When the Heavens Fall (9 page)

Polly took a cloth, dipped it in a pan of cool water, and dabbed at his face. It hurt, but he said, “You're a good woman, Poll.”

“You're a fool!”

“I well know that, but I've got to go home.”

“You're in no shape to travel. You need to rest today. Go tomorrow.”

Brandon looked up and tried to smile, but his lips were so swollen from the blows he had taken that it was a sorry effort. He reached up and put his hand on her cheek. “Thanks, Poll, for taking care of me like this.”

“Look. I've got some money. I've been saving up. Let's go away somewhere.”

“Go away? Go away where?”

“Anywhere. We can find a better place than the Parrot.”

“Maybe we'll do that, but I've got to go home first and see about my uncle.” He got to his feet painfully and swayed. “The room seems to be moving around,” he murmured

“Don't go,” Polly said. She put herself against him and pulled his head down and kissed him gently on the cheek. She whispered, “We could have a good time, you and me. We get along.”

Brandon Winslow felt a moment's compunction. He was not an insensitive young man, but women were so drawn to him that it seemed impossible to keep them at bay. He had taken what they had to give but had never given anything of himself. “I have to go,” he said, “but I'll come back.”

Polly drooped and started to turn away

“I'll come back,” he insisted, seeing her face

“No, you never will, Brandon. You never go back to nothin'.”

Brandon saw he had hurt her and said quickly, “You'll see, Poll.”

“I'll get your servant and fix you something to eat,” she muttered, “before you go.”

“Just something soft, Polly. I can't chew much.”

Half an hour later, after eating a breakfast, he followed Nap out to the horses. Polly stood in the door. Nap said, “That there's a fine-looking woman, sir. Taken with you, ain't she, now?”

“Be quiet, Nap.”

Nap glanced at him with surprise, for they had always been good friends, as far as a servant can be friends with one of the nobility. “No offense, sir. I can see she likes you.”

His words cut Brandon. He knew he had behaved badly, and he tried to put the woman's face out of his mind.
I'll come back
, he thought, but he knew that he never would

“Let's go on to Stoneybrook, Nap.”

“Yes, sir, and we'd better do it in a hurry. Mr. Claiborn he said it didn't look like your uncle would make it.”

As the two men rode away, Brandon thought of the money he had lost, and his opinion of his own merits, which was never very high, dropped further. “I'm no good,” he muttered. “I'm no good for anything at all.”

Stuart and Heather stood back from the bed where Edmund Winslow lay, and waited silently. They had been summoned by Claiborn. Claiborn leaned forward and picked up his brother's hand. He was somewhat bent with age now but had good health and a clear mind. His elder brother, on the other hand, had a face the color of putty and lips that were already pouting outward, as happened to so many in death

“Can you hear me, Brother?” Claiborn asked

Edmund Winslow's eyes fluttered and for a moment they were clear and aware. Then he whispered, “Yes—Brother.”

“How do you feel?”

“I want—to tell you something before I die.” The words came
in short gasps on labored breath, and Claiborn knew that his brother was on the very threshold of death. He remembered a line of poetry by John Donne:
I tune the instrument here at the door.

“You were always—the good brother—and I was the bad one.”

“Don't say that, Edmund!”

“True enough.” Edmund's eyes opened wide, and he seemed to see beyond the room where he lay in his bed. He had no wife now. He had been married, but the woman had betrayed him, and none of them knew where she had gone. He began to breathe more shallowly, and his chest heaved, and Claiborn thought he was gone. But then Edmund whispered again. “You—were always the—good brother . . .”

“You had a hard time for a while, Edmund, but you changed. You know the Lord now.”

His words seemed to bring great comfort to the dying man. “That's right,” Edmund whispered. “I know Jesus now, thanks—to you.”

“I wish I could do something for you.”

“You have.” The words were barely audible “You brought me to know the Lord. I can meet Him now without fear.”

Claiborn stood beside the bed, holding his brother's hand. He felt the hand tighten and then loosen, and then a single gust of air was expelled from Edmund Winslow, and Claiborn whispered, “Farewell, Brother. You'll have no problems and no pain and no regrets from here on.” He sat for a long time holding the hand of his dead brother, and finally Stuart moved to stand beside him. “He's gone, Father.”

“Yes. He went easily, calling on the Lord.”

Stuart put his hand on his father's shoulder. “That's your doing. He loved you very much, sir.”

“And I loved him.”

Stuart was silent for a while, and then he said, “And you'll be lord of Stoneybrook now. You have the title.”

“It means nothing to me except, perhaps, that I can do some
good for my family.” He stood up slowly. Looking down at his brother's face, he said, “He looks calm, doesn't he?”

“I believe he is.”

“Well, we all must go. As the scripture says, ‘It is appointed unto man once to die.' My time is not far off.”

