Passion's Joy (30 page)

Joy did not betray Seanessy. Now done, it mattered not. He had told her why and that— even the motive to save Ram's life—mattered not. Pride, the cruel reality of soliciting Ram's loathing, scorn, fury mattered not. Armed only with the simplest, most fundamental code of honor held throughout mankind's history, she knew only that he must marry her.

He turned away to the brandy decanter again. Joy tried to button her blouse but her hands were stiff, still trembling. A silence returned, a silence broken at last by "I cannot marry you, and you cannot have my child."

She stared for a long moment until realization brought her hands to her mouth with a pained gasp. "I never." She shook her head. "Oh Ram, I know what name you call me, but I never ... you were the only one—"

"You don't know anything," he said meaningfully. "And God knows, girl, I am not questioning your chastity. If only I could."

He turned to the fire, staring at the bright flames, and then the awful truth was said at last. "The child cannot be born. My seed is stained with the madness of my ancestors; the child you carry is cursed with it. It is not the madness of a poor degenerate mumbling to himself on a deserted street— though aye, it has been known at times mercifully decayed to that—but by far it comes as a cruel, calculating and sick madness." He stopped with the horror of it. "One that has spread untold misfortune throughout the many centuries it has survived."

The image of his father's suicide came to his mind. A pistol put to his father's head, mercifully ending the misery in a horrid splattering of blood and flesh. Yet the slain girl who lay at his side, bloody and mutilated ... God but she could not have been much older than Joy.

"What?" she questioned in a whisper. She heard the words but with dawning confusion. "I don't understand. You are not mad. Nor feeble or witless. Why you are farthest from those maladies of anyone I've ever known."

"I was spared. It has skipped generations before, only to leave the descendants to work their whole life in effort to repair the damage done before them. Then, too, the madness often lives dormant like a caged monster, waiting a chance to spring free."

Ram did not say that Sean was bound by blood oath to take his life should ever it manifest. It was not important; he had known for many years that he had escaped it. To question one's own sanity was a faulty game, one he quickly learned to give up. The clarity of his thoughts shined as sharp as sunlight upon crystal, while the control he placed upon his emotions left little doubt that he had escaped the curse.

Ram went to his desk, unlocking the bottom compartment, and after searching the piles of old manuscripts, books and records—the written records of the horrors of the Barrington title—he removed a small leather-bound book. He motioned for her to sit before he began, which she did.

"This is the earliest record of it. It dates 1394, during the reign of Richard the III, and was written by the hand of a scribe, one of the religious monks who lived within Carfortin's Castle, one of the Harrington Estates then. In Latin he describes the castle life; noting deaths, births, marriages, the seasonal changes and harvests, among various other events: hunts, diseases that came and went, celebrations and so on. Of one of my maternal ancestors, married already with a son, he tells how she was bled three times for hysterics, finally exorcised by a priest when it became clear that she was in commune with spirits not seen or heard by anyone else. A period of apparent health followed; another son was born. Soon after though, there came a night when she fell ill with a baffling head pain. And that night as people slept, she stabbed to death three of her womenfolk, two of their children, one of her sons and the Lord Barrington himself, before throwing herself from a tower to her death."

He watched the reaction make its way to her face; she paled and her eyes widened with the natural horror of hearing such a tale. Yet he saw she was still confused. Not for long though.

"The great tragedy of it," he continued, "was that she left one of her sons alive. He in turn passed the madness on to two sons and a daughter, only one of whom though, managed to survive the usual onslaught of childhood diseases and afflictions. By God's curse though, one was enough ...

"Throughout the generations following, the insanity has reared its head many times.

Occasionally, it has been disguised in history. I have one forefather who, besides being known to have been plagued by these horrible headaches, led the attacks in the first of the Irish wars. He is remembered for the devastation of the Irish countryside, for rapes, pillaging and the mutilation of innocent country peasants. He is said to have had the policy of decapitating children, my God, children—" His voice lowered with pain and solemnity as though he alone were responsible. "And as their mothers begged for their lives.

