Bitter Eden (27 page)

Not daring to find out if his longing hopes or his despairing doubts were the truth of his marriage, Peter stayed as far from his wife as he could. He lay awake, aware of her sleeping warmth beside him until it was dawn.

Before Peter could escape the house the following morning, Stephen came in to have his breakfast. "You are certainly a lie-abed today," he said testily. "I needed you to help prepare the wagon."

"I will." Peter pushed his plate aside.

"'Will' is a useful word. It's been done," Stephen said. He looked disinterestedly at his food.

"You've finished it, Stephen? I'm sorry ... I hadn't meant to shirk."

Stephen shook his head. "Forgive me. Nothing is right this morning. Even the sky is gray like a lead shield." Stephen looked out the window into the gloom of a rainy day. "For once I understand your

desire to leave. I never really have, you know, but I do now. It isn't so much like home as it was/'

"Since yesterday," Peter muttered.

"Before that. Papa died before that, I think. It hasn't been the same since the night of the fire. Something . . . the spirit of things has gone out of us. I don't know what I'm talking about. It is the day and the funeral coming that has me this way. I'm going to see to the last touches on the wagon."

Peter nodded and went back to his morose thoughts.

James, with all the regalia of a farm funeral, was buried two days later. With great disapproval his London friends followed after the simple procession bereft of their normal splendored phaetons and carriages. Meg had insisted. She and James had started out humbly in spite of James's superior birth, and he would go to his reward with the same humble simplicity. So it was a gaily bedecked and freshly painted farm wagon that carried her husband. Gallantly she ignored the appalled looks of some of the mourners and turned a deaf ear to the titters that spoke of her quaintness, and the ever present reminder that James had married beneath himself when he married Meg.

She supposed it was true. But one other thing was true. Without beauty of face, or accomplishment or family name, Meg was the one James had chosen to be his wife, and he had been happy with her. To be sure there were times when he had tried to convince her they would do well with a house in London to spend the winters, and that she should allow her cook and servants to take over her chores in the kitchen and house. She had tried but it never took. Within days she was back in her kitchen. She loved it there and felt both useful and sure of herself. The kitchen

and the nursery were her natural domains, and after several futile attempts James had given up trying to reform her. He had settled for a farmer s wife dressed in a lady's clothing and loved her all the more for it.

She wouldn't change now. All the sniggers and comments in the world would not stop her from giving James the kind of final send-off he would know he could expect from Meg. Laugh though they might now, she would lead them down the hill behind the wagon. They would march to the graveside and, in the country way, walk three times with the sun around the churchyard cross before laying James to rest. They would follow in the procession, having to admire James's carefully tended fields and the tall straight-backed sons who would carry on for him. And they would follow her back to the house and be pleased for her talents as they ate her food, prepared that morning and the night before.

Meg left her guests when they came back to the house. Not many of them stayed for long, and those who did would understand that she wanted to be alone. It was so much easier for her to feel close to James when she was alone. She went to the bedroom that was hers alone now and tried once more to reach him somehow, so that he could tell her how to deal with the problems ahead.

Chapter 17

Callie could never remember feeling more saddened or oppressed than she did those days after James's death. It was not like when her father had died. That had been a deep knife wound that had cut hard and cruelly, making her hurt and afraid, but this—this was far different and much worse. A knife wound healed. The Bereans showed no sign of wound or healing.

Perhaps too much had happened and too much had gone unanswered for any of them to come to terms with James's death. She didn't know, but she felt alone and more alienated than she ever had.

Stephen, upon whom she could always count for a good talk or a romp along the gentle ridges of his mountain, had buried himself in the brewery. For once he closed her out. She missed him. She missed them all.

Each of the Bereans had vanished to live solitary lives and struggle with solitary suffering in the private houses of their own minds. She missed them and went off, wondering if in solitude it was possible to reach upward to touch God, who alone touches each

life. Could He ever bring them all back together again? She went to Stephen's mountain; from there she could look back on happier days and remember scenes from a warmer time.

