Here Comes a Candle (12 page)

Her taunts echoed, that night, through Kate
’
s recurring nightmare. They had opened up the old wound. Once again, in the mounting terror of her dream, her father fell dead across the table, once again Charges Manningham—she woke there, sweating, and lay for a long time, eyes open to stare blankly into the darkness, trying to convince herself that it was all over, all past, to be forgotten. What had happened, had happened. The present, and Sarah, were what mattered now. Because she was almost sure that there was something she could do for Sarah.
This
was more important, surely, than the old disaster? And, thinking of Sarah, she smiled and slept quietly at last.

SIX

Agreeing to give Kate a trial, Jonathan had not specified how long it should be. At first, inevitably, he was full of doubts, which Arabella
’
s harping on the mystery of Kate
’
s past had exacerbated. It was true that he knew nothing about women. His own disastrous marriage was proof enough of that. Memories thronged to mock him: of how he had adored Arabella, of sleepless nights, pacing the deck of the ship he had named after her, dreaming of her, aching for her. Well, he thought bitterly, at least he would never make such a fool of himself again.

And yet—he had taken Kate on trust. He ought, he knew, to have looked at her papers that first night when she had offered them. He ought still to ask her about her background, but always when it came to the point, when he saw her
flinch
away from the first hint of a question, he could not bring himself to do it. And, besides, there had been something oddly convincing about the way she had turned on him, that first evening:
“
If I
’
m to do anything
for Sarah, I must have a free hand.
”
It had shaken him—he was not used to being crossed—but it had also given him hope—a hope that time was to strengthen. Kate
’
s instinctive understanding of the child was worth any amount of doctors theory. The two of them were inseparable, spending most of their time out of doors as the brilliant New England summer days ripened toward fall, and already both of them looked the better for it.

Sometimes he asked himself, as he watched them chasing each other across the lawn and in and out among the locust trees by the river, what it was they had in common. Something there was, he felt sure. Kate was good for Sarah because of some deep need of her own that complemented Sarah
’
s. Or was he being absurd? Very likely. But his rash act was justified a thousand times by results. Sarah had actually put
o
n a little weight; the bones were less obvious in her face, and her bouts of senseless, horrible screaming were rarer.

Kate remarked on it timidly, over dinner one still night of early September.
“
Don
’
t you think she
’
s better?
”

There was something rather touching about the appeal for praise.
“
I really think she is. A little.
”
He reproached himself, afterward, for his caution. Why not give her the encouragement she deserved? After all, she had been with them three months now. It was time to stop thinking in terms of a trial and make a permanent arrangement. If only he could bring himself to ask her about her past, to clear up the nagging little doubt that recurred every time he found her poring over the newspaper accounts of the war.

Of course it was natural enough that she should do so. But always, when he tried to tell himself this, he was stopped by memory of her frantic tone, back in York, when she had begged him to take her away.
“
There
’
s someone
...
someone in the 98th. If I have to meet him again, I think I
’
ll die.
”
Surely no innocent relationship could have left such a legacy of terror?

And yet—did he really want to know about it? Was it this, in fact, that dried the questions on his lips? Whatever shadow lay over Kate Croston
’
s past, there was no question that in the present she was what Sarah needed.

But it irked him. It was against all his practical businessman
’
s instincts. Problems should be faced, doubts resolved, issues brought out into the open. He was brooding about this as he walked the short way home from the factory next day. Usually, Sarah would come flying out when she saw him, with Kate smiling behind her. Today there was no sign of them and he knew one of those instant pangs of almost unbearable fear to which he had become accustomed since Sarah
’
s illness. He took the porch steps at a bound and was instantly aware of bustle in the house, of a distinctive, heavy perfume in the air. Arabella.

“
Well, Jonathan.
”
She was standing, golden, impassive, more beautiful than ever, in the wide doorway of the drawing room.

“
Well, Arabella?
”

She looked him up and down with that mocking half
-
smile of hers.
“
Don
’
t you think, my love, that a speech of delighted surprise would be in order?
”

He looked down the hall. No servant
in
sight, but still no need to conduct this conversation so publicly. He ushered her into the drawing room.
“
Surprise, certainly. But if you expect delight
...”
He closed the door.
“
I thought we agreed, when you insisted on going, that you would stay in Boston until I advised your return.
”

“
Yes.
”
Her voice was mocking.
“
So we did. To give Mrs. Croston a chance to get acquainted with Sarah. I
think
I must be very stupid, Jonathan. It had not occurred to me that I was giving her a chance to get acquainted with you.
”

“
Oh?
”
He looked at it for a moment from all angles. Then,
“
Someone has been gossiping? Mrs. Peters, I suppose.
”

