In Memories We Fear (16 page)

Two days later, he was invited to tea.

He had no idea how to behave “at tea,” but Opal and her mother managed everything, and all he had to do was sit and eat and discuss the Christian merits of Daniel Defoe’s novel
Robinson Crusoe
—a book Maxim had always found rather dry, but which Opal seemed to find fascinating.

Right in the middle of things, Mrs. Radisson suddenly asked, “Mr. Carey, what does your father do?”

The question caught him so off guard that he answered, “He owns a number of fishing vessels.”

This seemed a good answer, somewhere between the truth and a lie. His father owned one, small decaying boat from which he barely carved a living . . . but he did own it. Mrs. Radisson nodded in approval.

After tea was finished, he felt he’d conducted himself well, but in truth, he was beginning to fantasize about what Opal’s slender body looked like beneath her dress . . . what her skin would feel like against his hands.

Their friendship continued in this vein of his visiting with her at home (in the company of her mother) for several months. As of yet, he’d spoken to her father only once—and briefly at that. Mr. Radisson was one of the wealthiest merchants in Hastings. He owned six trading ships and spent much of his time either at his office or at the Mistletoe Coffeehouse near the south docks, where he made many a deal.

Maxim did not understand merchants any more than he understood fishermen.

Then, one day, just as he was about to leave the Radissons’ house, Opal picked up a basket of jam jars by the front door.

“Mother,” she called, “may I walk to the rectory with Maxim? I know you wanted to send the vicar some of your new jam.”

Families like the Radissons did not attend the same church as families like the Careys, but the upper-class families sometimes sent gifts to various members of the local clergy.

Mrs. Radisson walked quickly into the foyer, her forehead wrinkling. “Oh . . . I was going to send Nancy with those later.”

Nancy was one of their servants.

“I’d rather take them myself, if it’s all right,” Opal said. Her voice sounded like music to Maxim, and he watched the delicate hollow of her throat as she breathed.

“Of course,” Mrs. Radisson answered, somewhat nervously. “Mr. Carey, would you invite your mother to tea next Thursday afternoon? I have been remiss in not asking her before.”

His mother?

The ground felt as if it were slipping beneath his feet. He could just imagine the result of Mama’s coming here for tea. Not only would he lose his friendship with Opal, he’d probably also lose his position.

“I would be honored,” he answered. “I’ll give her the invitation this evening.”

Mrs. Radisson smiled at him openly and handed him her card. “Please give her this.”

He slipped it into his pocket and opened the door for Opal. Then, for the first time, they found themselves alone, walking down the open street. The sensation was quite liberating. He wondered what it would be like to be her husband, taking walks together on summer afternoons, listening to her play the piano in the evenings, drinking tea in their own tastefully decorated parlor. . . .

“Oh, Maxim, look at these climbing roses.”

She stepped ahead of him to touch a mass of yellow roses clinging to a wrought-iron fence, and as she moved, his eyes dropped to her hips. A rush of desire hit him so hard, he stopped walking. He couldn’t stop picturing himself running his hands down her bare sides.

“They’re lovely,” he managed to say.

Upon arriving at the rectory, he opened the main doors to let her in.

“Brandon?” he called. In recent years, he and his mentor had grown more informal, but he found the vicar preferred to be called by his surname.

This place felt like home, and Maxim often wished it were his home. He was proud of his deep connection to the scholarly vicar and this peaceful place.

No one answered.

“Is he not here?” Opal asked.

And then, Maxim realized that he and Opal were truly alone now, behind closed doors.

“You can put the jam in the kitchen,” he said.

She followed him to Brandon’s small kitchen in the back of the rectory. Maxim watched her set the basket on the table. Then she turned toward him slowly.

Without thinking, he crossed the short distance between them and took her by the waist, pressing his lips against hers. She responded, kissing him back, but when he slipped his tongue inside her mouth, she gasped and drew away, staring at him with wide eyes.

He was shaking slightly, fighting himself not to grab her and kiss her again.

“I . . . I should go home,” she said.

“I’ll walk you,” he said hoarsely.

