Bitter Eden (10 page)

"Do with you?" Meg repeated stupidly. In all her imaginings of how she would greet Callie upon her awakening, Meg had never anticipated the girl's first words to be this despairing accusation. And there was no doubt that was what Callie meant.

"Don't hurt me."

"Heaven give me strength/' Meg breathed. She looked at Callie's pinched mouth and the unshed tears in her eyes. "What sort of life have you led? You're truly afraid that I may do something dreadful to you."

With relentless kindness, Meg questioned and talked, slowly gaining Callie's trust, assuring her that no terror would be visited on her at Gardenhill House.

Callie remained silent, still doubting but hopeful. She didn't dare tell Meg the things she feared, yet she wished by some means Meg could understand what she didn't know.

To herself Meg admitted that Callie's problems, whatever they were, were beyond her. This was something for James to handle. The devils that Callie faced, only her beloved James could banish.

So Meg turned to what she was best at—making a young girl feel loved and cared for. It took less than she expected to get Callie to listen to the lovely things of life. Not half an hour after having awakened frightened and despairing, Callie's face was bright with smiles.

Meg touched her breast, fervently glad they had brought Callie home to live with them. Whatever evils

Callie had known in the past, it was obvious to Meg that she was an innocent, filled with an innate faith in the goodness of people. Cheered, Meg showed her around downstairs, and then together they examined Callie's numerous boxes and luggage to make certain James and Peter had left nothing behind.

Chapter 6

Meg was panting by the time they reached the top of the stairs and the small room she and Anna had prepared for Callie. She stepped aside letting Callie stand alone, looking through the doorway of the room that would be hers.

It was small, an unpretentious, safe nook with newly whitewashed walls. Curtains with tiny rosebuds hung translucent in the midafternoon sun. On Meg's face there was pride and hope that Callie would like what she saw. "I'll get Stephen to bring up your luggage."

Callie walked around the room and looked into the closet tucked under the wall of the roof line. A chiffonier stood endearingly dilapidated under the angle of the upcurving wall. Her bed was soft and fresh to smell. The coverlet was new, handmade.

One by one her fears were being quelled. In their place came a weak miserable hope that made her throat pain.

Callie tensed as Stephen bumped along the stairwell. Warily she looked up at the tall angular boy,

whose head nearly touched the low ceiling. His unwieldy burden bumped the doorjamb and Callie. "Sorry," he mumbled. He glanced at her, then looked over his shoulder at his mother. "Where shall I put these, Ma?"

Self-consciously he continued to avoid Callie's eyes, which was all right with her because she much preferred viewing this new family member without having to respond in any way.

There was no resemblance between Stephen and his mother. Meg was plump, rosy-cheeked, and fair. Yet her son was a tall, dark, gangling mass of angles. He had the untamed look of unfinished sculpture, and the fresh-air smell of some timid, wild creature of a pine forest. His eyes, blue as a deep running stream, were as innocent of guile and the world as were a wood fawn's. His hair was the black of a starless night, unruly and curling about his face. Callie looked at him standing as though poised for flight, burdened with several of her small boxes, and nearly smiled. How was it possible that he was a child of Meg Berean?

"You can put them next to the chest," Callie said absently.

"There isn't anyplace else, is there?" he agreed, dumping the boxes gracelessly next to the chiffonier. His smile illuminated his face, taking away the shyness so obvious before. Callie smiled in return, wondering. In some indefinable way he had strengthened her dawning faith that wherever Meg Berean was, she would be safe and welcome.

Meg, as if she'd sensed these thoughts, pressed Callie to her in a gargantuan hug. "Everything is going to be all right; you'll see. Your troubles are behind you now. Bad beginnings mean happy endings."

"Did you make that up just now, Ma?" Stephen

grinned mischievously at Callie. "She thinks up an old, old saying for everything.'*

Meg playfully cuffed his ear. "I do indeed, and it will be so. Callie is not to fret anymore. James will have a nice long chat with her. There is nothing James cant put right, Callie."

Callie looked at Meg and Stephen with a longing so strong it could be felt. Impulsively Stephen reached out, and Callie found her tense fingers resting in his large warm hand like a trapped, trembling bird. His face reddening, Stephen released her, murmuring, "Ma's telling you the truth, Callie. There's nothing Pa can't make come right." With a flurry he vanished down the stairs to bring up the rest of her belongings.

