Passion's Joy (46 page)

"I am truly sorry for interrupting you," she began in a soft tone of feigned control.

"It's of no consequence. Besides, I have something to say to you as well." He moved with easy strides to his enormous desk chair. "What is it you want?"

The bland arrogance of his tone sparked a tremor of anger, one instantly suppressed for her purpose, only for her purpose. The result of her endless search for an explanation of the strange and awful thing that he put between them had finally resulted in the single liberating thought that it was not her fault. Sean had made the bargain she could not refuse, but Ram had sealed it. She could no more regret little Sean's birth than her own breath. He had been forced to marry her and she him, but even with that awful realization, she did not deserve either his animosity or the unbearable strain of his resentment of their entwined fates.

It was simply not her fault...

She came directly to the point, and from her apron pocket, she removed the folded pages that held the carefully constructed figures and explanations. She set the paper in front of him. "I need more money for a new wing at the Chester House. The numbers of children are growing— there are so many—and this provides the space necessary to accommodate them."

Ram never looked at it. He stared instead at her eyes, wondering why no one ever warned him what a woman's eyes could do to a man. The emotions he had just watched there had passed, replaced with the determination, warmed it seemed by the small piece of humanity she sought to single-handedly save. When he had not been able to keep the distance between them, he had forced her to. She managed the job fervently, going to unreasonable lengths to avoid him. She threw herself into this charity work from dawn to midnight—squeezing the abolitionist cause in between, mostly with speeches at various churches and her prolific correspondence. Joy worked far too hard, and it was beginning to exact a price, a price he was not at all willing to pay.

Ram finally glanced at the bottom line. "A pretty sum," he said, yet indifference marked his tone. "I have never denied you before, and I won't now; but this time I want something in return."

Once upon a time her heart might have leaped at this baiting, a guess of what he might want from her. No such thing happened. He wanted nothing from her, save her natural role as mother to his son. "Your return is knowing you have provided food and shelter for that many children."

"Mr. Wilson and my banker informed me just this morning how many children I am providing for. I want something more."

She braced herself for what she felt certain would be a cruel lash. "What?"

week."

"I want my wife to restrict her activities at that orphanage to no more than three mornings a

Her eyes widened. "What?" she whispered. He couldn't mean it, he just couldn't. "Ram, you

don't mean it, you—"

"I assure you I do and there's more. These speeches you give—I don't like it, the idea of my wife sleeping under another man's roof—"

"Another... man? But they're always Reverends!"

"I don't give a damn if they're the saints themselves. I don't like it. I also want my wife to stop neglecting her son. He needs you, Joy." His tone changed. "You leave him far too much with Mrs. Thimble and the other caretakers."

"That's not true! I've never neglected him! I couldn't if I wanted to, and the only time I ever leave him is when you're here and want to be with him. I almost always bring him with me—"

"Yes, and I don't want my son being raised in an orphanage of all places, and with his mother's attention divided between twenty other children."

"Oh, but Sean loves it there! He's at an age where he loves nothing more than to be surrounded by other children's laughter and games and—"

"Enough!" His tone sliced into her arguments as a blade cuts flesh. "Look at yourself, Joy," he said, as he stared at the loveliest woman it was his misfortune to know. In a futile though--what seemed to him--almost desperate attempt to hide her beauty, she wore a plain muslin gown of no adornment, one he knew could not have come from the chiffoniers he had paid, a plain apron over that. Two thick braids wrapped around her head like a crown. Dark circles underline those beautiful eyes, her form held a slenderness he had last seen when she had been months without proper food. "It is not just that one would think I had trouble clothing my wife, but that I also had trouble feeding her. You are working too hard Joy; it has begun to affect your health, and I'll not have that."

He couldn't do this. She wouldn't let him do this. "No," she shook her head. "You can't ask me to give it up—"

"I'm not. I'm merely asking for you to restrict it somewhat."

