"She is his mother, Natalie."
"You're hateful! Horrible and hateful. Why do you torment me?" she cried,
"I don't. I have never wanted to hurt you. But you must stop pretending, Nattie. It is very bad for both you and Jamie. He doesn't even know his own name anymore, you've called him Bertie so often. Think of Peter. You don't want to take your brother's child from him, do you?"
"Peter was never kind to me. Why should I care about him? Anyway Peter is gone. Frank told me he is dead."
"Well, he isn't. That was a lie. Peter is alive and very unhappy. Jamie is important to him."
Natalie frowned. "Where is Peter?"
"In prison," Callie said shortly.
"In prison? Why? What did he do? Did Albert arrest him?"
"You don't know?"
"I think I did ... I must have forgotten. What did he do?"
"He was accused of shooting Rosalind and Albert,"
Callie said and waited for whatever violent reaction that would bring from Natalie.
Natalie shook her head. "But that's not true. Peter wouldn't do it. He never listened to any of the things I told him. I told him they were all true, but he wouldn't listen to me." Her voice rose as she spoke.
"Who did do it, Natalie?" Callie asked, holding her breath.
Natalie put her hands to her head, pressing so hard her features were distorted. She choked, nearly strangling; but as Callie reached to help her, Natalie pulled away. Her body was rigid, yet she was trembling. Her voice was no more than a thin wail. "Peter did it! He killed them! I saw him. He went to the cottage, and he had Papa's pistols. He took one and aimed it and shot. I saw him! I saw him • . . and then he took the other pistol. Albert looked so surprised. He looked so funny ... he was afraid. And then the other pistol shot . . . and . . ."
"Natalie!" Callie took her in her arms. Natalie was stiff and hard to her touch. "Natalie, it's all right Calm down. Look! I'm here. Nothing is happening. Natalie!" Callie screamed. "Look at me!"
Slowly Natalie looked at her, her eyes still filled with horror.
"Peter is gone now, isn't he? You don't see him now. I'm here. Just me." Callie petted at her, turning her face so she could look at nothing but Callie.
"He can't come and get me, Callie?" Natalie said pathetically. "He'll be so angry. He'd never believe me. I couldn't make him do what I wanted him to. Oh, Callie, I want Albert and Bertie. Why was Albert with Rosalind? Why did he have to be there? I thought she'd be alone. He left late. I thought . . ." She began to sob. "Please, I want to see Bertie."
Callie had had her confrontation with Natalie just two days before she saw Peter for the last time. The evening they returned to Kent, Callie remained in the parlor until the others had gone to bed. Then she went to find Stephen, who never seemed to sleep these days. Together they walked back to the house from his mountain.
"We've done all we can for Peter, Stephen. He doesn't like us seeing him now," she said thoughtfully.
"I know. If there was just some way we could do something ... if only we knew what had happened."
Callie thought for a moment about the horrified words that had poured from Natalie's mouth. She was certain she now understood what had happened that day, but nothing in what Natalie had said would help Peter. No one would understand. They would blame Peter again, never considering the twisted substitutions Natalie's sick mind could make. "There is nothing," she said aloud. "Not now anyway. All I know is that we shouldn't go back to the hulks again."
"Callie, I've been thinking . . ."
"About going home?" she asked hopefully.
"Yes."
"So have I," she said and then told him about Natalie's fixation on Jamie, and about Meg, omitting only that part about Rosalind and Albert's death.
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
"There was nothing you could do, and you have enough on your mind."
"You should have told me. I could have helped you.
"Well, I have now, and our leaving will take care of that. Jamie is young. He'll forget. How soon could we leave, Stephen?"
"Peter's ship sails in less than three weeks. I think we should wait until he is gone, even if we don't see
him. I . . . oh, Callie, I don't know. Sometimes I think if we just keep going to London we can ward off the inevitable. But we cant, can we? There's a ship sailing for New York a week after Peter sails. It's American, so if Jack hasn't sent us the money, I can talk to the captain. We can sail on that ship."
