Bitter Eden

by Salvato, Sharon Anne

  "I don't give a damn when you meant, Frank."

  "Well, now, Peter, for someone who just sent his wife out with another man, you are mighty touchy about an innocent observation. Why? Could it be things are not so well in America as you let on—at least in certain quarters?"

  "Wait a minute," Stephen said, placing a restraining hand on each brother s arm. "Peter didn't send Rosalind out with just any other man. That's Natalie's husband. What's the matter with you, Frank? You don't worry when Peter takes Anna to town. Why should Peter woi;ry that Rosalind walks in the garden with Albert. We're all the same family, and it's best we don't forget it. Deal the cards."

  Peter and Frank sat rigidly facing each other like two fighting cocks, held back from a battle they would both relish.

  "Don't ever hint or say anything like that to me again, Frank," Peter said with quiet fury.

  "Seems to me that much anger indicates—"

  "Shut up!" Peter stood, the chair crashing to the floor behind him. Stephen jumped to his feet as well.

  Anna hurried into the parlor from the kitchen. "What was that I heard?"

  There was silence for a tense moment; then Peter looked at her. "I was merely clumsy, Anna. The chair fell . . . bull in the china shop."

  Stephen sat down slowly. He said again in a low voice, "Deal the cards."

  Anna stayed where she was, her face perplexed as she tried to figure out what had taken place.

  "I don't feel like playing cards," Peter said finally.

  "Neither do I." Frank pushed his chair from the table, getting up to hunt for his newspaper.

  Peter walked to the window; Stephen followed

  "What are you going to do?"

  "I don't know. Nothing. Let me alone, Stephen."

  "Don't go outside, Peter. You know Frank is all hot wind. Don't give him the satisfaction. He's been eating his heart out because you haven't come running home beaten. You do know why he said it . . . ?"

  w Do ir

  "Yes, you do, and so do I. Come on, Peter, you know he wanted you to come home like a whipped pup. You didn't and you've made him feel small. Frank may be slow an' all, but he doesn't like being bested . . . especially not by you. He's always been jealous, Peter, and he's a proud man as well."

  Peter looked down at his feet He nodded slightly, but said nothing.

  "Look, Peter, I can't speak for what went on between Rosalind and Albert before, but it would take a blind man not to see she's never been happier than she's been since we left here. Come on, be reasonable . . . you know it's true. She's the only one of us who wasn't anxious to come home for a visit. Is that the way of a woman longing for another man? My God, Peter, think! It's you she watches. Have some faith in her, man. She's your wife."

  Peter smiled faintly. "I never used to doubt her."

  "Then don't now. It's that bloody Frank . . . it's his way of paying you back for being the success he's not."

  Peter glanced over at Frank.

  Stephen placed his hand on Peters arm. "Beat me in a game of chess? Come along, please. Rosalind will be back in no time. And when she does come in, give Frank a demonstration of his error."

  Peter laughed silently, and went with him.

  The window of Anna's sewing room overlooked the herb garden. Callie and Natalie excitedly talked about Anna's patterns. The room had become a confusion of baby dresses, crib blankets, and paper patterns and drawings. Callie was trying to decide what special thing she would make for the baby.

  "Which do you think, Natalie? I love this little dress, but perhaps another blanket. You don't really have anything for warmer weather. Mostly these are winter blankets. Nattie?"

  Natalie stood at the window, her hand holding the curtain open.

  "Nattie, you haven't heard a word I've said. What are you looking at? You've been staring out that window for the last ten minutes."

  "I like the sunset," she said. There was an edge to her voice, however, and Callie went to the window. The sky was golden red with dark shadowy clouds puffing and shredding across the horizon like great moving stone ridges. In the garden below Albert was talking earnestly to Rosalind. The gestures he made rendered the hearing of his words unnecessary. Callie felt a trill of apprehension move through her. She had forgotten the tension she had once lived with and considered a part of her day. Now it was back. One day, and all the feelings of foreboding had returned.