"Somewhat?' she questioned. "Three mornings a week? When there's so much to be done and so little time to do it! What of the empty hours? I'd have nothing—"

“You have Sean."

She said then what they both knew was true. "He's not enough. He's the most precious thing in my life, but he's not my life."

Ram absolutely refused to consider how many of her own children it would take to tap her boundless energies. No more painful or dangerous thought could have intruded, and he stifled it instantly.

"You can't ask me to give it up, you just can't," she repeated with conviction. "You don't know what it's like— the children—forty-three of them under five and they're kept in cribs, and with the shortage of caretakers, they hardly ever know a woman's arms, laughter or play. They're just left there ... Every time a simple head cold sweeps through Chester House, three or four children die, despite good food and a doctor's care, and you see, I have this theory about it. This month we started a new program. The older children now help the younger ones—caring for and holding them, playing with them. This plus—"

She stopped abruptly, suddenly fascinated with the pattern on the carpet. She was running on about her concerns, concerns he didn't share and concerns she was certain he didn't want to know about. She was about to tell him how between Susan, Pansie, herself and the older children, the youngest children were finally getting enough love and attention. She felt certain this would make a difference in the mortality rate.

Ram could never meet the fierceness of her spirit and remain unaffected, and watching her struggle with the sudden intimacy between them was as painful for him as it was for her. The hardest thing for him was to meet her passion and turn away; nothing was harder.

Damn your passion, Joy Claret.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I’m sure you have more important concerns to think about." He ignored the self-effacement and returned to the point, grateful her eyes were lowered.

"Joy, I'll allocate funds to hire more people to replace you. How's that?"

"Fine," she said, a change in her tone as well. "Only I want to be there, too. If I don't have work, I only have Lady Barrington to do, and I don't think I need to remind you what a disaster that is."

Yet he knew Lady Barrington had not been a disaster; quite the contrary. Word of the story she had told spread through London with unprecedented speed and nothing— not even when he had knocked the Prince Regent out cold— incited society's interest more than the apparent contradiction of Lady Barrington. Then the Duchess herself had begged Joy to put the infamous

Delilah story to pen and paper and once done, that good lady had it placed in the London papers. From there it traveled to papers in America; people were still talking about it.

He had a sky-high pile of invitations that demonstrated the popularity of Lady Barrington.

This, however, was not his concern.

The point was she was pushing him and a dangerous game it was. "You misunderstand, Joy Claret. I don't give a damn about Lady Barrington or her social life, though I do care very much about your health and the well-being of my son."

Joy's eyes lifted in sudden rebellion, and he fought the maddening urge to tame it, knowing without a doubt it would take but the slightest touch to end it all, that the last thing he needed to see was this, the little hellion she could be.

"Thank you very much for your concern," she said without feeling, save what tormented him in her eyes. "But my health is fine, and Sean's well-being—I feel foolish to even point out—is a good deal better than hundreds of other children! Children I want to help. You simply ask far too much."

Ram would argue no more, and like the slam of a judge's gavel, he said, "What if I said I was not asking?"

"I would tell you to go to hell!"

Ram slowly came to his feet and leaned forward on his great wide desk, his clenched fists braced by the suddenly tensed muscles in his arms, startling her with the indication he physically restrained himself.

"God girl"—something dark came into his gaze—"do not make me start threatening you.

Do not make me say that I would without hesitation withdraw my financial support of those children to force you to comply with my will or that, if I had to, I would physically restrain you. Do not make this disaster of a marriage any worse; do not make me hurt you any more than I have."

Tears instantly sprang to her eyes, and he watched her struggle desperately to fight them back. "You have no choice," he said coldly, turning suddenly away. "Now, get the hell out of here."

