The Language of Paradise: A Novel (32 page)

Is it bad luck to shut luck away? Pent up, does it sour like milk? Quickly she transfers the rabbit to the palm of her hand and strokes its ears, placating. Whoever carved the little creature put so much life into it that it seems fidgety; she would swear to a quiver beneath her finger. She shuts her eyes and takes a deep breath. “Please don’t . . .” she whispers, and then, “Please protect . . .” It sounds too much like a begging prayer, and she realizes, once she begins, that she isn’t sure what to wish for.

Downstairs, someone is knocking on the door: one hesitant, two firm, right on time.

THEY HAVE SENT
Mr. Brown instead of Mendham. There’s luck in that—mercy, too—though the news he brings is all over his face. He takes off his hat and holds it to his chest, leaving wisps of gray hair standing on his pate. The sight of the three of them assembled in the hall, dressed in their Sunday clothes, must intimidate the poor man; he looks from Mama to Gideon, uncertain whom he should address.

“Come in to the parlor, why don’t you, Mr. Brown,” Mama says. “You might as well be comfortable.”

Mr. Brown follows her in but refuses a chair, so none of them sits. He clears his throat. “Parson Birdsall,” he says. “As you know, the congregation voted this morning, and I regret that it did not go your way. There were several who spoke up for you—I think your heart would have been touched by their sincere expressions—but in the end, you did not have the support, sir.” He waits, anticipating a fusillade, but no one speaks. “If I may venture an opinion, your gifts are wasted in Ormsby. We’re country folk here, we haven’t an ear for eloquence, or much practice in indulging the imagination, but in Boston you would be among your own. You would be at home there, sir, and your young lady, too.”

His eyes rest briefly on Sophy, then fasten on Mama. “Fanny—” he says. He was a friend of Papa’s long before Sophy was born; Papa used to say they grew the congregation together. Mama nods and reaches out to take his hand.

Sophy is proud of her family. Even at this moment, Gideon stands straight and tall, a shining pillar. He thanks Mr. Brown for his efforts in the most gracious way, assuring him that his suggestions will be considered, that he will always be a friend. Mama exudes dignity. She is the soul of calm as she escorts Mr. Brown—rotating his hat in an agitated manner and declaring he never thought he would see this day—to the door. Then, without a glance at either of them, she stalks back to the parlor and plants herself in the middle of the settee.

Sophy sits beside her. “Mama, we all knew this might happen,” she says. “It’s quite a common thing for a pastor to move from one congregation to another. Remember Mr. Otis from Duxbury? And him with five children. Think of that!”

Gideon follows her in. He stands before them with shoulders sagging, looking as if he would scrape his forehead on the floor if he could. “Mrs. Hedge—Fanny—please forgive me. I tried my best, but I am not the Reverend, there’s no help for it. I can only be what I am.”

Mama pays them no mind. She stares stonily at the portrait of her husband over the fireplace. Contemplation has never been her natural state, and it does not become her. In the clear afternoon light Sophy sees how much she has aged since Papa died, deep lines running from cheek to chin, making her face look even longer.

“Thirty years,” she says at last. “Gone. All gone. Soon you will be gone too.”

JAMES AND MICAH
return later in the afternoon. They had chosen to attend the crucial meeting, though the family was exempted. Micah goes straight upstairs to the attic, but James lingers.

“You’ve brought it on yourself,” he tells Gideon. “Folks can’t live on fairy tales.” His dogged righteousness could almost pass for satisfaction, Sophy thinks. Since his disappointment in love, he has taken refuge in Papa’s Calvinism and nourishes himself strictly on the dry biscuit of the Word, having sifted out the Reverend’s leavening enthusiasm and buoyant hope. “I doubt you’ll get another parish in these parts,” he says. “You had better give some thought to how you’ll support my sister. Maybe you can do some tutoring until you find a post.”

