Jennifer Horseman (48 page)

You may read the rest of our mother's life in my father's unsent letters. There are a series of letters where my father writes that he discovered one of her lovers—your father, I guess, if you examine the dates. His madness rears its head at this point and he asks your mother if she truly believes she can escape him before he says these words ... "I have at last discovered the highly kept secret of his residence. Will you think of me when you find him dead soon?" He killed her lovers as he killed mine; at the last, neither one of us escaped the poison of his love.

I know our mother never mentioned the small sacrifice of flesh she left in England, otherwise you might have known why you were so hated and despised by him. You had the dual gifts of her love and his hate, while I was fed the poison of the opposite. My only solace as his voice echoes again in my mind is that she is tormented in her resting place with the knowledge she made death a welcome portal for her firstborn daughter, the last portal open that will let me escape. . . .

Garrett handed the letter to Leif as Mr. Peterson gave him a thick package of Stoddard's apparently unsent letters. Garrett examined the two unfolded letters he had selected from the rest to validate the truth revealed in Clarissa Stoddard's suicide note. He glanced at these but briefly before Leif broke the silence with a soft curse, "May God have pity on her soul. How did she leave this sorry world?"

"Strychnine-"

"Influenza, did you say Mr. Peterson?" Garrett said, as he gathered up all the papers. Moving to the fire leaping wildly in the hearth, he carefully set them ablaze, watching until they darkened to ashes. "Juliet, I think, will not be too surprised with the epidemic sweeping through the city. An easy death, relatively speaking."

A bright summer moon rose high in the night sky as Garrett entered the quiet of the barn. Moonlight streamed in ribbons of light through the open windows of the hayloft where he found the two young women sound asleep amidst the redolent sweetness of freshly shorn hay. As if they had fallen asleep sharing a secret, they were turned toward each other, and Laydy slept between them. Entwined in the little monkey's hands were two plaits, one of Juliet's and one of Elsbeth's. A new promise . . .

He did not know how long he stared at the picture, so startling, beautiful, innocent, but he finally felt the cramp in his hand where he gripped the wood side of the rail, a desperate attempt to fight the avalanche of emotion brought on by seeing her again.

"... I don't want to feel anything when you rape me again, and right now I feel so much like dying, I'm afraid I might. . . ."

He used the words to fight the force of his desire, this monster that lived inside of him like a great caged beast, and he turned away again. He walked the half mile back to the house, trying to clear his thoughts and exorcise her from his mind. An impossible task, he knew . . .

Garrett quietly let himself inside. His knee-high moccasin boots made no sound as he moved down the familiar hall to his mother's favorite sitting room on the west side, always her favorite room, with sunlight filtering through the tall windows in the morning, a cool breeze off the lake in the afternoon. He stepped through the door, still soundlessly, and against the soft pinks of the room, he found his mother sitting in her sewing chair by the window, her eyes downcast on the needlework on her lap. The sight triggered in him the memory of a fourteen-year-old standing in this room, filled with ideas and understanding that separated him from her, even then. ...

"What are you saying, Garrett?"

"That the goddamn gold thimble on your thumb could feed a starving family the winter."

"How dare you take the Lord's name in vain in my house!"

"Ah, forgive me my sin, Mother, these breaches of etiquette reserved for your society. Dear me," he had said with a mock sarcasm that hurt her worse than the words, "one might think I was raised with paupers."

He remembered watching her hands tremble, a small thing, but one that took on greater significance in his mind, for that was the first time he realized she was not half as strong as he thought, not half as strong as one might think of a woman who saved her son the only way she could.

"Garrett, this idea of yours, 'tis not fair! The Van Ness family has always been charitable—"

"Yes, I know. A hefty ten percent of the Van Ness fortune goes to the archdiocese annually. I'm sure they set a fine table on our generosity. Hell, they probably have a few gold thimbles to boot."

"Garrett-"

"I'm sorry, Mother, but I can't stay. . . ."

How many times had he said those words?

How many times had she nodded and pretended to understand?WasitEdric'sdeath orJulietthathad stirred the intense desire he felt to stay. Like a salmon fighting to swim upstream or geese flying to warmer skies, for the first time in the whole of his life he wanted to stay, to pull up a chair and take his mother's hands as he eased her grief and made her smile. A woman's smile was becoming as fine a prize as saving the world.