“You're a strong man, Father.”

“Well, I can't have many years left. And since I lost your mother, I've been anxious to go to her and to my Lord. One day you'll have the title, Son.” He suddenly asked, “No sign of Brandon?”

“No, not yet.”

Claiborn did not speak. He was thinking how different his son and his grandson were. Stuart steady, reliable, faithful to his God and his family, to everyone. And then there was Brandon, faithful to nothing except his wild, undisciplined impulses

“We can't wait on him. We'll have the funeral as soon as possible.”

“Yes, Father. I think that will be good.”

Stuart and his father were in the fields. They had been talking to Orrick, who was now supervisor of all the lands that composed Stoneybrook. He was not a young man any longer, but still the outdoor life had given him endurance, it seemed. He looked up and said, “Look, sir, there's Nap, and I believe he has your son with him.”

Stuart and Claiborn both turned around, but neither said anything. They waited until the two men pulled up their horses. They saw that Brandon was the worse for wear. His clothes were dirty and worn, his face was puffy, and a raw, unattended cut on his jaw had been bleeding

Stuart said nothing but waited until his father spoke, anger and disappointment strong in his voice. “You found him, I see, Nap.”

“Oh, yes, sir, I found 'im.” Nap looked from the lords of Stoneybrook to Brandon and then hung his head

“I'm sorry I'm late,” Brandon said

“Late?” Stuart thundered.
“Late?”
He strode over to his son and pulled him from the saddle. Although Brandon was the taller man, he didn't fight. He refused to look his father in the eye. “You could've been here, Brandon. In time to say farewell to Uncle Edmund. But no, you were—what? In a fight of some kind?” He leaned closer and smelled him. “You reek of beer and women. Is that what you were up to as your uncle lay dying?” He pushed the young man back to his horse. “The funeral will be tomorrow,” he spat out. “Go and catch your rest and a bath before your mother has to see you.”

Brandon stood there, obviously ashamed, not wanting to stay, not wanting to go

Stuart frowned and shooed him off. “Go! Go and make yourself presentable.”

“Yes, sir.” Brandon turned and left. Claiborn turned to Stuart. He started to speak but shook his head sadly and followed Brandon away

Stuart moved over to where Nap was holding the horses

“I hate a talebearer, Nap, but I need to know what happened.”

“I—I don't like to say, sir.”

“I know you don't, but I need to know.”

“Well, sir, he was in a card game, and he got into a fight with one of the men. Got pretty badly beaten.”

“What else?”

“Well, sir, you knows Master Brandon. The ladies always like him. A woman took care of him, patched him up, don't you see.”

“What kind of a woman?”

“Just a barmaid. Her name was Polly.”

“Keep all this quiet, Nap. But then I know you will.”

“Oh, yes, sir. I always liked Master Brandon.”

“Everybody does,” Stuart said grimly. “That's his misfortune. He knows how to make people like him—and it's hard to thrash someone you like.”

“Your father wants to see you, Master Brandon.”

Brandon had been sitting outside enjoying the morning air. He looked at the maidservant who had brought him the message and said heavily, “All right, Betty.” Getting up, he went into the house and found his father behind the big desk where he conducted his business. He had a sheet of paper in his hand. It had been sealed. Brandon could see that the seal was broken

“This is a letter from Oxford,” Stuart wearily said. “You've been expelled.”

“I'm not surprised, sir.”

Stuart wadded the paper up and threw it across the room. He was usually a calm, even-keeled sort of man, always had been, but Brandon was clearly driving him to the point of desperation

“I have no idea what to do with you, Brandon. You have everything a man could want. Good looks, a fine mind that you never use for anything. You have everything except honor.”

“I can't argue with that, sir.”

“There's a verse in the Bible in the Psalms. I was reading it the other day, and I thought about you. The psalm says, ‘I will not lay my honor in the dust.' And yet there you are, laying the family's name—our honor—God's honor—in the dust. What am I to do with you, Brandon?”

Brandon had been dreading this interview and he had been thinking of how he would answer his father. He was bitterly ashamed of himself and had slept little. “I learned one thing at Oxford—”

“Well, I'm glad you learned something! What is it?”

“I've learned that I'm no man for the law or the church. And I'm no businessman, as you know well enough. But there's one profession I can master and do well in.”

“And what is that?”

“The same as I've always said—the army.”

“The army? You still want to go into the army? I thought you'd given up on that nonsense.”

“I know I'd be a good soldier, sir.”

“You have no discipline, Brandon. That's the first thing a soldier has to have.”

“I think they could put it into me. If I like a thing, I can do it. You know that, sir.”

Stuart looked down at his hands. Then his face softened. “Alright. You'll get your start, and then perhaps you'll come to your senses.”