 

A few days later, Brandon was not behaving like himself. Maxim had no idea what was wrong, but his mentor seemed unable to focus on anything that afternoon. Then finally, Brandon put away the copy of Voltaire’s
Candide
they’d been trying to discuss, and he took out a volume of Shakespeare’s plays. Maxim hoped they might pursue a discussion of
Macbeth
. It was a favorite of them both, and they often debated that play when nothing else could pique their interest.

“Maxim . . . ,” Brandon began, then trailed off. He did not appear to be thinking of
Macbeth
at all.

“What’s wrong?” Maxim asked.

“I want you to read
Henry V
by Thursday evening. I know we’ve never studied that play, but there’s a reason.”

Maxim nearly winced at the mention of Thursday. As of yet, he’d not decided how to make excuses for his mother’s not coming to tea at the Radissons’. Of course, he hadn’t even mentioned the invitation to Mama, but now he had to think of some plausible excuse to give Opal’s mother.

“Did you hear me?” Brandon asked.

“Hear you? Yes,
Henry V
. I’ll read it.”

“Don’t discuss it with anyone. Just read it and then meet me at Carp’s Pub for a drink at eight o’clock.”

“The pub?”

To the best of his knowledge, Brandon had never stepped inside a pub.

“Yes!” Brandon answered sharply. Then he closed his eyes. “There is someone I want you to meet, one of my teachers from Oxford. He’s German, but he speaks a number of languages. When he questions you, don’t try to agree with him to be polite, and don’t argue just to impress him. Tell him exactly what you think.” He opened his eyes again. “It’s important, Maxim. Read the play.”

Wordlessly, Maxim took the book from his hand.

 

By the time eight o’clock on Thursday night had arrived, Maxim had grown more curious about this impending meeting. He’d managed to plead that his mother was “indisposed” and gracefully avoid the afternoon tea. Mrs. Radisson had been disappointed—perhaps even mildly distressed—by his excuse, and he knew it was just a stopgap, but for today, he’d avoided disaster.

So when he walked through the door of Carp’s Pub that evening, his thoughts turned to the prospect of a scholarly discussion with one of Brandon’s old teachers.

Perhaps his expectations were colored by some preconceived idea of an Oxford professor, but unconsciously, he expected to find a short, rotund, balding man wearing a black robe and thick spectacles.

“Maxim,” Brandon called from a table near the bar. “Over here.”

Maxim walked slowly, with his eyes locked on Brandon’s companion, and for the second time in his life, he felt a jolt.

“This is Adalrik,” Brandon said, standing.

Even while still seated, Adalrik appeared unusually tall. He was somewhere between fifty-five and sixty years old, with a narrow, handsome face, and long steel gray hair tied back at the nape of his neck. He wore a finely tailored suit.

Maxim could not help noting that Brandon did not include any kind of title in Adalrik’s name—nor did he specify whether Adalrik was the man’s Christian or surname.

Adalrik intently studied Maxim’s face before saying, “My God.”

“I tried to tell you,” Brandon answered.

Maxim shifted uncomfortably, as they spoke of him as though he weren’t there. Then he sat down.

“What will you drink?” Adalrik asked.

Maxim had never heard a German accent before, and he rather liked the sound.

“What are you having?” he asked.

“Red wine.”

“That will be fine.”

Brandon sat quietly with a mug of dark ale, and once the pleasantries were over and more drinks were ordered, Adalrik leaned forward and asked, “Did you read the play?”

“Yes.”

Suddenly, Maxim felt eleven years old again and that this was the same crucial moment when he’d asked Brandon about Achilles.

Adalrik sat back again, sipping his wine. His eyes were an unusual shade of very light brown. “The accepted interpretation of King Henry V in Shakespeare’s play is steeped in awe. He’s viewed as the finest and most virtuous of English kings. He defeated the French in the face of great odds and was hailed by the English as a hero.” He paused. “Do you agree?”

For a few seconds, Maxim said nothing, thinking on Brandon’s instructions not to try to impress Adalrik, but simply to express his own opinion.

“No,” he answered.

