Bitter Eden (37 page)

"I haven't seen the doctor, Natalie. I didn't know anything about your feeling unwell. Natalie . . ."

"I've been having horrible dreams, Mama. Awful, terrible dreams. Sinful dreams."

Meg squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. "Oh, Nattie," she cried. She got up hastily, closed the door, and put Jamie on the floor to scoot about

"Mama, I'm so afraid something is eoino; to happen to Albert. I feel it all around me. I see it when I close my eyes. Mama . . . !"

Meg darted awkwardly to Natalie's side, sidestepping Jamie. Crying and kissing Natalie, she smoothed the girl's hair. "It will be all right now, 111 be right by your side."

Natalie frowned, touching her head as though it hurt. "What is it, Mama? What is wrong with me? Why do I see these terrible things? Nothing really happened today, did it, Mama?"

"Albert is dead, Natalie," Meg whispered, wiping the tears from her face.

"Oh, no." Natalie smiled. "Albert isn't dead Albert is free. Rosalind can never take him from me now."

Meg sobbed convulsively, blowing her nose with fury. "Lie back, Natalie dear. Rest now. It will be all right. Somehow it will be all right."

Natalie did as she was told, the sweet smile still on

her face. "I always feel better when you are here, Mama. I think I can sleep now. You won't leave?"

"No, Nattie. I'll stay right here as long as you need me."

Within minutes Natalie's eyes closed. She slept with a look of peaceful innocence on her face.

Meg gathered up Jamie, pushed aside Natalie's shoes, which he had pulled from the cupboard, and went downstairs to find Anna alone in the parlor. Anna jumped to her feet as soon as Meg came in.

"Mrs. Foxe is prostrate. She keeled over when I told her about Albert. They've sent for Doctor Potts. He should be here any time now. How is Natalie? How did she take it?"

Meg shook her head. "I don't believe she even understood what I was saying. She hasn't been feeling well today, but she is sleeping like a baby now. Watch Jamie for a minute, Anna. I am going to find the housekeeper. Jamie is hungry and tired and well all be staying the night. If Doctor Potts comes before I've returned, tell him to look in on Natalie as well as Mrs. Foxe."

It was more than an hour before Stephen emerged from the now darkened study at the Berean farm. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face sad and drawn. He went to the kitchen where he knew he would find Frank.

Callie had taken over in the kitchen after cook had screamed herself into a state of exhaustion and been sent home. She handed Stephen a cup of broth and some bread and cheese. He pushed the bread and cheese away, but drank the broth. Frank sat at the table weary and preoccupied. Stephen gathered himself and moved his chair closer to Frank's.

"I wasn't sure what to make of this whole thing, so

when you sent John after me, I told him to go into town tonight. He's to bring Albert's deputy sometime late tomorrow. I gave him all the money I had with me and told him to have a night on the town. I doubt that hell be in any hurry to tell the law anything given natural reluctance and the liquor."

"We've got some time then. Bless you, Stevie. Did Peter tell you anything?"

"There wasn't much to tell. He went to fix the roof. He heard the shots as we did. The cottage door was open, so he went in to look." Stephen stopped, anger and sadness mingled on his face. "Rosalind was there with Albert. At first he didn't realize what happened. He says he doesn't know what he did then. Later he carried her here to the house."

"Then he says he didn't do it"

"God, yes, Frank! Where's your head to ask a question like that? My God, can you imagine how he felt? He loves her. Peter wouldn't hurt anyone no matter what. You know that"

"Who then?"

"I don't know. Anyone! But not Peter. Never him."

Callie listened and prepared a tray for Peter as she had for Stephen and Frank. She didn't expect that he would eat anything, but he shouldn't be left alone as though no one cared. Neither Frank nor Stephen paid any attention to her as she moved quietly from the kitchen.

The study was in darkness when she entered, except for the slice of moonlight that cut across the carpet where the drapes were not completely drawn.

The three of them—Callie, Stephen, and Peter—met more often than not in silence, each sensing the attention of the others without the need of words. She went to Peter's side as Stephen had, kneeling close to him.

He reached out, touching her hair. Slowly he low-

ered himself to the floor beside her. "Rosalind," he whispered into the darkness. Callie remained quiet and listened to the sounds of tears spilled in darkness. When he reached for her, murmuring his wife's name, she put her arms around him, answering the seeking warmth of his lips with that of her own. She rocked him as she did his son, with his head on her breast, humming to him in a low throaty voice. Slowly she felt the tautness leave his body. She brushed the hair from his face and wiped away the moisture from his eyes.

