Bitter Eden (26 page)

Meg said nothing. She went into the small cold parlor, closing the door behind her. The light of two small candles guttered, dimming and then straightening as the draft passed. She went to her husband's side, sitting still as stone, wishing as she had always done when there was trouble, that James was there to guide her.

She didn't know the truth about Natalie. Meg knew she had lied to Peter though. Natalie was capable of training the dog. She had, and had done an excellent job. But wasn't the dog naturally vicious as well? Wasn't it the dog who had caused the harm? Natalie couldn't deliberately harm someone, surely not her own father. Meg thought of the child she had given

birth to and raised. Natalie was a kind, gentle girl. Meg knew that to be true. She was never cruel. Cruelty was not in her.

As Meg thought, Rosalind's face kept coming to mind. Natalie had never had any difficulties before Rosalind's arrival. And Meg remembered Natalie begging her to listen when she said Rosalind was evil . . . bad for Peter . . . bad for the family. Perhaps she was. When one laid blame for a tragedy, where did one begin? Surely not with the last and final incident in a series of events. Neither Natalie nor the dog would have been upset if Rosalind had not started it in the kitchen when Natalie accused her of going off with Albert. And why would Rosalind have been with Albert? Oh, dear God, Meg sobbed, her mind a tangle of pain and worry for Peter, for Natalie, and for her lost and beloved James.

"James . . . Meg whispered into the murky, smoking light of the candles. "If you are anywhere that you can hear me, James, please tell me what to do now."

Peter stood with his hands jammed into his pockets for several minutes after his mother left the room. "I don't know what possessed me to speak to her so."

"You would have done it sooner or later," Frank muttered under his breath. "This is no worse than tomorrow or the day after."

Peter grimaced, but showed no sign of having heard his brother. "I was wrong. I should have taken care of things and said nothing. It isn't the same now, with Pa gone. We can't say things we once did. Ma without him . . . well, it is different I am going to get the dog. Get it over with." He didn't move, but stood staring at the staircase. His forehead glistened with sweat

Reluctantly, his movements stiff and awkward, he walked into the hall.

They listened as he went up the stairs and knocked on Natalie's door.

"Who is it?" she called

"It's Peter, Natalie."

"What do you want? I am resting."

"Natalie, open the door now. I want to see you."

"I am resting!" she screeched. "Go away!"

"Natalie, I've come for the dog. Open the door immediately."

There was no response. "Nattie, either you open the door or I'll break it in. You know me, Nat, I mean what I say. Open it before I count to five." He began to count.

Natalie began to scream behind the closed door. Obscenities, mixed with nonsense and rambling accusations, streamed from her. Peter finished counting. With all his weight he slammed against the door. It gave a little on the first assault and opened on the third.

Natalie, with streaming black hair loosed in disarray, stood wild-eyed, pointing her finger at him and screaming for Ugly to attack. For once the little dog did not obey. He cringed in the corner of the room as far as possible from his mistress. Peter scooped the small dog up in one hand, fighting Natalie off with the other. Screaming, she pursued him to the door. He shoved her back, slammed the splintered door, and leaned against it, shaking.

That could not have been his sister. Not that wild-haired, wild-eyed creature with the distorted features and the clawing hands. He touched his neck where thin streaks of blood ran from the welting scratches.

He felt sick at his stomach. Nothing was real. James wasn't dead. Couldn't be. That hadn't been his sister.

Rosalind wasn't unfaithful. Nothing was true! Peter wiped his hand across his wet, sweating brow. He'd come so close to believing the rumors, Natalie's wild hints. His own wife—his father—his mind closed down on the jumble. He glanced at the small homely animal cradled trustingly against his chest, and felt sick again.

He went back down the stairs, walking quickly past the parlor.

"Oh, poor little Ugly," Callie cried and ran to the hallway. ^"What are you going to do with him, Peter? Don't hurt him!"

"Hell be destroyed," Peter said through stiff, white lips.

Tou can't! Peter, you can t hint him. He only did what he was told. Please don't hurt him. Give him away ... or let him run with the field dogs. Please! Please!"

