Here Comes a Candle (13 page)

“
Huckleberries?
”
Mrs. Peters, who had urged the project that morning, promising pie, now sounded as if she had never heard of such a thing.
“
Oh
...
yes, thank you.
”
She put the big and the small basket down side by side and went back to her pastry.
“
Mrs. Penrose is home.
”

It came out oddly flat.
“
You
’
d best hurry, Miss Kate, if you
’
re to get Sarey to bed and be changed for dinner.
”

“
Yes, I will have to, won
’
t I?
”
Kate was very fond of Mrs. Peters by now, and found her habit of calling her
“
Miss Kate
”
as if she had been an unmarried daughter of the house particularly endearing.

It was one thing to intend to hurry; quite another to succeed. That was one time when Kate could almost have believed in diabolical possession. Where was the cheerful child who had hummed the refrain of
The British Grenadier
on the way home? Mrs. Peters, apparently anticipating trouble, had produced Sarah
’
s favorite supper of bread
and milk, and Kate, aware of thunder in the air, had begun the meal with a favorite counting rhyme:

“
Here
’
s a bite for the
Frolic

And one for the
Wasp
...”

It was no use. The bite for the
Frolic
was merely spat out, but the next one was snatched and thrown across the room. And then, while Kate was retrieving the spoon, Sarah picked up the whole bowlful and poured it on the floor at her feet.

Kate was tired too. In an instant of pure rage, she seized the child, ready—to do what? Controlling herself, she merely tucked her, with firm gentleness, under her arm.
“
No supper, then, Sarah? Right, then it
’
s bedtime.
”
Thank goodness she had insisted that Sarah have her meals in the little, unused morning room where she could clear up the mess at her leisure.

That moment of near-violence seemed to have had a chastening effect on Sarah. Getting her to bed was often a battle, but tonight she was almost alarmingly docile, and Kate got upstairs to her own room in plenty of time to wish she had something more elegant than a well-worn India muslin to put on for dinner.

She wished it even more when she finally got up the courage to join Arabella Penrose in the drawing room. She found her alone, a striking, sullen figure in a blaze of deep, green satin, and was not sure whether she was glad or sorry that Jonathan was not there to mitigate the meeting.

And yet it went off easily enough.
“
Ah, Mrs. Croston.
”
Arabella hardly looked up from the book of fashion plates she was studying.
“
I believe I am to congratulate you on an improvement in Sarah. Does she speak?
”

“
I
’
m afraid not. Not yet.
”

“
Not yet! I admire your optimism. In what, then, does this
‘
improvement
’
consist?
”

“
She
’
s
”
—how difficult it was to put a finger on it—
“
I don
’
t know, easier, more friendly
...
”

“
Friendly! I take it you like having bread and milk
t
hrown at you. I
’
m sorry, Mrs. Croston, but I looked into the morning room just now. The scene there hardly suggests improvement to me.
”

“
It
’
s true; she was a little difficult tonight, but I hope it
’
s just a temporary setback.
”

“
You hope! Well, of course, so do I.
”
She bent once more over her book, and Kate moved across the room to settle herself uncomfortably on the edge of a straight chair, feeling both angry and unwelcome.

Mrs. Peters had excelled herself, and dinner was a very much more formal meal than Kate and Jonathan were used to sitting down to, but Arabella, picking a morsel here and there, contrived to suggest that it was hardly worth eating. She addressed such remarks as she made exclusively to her husband and ignored his efforts to bring Kate into the conversation, so that it was with a sigh of relief that Kate escaped to her own room as soon as the meal was over. If this was what life with Arabella was going to be like, she could only hope that she would return to Boston at once. Or—she settled by the lamp with the dress she was making for Sarah—persuade Jonathan that she would prefer to dine by herself? But then—if his wife did go back to Boston—it would be almost impossibly difficult to rejoin Jonathan. And—face it—the evenings with him were an important part of her day! Without those easy discussions that ranged from Sarah
’
s behavior to his labor troubles at the factory and so—inevitably—to the news of the war, she would be hard put to it to keep any sense of proportion after the exhausting days spent with Sarah.

The trouble was, there was no one else to talk to in Penrose. Jonathan Penrose had at once explained and apologized for this before they had even got there.
“
It
’
s a tiny village—a hamlet really. I
’
m afraid y
o
u won
’
t find much society.
”

It had been, she had found, a massive understatement.