“Tales from years gone by still persist, will always persist. More than one Barrington has had a torture chamber—a thing drawn from ghost stories told around a dying fire, only so much worse, for real and innocent people were forced to play the gruesome and sadistic games till their death. In my own home, as a boy not five yet, twice my father forced me to such a place, this room in the cellar of the basement. God, I remember that smell, that horrible smell of blood! Where was it coming from? There were shackles on the wall and a rack, whips and—"

He stopped, repelled by his own words, the memories that would forever shadow his life, and when he resumed, his voice was filled with the rich timbre of anger, more frightening for the control he placed on it.

"My father... the madness was concealed in a deceptive veneer of sanity, and he was at times charming and intelligent, a sought after member of court, known for his benevolence of all things," he ended the sentence with disgust. “That is when he did not have those headaches that left him bedridden. It is little wonder that my mother and her family were deceived. She died at my birth. I never knew her, but I have often wondered what she endured left helpless and at his mercy."

He paused with the solemnity of the thought, and she felt his emotions reaching her through the distance and silence, holding her still and mesmerized.

"My father tried to leave me alone; I could tell he tried. I was but three or four years of age then, and already lived for the most part with Sean and Mary in the village. To this day I don't know how that was arranged or why. Aye, but Mary was a good woman," he said with tender feeling. "She loved and cared for me as her own. I would not have survived without her.

"Anyway, I was too small to run away, too young to understand—those few times I was forced to go home—my father's sudden bursts of violence, an unexpected whip across my back or a sudden strike of his hand. I only knew to avoid the man I called my father.

"One day I was playing with a ball in the hallway, not knowing my father had returned from a long absence. I looked up to see him watching me, only he wasn't looking at me but rather at my eyes. His hands held his head to brace the pain, and I knew, I knew... I jumped up to run, but he caught me. I fought wildly, but I was only a lad of five and he a grown and strong man. He held my arms and took out a knife, wild with sudden agitation and fury, cursing not me but my mother, the pain in his head. He said he would cut the sin of my mother from my face, and he put the knife to my—”

He stopped, not able to finish, and yet when he turned to her, he saw he didn't have to finish. A hand covered her mouth; tears streamed slowly down her face. All the pain and horror of a five-year-old boy appeared in those large eyes staring back at him. He remembered Mary's eyes when she had found him.

Again, there came a silence, one finally broken by the last awful words: "That is why you can't have my child. There will be no more Barringtons; the madness will at last be buried with my grave."

The emotions brought by his story yielded to confusion again. "But it is too late," she whispered, frightened. "The child is already growing inside me, growing..."

Ram did not want to contemplate the innocence of her ignorance, the fact he would destroy it with the simple facts. He turned instead and poured another drink.

"Normally,'' he began, "it is an easy thing to rid a woman of a man's seed. There is a tea but it works only within the first two months." He paused with the concern of it, then swallowed his drink. "You are past that; it will require a surgeon. There is little pain, I'm told, but needless to say, I would not let you be awake throughout."

It was then, the moment he said those words, that she felt a slow tingling heat rising in the palm of her hand. She held it in her other hand, staring at it. "Ram, you wouldn't—" She stopped, hardly able to say the words that would make it perfectly clear. "You would see our child is killed?"

"Yes."

She stared at her palm, the past and present colliding in sudden clarity: Do not doubt the gift the Lord gives you. Do not doubt.. ."But you don't know!" she cried suddenly. "You can't know for certain our child would be mad! What if he's not? How can you be sure—"

Anger flashed as his gaze met hers. "How?" he barely managed to control his voice. "I have only to feel my patch and think of my father!" He abruptly spun around, unwilling to release his

anger on her. No, he would make her understand; he would make her see that no matter what else he did, he would not leave any offspring after him.