  "I've been happy since she left," Natalie said, dropping the curtain and turning toward Callie. Her eyes had a burning far-away look in them. Callie could hardly bear to meet her gaze. She remembered seeing that look after the night of the fire. It had frightened her then, and it frightened her now.

  Slowly, Natalie looked away from her, her eyes fixing on the window. "I wonder if I will be now."

  Callie mentally shook herself. Things were not the same as they had been then. She wasn't the same. She

  wasn't sixteen now, and Natalie was a married woman. If Natalie was all right when Rosalind wasn't here, then she could also be fine in Rosalind's presence. "Of course you'll be happy. You have more reason than ever now."

  "I'm not afraid of her anymore/'

  "Who?"

  Natalie smiled knowingly. "Rosalind, Callie. Must you pretend to misunderstand everything I say? You never used to be so stupid."

  Callie exhaled deeply. "Neither am I now; so I want you to listen to me. Don't start looking for things that aren't there. I know how you feel about Rosalind, but you're wrong. Peter and Rosalind have been very happy in Poughkeepsie. I know, and you'll have to take my word for it. I'd not lie to you, and if you could have seen them yourself, you'd know too that she loves him very much."

  "They aren't in Poughkeepsie now. Here it is different," she said mysteriously. "They will never be happy here."

  "That's ridiculous! Don't even begin to think of it. There is nothing to alarm you about Rosalind and Albert. Do you understand? Keep remembering we'll be leaving in September. We'll be gone, and I doubt very much we'll return for a long time. Rosalind didn't even want to come this time. So there can be nothing. Whatever you do, don't start imagining things now," she ended a little desperately.

  "I know or I don't know. I never imagine," Natalie said and walked from the room.

  Albert paced back and forth in front of Rosalind. "Why? Why for the love of heaven won't you let me see you? I just want to talk to you. Is it so much to

  ask? If he is my son, haven't I at least the right to talk to you?"

  'This is the second time today we've talked, Albert. We are alone. Whatever you have to say can be said now."

  "No! No, damn it, it can't. I need to see you—alone. Meet me. Just one time. Please. I have to see you. Isn't that satisfaction enough for you? Must I continue to beg?"

  "Albert, really, if this is what marriage has done to you, you should have remained single. You are really very tedious today."

  "It's marriage to the wrong woman. That is what's wrong. I'll admit it. You were right. I should have defied my mother. I should have married you. I should have. ... I can think of nothing, no one but you. You must meet me."

  "Sometime, perhaps," she said, smiling contentedly.

  "When?"

  "I don't know. Sometime. When it's warmer."

  "Warmer!?"

  "Yes."

  "Damn it! That means never. The hop pickers will be coming at the end of this month, and in another month you'll be leaving. It must be now."

  "Don't be ridiculous, Albert. We've only just arrived. I can't go off with you. I'm not even sure I want to," she said and looked at his reddish-gold hair muted in the soft twilight. He was as distinguished looking and meticulous as ever. Whatever Peter made of himself, he would always be too broad of shoulder and heavy of frame to look as Albert did. Peter, with his ruggedness and vital power, was a man among men in New York; but here—here Albert was still the English gentleman as one ought to be. And yet, for

  the first time, she felt a loyalty to Peter. Albert was again
asking her to choose between the two men, and Rosalind was no longer sure her choice was Albert.

  His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. "We've managed to reverse positions, haven't we?"

  "Yes," she said honestly.

  "Then remember, I never refused you. I never made you go through what you are putting me through now."

  "Didn't you? I don't recall that you were so kind to me."

  "I should have been kinder. I was blind and stupid about us—I've admitted that—but I wasn't deliberately cruel."

  "Are you saying that I am?"

  "I'm only asking to see you alone—one time when we can talk freely. I won't touch you unless you wish it. You have my word."

  She shrugged, but she wavered. Her curiosity was aroused as was her vanity. It was heady to feel the power she now had over this man who had once been able to make her grovel

  "Will you come?"

  "I don't know."

  "Day after tomorrow. I'm supposed to go to Seven Oaks. I'll send my deputy in my place."

