Bitter Eden

by Salvato, Sharon Anne

  ping away from her a little more each day. It had been bad enough when Rosalind was in Poughkeep-sie, but now that she had returned, her relationship with Albert was impossible. She had only the shell of him. Someone else held the core of his being captive. She thought about that for a long time—his captivity. She made a circle in the moire bedcover with her finger, then smoothed it all out. She repeated the motion until the feeling cemented itself in her mind that she had freed the circle by the erasure. Then she got up, dressed quietly, put on her walking boots, and left the house unnoticed.

  Rosalind rode to the cottage as she had the day before. This time, however, she was alone, and very aware of that aloneness.

  Albert was standing outside the cottage waiting for her. Long before she could see his features clearly, she knew by his stance that he was angry. As she came nearer the cottage and dismounted, she was frightened.

  Tm here," she said nervously. "What is it you absolutely must talk to me about, Albert? I really can t stay long."

  "Come inside," he said and waited until she entered the cottage first. He didn't close the door. "Why did you bring Callie with you yesterday?"

  "I didn't want to come alone. Surely you can see that by now. I don't love you anymore, Albert. We're both married and . . ."

  "It's all neatly wrapped up for you now."

  "Yes."

  "Well, it isn't for me."

  "Albert, please. I don't know what's happened to you. You're so different. I don't know you," she said, backing away from him.

  "Is Jamie my son?"

  "I don't know/'

  "You said he was."

  "I know, but that was a long time ago. How could I know? I wanted to hurt you then. You had hurt me and I wanted to strike back at you. It meant nothing/' she stammered.

  He laughed harshly. "Nothing? It meant everything to me. You'd never see that, would you, Rosalind?"

  "That isn't true! You made no effort to keep me here. You didn't want me to stay. I know that now, and I know you were right. Leave it there, Albert Please. We were wrong."

  "No. I was wrong. I was afraid ... of everyone. Afraid of Peter. I couldn't bring myself to confront him then, but I loved you. I love you now. And I'm no longer afraid. We'll leave together. I want to make it up to both you and Jamie. We'll go anywhere you want—India, France, the West Indies—name it, Rosalind. I'll take you anywhere in the world."

  Rosalind stared at him, bewildered and afraid. "Albert, you're not thinking clearly. You . . . you cant mean what you say. It makes no sense. You're married. . . . Natalie is expecting your child. Even if I wanted it there is nothing you can do for Jamie and me now."

  He took a step toward her, the anger gone from his eyes, replaced by a hungry lustful look unfamiliar to Rosalind. He placed his hand on her throat, feeling the lively pulse throb beneath his fingertips. "I remember everything about you," he said in a low husky voice. "Every inch of flesh on your body." He took off her hat and placed it on the battered table beside them. "Let me see you again."

  Rosalind was breathing in shallow, quick gasps. She was both tantalized and scared as he unbuttoned her

  riding jacket One of the things she had always loved best about him was his ability to move with the even precision of a man who knew what he was about and needn't hurry. He took off her blouse, caressing and fondling her breasts until the nipples stood hard and she was swimming through a haze of feelings and desires whose end was only Albert, hard and waiting.

  Her back was toward the open door. She neither saw the shocked terror on Albert's face nor felt the bullet that entered at the. base of her skull, exploding all thought and feeling in one thundering moment.

  She was thrust against him. Albert clung to her slumping body helpless to so much as cry out before the second pistol went off, crashing through his own skull and leaving him in Rosalind's lifeless arms for all eternity.

  Peter had gathered some new thatch and tools. He walked happily through the woods to the cottages. He heard the shots, but shots were nothing to be alarmed at in a woods where poachers were often more numerous than the game.

  It had been the most relaxing day he'd spent since they had left Poughkeepsie. He was wearing a blue work shirt that he had left behind. He felt as young as he had been before he ever dreamed of leaving Kent. He liked his life in America, but it had been a long time since he had been mentally free to enjoy the physical exhilaration of a task without being burdened with the responsibilities of the farm. He was happy that summer afternoon.

