Here Comes a Candle (18 page)

Kate took a last bite of huckleberry pie.
“
You
’
re tired, honey, aren
’
t you? It
’
s been such an exciting day. You
’
ll excuse us?
”
To Jonathan.

“
Of course. But you
’
ll join me for coffee when Sarah
’
s in bed.
”

“
I don
’
t believe so. Not tonight. If you
’
ll forgive me? I
’
m a little tired myself.
”
And he would never know what it cost her to say that.

Luckily, Sarah went to bed without a murmur, and at last, safely tucked in, with her rag doll beside her, she held up demanding little arms and pulled Kate
’
s face down for a touching, unpracticed kiss, her first.

Hugging her warmly in return, Kate swallowed tears with an effort. Sarah knew something was wrong and was offering her comfort.
“
Good night, honey,
”
she said,
“
it
’
s all right, bless you.
”

And, alone at last in her room, faced just what she had said. In effect, she had promised Sarah that nothing should change. She had promised to stay. And how could she, now she knew that she loved Jonathan? She ought to go, anywhere, anyhow. She made up the fire with a shaking hand. She could not go. That quick kiss of Sarah
’
s had settled it. Sarah needed her. Nothing else mattered but that.

Or was she deceiving herself, snatching at excuses to stay in Jonathan
’
s house? Impatiently, she moved over to gaze into the glass that hung over her dressing table. Huge eyes, pale face, softly curling hair ... a perfectly good face
...
one to be forgotten, to be taken for granted, as Jonathan Penrose took her for granted. There it was. She made herself conjure up the imagined face of Arabella behind her own. Golden Arabella with the honey-colored hair and amber eyes. Arabella, whose spell drew her husband back to Boston even from the daughter he adored.

Well then, what she, Kate, did was surely her own affair. If she chose to stand by Sarah; to fight this feeling that had grown in her without her knowing it, there was nothing to stop her. In fact, there was nothing else she could do. It was not only that she had, quite simply, nowhere to go; there was another problem; how could she explain her going? She imagined it and blushed with rage.
“
Mr. Penrose, I
’
ve fallen in love with you. I must leave.
”
Impossible
...
intolerable even to think of it. But what other explanation would satisfy him?

So: fight it, conquer it. Of course she could. And oddly, comfortingly, an early memory
of her father came back to her. It must have been a long, long time ago. Mother had been alive, had been sitting in her low armchair, pouring tea, while Father paced to and fro across the little room and talked about the sermon he was writing.
“
Man decides for himself,
”
he had said.
“
That
’
s what distinguishes him from the other
animals
.
”

Strange to remember so clearly. Mother had put down the teapot and looked up with that wistful smile of hers.
“
Decides right?
”
she had asked.

He had stopped his long-legged pacing to look down at her with the smile he kept for her alone.
“
Ah, if we could be sure of that,
”
he had said,
“
we
’
d be angels, wouldn
’
t we, love?
”

And Kate had thought this curse, this jealousy a new thing. Now, remembering that smile of her father
’
s, she knew it for old—as old as childhood. Her father had never looked at her like that. And she had tried so hard after her mother had died, tried to have everything as he liked it; tried, with a child
’
s passion and a girl
’
s diffidence to keep things the same in a household where everything was horribly changed.

Of course she had failed.
“
Man decides for himself.
”
Poor Father. Had he seen himself deciding to forget his sorrow in drink, to let it all go
...
Sermons botched up anyhow, parish duties neglected, his daughter
...
Stop there. And yet, looking back, she thought that probably she had done her best. A child
’
s best, where a woman
’
s was needed. And it had all led gradually, horribly downhill to Charles Manningham.

She turned back to the glass, fighting thoughts that shamed her. He found me attractive, she had caught herself thinking. Odious
...
disgusting ... Attractive? The haggard face mocked her from the glass. Nonsense. So: man decides for himself. And I decide to stay with Sarah. After all—but it seemed a long time ago now—she had decided, once, to be dead. In a sense, everything, since that night, was unreal, post-mortem. I
’
m a ghost, she told herself, what I do now, concerns me alone.

But her sleep that windy January night was haunted by the old nightmare. Whose hands were they this time? Charles Manningham
’
s, or—unspeakable—Jonathan
’
s?

