Bitter Eden (39 page)

The remaining part of the day he spent in his cell, save thirty minutes in an exercise yard with walls so

high he was never certain he was really outside. In his cell he found the time and the silence he learned to dread. He could reflect without respite that this was the way he would live his life from this time forward, unless Van Diemen's Land could offer something better.

Slowly the hope began to emerge and grow. As one day passed and blended into another, he believed nothing could be worse than the constant agonies of physical strain broken by hideously lonely, quiet isolation which could not be tempered even in conversation with other prisoners.

Peter s original sense of outrage was quickly gone. There was no place for it in Newgate, where cries of innocence and agony fell on deaf ears as did cries of rage and death. One thing that was quickly learned in prison was that no convict's life was as highly valued as that of the most lowly beast of burden. Every other feeling soon became secondary to a claustrophobic fear of abandonment that grew hourly.

It was during those long lonely hours in his cell that he began to think of Callie. He couldn't think of Rosalind. That day in the cottage always crept in, tainting every good moment of their marriage. He no longer knew if he had ever had an honest moment with Rosalind. And he didn't dare to think of Natalie. In those thoughts were guilt over the things he had not done for her, those times when he hadn't listened and hadn't believed her. And there was bitterness. No matter how badly he might have wanted to save her from the horrors of an asylum, he had not wanted to bring this relentless punishment down on himself. Though Peter knew—if it ever came to be—that he would refuse any help Natalie might offer him, it still hurt deeply that without a word she had allowed him to accept the burden of her crimes. Rosalind, Na-

talie—thoughts of them brought him nothing but pain.

But his memories of Callie were pure and clear.

There were so many times he could think of with Callie; she had marred none of them with lies or longings to be someone else or someplace else. He remembered the May house, the first time she had ever really turned to him. It was like the birch trees being a signal of spring: pheasants begin to crow; the thrush lends its song to the air again; then the oak begins to bud and the finch to sing. All of it was tied with his thoughts of Callie and what had begun with the building of her first May house. He thought of the trust and the love she had given him that wintery Sunday. She had taken his hand for the first time then, as she did so often when she felt the need to touch someone she knew to be real. "It's too beautiful, Peter. It's too beautiful." He had held her that day, kissing her on her cheek, trying to comfort

Now he clung to that memory as he would to a floating log in a raging river. He began to long to see her, to be able to touch her and know she was real, as she had once reached for his hand because she was afraid happy times would never be real.

The Bereans said little about Peter while they were all gathered together. The mere mention of Peter s name sent Frank into an ill-tempered tirade. It was the most grim reminder of all, forcing them to see how hopeless the situation was. But Stephen, fighting his feelings of resentment against Frank, had kept silent about Peter as long as he could.

"There is no way to know how long Peter will be kept at Newgate," he said at dinner several days after the trial. Tve asked around, and we-can see him— take him food and clothes—as long as we pay the

turnkey. I've been told they are quite amenable as long as they get paid enough."

"I have no brother named Peter/' Frank said, reaching for the ale. "He died."

Stephen sat silent for a moment, controlling the anger that boiled inside. Finally he said calmly, "I have a brother in Newgate Prison. I would like to do whatever I can for him/'

"Do as you wish," Frank said.

"I need to borrow some money. I've already sent to New York instructing Jack to make payment to the bank here, but there isn't time. We never expected—"

Frank burst out with a harsh laugh. "Money!"

Stephen gritted his teeth. "Yes, money. You'll get it back^ and you never need ask for what it is being used. I am still your brother, aren't I? Or do you consider me dead too?"

"Don't be an ass."

"Then lend me what I need, Frank."

"You want me to do something I believe is useless, more than useless—I think it is bloody wrong. No matter what words you use, it is still the same. If I give it to you, it is the same as giving it to Peter. Peter is dead to us. The dead don't need comfort; the living do. Learn to accept it. One day you'll thank me for making you see it now."