Peter waited for a month before he told anyone of his plans. He waited and looked on as Meg settled into listless sadness. She had turned to Natalie, pouring on the girl her affection and attention until she was bone-dry for the rest of them. By January he knew that if he were ever to speak, the time had come.

"I've given it full consideration, Rosalind. Well be leaving the farm," Peter said too loudly, the words seeming strange on his tongue. He had thought about leaving for so long and had done nothing, that now it sounded as though someone else had said it.

"Peter! Do you mean it?" She rose from the bed, going to him. "When? Where will we be living? London? No, not London . . . Manchester maybe, or the Cotswolds. Tell me!" she cried, putting her arms around his neck. "I am so happy. I thought we might always live here ... in this house. Peter, Im so happy."

He leaned back and gloried in her approval. It pleases you that much?"

Tve wanted it for so long. I know you'll do much better on your own. Frank is not half so bright as you," she said, kissing him. "And we'll live as people of our station should. We can entertain and go places . . . and our house will be the pride of the town. It will be the prettiest, most fashionable house you've ever seen. Peter, I'll make you proud of it . . . and me.

He frowned as he listened to her go on. "Rosalind, it won't be here."

She looked blankly at him. "We would leave England? Where is there to go?"

He laughed "There's a whole world to choose from. I was thinking of the colonies. I'd like to begin anew, start fresh."

"Colonies? Indial Oh, yes . . . yes! Arimintha Dowling has recently returned from there. She says one can live like royalty. She has three servants for herself, Peter. Oh, we could be quite something. Why, I'd never have to lift a finger. Oh, and I'm sure Albert's family would be pleased to help you get a position with the East India Company. Why, we would never have to see another field or pig or cow again. It would be heaven!"

"My life is those pigs and fields and cows you speak of. It's all I know, and all I care to know. I am a hop man, Rosalind. It's the American colonies I have in mind."

'That's a wilderness . . . whatever would we do there? They're not even British now."

"I've been corresponding with a man in New York State. He says the hop gardens there are as fine as they are here."

"Corresponding? And not a word to me! For how long?" she asked, then shook her head before he had a chance to answer. "I don't want to go there. It would be worse than going nowhere. The women work like field hands. You can't expect it of me. I won't go."

"We're going, Rosalind. As soon as the hops are planted," he said firmly and a little sadly as he realized that once again they were not going to agree. He got up from his chair and moved toward the door. Rosalind stood at the window, her arms folded around herself. "Rosalind—I wish you'd try to see it differently. There are cities in America as great as London.

You'll be mistress of your own home, and it will be a fine one, I promise you."

Silently she shook her head.

He left the room with his enthusiasm dampened but his resolve firm. He went to see Meg. She showed no surprise, and seemed only to be waiting for him to announce what she already knew.

At the beginning of February Peter went to London to book passage. When he returned home, he had the passage contracts in his pocket

"You finally did it, did you?" Frank laughed, clapping him on the back. 'It's a good thing. You'd never be happy here until you gave this a try. Now, when you come back we'll all be ready to go on. It's a great move you're making, Peter."

"I won't be coming back, Frank. When I go, it is for good."

"You say that now, but you'll be home soon enough, m wager you'll begin to see sense and be longing for home before the year's out. I know my little brother," Frank insisted as he settled down in James's chair. He lit his pipe, looked around the room. He sighed through his ring of pipe smoke, blowing it askew.

"I wish I were coming with you," Stephen said thoughtfully. There's no chance you'd be needing an extra hand, is there, Peter?"

"Stephen? You'd like to come?"

"I would . . . could you use me?"

Peter let out a whoop, then leaned forward, his face happy and excited. "I've been writing to a man in New York State. He tells me there's good soil along the Hudson River. Some of it cleared already . . . some not It would be hard work, Stephen, and no guarantee of success."

"There's no guarantee in anything. But if you'd

rather I didn't come—I understand. There are some things a man wants to do alone. This is your venture, and I . . ."