She finally looked up to see him watching her. He met the kindness in her eyes, but he turned away, too shaken to put his emotions in words. Always he turned away. Bracing his long arms on the hearth, he said quietly, "Tell me, Mother."

"I don't know where to begin," she said after a thoughtful pause, "Juliet touched me from the start. I can not explain how much, but . . . but we have spent more than one night crying together."

Those words made him swing around.

"At first I was so frightened for her. She sat in her room and while I came in the mornings and evenings to keep her company, and while we shared quiet conversations ... as women do ... you know, about people and families, she was still lost, so grief stricken from all that has happened to her." She hesitated, remembering the first time she had seen Juliet's hand, trying to make sense of it, then when Elsbeth came running to her, crying after seeing the scars on her back. ... "A hundred, no less . . . oh, Mama . . ."

" Twas Elsbeth who first drew her outside. I don't know how she did it but you know Elsbeth with all her impetuousness and her kindness, and as it happened, one day Elsbeth just arrived for supper with Juliet's hand in hers. . . . Now they have grown very close, we all have. Juliet has begun sharing things. Elsbeth and Juliet spend their days together, climbing up to the summit, swimming and fishing in the lake. Elsbeth made a present of one of the mares and now they ride together too. Your men have quite a problem keeping up, they tell me. Juliet made Elsbeth visit the poorhouses in town, where they bring those good people huge baskets of foodstuffs—she reminds me so of you sometimes. At night Juliet reads to us, she's quite gifted in that way . . . like Jane. She still has times when she needs to be alone of course. . . ." There was, she thought, no reason to mention that this occurred whenever his name was mentioned, for the slightest reference to Garrett caused pain, followed by a quick departure. "We have come to love her, Garrett . . . and she is learning to be happy again."

He closed his eyes to the last words. The idea that she was learning to be happy again filled him with a strange, sad joy and relief. He could want no more. He could hope for no more. The quiet, late night air sang with his mother's understanding, her inability to offer any more than these pictures of Juliet: swimming in the lake, long walks up mountainsides, riding with his sister, or reading to his family before the fireside, happy and safe at last. Aye, it was enough.

"Juliet's cousin died last week."

Lady Evelyn's gaze lifted to Garrett, not knowing what to make of such news. "How—"

"Influenza. A small epidemic swept through London recently."

"Will you tell her?"

"Yes."

"Juliet worries about our . . . charity."

"She has inherited a fair monthly allowance."

Lady Evelyn nodded, knowing it was a lie, of course. "Will you be sailing out again?"

"Yes. Tomorrow."

She nodded quickly, pretending to understand.

"Goodness, she's as bad as Nanny Goat! She's eating my hair!" Juliet tried to free her loose hair from Laydy's tenacious clutches. Laydy squealed, jumping up and down. "Elsbeth, help me-"

"Laydy!" Elsbeth pronounced the monkey's name with a thick Cockney accent, the very same outrage that had given rise to the name—outrage that was produced by Elsbeth's maid, Marguerite, shortly after the announcement that the monkey would sleep in Elsbeth's chambers. Elsbeth carefully pried the monkey's fingers from Juliet's unbound hair and laughed, " Tisn't your hair she's after but the daisy crown. Oh me, Laydy, what a nuisance!"

Laughing, Juliet disentangled the crown from her hair and began hand-feeding Laydy the daisies. Elsbeth took one too, yet began plucking the petals from the flower one by one. "He loves me ... he loves me not," she repeated, tossing the petals in the cool lake water, where the two girls dangled their bare feet. "He loves me! What glad news, don't you think?"

"Yes," Juliet smiled. "I happen to know 'tis true, too."

Elsbeth's shock made Juliet laugh again. "How is that?"

"He told me himself, that's how."

"He told you about me? About . . . caring for me? Juliet, you never mentioned—"

"I didn't know if I should or not. Should you like to hear what he said?"

