You'll be mistress of your own home, and it will be a fine one, I promise you."
Silently she shook her head.
He left the room with his enthusiasm dampened but his resolve firm. He went to see Meg. She showed no surprise, and seemed only to be waiting for him to announce what she already knew.
At the beginning of February Peter went to London to book passage. When he returned home, he had the passage contracts in his pocket
"You finally did it, did you?" Frank laughed, clapping him on the back. 'It's a good thing. You'd never be happy here until you gave this a try. Now, when you come back we'll all be ready to go on. It's a great move you're making, Peter."
"I won't be coming back, Frank. When I go, it is for good."
"You say that now, but you'll be home soon enough, m wager you'll begin to see sense and be longing for home before the year's out. I know my little brother," Frank insisted as he settled down in James's chair. He lit his pipe, looked around the room. He sighed through his ring of pipe smoke, blowing it askew.
"I wish I were coming with you," Stephen said thoughtfully. There's no chance you'd be needing an extra hand, is there, Peter?"
"Stephen? You'd like to come?"
"I would . . . could you use me?"
Peter let out a whoop, then leaned forward, his face happy and excited. "I've been writing to a man in New York State. He tells me there's good soil along the Hudson River. Some of it cleared already . . . some not It would be hard work, Stephen, and no guarantee of success."
"There's no guarantee in anything. But if you'd
rather I didn't come—I understand. There are some things a man wants to do alone. This is your venture, and I . . ."
"No! You madman. You'd be a blessing. I want you to come. Truth is, I need you, but it's a hell of a thing to ask ... I can't let you agree unless I'm sure you know what you're getting into."
"I want to go."
Peter threw his head back laughing with the sheer joy and promise of it. "Ah, Steve, it will be good. The Berean Brothers' Brewery—finest in the new world . . . whole world."
"You're planning a brewery too?" Stephen asked agog. Instantly his mind caught fire, blazing in a whirl of thoughts. "Then I must come. What the hell do you know about brewing beer? I'm the expert here."
"What a team we'll make."
The evening wound to an end with the family content, toasting Peter, Rosalind, and Stephen.
Lulled and sleepy from the cider she had drunk, Callie said, "I think it would be wonderful to be going."
"You can have it. Believe me when I tell you it will
be nothing like Peter describes," Rosalind said. "Why,
it isn't even English! They haven't a king . . . not
even a queen. What sort of place can it be? How
"would one behave?"
Peter cocked his head toward Rosalind, grinning. "Listen to her. If there is no king and no queen, it must be nothing. You're a narrow little chit, Rosalind. They have a president, which is something on the order of a king, except that the people have a great deal to say about his activities . . . and the taxes."
"You should fit in there," Frank said.
"We shall," Peter said, rising and taking Rosalind's
hand. He looked at Stephen. Tm glad youll be going with us. Good night, everyone."
Rosalind's disapproval did not lessen as the days passed, and her temper reflected it. Peter wisely gave her wide berth. But Callie could hardly contain her excitement because they were going and she loved them. It was a little like going herself to be near them and help with the preparations.
"May I help you pack? Youll need to take just everything. You are so lucky. Imagine what it will be like ... it will be so much your own. Everything you build there and have will be yours and Peter s."
Rosalind watched her for a moment, then rolled her eyes into her head. "You are the most naive, stupid creature I have ever had the misfortune to run across. Will you kindly shut up."
Callie backed away from her. Tm sorry. I only wanted to help. I'm sorry you don't want to go. It sounds so 11106."
"Sorry, sorry, sorry! What have you to be sorry for? Just go away. Let me be, you little ninny."
"I will. Fm going." She went to her room and indulged in satisfying tears. She wanted to go so badly she could taste it It hurt more for Rosalind to express her dislike of the trip than it did to be left behind.
Rosalind shut and locked her door behind Callie. She dressed, taking particular care, and hurried unseen from the house. It was a bad time of year to be going to the hop pickers' cottages. The men were in the fields and might see her. She took the long way around, and was breathless when she arrived.
"Thank heaven, you are here," she said as soon as she opened the door. Albert sat stiffly on one rough-hewn chair. He always looked so out of place in this barren cottage, and that pleased her. She took off her
"Peter won't listen. He is going ahead with his ludicrous plans."
"I never doubted it." Albert stood, his arms open for her to come to him. "But I would rather you keep your mind on me for now." He kissed her.
She pulled away. "You don't understand. He's going to take me away from here—forever! It will mean an end to this—to us. I need your help. You've got to talk him out of it! You must. I can t go there. If you care anything for me, tell him what a foolish, rash move it is. You know about these things."
"He wouldn't listen to me. Peter is going, Rosalind. Must we talk about him all afternoon?" He sat down, pulling her onto his lap. "Be quiet. Let me look at you. Before long I'll need my memory to see you."
"What do you care?" she pouted. "You would never let him take me away to that awful place if I meant anything to you."