Meg took an armful of Callie's dresses and opened the closet in the wall. "Oh, dear! There's boxes of . . . well, I don't know what all this is. It appears to be Peter's. How could Anna and I have missed this when we prepared the room? I'll have Peter come up directly to remove them."

"No!" She didn't want Peter in there. "I have plenty of room."

Meg turned sharply at the strident fearful tone that had returned to Callie's voice. She studied the girl, just beginning to form the obvious question, when Stephen, balancing boxes precariously, noisily maneuvered through the door. Meg, distracted, clucked her disapproval as she unstacked the boxes from his arms.

Another fifteen minutes of fussing and arranging by M§g, and then Callie watched the door close on mother and son. For a moment she stood where she was, alone and silent, listening to the strange sounds the wind made on the roof. To her city ears the sounds of the country house were odd and enticing.

Meg had told her to be downstairs in the parlor in an hour. She hurried with her unpacking, giving in to

temptation to look out her window to see if there really were cows and sheep right outside. There werel Who ever heard of an evil person who worried to keep their cows and sheep warm? Or perhaps it was the sign of a man who cared naught for people and only for animals. Or maybe it was normal for a farm. She pushed away these thoughts and held to the first. The aching hope surged through her chest, burning her throat and eyes.

Was Stephen truly as good as he appeared? Would she be a part of this family as Meg promised? A sister to Natalie? And Peter—? She closed the thought off. She'd avoid Peter somehow. She'd wish him away. Stephen would protect her. Stephen would. . . . Callie tinned from the window. There was nothing she could expect from Stephen. And there was nothing she could expect to come of Meg's promises. Her father had been right when he told her never to dream "If onlies." Hope was balm for the soul, but unfortunately Callie had learned these past months that hope seldom coincided with the reality of her life. Her mind turned to Mrs. Pettibone's warnings: never trust too easily or too completely. Life might appear as an Eden, but it was a bitter Eden. Reinforced, Callie now knew that her life with the Bereans would only be a sufferance. She'd do what she could to please, but guardedly, protective of herself. It left her feeling empty, as though again she had been abandoned. She went back to her unpacking. Slowly, methodically, she took from her boxes Ian's books, his quill pen, his smoking jacket, fondling each, drawing herself back to a lost happiness by their feel and scent. She lost track of time, never thinking of the time Meg told her the Bereans would have dinner.

Meg's family was gathered long before Callie was ready to join them. There was much curiosity about

this young girl who had 1 come to them so suddenly and then arrived unconscious. Albert Foxe, on the strength of his engagement to Natalie, shared in the curiosity and had invited himself to dinner.

Albert, in his late twenties, was handsome in a refined, highly bred fashion. His features were small and regular. He was vain both of his looks and of his reputation for shrewdness. Not above a bit of posturing, Albert carried himself with the ramrod rigidity of a military man. The pride of his life was the moderate, well-waxed mustache he sported, which he fingered with annoying regularity. Leaning back in studied relaxation, Albert twirled the ends of his mustache and stated, "She seems frail, but frailty is often accompanied by an amiable disposition." He was pleased with the sound of his words. It was almost a direct quote of something his mother had said about Natalie, and his mother was always eloquent.

"You make her sound dreadfully dull," Rosalind sighed. "But what could we expect, bringing a street waif into the house? Really, Mother Berean, I think you have taken on far more than you know. It may be a dreadful mistake. We know nothing of the girl. She . . . she could be anything ... a pickpocket ... a thief. Peter said he caught her stealing a package. And now here she is, a virtual invalid. I quite frankly think she is a superior actress."

"The package turned out to be her own property/' Peter said.

"Then why was she sneaking around? The landlady probably just said it was hers to make sure you took her. I'm sure that woman didn't want to be stuck with the girl. Anyone else would have seen through that ruse."

Stephen shifted uncomfortably in his chair, then rose and stirred their curiosity about Callie further.

Naturally reserved and not given to exaggeration, he amazed his family as he went into great gesturing detail describing her sweetness, her charm, and the dark blue eyes that he was unable to do justice. All he could say was that they were blue, and he tried by gesture and inadequate words to tell what feelings and emotions those eyes could impart without so much as the twitch of a facial muscle.

"I think our Callie has found her first admirer," Anna said with a tolerant, knowing smile on her face.

Several others in the room laughed as Stephens face grew pink.