  "And of course, I shall begin my long lonely jaunts again."

  "Oh, no. I think you've become far too grand for walking. But milady does ride, doesn't she?" he asked sarcastically.

  "Milady does."

  Chapter 24

  Peter got up from the chess table when Rosalind came in. On his face was the anxious look that told her he knew Albert had not merely wanted to walk. She took his hand, smiling reassuringly at him. And she found she was speaking honestly when she said, "It is a beautiful night I wish you had come with us, or better still that you and I had gone alone."

  There was a time when she would have teased him, made him jealous as she did with Albert. She couldn't say when or why, but sometime dining the last year her zest for that kind of sport with Peter had left her. She wanted him to know Albert meant nothing to her now and he, Peter, meant everything.

  The afternoon she was to meet Albert, she was confused and worried. She wasn't certain what Albert might do if she didn't meet him. Once she would have been wildly joyous to have Albert bear the humiliation of declaring his love for her, but that time had passed. She now wanted desperately to keep it forever a secret and forgotten.

  She would have to meet him. That much she could

  see. He had to be made to understand that it was finished between them. Her decision made, she felt a perverse titillation in the danger that Peter might find out about them in this last meeting. Albert was acting so much the desperate lover. It gave the situation an air of adventure. For a moment Rosalind reverted to the daydreaming woman she had been before they left for Poughkeepsie. She saw in herself a little of a Cleopatra or a Josephine. It made her feel vibrantly alive to think of being so desired. There was still in her, she recognized, a recklessness that made her court-disaster, made her want to tempt fate by meeting Albert this one last time.

  Not that she would let anything happen. She was finished with Albert. But she would confront him one last time and let it be ended dramatically and for always.

  Another part of her coldly said there was no need for a final meeting. There was no place left in her life for Albert She didn't know what to do. It was all so confusing. If only there were some way to guarantee that Albert would behave, be able to do nothing; then she would be strong enough to be sure nothing would happen.

  She turned to Callie.

  "Callie, would you like to ride with me this afternoon? There is so little to do here ... I thought perhaps a ride would wake us up."

  Callie agreed readily. They left with Rosalind leading, heading directly to the woods path that would take them to the pickers' cottages. Neither spoke. Each was wrapped in her own thoughts and memories.

  Albert was waiting for her inside the cabin. He burst through the door as soon as he heard the horse

  "Rosalind!" He stopped short when he saw Callie beside her. Both were speechless.

  "Why, Albert! Imagine running into you out here. What can you be doing?" She glanced at Callie. It had been a simple-minded plan and an even simpler comment, fooling no one, least of all Callie. Realization and dismay were written all over her face.

  Nonplussed, Albert looked from one woman to the other; then the fiery, angry look Rosalind was so unfamiliar with came into Albert's eyes, and he darted forward, pulling the reins from her grasp. Roughly he led the horse to the side of the cottage away from Callie.

  "Albert! What are you doing! Stop it! Let go of my horse/'

  "I am going to talk to you. You brought her, not I," he rasped. His free hand agitatedly messed his hair until it stood in loose waves, making him look more appealing than she had ever seen him.

  She shook her head. "Albert, what has come over you? I can't come with you . . . not with Callie right ...»

  "Why did you bring her?"

  "I was wrong. I shouldn't have."

  "Get down from the horse. Come with me—just for a moment."

  "Ill meet you. Tomorrow I'll come alone. I promise. I'll be here."

  "It must be today. You wont come tomorrow if I let you go."

  "I will come. I gave you my word. You can come to the house and drag me out if I don't. I will be here. Oh, Albert, please!"

  He stared at her for a moment, then tossed the reins back at her. "I will come after you, Rosalind. I no longer care who knows, so you'd best be here and alone."

  ft « ft

  Callie had turned away from them, waiting at the edge of the clearing. She supposed she had always known and not really wanted to. She couldn't block out the sounds of their voices, but she could the words. She didn't want to know now what was being said anymore than she had once wanted to know if Albert and Rosalind did meet. She wished somehow she could again know nothing. Think nothing. Soon she heard Albert ride off.