"No! You madman. You'd be a blessing. I want you to come. Truth is, I need you, but it's a hell of a thing to ask ... I can't let you agree unless I'm sure you know what you're getting into."

"I want to go."

Peter threw his head back laughing with the sheer joy and promise of it. "Ah, Steve, it will be good. The Berean Brothers' Brewery—finest in the new world . . . whole world."

"You're planning a brewery too?" Stephen asked agog. Instantly his mind caught fire, blazing in a whirl of thoughts. "Then I must come. What the hell do you know about brewing beer? I'm the expert here."

"What a team we'll make."

The evening wound to an end with the family content, toasting Peter, Rosalind, and Stephen.

Lulled and sleepy from the cider she had drunk, Callie said, "I think it would be wonderful to be going."

"You can have it. Believe me when I tell you it will

be nothing like Peter describes," Rosalind said. "Why,

it isn't even English! They haven't a king . . . not

even a queen. What sort of place can it be? How

"would one behave?"

Peter cocked his head toward Rosalind, grinning. "Listen to her. If there is no king and no queen, it must be nothing. You're a narrow little chit, Rosalind. They have a president, which is something on the order of a king, except that the people have a great deal to say about his activities . . . and the taxes."

"You should fit in there," Frank said.

"We shall," Peter said, rising and taking Rosalind's

hand. He looked at Stephen. Tm glad youll be going with us. Good night, everyone."

Rosalind's disapproval did not lessen as the days passed, and her temper reflected it. Peter wisely gave her wide berth. But Callie could hardly contain her excitement because they were going and she loved them. It was a little like going herself to be near them and help with the preparations.

"May I help you pack? Youll need to take just everything. You are so lucky. Imagine what it will be like ... it will be so much your own. Everything you build there and have will be yours and Peter s."

Rosalind watched her for a moment, then rolled her eyes into her head. "You are the most naive, stupid creature I have ever had the misfortune to run across. Will you kindly shut up."

Callie backed away from her. Tm sorry. I only wanted to help. I'm sorry you don't want to go. It sounds so 11106."

"Sorry, sorry, sorry! What have you to be sorry for? Just go away. Let me be, you little ninny."

"I will. Fm going." She went to her room and indulged in satisfying tears. She wanted to go so badly she could taste it It hurt more for Rosalind to express her dislike of the trip than it did to be left behind.

Rosalind shut and locked her door behind Callie. She dressed, taking particular care, and hurried unseen from the house. It was a bad time of year to be going to the hop pickers' cottages. The men were in the fields and might see her. She took the long way around, and was breathless when she arrived.

"Thank heaven, you are here," she said as soon as she opened the door. Albert sat stiffly on one rough-hewn chair. He always looked so out of place in this barren cottage, and that pleased her. She took off her

"Peter won't listen. He is going ahead with his ludicrous plans."

"I never doubted it." Albert stood, his arms open for her to come to him. "But I would rather you keep your mind on me for now." He kissed her.

She pulled away. "You don't understand. He's going to take me away from here—forever! It will mean an end to this—to us. I need your help. You've got to talk him out of it! You must. I can t go there. If you care anything for me, tell him what a foolish, rash move it is. You know about these things."

"He wouldn't listen to me. Peter is going, Rosalind. Must we talk about him all afternoon?" He sat down, pulling her onto his lap. "Be quiet. Let me look at you. Before long I'll need my memory to see you."

"What do you care?" she pouted. "You would never let him take me away to that awful place if I meant anything to you."

"I care," he whispered. Rosalind smiled and leaned back as he loosened her bodice. She was light and easy to carry to the bed. It pleased her to see Albert's well-practiced, deft fingers fumble with her hooks this afternoon. She lay back, uninvolved for once, as he became more urgent and clumsy with his own clothing. "You're a damned beautiful bitch, Rosalind," he murmured, looking at her lying there, waiting for him. She teased, taunted, gave in, moved away, then grasped at him as he did her. She prolonged their love-making as much as it was in her power to do that day. He lay back, covered with a thin layer of perspiration, tired and very satisfied.