Peter remained silent, his eyes downcast, remembering what he had seen expressed by Callie's deep blue eyes. "Shame be on you," Mrs. Pettibone had said to him. He wondered if ever he would feel anything but shame when he looked at Callie. He knew he would feel it as long as it took him to make up to her in some way for the fright he had given her.

Meg looked at the staircase. "She should be down by now. Do you think I ought to go up and see what is keeping her?"

"The men are hungry after a long day's work," Rosalind said. "She might have given them a little thought. She's been here one day and already has the whole family dancing to her tune." She looked at Peter.

Peter glanced up, his dark brown eyes asking her not to complain further. "She'll be here soon."

Meg gestured helplessly. Nearly in unison the Be-reans closed ranks against the complainer.

"I'd like a good mug of cider before supper," Frank said, getting to his feet and ringing for the maid. "Anyone care to join me?"

"I would like some."

"Oh, Nattie, dear, you know cider always goes

straight to your head," Meg said. "Why don't you have the apple juice? There is some ready for her, isn't there, Stephen? See, dear, Stephen makes it especially for you. Don't disappoint him by not drinking it. You'll like it better. Talk to her, Albert."

Albert smiled indulgently at Meg, then looked proudly at Natalie. Petite and delicately flowerlike, Natalie gave Albert a sense of protective masculinity he'd never known before he met her. His mother, a woman nearly indistinguishable from the blooded horses she rode so masterfully, had ridden her son all his life. The only other woman with whom he'd associated closely was Rosalind, and she, with her vixen body and her insatiable hunger, could turn him to molten steel, burning and puddling at her touch. Only with Natalie was he man, master, god. "I'll take care of her," he said softly.

Peter gave him an acid glance, then took Natalie's hand. "Let her have the cider, Ma. Nattie's "no baby anymore. It's time we all treated her like the woman she is." Natalie stroked his arm and to his dismay leaned against him, her expression that of a grateful, small child.

"She hasn't been a baby for twenty years," Rosalind murmured. "Go ahead, Natalie, by all means, have your cider and maybe for once you can prove what a big girl you are to all of us."

"We don't need bickering and teasing in the family tonight, Rosalind. We shall all show Callie our better side," James warned, and accepted the mug Frank held out to him.

Callie could hear the sounds coming from the parlor. For some time she had been standing near the staircase trying to sort out the voices and gather the courage to enter the room. She heard Meg mention a

second time that she should be downstairs, and she knew she couldn't put it off any longer.

It wasn't as bad as she expected. None of them stared as she thought they might. She accepted their friendly greetings, was warmed and heartened as each family member expressed his welcome. Except Peter. His eyes remained fixed on his hands resting in his lap. Callie walked hastily past him, then furtively glanced back to catch his deep, almost-black eyes studying her.

James didn't give her a chance to react. Hurriedly but tactfully he escorted her to his study, "for a talk," he said. "I have had years to get to know my other children, Callie. Could you give me a few minutes alone to get to know you?"

Meg watched Callie's expressive eyes and believed that whatever made them cloud with fear would be resolved with James's guidance.

Callie listened to the fatherly warmth of his voice. But -even that soft, loving rumble wasn't enough to thaw her sufficiently to go against Mrs. Pettibone's warning. The Bereans might not understand; they might blame her for what had happened to her at Mrs. Peach's house. Callie was candid, trying to explain to James how she had felt when her father died, and how much he had meant to her, but that was all she would talk about.

James pursed his lips, wondering what the girl was withholding and why. Though what she had said had the ring of truth, it in no way explained her hysterics or her obvious aversion to Peter. He sighed and patted her shoulder, ending their brief conversation. With time, he thought, leading her into the dining room; everything will mend with time.

Meg directed her to the seat between Natalie and Stephen. It was a happy bedlam as they all sat down,

still talking and occasionally lifting a heavy mug of cider to toast Callie's arrival or anything else they could think of. The two serving girls waited patiently. No one was willing to be quiet Peter even toasted the infamous Captain Swing.

"I wont drink a drop to him." Albert set his mug down heavily. "It's treasonous."

The others drank with grumbling joviality.

'Who is Captain Swing?" Callie whispered to Natalie.

Natalie's blue-veined lids lowered over her golden cat eyes; then she looked slyly at Callie. "Ohh . . . Captain Swing is a very mysterious man . . . and evil. No one knows if he is a man at all. He may be a ghost ... or a spirit power." Suddenly she giggled. "Don't be frightened. Spirits can't hurt you. I wouldn't let them."

