Bitter Eden (36 page)

He looked up. The dark brown eyes she looked into showed the tortured dullness of disbelief without intelligence. He opened his mouth, but no words came.

"Take her to her room. Take her to the bedroom, Peter." For a moment Anna's voice took on a depth and authority unknown to her. Callie glanced from Peter back to Anna, and then to Peter once more. He didn't seem to understand anything she said to him. Anna kept repeating herself and saying in a prayerful voice, "Bring Frank quickly. Peter—listen to me— please hurry, Frank. Peter, take her to your bedroom. Dear Almighty Father, help me. Help us all."

She placed her hand on his arm, pushing gently at him. He took a step forward only to stop again. He looked down at Rosalind's face.

Frank and Stephen had also heard the shots, but it had been difficult to tell where they had come from.

Frank's attitude was not so easygoing as Peter's had been. "Damned poachers!" he had muttered and mo-

Honed Stephen to follow him. "Got to get rid of the bloody nuisances before the pickers come . . . someone will get hurt with those jackanapes around here."

They ran into the woods, thrashing about then standing still to see if they could hear a noise that would indicate where the poachers had gone. Eventually they made their way to the hop pickers' cottages. Frank began to run. He had sent Peter there to work on the roof. His first thought was that perhaps there had already been a hunting accident. The bale of thatch was lying in the clearing. Fear shooting through him, Stephen sprinted past Frank the last few yards to the cottage. Its door was partially open.

He flung the door wide, then stood stonelike at the entry as Frank pounded up behind him.

"What is it? What do you see? Is it Peter?"

"Albert . . "

Frank's feet hit one of the dueling pistols as he tried to push Stephen from the door so he could see. Both men looked down at the pistols.

"Oh, my God!" Frank breathed, hunching down to pick up the guns. "These are Pa's guns. What's happened here? Get out of the way, Stephen," he said and peered into the room. Albert still lay across the bed, the wound ugly on his forehead. "Oh, God, no! Why did I send him here?" he muttered, stuffing the guns into the belt of his pants.

"What are you doing? What happened? You mean you know!" Stephen asked.

"I might," Frank said grimly. "Go outside and look around. See if you can find Peter."

"Peter?"

Frank walked over to the table and picked up Rosalind's hat from where Albert had placed it. He waved it in Stephen's face. "Yes, go and see if you can find him. This is Rosalind's hat These are Pa's guns.

They came from our house. Use your head, man, think what he is likely to have walked in on!" "Is he dead?" Stephen asked.

"Of course, he's dead. Snap out of it, and find Peter/'

Stephen backed from the cottage. He found Rosalind's horse, but not Albert's. There was no sign of Peter except for the bundle of thatch. He returned to the cottage to tell Frank. "What should we do? Why should Rosalind's horse be left here?"

"I don't know. Oh, God. I don't know what to do. It's nothing we can hide. We should send for the magistrate. Oh, God!" Frank searched the cottage, trying to think what should be done. He wanted to protect someone . . . maybe it was Rosalind who had done it and not Peter. He didn't know what to do or think, or which was the worst thought.

He was still in his quandary when the fear-crazed little scullery maid ran up the path to the cottage, babbling an incoherent tale of a man coming to the house bearing a dead girl. His mind, racing into blankness, made no connection between what she said and what he had already seen. Fear for Anna replaced all his worries about Albert, Peter, and Rosalind. "Go notify the authorities, Stephen. We've got a madman running loose."

"Frank—wait. We don't know what happened . . .* "Do as I tell you! You're not in Poughkeepsie now. This is my home, and I'll protect it as I see best! Hurry! We've no time to waste. I've got to see to Anna." He ran from the cottage, pounding his way back through the woods to the main house.

Anna managed to get Peter to carry Rosalind upstairs, but she succeeded in little else. The cook, who had heard the scullery maid's cries, came to view the

episode and took to screaming where the other had left off.

Peter moved with his dead wife toward their room. The shrill sounds of the cook's voice accompanied him like an unearthly dirge.

Anna saw Frank running toward the house from the bedroom window. She sank down on a chair. It seemed like hours that she had been trying to get Peter the short distance from the scullery to the bedroom. She could deal no more with Peter s stupefied silence than she could with the cook's mad lament She ran down the stairs and lunged for the protection of Frank's arms, trembling against him.