“
Gossip!
”
She made it a challenge, then seemed to think better of it.
“
Based on nothing, of course. You only have to look at the poor little mouse.
”
A sideways glance enjoyed her own reflection in the big looking glass over the fire.
“
No; Mrs. Peters has said nothing; to me, at any rate. Frankly, I should think better of her if she had. But there
’
s talk in Boston just the same. A good deal of talk. I value our good name too highly to let it go for nothing, a poor little drab of a nursemaid. So I
’
ve come to
ask you to face the facts, at last, about Sarah. It
’
s hopeless, and we must admit it. God knows we
’
ve tried everything. They think your mad journey to Canada quite romantic in Boston. Miss Quincy was saying so just the other day. But it
’
s no good, Jonathan, Dr. Smedley says so:
‘
Tell
him
to stop breaking his heart over the impossible,
’
he said. And he knows a thoroughly genteel place in Salem, Jonathan, run by a widow lady of his acquaintance. Only a few patients, you understand, and the very best of care, Jonathan!
”
She was pleading with him now, the big eyes seeming almost ready for tears.
“
You know—we must face it, you and I: it
’
s she—poor crazy child—who
’
s come between us. Only send her away and you will find everything as it used to be. We will be happy again, Jonathan. How can we be, with things as they are now? With her screams always in our ears?
”
She put out a white hand to touch his shoulder appealingly.
“
Remember what it used to be like?
”

“
Yes, I remember.
”
He brushed the hand away like a spider.
“
I was mad for you, if that
is what you mean—and I suppose it is. Until you turned me out of your bed after Sarah was
born
because you
’
d
‘
never go through that again.
’
I suffered then. I don
’
t think you
’
re capable of understanding what I suffered. And now—am I to understand that you are offering to bribe me with your
‘
favors
’
”
—
h
e made the word sound obscene—
“
if I will agree to send Sarah away to some genteel madhouse kept by friends of that ass, Smedley?
”

“
But Jonathan,
”
the huge eyes held real tears now,
“
you know you always wanted an heir—a Penrose to carry on the name.
”

“
Yes, so I did. It
’
s hard to imagine. As for your offer, it
’
s too late. That
’
s all over: dead as yesterday. You can
’
t bring back the past, Bella. We have to think of the future now, and Sarah.
”

“
Sarah!
”
She spat it out.
“
Never anything but Sarah. I warn you, Jonathan—
”

“
Yes? Warn me? Do you, perhaps, wish to change the terms of our bargain?
”

“
Bargain? What do you mean?
”
She was shaken now, wary.

“
Oh—a tacit one, of course, but a bargain nevertheless. Granted, I did not understand at the time that you were marrying me for my money, but that was my fault. You
’
ve said yourself that I don
’
t understand women. Well, you should know! I was a young fool when I met you, believing a thousand impossibilities a minute. I
’
m older now, wiser perhaps, but the bargain holds so long as you keep your side of it.
”

“
Which means?
”
She had given up the attempt to charm him, and moved away to gaze moodily out the window at evening mist rising from the river.

“
That you continue to behave like my wife. And—so far as you are able—like Sarah
’
s mother. And that, by the way, involves courtesy to Mrs. Croston, whom we will be meeting for dinner. Otherwise—
”
He left it to hang ominously in the air.

Kate and Sarah had spent the afternoon picking huckleberries in the big meadow that lay on the far side of the carriage road, and Kate had been congratulating herself, as they walked contentedly homeward through lengthening shadows, that the child really did show an improvement. Oh, nothing spectacular. She did not speak, and would not meet your eyes, but she seemed to understand more of what was said to her, and better still, she seemed more able to concentrate her energies, to go on contentedly doing the same thing. A month ago, it would have been quite impossible to spend a whole afternoon like this one, peacefully filling their baskets with the crisp, shining berries. Not that Sarah had picked steadily, when there
was so much wild life to distract her—a chipmunk chattering at them from his vantage point on a wall, a snake
’
s cast-off skin glimmering by the path, and, as always, her favorite butterflies to chase. But these had been the activities of any ordinary child. It was only as the shadows lengthened that she began to play that strange and, to Kate, ill-omened game of laying out sticks and stones and anything else she c
o
uld find in an endless line.

Seeing this, Kate had picked up her basket at once.
“
Time for home, Sarah.
”

They had walked back cheerfully enough, Sarah dragging behind a little; needing to be sung to, one of the marching songs she loved.
“
Some talk of Alexander
...” O
ddly inappropriate, Kate thought wryly, here in the New England countryside in the second year of her war with old England. But in this sun-drenched late summer landscape it was easy to forget the war and
think
only of today, and the improvement in Sarah. Something heartwarming, something to tell Jonathan Penrose over dinner.

Disconcerting, then, to go in by the kitchen door with their berries and recognize instantly crisis in the air.