Peter struggled into his coat trying to look neither at Callie nor the dog, wishing somehow he could stop her pleading. His head was going to burst—he was going to burst

Peter almost groaned aloud as Stephen joined them, taking Callie's hand and trying to soothe her. Stephen looked sympathetically at Peter, then said, "Let me come with you. I can help."

T don't need help destroying one bloody little dog!"

Peter looked at his brother, his head pounding. Stephen with his quiet honesty would make him face everything. Everything. Nothing hidden. Nothing avoided. Peter shut his eyes for a minute wishing he could turn the clock back, wanting to be as sure of himself now as he had been at the outset of the Swing riots. Everything had seemed so clear then, and so well-defined. He had known where his duty lay. He had believed so easily and trusted so fully. Stephen

and Callie still had that faith. But he did not. He needed someone to take the blame, something to clarify what had happened. "I started this whole thing. Ill finish it."

"Peter, no! Please. Think what you are doing. It wont help. Please!"

He grimaced and shoved her aside. "Get out of my way, Callie. Let me do what must be done."

Callie tore free of Stephen s embrace, pulling at Peter s coat. "You can t! It's cruel! You re mean and hateful. Ugly never did anything. It wasnt his fault You know that, Peter! You know that!"

"Leave me alone!" Peter shouted, wrenching past them.

He was shaking like a man in a fever by the time he walked to the area where Meg killed her chickens. He didn't dare look at the dog in his hands. It had to be done. James was dead. The dog had killed him. Not his sister. Not Natalie. Dear God, not his sister. The dog.

As though he had seen it all, visions of Natalie commanding the dog flashed before his eyes. Ugly obeying every command, every wish she uttered. His father. . . . Peter shook. He couldn't breathe. It had to be the dog. The vicious dog. Mocking him, the dog moved in his hands, so small, so trusting, trembling as Peter was. He clenched his jaw against the sickness that pushed up into his throat. Eyes shut tightly, he strangled the dog.

Callie was waiting with her face pressed to the glass of the front mullioned window. Everyone else had gone to bed.

"Did you do it?" she asked coldly as he came through the door.

He didn't look at her. He couldn't "He's buried behind the stables," he murmured.

Stricken and unable to let go of it, Callie followed him as he hung up his coat. "It was wrong, and horrible. He was a poor little dog, wanting to be loved by someone. He was a good little dog. Ill never forgive you, Peter. Never."

He turned to her. "Callie . . " Her face was closed, and he turned away. "Go to bed where you belong, and leave things that don't concern you to those they do concern." He brushed past her and went up the stairs.

He felt dirty and tired. Callie's accusing eyes were the worst of all, because she was right He knew she was right and he couldn't stand the knowing. It had seemed that with the death of the dog, James's . . . accident would seem more understandable. It wasn't.

Peter's fondest wish had always been to be away and free; now it was something, a thought, a longing, that would stay with him night and day. Everything had become cramped and dirtied. He didn't dare think or question what had happened. He no longer had the pure vision that could provide him with truthful answers, and he couldn't stand the muddied thinking that would lead him from one question to another without the courage to accept any of the answers. So he longed for the dream of a new start, a new life that was clean and unblemished. It was a hard despairing dream for nothing had gone right, from his part in the Swing riots to this day when his father died.

He held on to the railing as though he might not make it up the flight of stairs if he let go. Natalie heard him coming. She stood at the head of the stairs clad in her nightdress, her hair loose and flowing but somewhat neater than before.

"What are you doing here, Natalie? Go to bed. You 11 catch cold/' he said tiredly.

"I want to talk to you, Peter."

"Well talk tomorrow."

"Not tomorrow. Now, Peter! I want to talk to you now, while you still have Ugly's blood on your hands, and his smell in your nose!"

"Quiet!"

"What did you do to Ugly? How did you do it?"

"Ugly is gone."

"You killed him and took away what I loved! Do you know what it is to lose someone you love?"

"I said he was gone. Leave it at that," Peter snapped.

"I pray I see your immortal soul in Hell . . . burning. Ill hate it and hate it for all eternity."

Peter's dark brown eyes opened wide.

Natalie's face was tense with the effort it took to keep her mind on what she wanted to say. She shook her head wildly. "Oh, Peter," she gasped. "You destroyed what I loved, but what you did to Ugly is nothing compared to what I can do to you."