Callie and Stephen talked to Meg the next morning and told her of their plans. Meg had spent most of the morning closed in her room. Boxes of papers and letters that James had written and received were strewn about. She hardly seemed to care about what Callie and Stephen had to say. She held one of James's ledgers on her lap.
"What are you doing with these, Ma? Checking up on the family fortunes?" Stephen asked, taking her hand in his.
"Remembering," she said.
"With a book of accounts?"
"James wrote them."
"Are you all right, Ma?"
"Oh, yes. I'm just fine. I was thinking about the house your papa wanted to buy in London. He has the expenditure he planned to make all worked out in this ledger. I wouldn't let him buy it. I didn't want to be in London. Do you think things would have been different if I had let him buy that house?"
"No, Ma, I don't. We were happy here for a long time. You did the right thing."
"We were happy, weren't we?"
"Yes," Stephen said in a barely audible voice.
Callie slipped out of the room and went to her own.
Meg didn't come to supper that night, and Natalie ate in the nursery with Jamie. Stephen told Anna and Frank of their plans to leave.
"We have a good ship going back. We should be there by the end of harvest. The only thing I am wor-
ried about is Ma. She doesn't seem very good to me. I don't like to leave her like this/'
"Well, you needn't worry about her. You just run along home. I've always taken care of Ma, and I'll continue," Frank said gruffly.
"Don't be so quick to speak, Frank. It isn't just Mother Berean," Anna said. "It is Natalie as well, Frank. I can do nothing with her, and Mother Berean will no longer try. Natalie wanders around the house at all hours. She nearly caused a fire the other night . . . when you were in London, Callie. She came down sometime during the night and lit lamps throughout the house. One she left too near her needlework. It was all singed and browned when I found it. I don't mean to be cruel, but I think the loss of Albert and her child coming so close together has completely unbalanced her. The doctor says that this sometimes happens after a woman loses a child, and that she may get better. But he has not heard her talking to herself as I have, and today Callie told me she has taken to calling Jamie *Bertie.' It is frightening ... the hateful things she says."
"Then we'll have her put away," Frank said.
"You can't do that. It would kill Ma," Stephen saicL
"It's not your problem. It's mine."
"She's Stephen's sister as well as yours, Frank," Callie said.
"She may be, but I don't see him doing anything but giving advice. As long as I have to provide for Natalie, I'll decide what must be done for the good of all."
"You're not providing for Natalie. Papa did that for her as he did all of us," Stephen said.
"That went when she married Albert. You don't suppose she went to him empty-handed. We'd have never married her off without a dowry. And if you're
thinking shell get something from Albert's estate, think again. Not only did Albert have virtually nothing in his own name, Mrs. Foxe and her brother are trying to get that marriage annulled because Mrs. Foxe claims Nat was not sane when she married Albert," Frank said.
"That's nonsense. Albert knew Natalie for years. They grew up together." Stephen looked angrily at Frank. "If he thought something was wrong with her why did he marry her?"
Frank shrugged. "He's not here to say, is he? But
Mrs. Foxe is, and she has plenty to say to whoever will listen."
"Including you," Stephen snapped.
"Yes, including me. I have to live here and don't you forget it. Her brother is one of the most important men in the parish. I've got no place to run off to as you have. The two of you may feel you are doing a fine piece of charity by parading into London and making spectacles of yourselves, but you won't be here to face the talk and the resentment stirred up against the Berean name. I've got a convicted murderer for a brother and a loony for a sister. They are calling Callie Peter's whore; and you, Stephen, do you know what they call you?"
"That's enough, Frank!"
"Enoughl It's nowhere near enough! How much abuse do you think a man can take? What do you think that does to my name and business? How do you think I feel?"
"Who in the hell cares! You don't begin to know the meaning of abuse, Frank. And I'm wondering how much and who you are willing to sacrifice for your name and business."