His chest felt like it would burst. The sounds, the fear, the sight of his house flashed and shuddered inside him as he was assured that Anna was all right. Everything that Peter had touched in passing bore the faint markings of Rosalind's blood.

"Are you sure you are all right? You haven't been hurt? Do you know what happened?"

He listened as Anna tried to sort out the happenings of the last half hour. When she finished, his face was the color of the well-scrubbed scullery floor. "Has Peter told you anything?"

"Not a word. Frank," she began in a quaking voice, "Frank, why did you ask that? Surely, you can't think . . ."

He walked to the foot of the staircase. "Isn't there some way to quiet that woman? God alive, she's stirring the demons. Can't you do something?"

"Frank! Answer me, please. Why did you ask about Peter? Please, I have to know."

"Albert is dead as welL He was shot . . . Oh, my God!"

"Whatisit?W/*rf?"

"I sent Stephen for the deputy magistrate. Anna, run. Get someone to stop him!"

"We can't hide it . . . not Albert's death. No matter who-"

"We can give ourselves some time. Do as I say, woman, or he'll hang with no questions asked. Do you want that?" He stormed past her, headed for the stairs and Rosalind and Peter's bedroom.

Peter was sitting on the side of the bed, Rosalind across his lap. He was staring at her in the same senseless way he had before. The tears sprang to Frank's eyes as he looked on the broken sight of his brother. He reminded Frank in this moment of Natalie, so vulnerable and fragile no matter how ferocious her temper was. But Peter was anything but fragile.

Frank brushed his big, work-hardened hand across his face, wiping the sentiment from his mind as he wiped the tears from his eyes.

He asked nothing of Peter then. He lifted Rosalind from Peter s lap and placed her on the bed, arranging her riding habit as best he could. He pulled her riding jacket across her. Then he led Peter from the room, steering him down the stairs to the study. He put a glass of brandy into Peter's hands and guided it to his lips. "Drink it All of it."

Peter drank the liquid, felt it burn down into his stomach. He slumped into a chair, holding his head in both hands. The brandy glass rolled on the floor.

"Oh, iny God, Frank, she's dead." His shoulders began to heave, and without another sound Peter Berean began to grieve for his wife, not yet considering how or with whom he had found her.

Frank watched and waited at the far end of the room. He turned away, not able to bear the sight of Peter without breaking down himself.

Anna hurried back to the house breathless and pale. Frank stepped out of the study to talk to her.

"I sent John after Stephen," she said. "I couldn't find him. Was Stephen on foot, or horse?"

"I don't know. He could have come back for a horse . . . probably did. Did you look to see if one was gone?" "No. No, but I can . . ?

The animation left Frank's face. "It doesn't matter. He had the horse Rosalind rode to the cottage this afternoon. I'd forgotten. It doesn't matter. It's too late now. I should have known better than to send him. He didn't want to go and I insisted. I wasn't thinking . . . I . . ."

"Who is able to think at a time like this? At least you got the cook to stop screaming. Bless you for that, and maybe Stephen will decide on his own that he should wait before going to the magistrate . . . deputy magistrate. Oh, dear Lord, Frank, what are we going to do?" Anna glanced in the direction of the study. "Mother Berean will be coming in from her outing with Jamie at any time. How can we tell her this?"

"We can't hide any of it or soften it, Lord knows. We'll just have to tell her plain and straight This isn't the end of it, Anna. It's just the beginning."

Again Anna looked at the study door. "Has he told you anything?"

Frank shook his head. "But he was there. I know he was. That was my fault too. I sent him to repair the roof. The thatch was lying outside the cottage where he must have dropped it I should have known better."

"You can't blame yourself for a tragedy like this, Frank. If it hadn't been Peter who found them it

would have been someone else, and it would be just as bad."

Frank shook his head. His hands ran through his coarse hair. "I knew they met there. God, I knew it, and still I never once thought about it this morning."

"You knew what? Surely all that talk about Rosalind and Albert wasn't true • . . it was all talk, wasn't it?"

"No. It was true. It's been true for some time, and when Peter came back they started up all over again. Even that first night they were here. They didn't even try to hide it. That's what Peter and I argued over."