The Penrose House in Boston was in Mr. Bulfinch
’
s Adamstyle Tontine Crescent, where so many of Boston
’
s leading Federalists lived. Jonathan had bought it for Arabella from Mr. Bulfinch
’
s creditors early in their married life, when nothing was too good for her. Now, facing her across her Chippendale dining table, he found it hard to remember himself as that infatuated young man.
“
I
’
m sorry I was late again,
”
he said patiently,
“
the meeting ran longer than I expected.
”

“
They always do.
”
Arabella
’
s mouth had taken a sulky turn this winter, and there were new lines around her eyes.
“
Politics
...
politics
...
politics! Can you think of nothing else? You
’
re even neglecting the business for them, and I never thought I
’
d see that day. And your precious Sarah, for the matter of that.
”

“
Sarah
’
s all right; Mrs. Croston sees to that. She
’
s improved beyond recognition this winter.
”

“
Certainly beyond mine.
”
There was a new bite to Arabella
’
s voice.
“
Since I am not permitted to see her. My own child!
”

“
Do you wish to?
”
He asked it quietly enough, but his eyes held a challenge.

“
Well ... of course ... a mother
...
”

“
A mother who thinks her child wo
u
ld be best in an asylum? I don
’
t care what tales you tell your friends, Arabella, but don
’
t waste them on me. It
’
s not to see Sarah
that you want to go out to Penrose. Nor yet for the pleasure of my company. So—why? Except, of course, as a means to blackmail.
”

“
Blackmail! That
’
s not a pretty word.
”

“
It
’
s not a pretty thing.
”
He poured her a glass of madeira.
“
Come, Arabella, we
’
re beyond quarreling, you and I. We made an agreement last fall. Your allowance increased if you stayed away from Penrose till I gave you leave to return. And, to prevent talk that troubles you so, I would come into Boston at least once a week. Admit, I
’
ve kept to my side of it.
”

“
Of course you have, since there have been these dreary political meetings for you to go to.
”

“
These dreary political meetings, Arabella, may decide whether these United States are to remain united or not
.
”

“
Oh, I know that.
”
Impatiently.
“
It
’
s the common talk. Mrs. Quincy was saying only the other day—
”

“
I
’
m sure she was. Do you think, if it was secret, that I would mention it to you? But the fact that the likelihood of the New England states
’
seceding from the Union is public knowledge makes it more important, not less. I know you care nothing for politics, Bella, but had you thought of the practical aspects of secession?
”

“
Practical? What do you mean?
”
She did not sound much interested.

“
Why: just this. You like money, don
’
t you? Then think for a moment where it comes from. My entire production at the manufactury is turned over to government stuff now—to uniform cloth and blankets. If we secede and make a separate peace, who
’
s going to buy them? And where will the money for your French silks come from then?
”

“
You could sell to the British.
”

“
Never! Oh yes, I know about the brisk trade in co
rn
and cattle that goes on across the northern borders, but don
’
t delude yourself I
’
ll ever join in anything of the kind. Just because our farmers feed the English troops, don
’
t think I
’
m going to clothe them. I
’
d rather go bankrupt. And you wouldn
’
t like that, would you? Where would your blackmail money come from then?
”

“
I wish you wouldn
’
t use that word!
”

He cracked two walnuts against each other in the way that had always annoyed her.
“
Do you know, Bella, you
’
re getting a terrible trick of frowning. It will mar your looks if you don
’
t take care. Where do you drink tea tonight?
”

“
Nowhere.
”
She flounced to her feet.
“
Who invites a woman whose husband never accompanies her!
”

“
Good gracious.
”
He was a man of mild expletives.
“
Times are changed indeed. I can remember the day—and not long past, either—when you positively urged me to stay at home and rest after my day
’
s work. What
’
s the matter, Bella? Are your devoted swains turning coy? I can
’
t believe they
’
ve gone off to the wars.
”

“
Well—have you?
”

He laughed and rose to his feet.
“
You win, as always. So—since it seems to be all I
’
m good for—if you will excuse me, I will return to my politics.
”

NINE

“
The spring
’
s on its way at last.
”
Jonathan had just returned from Boston and was stamping snow from his boots under the front portico
.

“
Yes, that
’
s what Job says,
”
Kate followed Sarah, who had run headlong downstairs to throw open the front door and jump into his arms.
“
We found a green plant where it
’
s thawing by the river,
”
she went on.
“
Job says it
’
s called skunk cabbage. Of all the unromantic names for the first green sign of spring!
”

Jonathan laughed.
“
You ought to know by now, Kate, that we
’
re an unromantic lot, we Americans. And none the worse for that. I remember one time when I was in England, I happened on a book of poetry called
Lyrical Ballads,
and a fine lot of nonsense it was, too. Though come to think of it, there was one about a sailor that had something to it. What was it called?
”