"Nothing worth anything, I'll guarantee you, Stephen."
"First it was Peter, and now it is Natalie, but you say nothing worth anything. What about Ma, Frank? Will she go too, after she's worth nothing?"
'While we're hurling abuse, little brother, what are you willing to do? You're so damned almighty high and noble, what is it you're willing to take on your back?"
"I've already got Peter and Jamie."
Frank snorted. "Peter!? And a baby. What you've got is a lot of mouth." Frank threw his napkin down in disgust and left the dining room.
Stephen got up and walked out of the house.
Anna looked down at the table. "Maybe you should go after him, Callie."
"Not now. Let me help you clear the table. He'll come back when he's ready."
'Don't judge Frank too harshly. It is I who don't want Natalie here any longer. She never did pay much attention to what I said, but I can do nothing with her now that Mother Berean doesn't help. I am afraid of Natalie in truth, and I think she knows it and takes deliberate advantage."
They cleared the table, and Callie waited up in the parlor long after Anna and Frank had gone to bed.
Stephen paced across the stable yard, his mind a blinding storm of conflicting thoughts and feelings. He was shaking with anger at Frank, and yet the problems that faced him were far too important to allow him to vent that anger by lashing out at his brother. He thought of Peter and the life term he would serve for something his sister had done. And he thought of Natalie and wondered how far back her derangement went. Why hadn't they seen it? Had they all refused to see what was before their eyes, or had it been well-hidden in her strange but enticing personal-
ity. Even if they had seen what was happening to her, what could they have done? There were no medicines to help her. They could have kept her locked in the attic as other families did. They could have committed her to Bedlam and let her be chained to a wall to live like a savage, to become hopelessly insane. What was he to do now? He had no answers, no cures, no solutions that he had not already considered with horror.
His anger grew and with it the pain of what was happening to his family. As he thought of each of them, with his hate and his frustration shouted at the cold, impassive moon, one certainty came to rest equally cold and impassive: He would not let Natalie be put away, or left to Frank's charity. Frank didn't care. Stephen wondered now if Frank had ever cared about anyone other than himself and his good name.
For another hour Stephen fought with himself, seeking a way to take care of Natalie without having to chain his life to hers as he had already to Peter's. The cold certainty that he would not leave her here stirred. He did not feel impassive on the surface; there he boiled, his hatred for Natalie something he could almost touch. There were times he avoided her, thinking that if he were left in the same room with her he'd put his hands around her slender neck and choke from her an admission of guilt. But beyond those hot, seething emotions, far below the surface, Stephen loved her. She lived in torment. He had only to look at her to know. The hell she lived in was a part of his own. She was his sister.
When Stephen walked into the house, he saw the light of Callie's rush lamp and strode defiantly into the parlor. "We're taking Natalie back with us," he said quickly and harshly, his mouth set, his eyes cold.
"I know. It would have been that or never return at all."
"I wont let them lock her up and forget her someplace. Ma could never stand that, not after Peter."
"I understand that, Stephen."
"My mind is made up," Stephen said, ready to argue. Callie sighed and smiled. "You don't mind?"
"Ahh, you silly," she said, smiling and walking into his arms. 'Whatever you decide is always best. That's one thing I know of you, Stephen, and I hope I never forget it. I only worry about Jamie, but that will come right too."
He laughed in relief, hugging her. "Callie, Callie, what would I do without you?"
They walked together to the sofa and sat down next to each other, Callie's hand in Stephen's. He stretched out, resting his head against the sofa back, his mind returning to its tortured thinking. All the old doubts flooded back and new ones were added to them. What was he doing to Callie? It was she who would care for Natalie. It was Callie who would bear the burden of the house and the child and his sister and his brother . . . and him too. He sat up suddenly, ripping his hand away from hers. He buried his face in his hands. "Ohh, my God, I don't know ... I don't know what's right anymore."
