Receive Me Falling (16 page)

Sister Marie L’Cour, a sweet, young woman who had
only recently joined the convent, found the infant and added him to the growing
nursery of illegitimate children. The nuns quickly learned that young Phinneas
was trouble, and as he grew to boyhood, he became loathed and feared throughout
the orphanage.
 
Sister Marie tried to
bring him up learning and living God’s law, but he did not appear to respond to
love or nurturing.
 
He was motivated by
greed and by fear, and he only feared Mother Superior because it was her job to
administer corporal punishment when necessary.
 

He was beat often and hard with a cane for various
misdeeds including theft, brutality, and a disturbing incident that left the
convent cat dead.
 
Mother Superior and
several of the other nuns were convinced that he was possessed by a demon and
kept him secluded from the other children.
 
Sister Marie was inclined to believe that all human persons possessed
some good and valiantly attempted to reform her young charge, but by the time
Phinneas had reached his twelfth birthday, even she had given up hope.

One foggy morning in April when Sister Marie went
to fetch Phinneas for breakfast, he was not to be found.
 
His room was empty, his few belongings were
gone, and the cross on his wall was found floating in the waste of his chamber
pot. Sister Marie had fainted when she found her Jesus covered in the child’s
excrement, and even Mother Superior was shaken.
 
The room was cleaned thoroughly, blessed by Father Jaques, and turned
into a storage closet.
 
Phinneas was
never spoken of again by the nuns, but Sister Marie prayed daily for
forgiveness at her inability to reform the child, and for her relief at his
absence.

As Catherine approached Phinneas, she saw that he
was nothing but a black form on a horse against the sunlight behind him.
 
Catherine moved into Phinneas’ shadow and
stared up at him through defiant, bloodshot eyes.
 
As she panted, he smiled down at her.

           
“You seem quite out of breath, Miss
Dall,” said Phinneas.
 
“Allow me to give
you a ride home.
 
You are well aware of
the fact that you should not be near the slaves’ quarters.
 
It is no place for a lady.”
 

           
“You will not get away with this.”

           
“Whatever are you talking about?”

           
“I will tell Father as soon as he
returns.”

           
“Miss Dall, when is your father sober
enough to hold a coherent conversation?
 
And furthermore, what makes you think that your father does not know of and
even endorse my methods of issuing consequences?”

           
Catherine began to tremble.

           
“Are you sure I cannot escort you
home?” he asked.

           
She backed away from Phinneas, and
turned toward the Great House.

Bartholomew
Ewing, William Hall, and Cecil Dall sat around a small, wooden table overfed,
overdrunk, and overdressed.
 
The surface
of the table glistened with gems of spilled rum, catching the light like
little, irregular jewels.
 
The pub was
largely empty at this hour—all the small planters were laboring and all the
middleclass planters were overseeing their small properties.
 

           
“When we meet formally at the end of
the week, we’ll finalize the law and get those wretched little planters off
this island,” said William Hall.

           
“I think they’ll find the small sum
of money we offer to buy their land a much better option than having to linger
on Nevis and sabotage their own homes,” said Bartholomew.
 
“I know Edward is convinced that absorbing
Caleb Whitting’s small acreage between our plantation and yours, William, will
be key in pushing us into a much greater profit next year.”

           
“I, for one, feel left out,” said
Cecil.
 
“The small falls and lagoon just east
of Eden will
prevent me the pleasure of growing my estate by acquiring others’ land.”

           
“Cecil, you already own the most
prolific plantation on the island.
 
Be
content with what you’ve got.”

           
“Our production is down a bit,
though, gentlemen.
 
Catherine thinks it’s
the rats, so don’t be alarmed when you see one of our lower fields on fire
tonight.
 
We’re going to try to burn them
out.”

           
Bartholomew and William looked at
one another.

           
“Cecil,” said William, “I know Miss
Dall has demonstrated a keen business sense in the past, but do you think that
this is a wise idea?”

           
“Phinneas supports the decision,
therefore, I feel entirely comfortable with it myself.
 
Besides, it will be quite amusing.”