Callie smiled tentatively, not certain how to distinguish between Natalie teasing and Natalie serious.

Again Natalie giggled, thrusting her chest out and clenching her tiny fists. "See what a brave defender I'll ber

Callie burst out laughing, then pressed her hand against her lips, her eyes on Peter.

"James! Say a prayer quickly and get us started with the meal," Meg said loudly. Conversation ended. Heads bowed. James's gentle rumbling voice filled the room, thanking the Lord for their food, their family, and the bounty of their land.

Conversation began anew as soon as supper was served. Callie listened, trying to assess the family. Anna and Rosalind were talking about the house and some sewing Anna was doing for Rosalind. Natalie sat at Callie's side daydreaming. Withdrawn from the others, Natalie was rapt and intent. She was beautiful in so delicate a way that Callie had the feeling Natalie

was someone she had imagined rather than a flesh and blood girl she could touch with the merest movement of her elbow.

The men returned to the subject of Captain Swing. And Callie's eyes returned, as they had all evening, to Peter Berean. It was difficult to concentrate on anything else when he was there to cloud her mind, so she was slow to realize that very real worries underlay the Bereans* merry squabbling banter.

Callie jumped as Frank slammed his mug on the table and spoke nearly in a shout. "There has never been a time when the peasants have been satisfied with their lot, and there never will be. There will always be a division between the leaders of the world and those who were meant by God to serve. It's in the nature of man, and no reform will change it. It is by Divine creation meant to be!"

Peter guffawed. "And you, of course, are among those divinely chosen to lead. Why? Because you have a patch of land?"

"I know what to do with that land! I make it produce. And I know what to do with the profits. I know how to live, and I go beyond the thinking of a man in a hovel who knows nothing but to drink every bloody penny he lays hands on. What you can't understand, Peter, is that we are in a new age. The war did that for us. The times are leaving your peasants behind. They are still as uncivilized and stupid as they were a century ago. The rest of the world is moving forward, as well we should. We were victors. We beat Napoleon, and we've proven our way is right and forward-thinking."

"Victory, Frank? Take a good look at that victory. We're a bloody victor in rags. We've debts we can't pay, taxation that is crippling all of us, and we've got

more poor people in the country today than we're able to feed or clothe. What kind of victory is that?"

Albert cleared his throat. "Of course, it is true that the demobilized army and navy have created a problem in the labor market. After all, they made up nearly one sixth of our adult population. But that is being absorbed. We may have staggered a bit, but that is to be expected after a war. It doesn't change the fact that the war has caused us to look forward to new ways and methods. Machinery, world trade, and international markets are the things of today."

"Machinery, world trade, and international markets are the tools of politicians and industrialists. They don't help the farmer or the peasant," Peter said. "England still looks to her own production to feed her people. And as long as we keep having bad crop years our farmers cannot compete on the international market without subsidy, which means more money spent and more taxes gathered. It means Corn Laws, bread and food staples' prices rising so high at home they can't be purchased by the common man, which means more men on the dole, therefore more taxes to supply money to men who could make their own living if the government weren't so busy fixing everything. It's like a bloody teeter-totter. Help the industrialists, and the farmer is left begging. Help the farmer, and the industrialist is crying. We're making enemies of people who should be natural allies."

"That's nonsense. No one has been made the enemy of anyone else," Frank said. "Tell me, champion of the laborer, isn't it true right now—this very day—that the farmer is sympathetic to the laborer's problems?. Wouldn't we all pay him more if we could, if we weren't already carrying the burden of taxes and duties levied on us? We don't turn to machinery to hurt our

laborers, do we? No! We do it because we must, because the times and the conditions demand it."

Peter rubbed his forehead, smiling. "I think that is what I've been saying, Frank. There is no choice but to crush the laborer, because of the way our laws and systems are set up. It is the law and the harshness and inequity with which it is applied that must change. In short, gentlemen, we need reform in England in many areas, not just for the peasant, but for all of us."

"Succoring the cause of Captain Swing is certainly the wrong way to go about it, assuming anything you say is true," Albert said.

"What's wrong with Captain Swing? His movement has the attention of several lords, and many more local magistrates, including you, Albert. They have shed no blood. It seems to me the Swing riots have quite a lot to recommend them."

