Here Comes a Candle (16 page)

His answer was disconcertingly off point.
“
I think it
’
s about time you call me Jonathan,
”
he said.

EIGHT

“
Do you think we could have the piano tuned?
”
Kate asked it over breakfast one dark November morning
.
When massed clouds threatened the first snow.

“
Arabella
’
s piano? Of course, if you wish it.
”
Jonathan had got back fro
m
Boston late the night before and was busy sorting through a pile of letters.
“
I should have thought of it myself. I
’
m afraid this place is dull for you.
”

“
It
’
s not for me—or at least, not mainly, though it
’
s true I should like to be able to play. But I thought I might have a try at teaching Sarah.
”

“
Sarah!
”
His surprised glance rested for a moment on the child who sat between them systematically eating the line of bread fingers Kate had arranged for her.
“
I know she
’
s wonderfully better, but if she can
’
t read?
”

“
What has reading to do with it?
”
Kate found herself increasingly impatient with the household
’
s habit of taking Sarah
’
s condition for granted, as something immutable.
“
The piano is different. She can learn from watching me,
if she doesn
’
t want to be bothered with the notes. Can
’
t you, Sarah?
”
One never knew whether the child was in fact listening or not, but she made it an absolute rule to behave always as if she were. Today, Sarah justified her, by looking up, smiling her vague, entrancing smile, and humming a snatch from her favorite tune,
Greensleeves.
“
You see,
”
Kate said.
“
She has a natural aptitude for music,
I
think it might be a beginning ... Besides, the days are so short: we need something to do in the evenings, don
’
t we, lamb?
”
No answer of course, but Sarah went contentedly on with her breakfast. She was st
uffin
g rather more bread into her mouth than it would comfortably hold, but Kate knew better than to interfere. The fact that she was feeding herself was triumph enough to be going on with.

“
I reckon you
’
re the world
’
s most confirmed optimist.
”
Jonathan helped himself to buckwheat cakes.
“
I
’
ll send Job for the timer today. I should have done it long since: I don
’
t know what Arabella would say if she got home and found it out of tune.
”

Sarah spilled her milk.
“
Oh dear!
”
Kate ju
mp
ed up to fetch the cloth she kept handy for such emergencies.
“
Too bad, honey, but you
’
ve finished, haven
’
t you? Take your dishes out to Prue, would you? She
’
s in a hurry this morning. It
’
s her day off and she wants to get down to the village before it snows.
”
Would it work? This running of errands was a new thing in Sarah
’
s life, and a wonderfully encouraging one. But today, after the reference to Arabella?

Sighing inwardly and mopping up milk, Kate asked herself whether she ought to force a discussion of the problem of Arabella. But how could she in face of Jonathan
’
s resolute silence? And, after all, Arabella had never come back since the day Sarah had disappeared. Kate had learned from Mrs. Peters that she had gone straight from Saratoga to the Boston house and apparently planned to spend the winter there. Since then, Jonathan had made a practice of spending one or two nights a week in Boston too.
“
He worships the ground she treads on,
”
Janet Mason had said.

Sarah was still standing, swinging to and fro against the back of a chair, watching her with the straight, mutinous mouth she had come to know so well. Let it go? Make an iss
u
e of it? She had to make these decisions a dozen times a day, but remained passionately convinced of the importance of getting each one right.
“
Hurry up, lamb,
”
she said now.
“
Then we
’
d better go out too, before it snows. I
’
ll give you one hundred swings.
”
Surely this would work. The swing—her idea—had only been finished a few days ago, and Sarah loved to be swung in time to one of Kate
’
s counting rhymes. But she still hesitated, looking at once obstinate and pleading.
“
I
’
m sure your mother will let us know before she comes home,
”
Kate went on.
“
So we can get things ready for her. Won
’
t she, Jonathan?
”

“
Of course.
”
And then, as Sarah flashed Kate a quick, almost conspiratorial smile and left the room:
“
You think it
’
s as bad as that?
”

“
Yes, quite as bad.
”

“
I see.
”
He put down the letter he had been reading.
“
That rather settles it then. We were talking about Christmas yesterday,
”
he explained.
“
Arabella and I.
”

“
Yes?
”
Kate, too, had thought about this.

“
Arabella was thinking of a party out here. Once the snow packs hard it
’
s an easy sledge ride. We used to have them every year. Before
...
”

“
Yes. Before.
”
What in the world could she say?