  "Callie, I'm sorry. I didn't realize that would happen," Rosalind said when she rode up to Callie's side,

  "Why? I don't understand. You and Peter are happy. You have been given everything a woman could ever want. Why did you meet him! Oh, Rosalind, whyever did you have to make me a part of it?"

  Rosalind put her hand to her head. "I don't know what to say. Albert was the first man I ever loved. . . . I needed someone . . . then. Callie, I didn't think he would act this way today if someone were with me. He is always so proper and . . ."

  Callie shook "her head, biting her lip to keep the tears back. The horses pawed as the two women continued to keep them standing.

  "You won't tell Peter, will you, Callie?"

  Callie let out a sobbing laugh. "Tell him? Oh, dear Lord, Rosalind—how could I tell him? I don't have the courage ... he trusted you. I just don't understand. How could you have done it?"

  Rosalind looked helplessly at her. "I don't know," she whispered. "It started so long ago ... I wouldn't even begin to know how to tell you. I'm not sure I understand myself. Callie . . . don't hate me."

  Callie was no longer trying to hide her tears. "I wish we had never come back to England."

  "So do I. Callie . . . ?"

  "Don't you know what this would do to them if Natalie and Peter find out? Natalie already believes that you and Albert meet. And there has been talk. We never paid attention to it, but . . . people have gossiped. Oh, Rosalind, Peter trusted you so. He believes in you. If he didn't love you, I could—"

  "Callie, don't! You can say nothing to me that I haven't said to myself a hundred times a day. I know what I am, but I meant to end it. Truly I (id. That's why I agreed to see him this last time. I just don't know what came over Albert. He's been like a madman ever since we returned. I didn't want to meet him today—I wouldn't have asked you to come if I had wanted to see him. Please believe me. I thought nothing would happen if you were along."

  "What will you do now?"

  "I don't know. Something. Somehow I must make him understand I never want to see him again. You must believe me, Callie. I love Peter. No matter what I did before—I love him."

  Rosalind wrestled with her problem all that evening.
She thought perhaps she would be unable to slip away the following day. Perhaps Peter would want to take her into Rochester or Seven Oaks. Anything that would give her an idea of what to do about Albert Nothing occurred. After they had returned to the house, Rosalind was left alone to do as she pleased. Callie found Anna and continued making the blanket she had decided upon for Natalie's baby. Meg was with Jamie, as she had been every minute since they had arrived.

  Peter had left the house early that morning, chagrined at having thought such foul thoughts about his wife the night before, and sorry he had let those fears precipitate an ugly argument between himself and Frank the first night he was back. He made amends

  with Frank by offering to help prepare for the hop pickers, and spent the day accompanying Frank around the farm, careful not to refer to his own hop yard as Frank told of the improvements he had made since they'd left.

  "The brewhouse isn't in such good shape. I haven't your touch, Stephen," Frank admitted graciously and hopefully.

  "I can give you a hand. Who do you have working it?" Stephen asked.

  "Jem Bonner. He's able enough, but he hasn't the experience. He still comes out with a brew that is hit or miss."

  "If that is all, I can have you straight in no time. If he's got the feel for it, I can teach him the rest"

  "I'd appreciate it."

  "All right, Frank, you've got Stephen occupied. What about me?" Peter asked.

  "You're here for a holiday—both of you."

  "Holidays don't seem to agree. I'd rather be busy."

  "I've not had time to check out the pickers' cottages. One needs a patch on its roof. I'm not sure what shape the others are in. And the cows have to be taken to the hill pasture."

  "That'll give me a pleasant day's work," Peter said happily.

  Stephen was already on his way to the brewhouse. Peter went to herd the cattle to the upper pasture. He would see to the pickers' cottages on the way back.

  Natalie sat in her sumptuous bedroom in Foxe Hall, staring at the tokens to femininity that Albert constantly brought home to her and placed in pink and white profusion all about her room. He gave her too much of everything and too little of himself. She loved him with a possessive desperation and felt him slip-