Callie's voice was soft and coolly soothing. Stephen drank it in, letting its sound flow over him. She spoke of so many of his own doubts, but as they came through Callie's pure and trusting view, he began to see them differently. The life he and Callie faced was no easier, but it once more seemed good. As long as she was there, he'd live through anything.
Callie began the packing. She sorted through all of Rosalind's clothes, leaving most of them for Anna to
alter for herself. The petticoats and few practical garments she packed to take with her. Peter's clothes she folded and packed with care. All of them would be taken to Poughkeepsie for that sometime day when he would return.
Stephen received the bank draft from Jack and purchased the passage tickets, and all that was left was the waiting to leave. During that last week, the nights came alive with the sounds of music and revelry as the hop pickers came back to Kent. The campfires glowed against the midnight blue sky and Callie thought of the gypsy woman and wondered if she'd be there in her camp as she had been that night long ago.
The old woman had told her to come back when she returned to England, that she would need her then. But the old gypsy had been too late. What Callie needed now was not to be found in a gypsy camp, or in the deck of tarot cards. She would not go to see the gypsy again, then or ever.
But the sounds of the eerie music and the campfires glowing brought back visions of an old woman staring at her cards as she recited words from the Apocalypse telling of the bitter wormwood that would touch Cal-lie's life.
They set sail for New York on a bright September day. It would still be warm when they returned home. The Hudson valley would be a blaze of autumnal color when they saw it next. Once they had stepped foot on the frigate, Callie's feeling of strength returned to her. They were leaving behind all the bitterness and sorrow she had ever known. With their return home would come hope.
BOOK III
Chapter 31
Moving like an oily stream of filth from the hulks, an irregular line of men, each chained to the man in front of him, was led by guards to a day of hard labor. Some days, as if to taunt them with that which they no longer possessed, the sun shone bright and symbolic of the gift of the earth which God had given so freely to men. Along the roads were the people of London, some going about their business, so inured to misery, the convicts stirring nothing in their hearts, neither pity nor contempt. For others it was a sight to provide some mean entertainment in a life filled with few pleasures.
Peter soon learned the women we
re the worst of all the roadside taunters. Idle women, who worked by night and drank away their suffering by day, paraded near the lines of chained men, laughing in their hoarse, abused voices. Some had come to see their men, slipping up to the line to thrust a gin bottle into a quickly opened mouth. Others had come to blame them for having been caught at whatever felony or misdemeanor had caused them to end in this rotting
line of humanity. Others pranced and yelled their taunts for the sport of it
For the most part the guards ignored them, wanting no part of the consequences that might come of trying to quell them. There were few men, even of the worst sort, who were bolder or less fearing of attacking an offending guard than these women. Little better than rabid animals, the lowly women who followed the chain gangs had been known to down a full-grown man, strip the clothing from his back along with his flesh when he dared interfere with them.
In the evening when they returned to the hulks, the same scene was repeated; only by nightfall the women were far gone with drink, and feeling meaner. Some of the faces grew familiar to Peter. He looked for them, knowing at what dirty corner or from what mouldering doorway they would appear.
For most of the convicts, the morning and evening circus performed for them by the women was welcome. They were, in truth, their compatriots, and the women's shameful behavior was understood and accepted as a part of the "good" life they had left behind. The convicts were, in the main, small men, most not over five feet four, who had been raised in hunger and squalor. They were men who had breathed the fetid gin-soaked air of the back streets of St. Giles and Clerkenwell and Wapping since they had first drawn breath. They had grown up learning the age-old professions of their forebears, training as pickpockets, footpads, robbers, and thieves. Their women all seemed to have the same names; Doll and Peg and Mag with only an attending adjective to distinguish them from each other. Some were known by Polecat, some by Tantrum, some by Hell. There were Bloody Lizzies and Doll Tantrums, and Hellcat Maggies and Sadie the Goats. These were their women, their lar-
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