“
You don
’
t like the idea?
”

“
It
’
s none of my business.
”
She could not help a little spurt of anger at the way he was leaving the burden of objection to her. And
y
et—Sarah was her responsibility.
“
You saw Sarah just now,
”
she went on.
“
And she
’
s been so much better.
”

“
I know. But that
’
s just it, you see. I told Arabella she was better. Of course
she would like to be home for Christmas, to have things as they used to be. It
’
s
d
ifficult
...”
Painful to see him fumbling for a way to put it.
“
But you
’
re sure?
”

“
That it would do harm? Well—you saw.
”
She was not going to make his decision for him.

“
Yes. Right. We
’
ll have the party in Boston. It
’
s lucky I
’
ve got a man I can trust, now, to see to things at the factory. I
’
m afraid it will mean a quiet Christmas for you and Sarah, but we can make up for it in January, for her birthday. Yes, thank you
”
—he was glad to have it settled—
“
one more cup of coffee, and then I must be off to the factory. We
’
ve a huge new order—winter uniform cloth. Now! In November! And no doubt Wilkinson
’
s army up there in the north country in their summer ones. Not that anything can excuse what happened at Chrystler
’
s Farm. Two thousand Americans beaten by eight hundred English! I tell you, Kate, I
’
m almost ashamed to be an American. It
’
s no wonder the English won
’
t accept the Czar
’
s offer to mediate. Why should they? Gallatin and Adams and their
‘
Peace Commission
’
have about as much chance of success as that poltroon Wilkinson has of pulling out of his winter quarters and taking Montreal. Imagine giving him the command—a coward and bungler: maybe worse. Do you know, Kate, sometimes I wonder whether I should not—whether it
’
s not my du
t
y to take a hand in politics?
”

He made it a question and her reaction was instantaneous.
“
Oh, I wish you would! It all seems such a muddle. But—what would you do, what would you say?
”

“
Not
‘
P
eace at any price.
’
Be sure of that. Do you remember how we argued, last spring, on the way back from York? Well, I can see it now: you were right and I was wrong. War
’
s a monster, a juggernaut. Once it
’
s started, everything
’
s different. We can
’
t—whatever they say in the Massachusetts Assembly
—
we
s
im
ply
cannot afford to submit now. We just wouldn
’
t be a country any more. We may not, be anyway. Do you know the Federalist papers in Boston are urging that the New
England states seced
e
from the Union and make their own peace? How can they, after all that
’
s happened? And in Boston, particularly, after seeing the
Shannon
destroy our
Chesapeake
last summer? Do you remember how the crowds rushed out to the beaches to watch poor Lawrence
’
s glorious victory? And what they saw?
”

“
Yes. It was just after we got here. But remember, just the same, how people were stirred, even here, by Lawrence
’
s last words.
”
It was merely part of her fantastic position that she should be encouraging him about the course of a war against her own country.

“
‘
Don
’
t give up the ship
’
? Yes, it makes a good slogan, I admit, but I
’
d rather have Perry
’
s any day:
‘
We have met the enemy and they are ours.
’
A few more victories like his, and we would be, in a position to negotiate from strength. Particularly if Napoleon keeps you British busy in Europe.
”
And then, on a different note, remembering how the news of Napoleon
’
s victory at Dresden had hit her.
“
Forgive me. It
’
s so hard to remember
...
”

“
I know. It doesn
’
t matter. It
’
s all horrible, whichever way you look at it. I don
’
t believe I even know what I want any more. Except the piano tuned for Sarah.
”

“
And that you shall certainly have.
”

December was a lonely month. Snow deepened around the house, and Jonathan spent more and more time in Boston, no doubt busy with arrangements for the party. Even out at Penrose, they felt the stir of the preparations for it. Mrs. Peters was making puddings and mincemeat and sorting out jars of preserves for Job to take into Boston. Prue was hard at work making ornamental garlands on instructions sent out by Arabella. The whole house smelled deliciously of spices, and Sarah was happily occupied helping them. It left Kate with more time on her hands than she wanted, time to wonder if she had not been a fool to take so firm a line about this party.

Restless and miserable, she wandered about the house, wondering what it would be like filled with a
gay Christmas crowd of guests. Arabella had sent out for the bronze slippers that matched her most spectacular evening gown of tawny velvet. Job was busy brushing imaginary specks of fluff from Jonathan
’
s black broadcloth evening coat.
“
He won
’
t wear knee-breeches, won
’
t Mr. Jonathan,
”
he told Kate.
“
Not even Miz
’
Penrose could make him do that.
”

Jonathan had not been home for seven days now, and it was surprising how the time dragged without him. Inevitably, on Christmas Eve, Kate found herself thinking about the party as she tiptoed into Sarah
’
s bedroom to fill her stocking with candy and nuts, the gingerbread man Mrs. Peters had baked, and her own exquisitely sewn rag doll. That safely done, she moved over to the window to gaze out at moonlit snow and think about poor Arabella, who could not be with her child at Christmas.