  He came to the tidy row of brightly whitewashed cottages, which leaned comfortably against each other. The door to the last cabin stood open, swinging crazily against the wall whenever the wind blew.

  As he came nearer, he saw two dueling pistols laid

  neatly at the lip of the door, the barrels touching, nose to nose. Puzzled, he walked to the cottage, shoving the door open the rest of the way. Albert and Rosalind lay together across the bed where they had fallen.

  He stood for a dazed, shocked moment, staring at them. Blood stood like a huge coagulating ruby on Albert's forehead, but nothing showed on Rosalind. Her sleek black hair hid everything. Confused and shocked, he felt like an intruder, and backed out the door. He wandered around the clearing, putting down his thatch, then picking it up, not knowing what he meant to do. He stopped, stood still, then went back to the cottage. He picked Rosalind's jacket up from the floor and went over to her.

  "Rosalind," he said softly as though he were afraid to awaken her from her sleep. He picked her up gently, covered her nakedness, and carried her from the cottage.

  Chapter 25

  Peter struggled back to the house awkwardly bearing Rosalindas body. He kicked open the kitchen door, slamming it against the wall.

  The scullery maid glanced up scowling from her scrubbing and saw him standing there, leaning heavily against the door, and began screaming. The entire household was alerted by her terrified noise and Pe-ters own alarmed, anguished voice as he cursed her and demanded a silence she couldn't maintain.

  Anna clutched CaUie's hand as they came to the entry of the scullery and saw him there with Rosalind draped in his arms. The scullery maid was down on her knees moaning her way through a litany. Seeing the look on Peter's face, Anna rushed over, shaking the girl until she was a chattering blob ready to obey whatever she was commanded.

  "Get Mr. Berean . . . Mr. Frank. Hurry! Run to the fields and find him," Anna said tensely and in as low a voice as she could manage, keeping her eye on Peter as she spoke. "Gol" Anna repeated.

  The girl moved forward, then stopped, pleading with her eyes on Anna. Peter blocked the doorway.

  "You can get past him. Now hurry! Go!"

  The girl squeezed her eyes shut, flattened herself against the wall, skirting Peter without touching him.

  He stood stunned and confused. Once the noise had stopped, he didn't notice the scullery girl at all. He kept his eyes steadily on Rosalind.

  Anna took a step forward, as afraid as any of them to go near him looking as he did. Callie cowered at the entry, not knowing what was wrong, knowing only that it was terrible.

  "Peter," Anna began as she approached him. He didn't move or indicate that he had heard her. "Peter," she said louder. "Peter!"

  He looked up. The dark brown eyes she looked into showed the tortured dullness of disbelief without intelligence. He opened his mouth, but no words came.

  "Take her to her room. Take her to the bedroom, Peter." For a moment Anna's voice took on a depth and authority unknown to her. Callie glanced from Peter back to Anna, and then to Peter once more. He didn't seem to understand anything she said to him. Anna kept repeating herself and saying in a prayerful voice, "Bring Frank quickly. Peter—listen to me— please hurry, Frank. Peter, take her to your bedroom. Dear Almighty Father, help me. Help us all."

  She placed her hand on his arm, pushing gently at him. He took a step forward only to stop again. He looked down at Rosalind's face.

  F
rank and Stephen had also heard the shots, but it had been difficult to tell where they had come from.

  Frank's attitude was not so easygoing as Peter's had been. "Damned poachers!" he had muttered and mo-

  Honed Stephen to follow him. "Got to get rid of the bloody nuisances before the pickers come . . . someone will get hurt with those jackanapes around here."

  They ran into the woods, thrashing about then standing still to see if they could hear a noise that would indicate where the poachers had gone. Eventually they made their way to the hop pickers' cottages. Frank began to run. He had sent Peter there to work on the roof. His first thought was that perhaps there had already been a hunting accident. The bale of thatch was lying in the clearing. Fear shooting through him, Stephen sprinted past Frank the last few yards to the cottage. Its door was partially open.

  He flung the door wide, then stood stonelike at the entry as Frank pounded up behind him.