"I care," he whispered. Rosalind smiled and leaned back as he loosened her bodice. She was light and easy to carry to the bed. It pleased her to see Albert's well-practiced, deft fingers fumble with her hooks this afternoon. She lay back, uninvolved for once, as he became more urgent and clumsy with his own clothing. "You're a damned beautiful bitch, Rosalind," he murmured, looking at her lying there, waiting for him. She teased, taunted, gave in, moved away, then grasped at him as he did her. She prolonged their love-making as much as it was in her power to do that day. He lay back, covered with a thin layer of perspiration, tired and very satisfied.
"Keep me here," she whispered.
He wagged his head from side to side, too content to make the effort to talk.
"Keep me here. Don't let me go."
"Can't," he murmured and wrapped his arms
around her again, nuzzling against the soft warmth of her skin.
"If I were going to have your child?" she asked, nipping at him as she spoke.
"That would be different," he breathed.
"Then you'd better begin to think of a way to keep me here. I am quick with your child this very minute."
Albert lay still. Then he raised up on one elbow to look down into her small triangular face,
"It's true," she said.
"It can't be true. We agreed . . . you know how to prevent these things . . ." he stammered. "My God . . . the talk . . . my mother . . ."
She put her fingers to his lips. "Don t you know better than to trust a woman scorned, Albert?"
"For the love of God, Rosalind, this is no time for levity. It'll be a bloody scandal!"
"No joke. Your child will sail when I do. He will be raised as Peter Berean's son if you don't do something to prevent it. Just think of it, Albert . . . your bastard heir."
He sat on the side of the bed, not able to resist the impulse to look at her belly. "You're lying."
She got up and began to dress. "I'm not lying, Albert. It is your child. As you said, I know how to prevent these things, so I know whose child it is."
He looked at her baffled and disbelieving. "How could you let this happen? What am I supposed to do? What'll it do to Natalie?" he asked softly.
Rosalind backed away from him.
"Natalie? You think of Natalie while I stand here and tell you I carry your child? What are you? You're no man at all!" she screamed and moved for the door, stumbling as she went. The chair overturned. She glared at him, accusing him with her eyes of everything that had ever gone wrong in her life.
"Rosalind! Wait!" He leapt up to grab her arm. ''Wait . . . I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded. You know I must marry Natalie. Mother expects it and . . ."
"Damn your mother for the bloody interfering bitch she is"
"You don't understand. I need the dowry shell bring. Don t you see, I'm the only Foxe left . . . the last of the line. I must have a wife with position and wealth. And I must have heirs. Try to understand. I can't help it. You know I love you. God above, I don't think I know how to live without you," he said and began to pull his own clothes on.
Rosalind waited, her face a hard little mask of hurt and anger. "You are a bloody pig! How could I ever have loved you?"
He came over to her and touched her cheek. "For the same reasons I love you. I do love you. You know that, don't you? What is poor Nattie compared to you?"
"I don't know what she is, Albert. But she will be your wife, because she has the money to buy you. And me? I'll bear your bastard son. What does that make me compared to poor little Nattie?"
"I'll talk to Peter. I'll do whatever you ask. Somehow well find a way out of this. Have you told him yet . . . about the child?"
"No."
"Tell him."
"Tell him I am carrying your child?"
"Rosalind, please!" he begged, running his fingers through his hair. 'This is difficult enough."
"Poor Albert."
That night Rosalind told Peter she was having his child. He was as happy as if she had told him she wanted to go to America, which was quite a lot for
Peter, for only there, free, did he see hope for them. And he was ashamed as he listened to her. He had doubted her. And she had been carrying his child. As always, when he was contrite, Peter blamed himself for her petulance and unhappiness. He'd left her alone too often. He'd not been gentle when he might have been. He hadn't understood the anxiety Natalie caused her. But he knew he would be able to make it up to her in America. There it would be different
He took her hands in his, his eyes admiring her, and as he expected, she responded. The hazel eyes, golden this evening, lit from within. She smiled at him. He saw the love there again.
He thought of her and the child. A delightful shiver of wanting what had been missing for a long time ran through him. He pulled her quickly into his arms. His kiss was long, searching and hungry.
T love you," he murmured, his lips pressed to her temple. "Lord, you are beautiful. What would I do without you?"
She laughed, her body taut and impatient as he undressed her leisurely, pausing to kiss her and whisper his love for each newly exposed part of her body.
He hadn't made love to her like this since the first days of their marriage. She had forgotten how tantalizing it was to see the light of discovery in a man's eyes. He made her feel like wife and wanton at one time. And he believed her. More than believed her: he was ecstatic at the prospect of the coming child. Surely now, with his passions newly fired, he'd do whatever she asked.
The thoughts fragmented as Peter's hands and lips continued their hot hungry search of her body. There was no room left for thought. Only wanting. She forgot Albert and the baby and America. She forgot thai Meg or Frank or Anna might hear the impassioned
animal cries of joy emanating from her throat. She bit at him, nipping at his neck and ears. She clawed at his back, matching his urgency with her own lusty un-sated needs.
When it was over, she still longed for more. For something. She felt like laughing or crying. And he knew. Quieter than she, he turned to her, making love again with his hands, his words, and finally his body. And still, as she writhed in pleasure beneath him, she felt like crying like a madwoman, screaming at God: What was wrong with her? Why couldn't she love him? Why?