Anna looked at him, baffled. "You knew this all along, and never said anything! Nothingl"

"No."

"But why? Maybe . . *

"It wouldn't have stopped anything. You saw what happened when I said something the night they came back. Peter flew off the handle. You know how he is . . . never listens to anything. Maybe he never really believed the rumors. I don't know. Maybe he didn't want to face the truth. And they were going to be leaving soon. I thought it was better to leave it alone. After all, Rosalind and Albert had gotten by for years without anything happening."

"Oh, Frank."

"Not now. I don t want to talk about it anymore. Go see to Rosalind. I've got to talk to Peter and see if there is anything that might help. We may not have much time. Anna . . . ?"

"Yes?"

"If ... if he ... if Peter is the one, I'm going to get him out of the country before . . ."

Anna looked worriedly at him for a moment, weighing the risks of what he proposed; then she smiled and nodded. She knew him far better than he knew him-

self. She watched as he hesitated at the study door, then closed it softly behind him.

Frank, slow by nature, was a workman unused to prodding shocked, silent men. He was near the end of his patience and pacing the floor nervously when Stephen came into the room.

"Did you find out what happened?" Stephen asked, and then looked toward the hearth of the shadow-ridden room and saw Peter gazing into the blackness of the dead ash fire. "It's true then?"

"It's true. Both of them are dead. Peter brought Rosalind here."

Stephen s face softened in compassion. He no longer listened to Frank talking, but went to Peter s side, hunching down on the hearth rug. Neither said anything and Frank left the room. Meg came home while Stephen was with Peter. "TO go to him. Let me see my boy!" she cried after Anna told her what had happened.

"Let Stephen tend to him, Mother Berean. Peter is so dazed I don't believe he knows what is going on," "But he's my son."

"He is no one's son right now. Leave him to Stephen. He seems to take comfort from Stephen." "But . . ." Meg began anxiously. "Mother Berean—Natalie . . . think of Natalie. She has not been told yet. She doesn't know anything. We thought it best to wait for you, but we must hurry. Both the scullery maid and the cook were here and saw everything. It will be all over the village before long. We don't want her hearing from someone else." Meg sat down unsteadily. "Natalie," she breathed. "Dear merciful Lord, what will come of my precious little Natalie?"

"Albert's mother must be told as well."

Meg nodded. She went first to the study. She laid

her hand on Peter s white-blond hair, but he made no response. He clung as he had been to Stephen. She went upstairs to Anna.

"Gather up Jamie's things. Well take him with us. Callie can't manage everything here/* "But do you think we should?" "Yes. There will be two of us there, and the Foxes have servants to help us. We cant leave it all on Callie. And I don't want the child out of my sight for a moment now," she said firmly.

Marsh drove them to the Foxe house. All the rooms were lighted. Inside Mrs. Foxe was annoyed and irritable that Albert was late for supper. The Foxe servants knew what had happened, but none had the coin-age to tell their mistress. Mrs. Foxe knew only that Rosalind Hawkes had returned to the Berean farm, and since her arrival Albert had been unreliable and short-tempered with Natalie and herself.

As Meg and Anna and Jamie were ushered into the house by the butler, Mrs. Foxe stood arrogant and regal at the end of her hallway.

Meg bustled past her without greeting, leaving to Anna the unpleasant task of telling Mrs. Foxe her son was dead. She went straight to Natalie's room, clutching Jamie against her.

Natalie was in her bed, surrounded by billows of white pillows and lace. Her face was like a cameo framed by the dark clouds of her hair. "Hello, Mama," she said sweetly. "I didn't know you were coming to visit this evening."

Meg stopped short Natalie smiled. "Oh, you brought Jamie to see me too. What a nice surprise. I hope Albert comes in soon. I'd like him to see me holding a baby."

Meg could hardly speak. She cleared her throat and concentrated on the lacy cuffs of her daughter's night-

dress. "Nattie, I haven't come here for a visit exactlv." "Why then?" Natalie asked, her head cocked to one side.

"Natalie . . ."

She frowned. "Did you come because vou knew I didn't feel well today, Mama? But how did you know? The doctor said I had overdone yesterday. Did he stop by to see you too? There's nothing he's keeping hidden from me, is there. Mama?"