"Imagine Joy, if this child was born," he began in a tone quickly controlled. "Obviously a female child would not be nearly as bad—women are far easier to control. I suppose we could just keep her locked up if... when the madness showed. What if it was a male child? Despite the madness, he would be my son and, damn all Joy, look at me! I am taller by a foot than most men, probably five times as strong. I am intelligent, as you are, Joy—it is rare that one meets a woman who can sign her name let alone read Aristotle. So," he concluded, "we might reasonably assume that in all likelihood our son would, be tall, strong and intelligent. We can add a title and a fortune, two things that would serve to open any and all vistas to him. Joy, it takes this much imagination"—his fingers separated an inch—"to give him ambition. Such qualities in a man breed ambition and aye, Napoleonic ambitions!"

Coming to her, Ram took her by the arms, staring into the wide anxious eyes as he spoke. "And with all that, give him the madness and my father's ability to conceal it. Give him a need, nay a thirst, to hurt people and watch them suffer!"

"No." She shook her head. "No, he wouldn't be like that! I know—"

"But you don't know! God girl, I have only to imagine his hand to your face, a knife to your throat and I can say yes! Yes, I would kill my own child!"

He released her abruptly and turned away. She was crying again, holding the scorching palm of her hand. Yet the old woman did not have to warn her of what she knew with sudden fierceness; the child she carried would not be mad, and she would see the child born with or without a father.

"I'm so sorry, Joy," he said in a voice filled with regret. "You, of all women, do not deserve this." He swallowed his drink, staring out the window at the rain-washed night. He'd make the arrangements immediately; the sooner it was over the better now.

"But I won't submit. I want this child. It is my child, too; he's inside me. I... I can feel him, I

—" Her hands were placed there as she suddenly realized it was true. "Ram please, I could go away, you would never know—"

"With or without me," his voice rose, "the child will be mad; the result is the same. I'd never allow you to bear the responsibility alone—"

"But I shan't be alone! The Reverend, Sammy—"

"There will be no child!"

Tears fell down her cheeks, and the palm of her hand felt as though it were held high over the flames of a fire. Desperately she sought the words that would cast doubt upon centuries of history. There were none, though, and all she could think was: "I won't do it," she whispered. "I won't lose my child."

He saw the determination shining in her tear-filled eyes, the tremble of her lips. My God, what did she think? That he was asking for a favor? Didn't she know? "You don't understand, Joy," he pronounced her sentence. "I'm not giving you a choice."

"You can't force me—"

It was as far as she got. With a swift jerk of his arm, the contents of his glass were flung in the fire, sending flames lashing up and out as he swept upon her. He took her by the arms, threatening her with his height and strength, the intensity of his gaze. "Do not pair off with me, Joy Claret. You are no match. A battle of wills would not be pleasant for you. I will do what I must."

It was too much; a cold dread engulfed her, a dizziness swept through her. She felt herself falling and falling with nothing and no one to catch her. Was that anger still on his face? Alarm? What was happening? "Ram .. ." she tried to speak, "help ... I'm so afraid—"

Blackness came quickly and she remembered no more.

She woke to a great warmth enveloping her weariness, calling her back from the depth of sleep. She resisted the call; sleep being only an illusion of escape. She lay upon the sofa. A thick quilt covered her. The fire crackled loudly in the hearth; the rain fell steadily against the window, all of this a backdrop for Sean's voice framed in a seriousness she had only once heard in him before.

"It was the only way! God be damned but they know what you're about; the crown prince himself probably signed the edict. The assassins they send will descend like a hungry pack of wolves with you their prey. It is your life now! And the value I assign to your life gives me motivation and justification."

"My life, my life," Ram repeated with cynical harshness, swallowing his drink whole. "You know me well enough to know I am not bait for any man's ambitions. I will fight them to the end; I will no doubt win. A year, maybe two and my affairs will be covered in England—"

"Greed be a truly wicked vice," Sean interrupted heatedly. "There is reason to guess our lords Kingston and Aaron, the others as well, will not let you rest even after you rob them of their motive. They will seek your death for naught but vengeance."