The factory workers lived in a huddle of cottages below the factory, where one shop, owned and run by an elderly, gossiping spinster, provided for their simple needs. Kate
’
s
greatest disappointment had been that there was no church. She had counted, more than she knew, on the society of a minister and his family. But the faithful of Penrose had to row themselves across the Charles River to church on Sunday. Jonathan had apologized for this, too.
“
My grandfather planned to build a church,
”
he explained.
“
He even had the plans drawn—and then came the Revolution. Well, there it is ... It was all my father could do to keep a roof over his own head
...
”

“
And you?
”

He had laughed.
“
I had quite forgotten you are a parson
’
s daughter, Mrs. Croston. Well—when this War is over, perhaps I w
ill
spend some of my profits on a village church. It might be a good investment at that.
”
And then, quick to see the change in her expression,
“
I
’
m sorry. That offends you.
”

“
It
’
s not that
”
(but, of course, to an extent, it had been)
...
“
It
’
s just
...
it seems so horrible to make a profit out of this war.
”

“
Not so horrible as to make a loss.
”
It had been characteristic—and unanswerable. Thinking of it now, as she sewed fine tucks in the muslin dress she had copied from Sarah
’
s shabby old favorite, Kate thought she would never understand the New England character, with its mixture of shrewdness and ideals, its factories and its Unitarianism. It was just like Jonathan Penrose to plan a church out of his wartime profits—and think of it as a good investment.

What was that? The sewing dropped from her hands and she ran to throw open the window and lean out. Sarah
’
s room was on the same side of the house as hers, and now she could hear the screams clearly. It was more than a month since Sarah had had one of these fits of endless, senseless screaming and Kate had hoped they were a thing of the past.

Pausing in the doorway of Sarah
’
s room, she saw that Jonathan was there already, bending over the screaming child.

“
Good.
”
He looked up and saw Kate as she hesitated there, wondering whether to leave him to it, since he was often the best medicine for Sarah.
“
I hoped you
’
d come
.
This is a bad one, I
’
m afraid.
”

It was indeed. Sarah was rigid on her back, a mindless,
screaming thing, more animal than child. And yet
she had seen Kate, her eyes flickered a little wider open, almost, it might be, in an attempt at a greeting, a recognition. But all the time the screams continued, piercing, mechanical, horrible.

“
You try.
”
Jonathan had seen that flicker of recognition and got up to make way for Kate on the chair by the bed.

Kate sat down and gathered the rigid child in her arms.
“
It
’
s all right, Sarah, my pet; it
’
s all right, my honey.
”
She crooned it over and over again, rocking the child to the rhythm of the words. She knew, by now, that in one of these fits, Sarah was beyond reasonable appeal. She would go on screaming until exhaustion plunged her into sleep; the soothing movement and rhythmic chant
might
just possibly speed up the process.

Jonathan was looking a question. For a moment, she stopped her chant to answer it.
“
I
’
ll manage,
”
she said. No doubt he wanted to join his wife downstairs.

Sarah
’
s eyes had flown open. The screaming intensified. At least it meant that the singing was doing some good. Still rhy
th
mically rocking the child, she had a question of her own.
“
What started it?
”

“
God knows
”

But downstairs, he crossed the drawing room to stand over Arabella.
“
What did you do to her?
”

“
Do? I? Nothing at all.
”

“
But you were in there.
”

“
Nothing of the kind.
”

Should he believe her? She was always most convincing when she lied.
“
At all events,
”
he said,
“
I
think
you
had best go back to Boston tomorrow, Arabella.
”

“
And if I say no?
”

“
I shall stop your allowance. But why should you? You always say you are bored to distraction here. As for your talk of rumors about Mrs. Croston and me— surely the worst thing we can do is to seem to take them seriously. You
’
d much best go back to Boston and the parties you enjoy.
”

“
But that
’
s just it. Everyone who is anyone has been out of town for ages now. Those who aren
’
t at Saratoga are at Ballston Springs. There
’
s hardly a soul I care for left.
”

“
Why don
’
t you go too?
”

“
Because I
’
ve no money, Jonathan. I don
’
t know where it
’
s gone to this quarter. If you could see your way to advancing me my October allowance?
”

“
So that
’
s it. You
’
ve outrun the constable again, have you? How much are you in debt, Arabella?
”

“
Oh nothing! The merest trifles. You know I promised you
...”

“
And I know what to think of your promises. No, Arabella, I will not advance you your next quarter
’
s allowance. That way lies bankruptcy for us both. You must learn to live within your means—God knows, they
’
re lavish enough.
”

“
Lavish
... D
on
’
t make me laugh! Do you know what one has to pay for French gloves these days? And as for their silks
...
why, it
’
s almost prohibitive.
”

“
But not quite? Blood money always comes high, you
’
ll find.
”

“
Blood money? What do you mean?
”

“
Has it really not occurred to you that goods from France must run the blockade, at God knows what cost in life and dollars? Of course they come high. I can only suggest that you try the effect of American gloves—and as for silk—when you next need a new dress, come to me, and you shall have the choice of what my factories can produce.
”

“
You
’
re joking.
”

“
Nothing of the kind. As a patriotic American you should be ashamed to be pouring your money into Napoleon Bonaparte
’
s pockets.
”

“
Oh, Jonathan.
”
She despaired of him.
“
What has patriotism to do with what I wear?
”

“
Everything.
”
But he knew he had no hope of convincing her.
“
How much in debt are you?
”

“
It
’
s nothing—a couple of hundred dollars at the most of it.
”

“
By which I reckon I had better understand five hundred. Very well, let me have a note of the amounts in the morning, and I will pay them for you. Debt, as you know, is one thing that I will not tolerate. But as for an advance on your allowance, that is out of the question.
”