Much later Stephen found her there, Peter cradled in her arms as she continued to rock him.

"Build the fire, Stephen. He's asleep. Well get blankets and pillows and leave him here for the night/'

After Meg had made certain Jamie would be cared for and that she and Anna had a place to sleep, she returned to the Foxes' parlor. She and Anna both sat rigidly as if waiting for something. Neither knew what it was they expected, but neither was prepared when the knife-edged screams came from Natalie's room and cut through the silence of the house.

Meg, straining and clutching at her thudding chest, ran the long flight of curving stairs to her daughter.

"Mama!* Natalie shrilled, her voice quivering and high. Her eyes were wild and unfocused. She wasn't truly awake, but trapped in some nightmare. "Mama! Where are you? Albert! Albert!"

Meg, gasping, ran to Natalie, clutching her against herself. "Nattie, I'm here. I'm here, my loved one. I'm right here. You're safe now."

Natalie thrashed and fought. "Mama! Stop her, Mama! She killed him! I knew it. I knew! Damn her! Damn her! Mama! Where are you? Albert!" she screamed, breaking Meg's hold on her. She leapt from

the bed, looking wildly around the room, "Albertr She turned, running from her bedroom.

"Stop her!" Meg cried. The servants of the Foxe household stood immobilized at the foot of the gracefully curving stairs and listened to Natalie's screaming laughter as they watched her run frantically back and forth across the upper hall.

"Help me!" Meg shouted as time after time she reached for Natalie, only to have her break free again.

Anna came running from the other end of the hall where she had gone to make certain Jamie was all right

"Stop her, Anna. Stop her before she hurts herself."

Anna stood mulishly at one end of the hall, waiting for Natalie to turn and run toward her.

Natalie hesitated, poised midway between Anna and Meg. Her hair was disheveled, a black aura encircling her head. She spread her arms wide, looking straight at Anna. Her fingers bent slowly to make talons of her hands. She grimaced, her teeth bared.

"Rosalind!" she shrieked, and charged Anna.

Both Anna and Natalie fell with the impact of Nat-talie's hurtling body. Stunned, Anna lay still for a moment Her cheeks stung just below her eyes, where Natalie had clawed her. She didn't know what had happened for a moment; then Meg was standing over her trying to lift Natalie's inert weight from her.

"Get up here, you bloody fools!" Meg yelled to the servants still standing safely below, "Get her to her room."

Slowly the butler detached himself from the others and came up the stairs to carry Natalie, limp and unconscious, back to her bed.

She lost her baby that night

The Berean house was quiet. Stephen took Callie's hand. Together they went out into a star-studded night. He took her to the top of his mountain. They sat close together on a large boulder overlooking,the farm, the house, and the fields.

"I hate her tonight," Stephen said, looking up into the velvety heavens. "You shouldn't hate the dead, but I do tonight." "You hate Peter being hurt," Callie replied flatly. "Do you believe in God, Callie?" "Yes."

"Things like this wouldn't happen if there were a God."

"God didn't do this." "He let it happen."

"Someone made it happen," she said harshly, then added in a choked voice, "and I know who it was."

Stephen said nothing, but removed his hand from hers.

She looked at him in the darkness. "You do too, don't you, Stephen?" "I only know who didn't do it." 'It was Natalie," she said, unwilling to leave it unsaid between them. "Don't say that, Callie." "Sometime it has to be said."

"It could have been anyone—a poacher. A highwayman. An accident."

"What's the point in hiding from it, Stephen? It was Peter or it was Natalie, and we both know Peter didn't-"

"Callie, please . . . don't ask me ... he turned completely from her, then got up and walked several feet away until she could barely see him in the faint moonlight. "Don't you see?" he said finally. "I can't

choose between my brother and my sister. There must be someone else."

She got up and walked to him. She slipped her hand into his and stood looking into the starry darkness. "What is going to happen to us, Stephen?"

Chapter 26

The night's sleep did Frank no good for there was no rest in it. His world was upside down and moving too swiftly for him to comprehend or cope with it. Anna was not there to warm his bed or see to it that he had warm water to bathe in that morning. His clothes were not laid out for him.

