won't go."

  "We're going, Rosalind. As soon as the hops are planted," he said firmly and a little sadly as he realized that once again they were not going to agree. He got up from his chair and moved toward the door. Rosalind stood at the window, her arms folded around herself. "Rosalind—I wish you'd try to see it differently. There are cities in America as great as London.