Sophy waits in the kitchen in gathering gloom. This first day of April has delivered a light rain, and the muted tapping on the roof suits her mood. The others have retreated to their rooms. The supper hour is approaching, but no one ventures out except Micah, who ducks into the pantry without a word to her, and hurries back upstairs with the remains of yesterday’s loaf tucked furtively under his arm. At half-past five there is another knock at the door.

“I hope I’m not intruding, Mrs. Birdsall,” Leander says. He taps his slouch hat, releasing a small shower. “After the day you’ve all had, I thought you might be in need of a little restorative. I happened to have a bit of salt beef that Mrs. Pierce was kind enough to bring me for the holidays, and a few oddments left over. If you don’t mind dining on the salmagundi of a bachelor’s larder, I’ll leave them with you.” He hands Sophy a basket covered with a brightly patterned cloth that resembles one of his scarves. The unexpected weight of it almost unbalances her.

For once, Sophy is glad to see him. “Come see what Mr. Solloway has brought us!” she calls, and in a minute the hall is filled, each of them lured like mice from their holes.

Half a joint of beef, pickled cabbage from Leander’s own recipe, roasted potatoes, a bottle of Madeira wine, even some coffee in a twist of paper. Sophy arranges the bounty on the table, and they discover hunger in spite of themselves. It is remarkable, she thinks, how the instinct for life persists, even when all seems at an end. They are reconstituted as a family just by the act of eating together. Gideon still occupies Papa’s old place at the table. But from the moment they sit down, the family has a new head.

There never was a question of Leander leaving. Still, she is dazzled by the easeful way he assumes authority, insisting she and Mama rest while he serves, pouring the wine, getting the conversation going and fanning it when it falters. Gideon says grace, as usual, though it is clear whom they really have to thank.

“Leander, I can see why you have no need of a wife.” Mama pats her lips with a napkin. “But you shouldn’t have brought so much. You could have eaten for a month on what you’re feeding us tonight.”

“Better to enjoy it in your good company than at my desk, with a book in one hand and a knife in the other. I felt such a lifting of the spirit after escaping the meeting that nothing but a banquet would do. I’d gladly have brought a dressed pheasant and an oyster pie, but the humble fare before you was all I had.”

“If you’d stayed till the end, you would know we have no cause to celebrate,” Mama says. Gideon looks first at Sophy, then down at his plate. James and Micah go on eating, the stolid clink of their knives and forks on Mama’s good china the only sound in the room.

“Dear lady, allow me to differ with you. Change is always a cause for rejoicing. New life, new possibilities! I say we drink to Gideon Birdsall, one of the most extraordinary men it has been my privilege to meet in any corner of the globe. May his future be worthy of his abundant gifts, and may all our stars rise with him.”

Leander raises his glass, the wine shimmering in the candlelight, and drains it by half. The other glasses are full; no one has indulged except Micah, whose cheeks, always rosy, have turned a hectic red. Now Mama drinks, pursing her lips as if funneling hot soup, and Sophy lifts her glass for Gideon’s sake. She’s only had a few sips of wine in her life, and never cared for more; the sour taste doesn’t appeal to her. This wine is different, sweet on the tongue but a trifle sharp when swallowed: like drinking rubies, Sophy thinks. She is pleased at how easily it slides down, pleased that it tastes the way it looks. Only James abstains, keeping to his customary milk

and refusing even to join in the toast.

By the time coffee is served, the atmosphere in the house has changed. The men lean back in their chairs. James lights his pipe and asks Micah if he wouldn’t like a puff, now that he has acquired the vices of a man of the world. Micah obliges, aping the gentleman as he makes a show of sucking in smoke. He expels it less elegantly. “I p-p-prefer wine,” he declares, when he can speak. Mama has recovered enough spirit to protest that the smell of tobacco puts her off her food, but she seems in no hurry to collect the plates and shoo the men into the parlor. Sophy reaches for Gideon’s hand under the table, and is pleased when he gives it a little squeeze. The table is a raft, and they are all clinging to the edges. Knowing what uncertainties await them tomorrow, she wishes they could stay afloat forever.

Leander offers the bottle around one last time and pours the last drops into his own glass.