"They have one distinct quality against them," Albert replied quickly.

'Which is?"

"They must come to disaster. In the end we must enforce the law harshly and strictly, and then what happens to your peasants, Peter? They will be worse off than before. There will be mass arrests. It cannot be any other way, for if we allow them to have a say in the workings of our lives, we should all be at their mercy." Slowly he took up his wine glass, swirling the red liquid. "No, there is no question. Order must be preserved. It is the safeguard to civilization. My God, without it, we'd have another French Revolution right here in England."

'The order is wrong," Peter said softly. "It is one thing to maintain law, but quite another when the existing law is squeezing to death a large segment of your people. Then the law itself must be changed, not the people. The order must be changed or we do not

foster civilization, but stagnation/' There was no need for Peter to pound on the table or swirl wine in his goblet for emphasis; the whole look of him was emphasis enough. He believed what he was saying with a deep passion, and that belief could be felt throughout the room. His intensity was magnetic, attracting every eye and ear.

It wasn't often that nature conspired to produce a man like Peter Berean, and Albert was painfully aware of this. Vain, and bearing the responsibility of having to enforce the law of the parish, Albert was too often unfavorably compared with Peter. He was also aware that he was magistrate only because Peter wouldn't accept the post. Though he knew he and Peter could never be friends, he seethed at the fate that had made them competitors. Albert couldn't count the number of times he had mentally tried to trim Peter down to commonality. He always failed. Peter was an intelligent man with an appetite for adventure. He was unafraid to state his beliefs and act upon them. The very thought of the coming confrontation between the magistrates and the Swing offenders led by Peter made Albert's hands clammy and his armpits itch in a way that his mother would have found disgusting and unmanly.

Callie listened with rapt attention, unable to take her eyes from Peter as the talk went on, growing more heated.

"You'll hear this until you know it by heart," Stephen whispered. "Neither one gives an inch, and the next time Albert comes over, which will probably be tomorrow, they will start all over again. If I were Albert I'd give up. Peter always wins. No one ever outdoes Peter."

"Well, I've heard more than enough for tonight," Meg said. "I can't see why you men always talk of

something we all hope will never happen. Please, no more tonight/'

As the talk momentarily quieted, Meg took her advantage. She hurried Natalie and Callie from the room, wishing she could as easily forestall the rift that was forming in the family. Frank sided with Albert more frequently and more openly, and his hostility toward Peter was barely concealed these days. And Stephen nearly idolized Peter. Peter was as close to a hero for Stephen as anyone would ever come.

Anna and Rosalind followed Meg from the dining room into the parlor. Callie automatically turned there also, but Meg gently took her arm. "For you two there is no more talk, and no more cider or wine this evening. One of you looks as tired and sleepy as the other."

"But I haven't said good night to Albert."

"Albert will understand, Natalie. You know as well as I the men may be barricaded in James's study half the night talking their infernal politics."

"But Rosalind . . ."

"Never mind Rosalind."

"But Mama, Rosalind will talk to him. She'll wait . • . she'll say good night to him and I won't be there."

Meg made an exasperated sound through her teeth. "Natalie!"

"But Mama . . . I'm as strong as Anna or Rosalind. Why must I go to bed so early? I must be here to say goodnight. Please! Why don't you believe me? Why won't anyone ever listen to me? I know Rosalind better than any of you. She—"

Meg put her finger firmly on Natalie's lips. "Not a word! Not a word against your brother s wife. I will not hear disloyalty in this house!"

Chapter 7

Rosalind waited what seemed an unendurably long time for the men to emerge from James's study, confident her intent would not be obvious. The others would think her a faithful and perhaps touchingly eager young wife. She could count on the Bereans to think the best, and she could also count on each of them to follow a predictable pattern for the night

When the door to the study opened and expelled the men with a heavy cloud of cigar smoke, Rosalind smiled into the strikingly handsome face of her husband. Her hand as she touched him was possessively ladylike.

He took her hands in his,^ smiled at his father and Albert, showing her off a little and pleased that she was there for him. "We were long-winded tonight You know Albert—like a bull terrier with a bone/'

"Speak for yourself," Albert said.

"I know you all. The only hope we women have of seeing you is to wait for you. But in a few more minutes this woman would have been knocking to gain entrance to that smoky den."

"We're finished now and Albert has not gotten the last word for once. Now, go on up. Ill be there shortly."