  "What is it? What do you see? Is it Peter?"

  "Albert . . "

  Frank's feet hit one of the dueling pistols as he tried to push Stephen from the door so he could see. Both men looked down at the pistols.

  "Oh, my God!" Frank breathed, hunching down to pick up the guns. "These are Pa's guns. What's happened here? Get out of the way, Stephen," he said and peered into the room. Albert still lay across the bed, the wound ugly on his forehead. "Oh, God, no! Why did I send him here?" he muttered, stuffing the guns into the belt of his pants.

  "What are you doing? What happened? You mean you know!" Stephen asked.

  "I might," Frank said grimly. "Go outside and look around. See if you can find Peter."

  "Peter?"

  Frank walked over to the table and picked up Rosalind's hat from where Albert had placed it. He waved it in Stephen's face. "Yes, go and see if you can find him. This is Rosalind's hat These are Pa's guns.

  They came from our house. Use your head, man, think what he is likely to have walked in on!" "Is he dead?" Stephen asked.

  "Of course, he's dead. Snap out of it, and find Peter/'

  Stephen backed from the cottage. He found Rosalind's horse, but not Albert's. There was no sign of Peter except for the bundle of thatch. He returned to the cottage to tell Frank. "What should we do? Why should Rosalind's horse be left here?"

  "I don't know. Oh, God. I don't know what to do. It's nothing we can hide. We should send for the magistrate. Oh, God!" Frank searched the cottage, trying to think what should be done. He wanted to protect someone . . . maybe it was Rosalind who had done it and not Peter. He didn't know what to do or think, or which was the worst thought.

  He was still in his quandary when the fear-crazed little scullery maid ran up the path to the cottage, babbling an incoherent tale of a man coming to the house bearing a dead girl. His mind, racing into blankness, made no connection between what she said and what he had already seen. Fear for Anna replaced all his worries about Albert, Peter, and Rosalind. "Go notify the authorities, Stephen. We've got a madman running loose."

  "Frank—wait. We don't know what happened . . .* "Do as I tell you! You're not in Poughkeepsie now. This is my home, and I'll protect it as I see best! Hurry! We've no time to waste. I've got to see to Anna." He ran from the cottage, pounding his way back through the woods to the main house.

  Anna managed to get Peter to carry Rosalind upstairs, but she succeeded in little else. The cook, who had heard the scullery maid's cries, came to view the

  episode and took to screaming where the other had left off.

  Peter moved with his dead wife toward their room. The shrill sounds of the cook's voice accompanied him like an unearthly dirge.

  Anna saw Frank running toward the house from the bedroom window. She sank down on a chair. It seemed like hours that she had been trying to get Peter the short distance from the scullery to the bedroom. She could deal no more with Peter s stupefied silence than she could with the cook's mad lament She ran down the stairs and lunged for the protection of Frank's arms, trembling against him.

  His chest felt like it would burst. The sounds, the fear, the sight of his house flashed and shuddered inside him as he was assured that Anna was all right. Everything that Peter had touched in passing bore the faint markings of Rosalind's blood.

  "Are you sure you are all right? You haven't been hurt? Do you know what happened?"

  He listened as Anna tried to sort out the happenings of the last half hour. When she finished, his face was the color of the well-scrubbed scullery floor. "Has Peter told you anything?"

  "Not a word. Frank," she began in a quaking voice, "Frank, why did you ask that? Surely, you can't think . . ."

  He walked to the foot of the staircase. "Isn't there some way to quiet that woman? God alive, she's stirring the demons. Can't you do something?"

  "Frank! Answer me, please. Why did you ask about Peter? Please, I have to know."

  "Albert is dead as welL He was shot . . . Oh, my God!"

  "Whatisit?W/*rf?"

  "I sent Stephen for the deputy magistrate. Anna, run. Get someone to stop him!"

  "We can't hide it . . . not Albert's death. No matter who-"

  "We can give ourselves some time. Do as I say, woman, or he'll hang with no questions asked. Do you want that?" He stormed past her, headed for the stairs and Rosalind and Peter's bedroom.