He tried to touch her. She shrank back, crossing her arms protectively over her chest. "Oh, no ... no comfort . . . not for me . . . not for you. Not tonight. Not ever. You are as alone as I am, and just as bereft of love."

"Natalie," he said with an overtone of awe. "I don't know you. What has happened to you? It's not just the dog. It's more . . . worse. I did what had to be done."

"And what I am about to do must be done. We both have our reasons, don't we, Peter?"

He was trembling again. He didn't know why. He wished she'd smile. Come to him for comfort as she

had when she was younger. Her pain was so raw. Everything was slipping away from him.

"Do you remember the gypsy, Peter?"

He nodded, then wiped his hands across his eyes. He was tired, so tired his mind would work no more. "Good night, Natalie."

"Oh, no! YouTl listen!"

"Tomorrow . . ."

"No! Now! Indulge me, Peter. That much you owe me."

Peter slumped into the chair by her door. "Be quick then. I'm tired."

"Of course," she smiled. "The last time I saw the gypsy, before Callie went with me, she told of the future. Now, HI tell you, for it concerns you as much as it does me."

"I don t care what the old woman said, Nat." He straightened in his chair, looking at her curiously. "Natalie ... do you know ... do you realize what happened here today . . . about Pa?"

"Your wife is not your wife alone, Peter."

"Natalie, for the love of God! Listen to me! Pa is dead!"

"She lies in your bed only at night," Natalie shouted.

It all flooded back. He thought perhaps it was he who was mad. The confusion, the unreality, the sickness and dreadful suspicions. "My wife lies in my bed at night, and in my bed alone. In the day she is in the house with my mother. There is no more than that."

"And when she gives birth to a child—the image of his father—then will you admit I have spoken the truth? Will you then see that she loves Albert? Not you! Never you! She loves Albert! She wants him! Goes to him! Albert! My Albertr

The ruined door slammed crookedly as Peter fled the room.

Peter slowed when he reached the door to his own room. It was quiet. There were no small rustlings of the sheet to indicate Rosalind was awake waiting for him. But he needed her. She had to make him believe again. Surely she'd know, be able to sense the chaotic tumult that raged inside him. She was his wife. None other's.

Peter was not a man who cried. He had always believed it was a sign of weakness. But as he lay beneath the sheets that night tears stung his eyes. Rosalind's still form lying beside him seemed to confirm the hate-filled accusations Natalie had hurled at him. Though he wouldn't turn to his wife—couldn't—he was tense, despair making his chest and stomach hurt as he waited hopelessly for her hand to bridge the chasm he couldn't. He waited for the slightest movement of contact that would free him.

He remembered as clearly as if it had been yesterday, the day, during their courtship, that he had taken Rosalind to Seven Oaks the first time. She had worn a simple white organdy gown she had designed and made herself. It accentuated the sweet innocence that should have been hers had her father not robbed her of it. Her long hair fell softly to her shoulders. Her hazel eyes, almost blue that day, with the golden flecks sparkling, looked to him trustingly. He had never been prouder than he was that day to have her by his side. Perhaps it was the first time he realized she was his in every sense of the word. She needed him. She loved him. And he loved her.

He remembered the shy, shocked surprise in her eyes when he had boldly introduced her as his future wife. She had expected him to be ashamed of her. But

he hadn't been. Never had been. He had introduced her to Mr. Richards at the oast house, and then to Mr. and Mrs. Beggs, proprietors of the inn where he boarded when business kept him overnight in Seven Oaks. How she had looked at him! And how beautiful she was. All he had been able to think was, "She's mine!" His thoughts had begun and ended with that. Away from her father and the tavern, she was the softest, most loving creature God had created.

He had been so sure he could keep her that way. And yet, tonight, he lay in his bed beside her and ached with doubts and bitterness, no longer certain that she was faithful to him or loved him.

Again the salty tears stung his eyes. If only they were free, away from everything, everyone. Rosalind in the white virginal gown, the soft adoring smile on her parted lips, the love glowing on her face, floated tantalizingly close, yet disappeared before his eyes.