Ram heard the door open and shut, the small black boots run from the outer hall, and he cursed. Cursed himself and her, the disaster he simply could not see a way out of. It had been bad enough trying to resist the wounded, fragile creature she had been those first months they tried and tested, then felt the full, awful effects of their marriage. A dozen times he had almost lost, but now, ever since she broke her own restraints with the telling of Delilah's story, the woman staring

furiously at him and telling him to go to hell was his Joy Claret, the wild and rebellious girl who rode through the night being chased by men and pistols and dogs. She was a girl with more passion in the small of her hand than the rest of humanity had put together, a passion he still wanted to own with each and every breath, a desire not diminishing with denial but, like some crazed and caged animal, waiting to springs.

He had to get away from her.

Like a hundred other days, a thick mist shrouded the land and a light drizzle fell from the gray sky. She had run and run, ending up nearly two miles away. Seanessy found Joy a half-hour later. She leaned against a tree, staring at the running water of the stream, and cloak less, she held her sides to keep what small warmth she felt close. Sean wondered if had ever seen a sadder or more forlorn sight; he felt his heart break cleanly in two.

He beckoned, "Joy."

She glanced up, then away again. "Seanessy, why is he so cruel to me?"

As always, Sean's answers were simple, "He can't help it, Joy. I dare say, you're driving him madder than any of his dead ancestors ever hoped to aspire."

She shot him a pained, startled look.

"What did you expect my dear? Can't you imagine his agony at being trapped in this marriage to you? You, of all women—"

Her lip trembled in horror, she caught it with a gasp, and Sean stopped, stupefied and confused by the effect he saw of his words. "Joy? Joy!" he called as she shot through the forest like a frightened doe, and she was gone, long before it ever occurred to him that she, unbelievably, had not a clue as to what was so terribly wrong with her marriage.

* * * * *

Dear Diary,

Little Sean is finally asleep in my bed, and tonight at last I feel I can make an appearance on these pages after such a long absence. I shall confine my thoughts and impressions only to little

Sean, for since the night Ram left nearly two weeks ago now, I have enjoyed Sean's company from the moment I wake until the moment I sleep and the hours of night in between. I don't know why hearing words put to what I knew— first by Ram himself and then by Seanessy—affected me so, only that it did, and ever since I have needed little Sean to remind me that my short time with Ram had been worth the pain of having solicited the animosity of the only man I shall ever love. With little Sean I see there exists more than pain; there is our beautiful and remarkable little boy.

Little Sean is so like his father that just seeing the thick raven-dark curls, enormous brown eyes and determined lines of his jaw and mouth brings such a bittersweet mix of joy and pain. He is like his father, too, in that he's a handful: aggressive, determined and my, ever so boisterous! He is a bright boy, that is plain, and though at a year old he manages but a few words, he understands a surprising amount. One cannot turn one's back on him for a minute, a lesson the household learns over and over again. Today, when he was left unattended for just a minute, he worked his way out of the nursery and into a linen closet, to be finally found beneath a mountain of bed sheets and tablecloths, giggling wildly with this jolly game of hide and seek. Then, there was last Sunday. We were in attendance at the village church, and Mrs. Thimble thought I had him and I thought she had him. Suddenly, the sermon was interrupted by blaring organ music, and there he was, sitting on the organ bench, grinning and so obviously pleased with himself—looking as though he fully expected thunderous applause. I still laugh when I think of it, though I should say the Reverend was not as easily charmed by the merriment in my son's eyes.

Where he is not like his father is in the realm of affection. Mrs. Thimble, who has raised three of her own boys, says she has never seen such an affectionate or loving child. Here I am reminded of Summer, for like that child, little Sean loves everyone and everything; he is at all times filled with life and happiness.

For Sean I can endure. I can survive, yet I wonder for how long? How long before I lose the strength to rise above my circumstances? My sadness is intense: I feel as though Ram has died, and 1 grieve as such, yet my grief follows no natural course of eventually acceptance and peace.

For each time I see him, it's as though he has been miraculously resurrected, and happiness, joy and hope fill me till I tremble with it, only then to have it wrenched from me as he inevitably turns away!