  Peter was sitting on the side of the bed, Rosalind across his lap. He was staring at her in the same senseless way he had before. The tears sprang to Frank's eyes as he looked on the broken sight of his brother. He reminded Frank in this moment of Natalie, so vulnerable and fragile no matter how ferocious her temper was. But Peter was anything but fragile.

  Frank brushed his big, work-hardened hand across his face, wiping the sentiment from his mind as he wiped the tears from his eyes.

  He asked nothing of Peter then. He lifted Rosalind from Peter s lap and placed her on the bed, arranging her riding habit as best he could. He pulled her riding jacket across her. Then he led Peter from the room, steering him down the stairs to the study. He put a glass of brandy into Peter's hands and guided it to his lips. "Drink it All of it."

  Peter drank the liquid, felt it burn down into his stomach. He slumped into a chair, holding his head in both hands. The brandy glass rolled on the floor.

  "Oh, iny God, Frank, she's dead." His shoulders began to heave, and without another sound Peter Berean began to grieve for his wife, not yet considering how or with whom he had found her.

  Frank watched and waited at the far end of the room. He turned away, not able to bear the sight of Peter without breaking down himself.

  Anna hurried back to the house breathless and pale. Frank stepped out of the study to talk to her.

  "I sent John after Stephen," she said. "I couldn't find him. Was Stephen on foot, or horse?"

  "I don't know. He could have come back for a horse . . . probably did. Did you look to see if one was gone?" "No. No, but I can . . ?

  The animation left Frank's face. "It doesn't matter. He had the horse Rosalind rode to the cottage this afternoon. I'd forgotten. It doesn't matter. It's too late now. I should have known better than to send him. He didn't want to go and I insisted. I wasn't thinking . . . I . . ."

  "Who is able to think at a time like this? At least you got the cook to stop screaming. Bless you for that, and maybe Stephen will decide on his own that he should wait before going to the magistrate . . . deputy magistrate. Oh, dear Lord, Frank, what are we going to do?" Anna glanced in the direction of the study. "Mother Berean will be coming in from her outing with Jamie at any time. How can we tell her this?"

  "We can't hide any of it or soften it, Lord knows. We'll just have to tell her plain and straight This isn't the end of it, Anna. It's just the beginning."

  Again Anna looked at the study door. "Has he told you anything?"

  Frank shook his head. "But he was there. I know he was. That was my fault too. I sent him to repair the roof. The thatch was lying outside the cottage where he must have dropped it I sho
uld have known better."

  "You can't blame yourself for a tragedy like this, Frank. If it hadn't been Peter who found them it

  would have been someone else, and it would be just as bad."

  Frank shook his head. His hands ran through his coarse hair. "I knew they met there. God, I knew it, and still I never once thought about it this morning."

  "You knew what? Surely all that talk about Rosalind and Albert wasn't true • . . it was all talk, wasn't it?"

  "No. It was true. It's been true for some time, and when Peter came back they started up all over again. Even that first night they were here. They didn't even try to hide it. That's what Peter and I argued over."

  Anna looked at him, baffled. "You knew this all along, and never said anything! Nothingl"

  "No."

  "But why? Maybe . . *

  "It wouldn't have stopped anything. You saw what happened when I said something the night they came back. Peter flew off the handle. You know how he is . . . never listens to anything. Maybe he never really believed the rumors. I don't know. Maybe he didn't want to face the truth. And they were going to be leaving soon. I thought it was better to leave it alone. After all, Rosalind and Albert had gotten by for years without anything happening."

  "Oh, Frank."

  "Not now. I don t want to talk about it anymore. Go see to Rosalind. I've got to talk to Peter and see if there is anything that might help. We may not have much time. Anna . . . ?"

  "Yes?"

  "If ... if he ... if Peter is the one, I'm going to get him out of the country before . . ."

  Anna looked worriedly at him for a moment, weighing the risks of what he proposed; then she smiled and nodded. She knew him far better than he knew him-

  self. She watched as he hesitated at the study door, then closed it softly behind him.