Finally quiet, Rosalind rested in his arms. He kissed her damp hair. "When will he be born.?"
"He will be born this autumn. September," she said, smiling and curling into the curve of his body.
"By September well be there. Hell be an American citizen, Rosalind. The first of our family born on that soil/*
The fears returned, drumming in her head. The loss of Albert. Being alone with Peter. Perhaps for the first time having to truly become his wife for there'd be no one else in the distant lost land of America.
He didn't notice her silence. He was too caught up in his own thoughts until she began to cry with heartbreaking softness. "I'll die there, Peter. Ill never see the new land or my house. If you make me travel in my condition, 111 die."
"Little love, you'll not die. Ill see you have the best cabin on the ship. You'll have everything you need. Maybe we can talk Ma into going with us. She could look after you."
"She won't come. She wants Natalie . . . only Natalie."
He didn't argue that "Well hire someone ... a
nurse. Shell take care of you, watch over you every minute."
TPeter, I don t want to leave England." "Sweetheart, you will. You re frightened and worried now, but you'll change your mind." He caressed her shoulder, then leaned over to kiss her.
Rosalind grimaced, pushing him away. "I won t." He turned away from her. He lay without moving or speaking. She could see only the broad muscles of his back expand and contract with his breathing. "You will," he said determinedly. Rosalind rolled on to her side, pulling the sheet up over her shoulders.
Chapter 18
Peter made the trip to London again. He returned buoyant and happy. He couldn't keep his hands off the two additional passage tickets he had purchased for Stephen and the as yet unhired nurse. He touched the edges, felt the texture of the paper, put them into and out of his pocket so many times they were dogeared and wrinkled. He looked around the house for Rosalind, then found her sitting listlessly on the stone bench in the herb garden.
Proudly he thrust the two tickets in front of her. "You've only to hire your nurse now. It's reaL We're on our way.*
She turned her face from him. "I don't want to see those, and I don't want a nurse."
"Hire a nurse, Rosalind, or you'll go without one*
"Such concern."
"It is."
"Then hire her yourself I I'm not going to do one thing to help you drag me from my rightful home." She jumped up from the bench and ran into the house.
Peter looked down at the two tickets, then up at the brewhouse beyond the garden wall. The smile returned to his face.
"Stephen! Ho, Stephen! IVe got them." Peter stopped at the door, holding on to the sides and leaning in.
"What the hell?" Stephen grinned as he saw his brother swinging forward on the doorjamb like a monkey. 'What's the simple smile for?"
"See that?" Peter again pulled the much-handled tickets from his pocket. "That is the great Atlantic Ocean to us. Miles and miles of endless water."
Stephen touched them reverently. "I can't believe it's true. A brewery of our own." He turned and walked back into the main room of the brewhouse, a worried frown on his face. "We can't take the equipment with us. I talked to Frank and he says he intends tg keep the brewhouse going."
"We don't need it," Peter said grandly. "For what we'll build we'll need the very best commercial vats made. We'll come back here and buy the best when we're ready for it."
"Come here for it?"
"Naturally. We'll be wanting to visit, so well combine business and pleasure. Think of it, Stephen . . . we're going to do it all. We'll do anything we damned please. We'll take a look at the whole bloody world, and see if we like it."
Stephen drew two mugs of ale. "You're off your head, Peter—but here's to the whole bloody world!" He raised his mug.
"To the whole Atlantic Ocean—one mile at a time!"
"To Berean Brothers' fine beer!"
The more
they drank, the more reason they found
to continue.
* * *
Anna looked concerned at the two empty seats at the supper table. "Shall I get them?" she asked Meg, doubtfully. "I'm not certain they're in any condition to come to the table."
Meg listened for a moment to the raucous sounds of laughter and snatches of song drifting on the night air. "Let them be."
'Til leave something for them in the scullery," Anna said with a baleful glance toward the brewhouse. "Perhaps they will be more themselves later." Callie smothered a giggle in her napkin.
The evening passed without sight of Peter or Stephen. Later, Callie lay in bed listening as the revelry continued far into the night.
They did not come in at all that night. They weren't seen at the table until late the following afternoon as each, pale and subdued, nursed an oversized, sensitive head.
By the end of March the hop shoots were well out of the ground, and the wires strung. Peter's attention turned to the practical matter of packing the necessities they would take with them. Larger items of furniture, he stored, asking Frank to ship them once they found their house. "The man I told you about, Sam Tolbert, thinks I may be able to purchase a working farm. If this Grampe place is suitable for hops as Sam has led me to believe, I'll send for the furniture immediately."
He organized the packing easily. His one remaining concern was Rosalind. Her pregnancy was beginning to show, and she had made no effort to hire a maid or a nurse to accompany her.
With their departure only two weeks away, he put an ad in the local paper. Only three girls came in answer to it. One changed her mind before she was interviewed. The second one made such cow-eyes at her
prospective employer that Meg sent her packing. The third was an anemic little thing who couldn't be trusted to survive the voyage. When she left, Peter slumped over the kitchen table, his head propped in his hands. "What do I do now?"
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