Stephen took a deep breath, his eyes darting around the room in frustration. The plate before him was untouched. Finally his eyes rested on Frank again. "Frank, please, lend me the money I ask. I'll have to get it some other way if you don't. You can't stop me, you can only make it more difficult."

"Get it elsewhere. I haven't got it to give even if I were inclined to do so."

"You haven't got it," Stephen repeated disbeliev-ingly.

"You heard me. I haven't got it. I'm not your rich brother; I'm the poor fool who got left behind in Kent. Remember? The one who shouldered the responsibilities for the family while you and Peter made a new life." Frank shoved his chair from the table and left the room.

The following day Stephen took the postechaise into London. He found a larcenous turnkey without difficulty and visited Peter for the first time since his arrest.

"My God, you're here!" Peter cried. "How did you do it? Blessed Heaven, you're a welcome sight." He laughed, hugging Stephen, then stood back to look at him, then hugged him close again, needing to be touched.

"Are you all right, Peter? You're well? They haven't . . . haven't hurt you? Do you need anything?"

"No, nothing. I'm well. God, it's good to see you. How did you do it?"

Stephen rubbed his fingers together. "It's not difficult if you oil the hinges properly. Ma sends her love. And Anna."

"And Callie?"

Stephen shrugged, smiling. "You know Callie. She'd dig through the walls of this place given the chance."

Peter looked pensively at the tiny grated window at the top of his cell wall. "Will she come?" he asked hesitantly.

"Here?"

Peter looked down at his feet. "You're right, of course. This is no place for her. I've just been thinking about her lately. She's so—fresh, you know. She makes you think of spring and—well, it's no matter. A prison is not the place for spring, is it?"

"No, it wasn't that. I wasn't sure you'd want to see

her . . . here. She wants to come. She wanted me to ask you, but . . ."

"She will come!?"

"Next visit/' Stephen said, standing. "That's a promise. Ill bring her myself."

Callie came to London with Stephen the next trip. It was the last trip Stephen could pay for without jeopardizing their return to America. He took her to Newgate, saw her safely inside, and then went to the Old Bailey Boiled Beef House to wait for her.

The turnkey took her to Peter's cell, letting her inside with a leering wink in Peters direction. She stood just inside the heavy door. He looked at her as though he was afraid to touch her.

"Peter?" she said softly. "Is it all right that I am here?"

Still he said nothing and did not move. She walked close to him. "Oh, Peter." She stood near, her eyes roving over his face. "Are you all right? They haven't hurt you?"

He touched her hair, then her cheek. His arms went around her, pressing her tight against him as he swayed back and forth, burying his face in her hair, smelling the sweet scent of fresh country herbs she carried with her wherever she went.

She sat down beside him on his cot, holding his hand in both of hers as she told him about Jamie and Meg. Jamie had a new tooth and three new words. Peter had avoided thinking of Jamie. He came too close to other questions Peter would still not consider. But from Callie's lips Jamie seemed entirely his son, because he seemed to be Callie's. She had always been more mother to Jamie than Rosalind had. He wondered why he hadn't seen that before.

"Will you come back again?" he asked as she got leady to leave.

"I'll try."

He took hold of her arms, looking anxiously into her eyes. "You must come back. Promise you will. I need to see you again. Without you here, there's . . . don't leave me alone, Callie," he ended and turned from her.

It was her first and only glimpse of how he truly felt there, perhaps because such a request was so unlike him, or perhaps because of the look of fright that he hadn't been able to hide. "I'll be back, Peter. Stephen and I both will. We'd never leave you or stop believing in you. You know that. It is only the truth."

He looked at her intently and then rushed over to her. He held her head in the vise of his hands, burning the impression of her face and eyes deep into his memory so that he wouldn't be alone again that night.

Stephen went to work on the neighboring farms to earn the money for them to use in bribing the turnkey until Jack managed to send funds to them from New York. In the beginning he and Callie took turns seeing Peter. As it grew nearer the time when he would be taken to the hulks before transportation, it became obvious that it was Callie he wanted and needed to see more often than the one day a week she and Stephen had been visiting him.