Elsbeth nodded nervously, and Juliet smiled at Elsbeth's obvious anticipation. "Well, one day as he was showing me how to play a card game, trying to teach me to keep a straight face—with little success—he finally threw up his cards and said, 'You are hopeless, every bit as bad as Elsbeth. Every emotion right there like a flag, as plain as day.' I asked if he meant you, Garrett's half sister, and he said aye, Elsbeth." Juliet's voice softened, "I don't know how to explain it, but the way he said your name made me ask straight out, 'You're in love with her, aren't you?' He seemed nervous at first, but then he said, 'Since I was fourteen, the first day Garrett let me meet her.' "

Elsbeth searched her face, a pained expression in her eyes, "You are teasing me."

Juliet shook her head. "He does love you, Elsbeth, and I think very much, but . . . but—"

"What? What is it? Did he say more?"

"Yes," she said, remembering every last work spoken that day. "He's afraid that even if Garrett might agree, your mother wouldn't consider the offer. Leif, too, said that he had no chance, even considering how close your families are, and when Gayle pressed him again—the second time—he said 'twas not to be mentioned until he finishes school."

Elsbeth took this and said, "That will be years!"

"I know. . . ." Juliet knew what that waiting was about. Wiser than Elsbeth, she knew too that it was a cruel tactic used by Leif in the hope that those years would change his emotion. Leaning back on her hands, she tilted her head to the sun, thinking of what she could do, what might help. "Elsbeth, when do you think you'll see Gayle again?"

"If you run off, you can see him right now. He's waiting for you at the stables."

They turned around to see Garrett leaning against the tree, watching them. A happy cry came from Elsbeth as she jumped to her feet and ran to her brother's arms, embracing him in hers. Garrett set her down and with a smile told her she was getting prettier every day. Somehow his sincerity transformed this commonplace into a jewel of a gift.

"Garrett, how long shall you be here?"

"Only until tonight, I'm afraid. I need to speak to Juliet alone, and Gayle is waiting for you at the stables. I'll be back in a while."

Smiling and excited, Elsbeth ran off, calling for Laydy to follow her. Garrett watched her run away before turning at last to Juliet. She stood up now, staring down at the crumbled daisy she had twisted in her hand, not even having to look up to know not just that he stared at her but how he stared, feeling the full force of what it did to her. She had tried a thousand times to imagine a scenario in which she would not ever have to see him again, but unless one or the other of them died—and she did not want that—she could not imagine one. So she had tried to prepare herself for the inevitable day when she would see him again. A pointless endeavor, she knew now, for her imagination could never reproduce the pace of her heart, the catch of her breath, and the strange knot in her stomach, much less the confused tangle of emotion.

Garrett made no move toward her. Watching her struggle, he conjured the image he had just seen moments ago: Juliet sitting on the edge of the lake with a fishing pole in hand, the skirts of her pale green dress hiked over the slender legs, sunlight caught in her unbound hair as she tilted her face to catch the warm embrace of the sun. Young ladies' smiles, laughter and secrets filling the summer air. . . . "She is learning to be happy again. . . ."

"Juliet," he evoked her name as a prayer, calling her eyes up to him at last. "I would sooner die a thousand deaths than to hurt you again," he whispered on the heels of a frightened pause. "Tell me to leave and I will."

She had not expected such tenderness, and it confused her more. She shook her head, frightened by the depth of their emotion, until she found she was staring at his moccasin boots as he had come to stand by her. The warm heat of his body became a caress, while the rich pleasant scent of him triggered memories. A hundred memories flitted quickly through her mind, too quick to hold individually but leaving a collective impression nonetheless. The impression scared her, for she not only felt safe and protected by him, she felt as if he had cared for her and cherished her. . . . Nay, she closed her eyes, it could not be so. He once showed her how ridiculous the very idea was to him. ...

"I bring bad news, I'm afraid. Clarissa Stoddard died. last week of influenza."

Juliet searched his face, seeing that it was true. Clarissa was dead, she repeated in her mind, and like a bluebird's careful dance to a fallen moth, she approached the news cautiously, seeing if it might sting or hurt. Yet it moved her not at all. She felt neither gladness nor grief. She might never have known Clarissa.

"What are you thinking, love?"

She shook her head sadly, "That I never really knew her. Her death is like a sad and tragic book that I never opened; I feel relieved that I don't have to. Is that terrible of me?"