“You’ll never guess what Gideon and I discovered on one of our rambles the other day,” he says. “As handsome a house as I’ve seen since I came back east, marooned in the middle of a wood. Gideon had an idea that you might be the architect, James. If so, I congratulate you. I knew you were an able man, but never imagined your gifts lay in that direction.”

No one mentions the house in James’s presence. The last time Mama ventured to ask about his plans for it, he didn’t speak for three days.

Leander takes no notice of the ice in the room. “Architecture is one of my passions, you know. I’ve done a bit of building myself. Gideon is the soul of reticence and would never think to ask, but I wonder—would you consider taking us along the next time you inspect the castle? I’d dearly love to see the interior.”

Gideon drops Sophy’s hand.

“I never go there. It has nothing to do with me anymore.” James directs his words to the table. He pushes his chair back with a scraping sound.

“Never go there? Leave that fine property to the squirrels and mice, and any tramp looking to keep the rain off his head? All manner of folk roam about these days. A whole tribe of Gypsies could be encamped in your parlor, and their goats and chickens, too. Only last week a fellow came to the schoolhouse door wanting food. Filthy, a pirate’s patch over one eye. I gave him what I could, though he had a distinct look of the jailhouse about him.”

“Whoever finds his way in is welcome to it. The place is a burden and a curse. They’d be doing me a service if they set it on fire.”

Leander shakes his head. “Destroy what you made? My friend, the house isn’t to blame for the hopes invested in it. It’s a thing of beauty, thanks to you. Why not look beyond dashed expectations and put it to good use? Build a new life for yourself there. Rent it or sell it. But don’t let it turn into a habitation for ghosts.”

“I’ve had enough of beauty . . .” James mutters. He stands, his pipe awkward in his hand, an artifact of an easeful moment. “The house is mine, and I’ll dispose of it as I will. It’s no business of yours.”

He is having one of his silent fits, Sophy sees. His thoughts rage and batter him from within, and he shakes with the effort to contain them. He was never meant to be so angry, she thinks; he lacks the constitution for it. The pipe is trembling. He grips the afflicted wrist with the other hand, dumps the tobacco on his plate, and stalks out. They hear his footsteps in the hall, the front door slamming shut.

Mama reproaches Leander with her eyes before she can bring herself to speak. “What were you thinking, stirring him up so? Hasn’t Gideon told you?”

Leander nods solemnly. “Better to lance a wound than let it fester. Poor boy, he holds his pain too close. He must be made to release it if he is ever to be free. Forgive me if I spoke untimely, but I thought to spare the rest of you. An outsider wields a more efficient knife, and has a thicker skin to ward off blows.” He glances at Gideon out of the corner of his eye, all the while sending sympathy across the table. “Don’t disturb yourself, Missus. James will come around, I’m sure of it.”

Sophy feels that current again, passing between Gideon and Leander. She has sensed it more than once, and each time, the words that ignite it are tame to the point of blandness. James’s condition is a sorrow, but why should a simple wish for his improvement kindle such interest? It’s as if something lies beneath the words, a meaning known only to the two of them. A code she can’t penetrate. She looks hard at Gideon, sending him her own message.
I am the wife! You can’t have secrets from me.
His face has relaxed, now that James is gone. He seems very young at this moment, with his hair brushed back from his brow and his wide blue eyes musing aimlessly. The corners of his mouth are lifted in a private smile. Look at me, she commands him. I dare you to.

Leander is the one who meets her gaze. “Sophia,” he says, speaking her name as if he always addressed her so. “If Mrs. Hedge can spare you, won’t you join us in the study? Gideon and I have been having such good talks about the vision of the
artiste
. It’s time we tested our theories on a practitioner.”

CHAPTER 27

____

SMALL RED ROOM

T
WO SUNDAYS AGO THEY MOVED HER EASEL INTO THE
study—a liberty she never dared ask of Gideon. This afternoon, at Leander’s request, Sophy is rendering the room. She has told them she is no better at interiors than at capturing faces.