With each visit the demands of the turnkey became greater, and the money harder to come by. Step by step Stephen began to do more and more menial labor for less pay. Many times he found himself working for families who had worked for Frank. He would take any work he could find and with it he took the humbling so many people seemed to want to give.

"Will we be able to visit Peter this week?" Callie asked. "There won't be many more times, and he does seem to take comfort when we're there. It's your turn

to go, Stephen. Will you have the money in time? Perhaps we could ask Frank again. It wouldn't be much this time/'

"Don't think about the money. We'll have it."

"Then you'll go!"

"It's you he wants to see, CalKe."

"And you. You take your turn. I want you to."

Stephen pressed the money into her hand. "This isn't all of it, but I'll have the rest in time. You go."

"It isn't right, Stephen. You do all the work to get us there. You take your turn. I know you want to see him as much as I do."

"I said, you go! No more argument, Callie. The decision is made and as you have said, I earned the right to make it." He was angry at himself for urging her, at Peter for depending so much on her, and at the look on her face that told him how much it had cost her to urge him to take his turn. She was beginning to want to see Peter as much as he wanted her to be there.

His lips were pressed shut so no sound would burst out unbidden, so he wouldn't take hold of her shoulders and shake her as he told her in fierce torrents of words that there were dreadful moments when he wished Peter were already gone, safely away from their lives. Tell her of nights he had cried as bitterly and harshly as he had heard her cry for Peter; but that his tears were those of shame and loathing guilt born out of the awful, fearful thoughts when he was glad of what had befallen his best-loved brother, because he loved and wanted the woman he saw falling in love with that brother.

He stood before Callie tall and angry. Shame poured from him like sweat as he thought of her. His voice quivered as he forced it into softness. "I want you to go, Callie. You can do far more for my brother now than I."

Callie's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Stephen, you are truly one of God's children/' She moved close to him, kissing his cheek. "I don't understand you, or your angry moods, but I couldn't go on if you weren't there. You are my courage, Stephen.''

He took a deep breath, placing his hands on her shoulders, pushing her away from him. "You would go on, and so must I. As long as the jailer keeps demanding more money, we're hard-pressed to keep a shilling ahead of him. I'll be back sometime tomorrow or the next day."

"You can t! Where • . . you can't leave me . . . not now. Peter . . ."

He put his finger to her lips. "There is no work near here. I am merely going farther afield. If you're going to comfort Peter, we must have the money. 111 go where I can get it"

She smiled apologetically. "I should have known."

"Yes. You should have known," he said quietly and left her.

Stephen walked. He and Frank barely spoke now, and Stephen would take nothing from him he didn't consider a necessity. A horse was not a necessity. It made his chore all the more difficult, but it made him feel a little cleaner inside.

Everywhere he went he became a curiosity as soon as his name was known. A few times he had given a false name, but he was too well known throughout the parish. The false name discovered, elicited more excitement and suspicion than when he simply said who he was and faced the questions and innuendos.

He had learned a great deal about people, none of it particularly favorable. Too many of them enjoyed knowing a person suffered, just as they enjoyed acting the bright sympathetic role that would encourage

their victim to talk so they could enjoy his suffering all the more.

Half the day passed before Stephen found any work at all, or anyone who would hire him. Finally a woman offered him three shillings to cut her wood. It was quite a lot to pay a laborer, and no matter what his name, or how wealthy he and Peter were in America, at this time Stephen was a laborer and learning what it meant to work at anything and live on nothing.

"Mind you stack it properly. I'll not pay for any job not well done."

Stephen touched his cap. "Yes, ma'am. It'll be cut and stacked to your liking."

"Umm," she said, standing back, hands on ample hips, watching him. "You're the brother of that murderer they caught some weeks back, aren't you? I must be daft letting you come around here. No telling what might happen . . . having a brother like that an' all. They say things like that run in families. You like he is?"