Adalrik raised his brows. “Why not?”

“Because he had no justification for invading France, and he goes to the bishops only so they can provide him with some propped-up justification. He invades France because . . . because he wants to. I don’t find that heroic.” Maxim placed both hands on the table. “Then he executes his friends Cambridge, Scroop, and Grey for treason without giving them any chance to explain themselves . . . and I think he must have once loved Scroop, because he said, ‘Thou knewst the very bottom of my soul.’ So they must have been close. A hero doesn’t murder a beloved friend without at least giving him a chance to explain himself.”

Maxim let his thoughts roll through the play, which he could still see clearly in his mind. He remembered almost everything he read.

“Henry tells his soldiers they can’t raid any farms or villages for food during the invasion out of compassion for the French,” he went on, “but then he doesn’t find any way to feed the soldiers himself, and he hangs Bardolph for stealing a plate from a church to buy food.” His mind’s eye was moving faster, but this time backward through the play. “At the gates of Harfleur, he tells the townspeople that if they don’t surrender to him, he’ll send his men in to rape their daughters and bash their old men’s heads against the walls and—”

“Stop,” Adalrik ordered.

Maxim froze midsentence, worried he had committed some breach. But Adalrik turned to Brandon. “Is this him speaking or is it you?”

“It’s all him.”

Adalrik stood up. The pub was becoming crowded by this time, with a dull buzz of voices all around them. “It’s been a pleasure, Maxim, and at my age, I don’t say that often.”

He turned abruptly and walked out the front door, leaving Maxim sitting in confusion.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” Brandon answered quietly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“He’s not really one of your professors from Oxford, is he?”

Brandon’s eyes grew sad. “Not exactly. He’s the one who got me admitted to Oxford, prepped me for the oral exams. I wasn’t sure how to explain him to you.” He leaned forward, gripping his ale mug tightly. “He made me an offer once . . . that I could not accept. He was disappointed, and it’s weighed on me ever since.”

“What offer?”

“For a much different life than I wished.” His mouth formed the hint of a smile. “When I was young, I longed for education, but after that, I decided I wanted a quiet life in a place like this . . . with perhaps a few students to keep my mind sharp.”

“Why did I have to tell him what I thought of the play?”

Brandon shook his head and would say no more.

 

Maxim was alone at the rectory in the early afternoon, trying to get a fire restarted in the kitchen. Old Mrs. Tillard was dying, and Brandon had gone to comfort the family. Maxim had accidentally let the fire go out, and now the blackened logs smoldered before him. An autumn chill had set in upon Hastings, and the room was cold.

A knock sounded.

He stood quickly, heading to the door to tell the visitor that Brandon was not in. But he opened it to see Opal standing on the other side. She wore a dress of cream silk that made her hair look even more vibrant, and he drew in a sharp breath. Since he’d kissed her, she’d been a little uneasy around him.

“I’m alone,” he said instantly, politely warning her that she’d best not come inside. “Brandon’s at the Tillards’.”

“I know,” she answered. “Mr. Jacobson delivered our milk a little while ago, and he told Mother. I made an excuse to slip out. I thought you might be here.”

Maxim tensed with a kind of hope. She’d come here on purpose, knowing he was alone? He stepped aside and let her in, closing the door softly behind her.

“Maxim,” she breathed, turning to him. “I’m so sorry about before . . . I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you . . . to stop thinking about—”

He needed no more encouragement and took the back of her head in his hand, pressing his mouth upon hers. This time, she responded with force, kissing him back and opening her mouth.

The room didn’t feel cold anymore, and his mind filled with images of her lying beneath him. He didn’t even try to stop himself. Still kissing her, he pulled her through the kitchen into Brandon’s room and pushed her down onto the bed. She didn’t protest but ran her hands up his back, kissing him harder.

Later, he barely remembered the next few moments, but everything seemed to happen quickly. Breathing harder, he moved his hands to her breasts. Then he pushed her skirts up and pulled his trousers open. When he entered her, she cried out once, but he didn’t stop, and then she was moving with him until something inside him exploded, and he was gasping into the pillow beneath his face.