           
The other gentlemen nodded in
agreement and drained their glasses.

Edward
Ewing stood at the pianoforte in Eden’s
luxurious parlor. He ran his hands over the keys as he crossed behind it to the
mantled fireplace.
 
A great portrait of
Catherine and her father hung over the room.
 
He grasped the marble mantle and gazed up at Catherine’s likeness,
allowing his eyes to travel up her legs, over her body, to her face—whose eyes
were alert and direct.

           
Catherine’s portrait held none of
the awkward or demure looks typical of the ladies of the day.
 
She was all confidence, self-assurance,
certainty.
 
Only a slight look of boredom—which
the artist had captured perfectly—made her look anything but in complete
control.
 
Edward knew Catherine’s
boredom, however, must have been at waiting for hours while a painter fretted
and flattered over her.
 
He grinned as he
imagined her being reprimanded for tapping her foot or looking out the window
as she thought of all the work she had before her.

           
Edward’s eyes traveled down
Catherine’s arm to where it rested on Cecil’s shoulder.
 
Cecil stared out from his glassy eyes with a
look of dumb satisfaction on his slightly amused face.
 
It was Cecil’s perpetual look of amusement
that made him look like a fool—or a child, aged in body alone.
  

           
Edward knew that his father was
supposed to be asking Cecil to dinner at Goldenrise that evening, but had no
confidence in his ability to carry out the simple task.
 
Edward, however, had no intention of standing
around the Dalls’ parlor all day waiting for Catherine. Overcome by boredom,
Edward scribbled a brief dinner invitation to the Dalls on his card, placed it
on the parlor tray, and left Eden.

Esther
was still working in the kitchen when Catherine returned.
 
She looked up briefly as the girl entered the
room, but continued with her duties.
           
Catherine
watched Esther’s dark hands coated with white flour-gloves kneading the thick
puff of dough in the bowl.
 
The rhythm of
Esther’s hands working was soothingly monotonous.
 
The scrape of the bowl as Esther turned it
around and around on the wooden table had the pleasingly muffled quality that
had often coaxed Catherine to take over the chore as a child.
 
She crossed the room to do so now.

           
The women fell into synch—weaving in
and out of one another in a noiseless dance as they prepared the bread.
 
Esther hummed some sad, low song as she fed
the oven, while Catherine wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of
her arm.
 

           
Once she finished preparing the
dough, Catherine looked at Esther’s back as she slid the loaves over the
fire.
 
Tiny, red dots began to reach
through the white fabric of Esther’s shift in several places along her
back—wounds opening in the heat as she worked, bleeding blood-tears on her
garment.

           
Catherine crossed the kitchen and
took the great peel from Esther’s hands.
  
She led Esther down the hall, through the dining room, up the staircase,
and into her mother’s bedroom, where she told her to wait.
 
After a few moments, Catherine returned with
a healing paste, water, and a towel.

Esther sat on the large bed, framed in white
curtains, looking unsure of herself.
 
Catherine eased Esther down onto her stomach and peeled down the white
cloth, revealing her slashed and bloody back.
 
Catherine had to look away and gather herself so that Esther would not
hear her weep.
 
As she dabbed Esther’s
back, Catherine thought of a bad fall she had as a child that she had secured
while hunting for sea stars along the slippery rocks that edged the
coastline.
 
Catherine had sulked over her
cuts as Esther had reminded her of her previous warnings to avoid the rocks.
 
But Esther’s instructions on the healing
plants she used, laced through her reprimands, took the sting from her
chastisements.
  

“Next
time, you must hold my hand, Mami.”

“That is
not the lesson I had hoped you learned.”

By the time Catherine had finished, Esther was
asleep, breathing deep and regular breaths.
 
Catherine lay down next to Esther on her mother’s bed and gazed into her
face—peaceful with repose.
 
Her own face
was lined with worry.
 
There were now
consequences to her actions.
 
Phinneas
was taking more liberties.
 
Cecil was
fading into the background.
 
She knew
that she could never speak of this to her father, whether or not what Phinneas
had said was true.