It would have been one thing for Peter to have killed Rosalind in a fit of jealous rage. A man could understand that, and even the law provided a certain latitude where unfaithful wives were concerned. But Albert was the magistrate of the parish. His family was important and well-respected. An arrest in such a case would be fast, and the trial a formality.

He fumbled about his bedroom, unaccustomed to dealing with anything that did not grow on a vine. It was regrettable he had made such a hasty statement to Anna about spiriting Peter out of the country. Words spoken in the heat of the moment were mostly regrettable in the end. And he did regret these. He could not help Peter escape. My God, it wasn't as if his brother were innocent. And Frank had his own reputation to consider. He'd be ruined. At least it had

been Anna and not the others to whom he had said it In the cold dawning light of day, she too would see that it was obvious he couldn't risk that sort of impetuosity. With all the sensational circumstances, word of Albert's demise would spread through the parish like flame in tinder.

He looked into the study when he came downstairs. Peter still slept in his makeshift bed by the hearth. He stared at his brother for a long time. In a sense it was better to say good-bye like this, without words or emotions to clutter up what must be. There was no point in playing the hypocrite. He and Peter had never lost any love over each other. Frank walked closer to where Peter slept. He was sorry it had happened here in Kent, but he had little sympathy for his brother. To Frank, Rosalind wasn't worth sorrow, so it didn't occur to him that Peter might mourn her. Aside from the hideous scandal and difficulty the murder would cause both him and the Berean name, Frank might have been able to dismiss the whole incident from his mind.

He went to his fields. They would always be there, demanding of him with the passing seasons only that which he was capable of giving.

Albert's mother recovered sufficiently from her shock and grief to rise from her bed and give two orders. Meg, Anna, Natalie, and Jamie must leave her house immediately. She had been appalled at Natalie's shocking tantrum. No matter how she stretched her mind, Natalie's method of grief did not fit any proper form of mourning she knew.

"That girl is deranged. You tricked us . • . you duped my poor, darling Albert into marrying her when you knew she wasn't right. It is you, Meg Berean, you and that entire family of yours that is re-

sponsible for my son s death. He always said you were a nest of treasonous revolutionaries. There has been trouble since the first day you took ownership of the hop garden. If it is the last act of my life, 111 see that the Bereans pay for this!"

Meg held her tongue and packed Natalie's things. They went back to Gardenhill House.

Mrs. Foxe's second order was a demand for the immediate arrest of the "harlot's keeper" for the murder of her son. The deputy magistrate stayed at the Foxe house to gather all the information and gossip he could. That afternoon, he and three yeomen came to the farm for Peter.

Callie stood dumbfounded and helpless as they entered the house to arrest him. Stephen stood by her side. "Stephen, we must do something. Tell them it was Natalie. Tell them!"

"Callie, no! Peter has made me promise not to say anything!"

T[ don't care what he said. He doesn't even fully realize what's happened yet!"

"He knows enough to know what will happen to Natalie if she is taken."

"I won't let him do it! I won't! It's wrong." She moved to the kitchen, watching in disbelief as Peter walked between the yeomen to the cart that would take him to prison. "There must be something we can do," she whispered.

Peter heard her and turned to look at her. He smiled for the first time since he had found Rosalind. He watched Callie's face and remembered how she had ridden out to find him the night of the Swing riots, and understood that she wanted to save him again this afternoon. He touched her cheek gently. "You can't do it this time, little one." He paused for a moment and then went on. "And I don't want you to try, Callie. It

can only make things worse and hurt more people. There's been enough of that" He climbed into the cart.

"Stephen!" Callie cried and ran to him, burying her face in his coat. "Don't let them take him. Please! Do something, but don't let him do this!"

"We can't stop them, Callie. But we'll do something. Well find someone who knows what happened. Someone must know Peter didn't do this, and I promise you, Callie, even if I find that it was Natalie ... if ... if there is evidence, 111 . . . report it."

Callie watched as the cart rumbled down the far road with Peter in it. "There'll be no witnesses. Peter says no one was around."

"Peter doesn't know what he's saying. Well have to think for him. Right now all he can think about is protecting Natalie. He thinks she did it too, and he's got some idea that he is the cause of it Callie, he's wrong, and somehow 111 prove it Believe me, Callie. You can't fall apart now. He needs you."

She looked into Stephen s eyes, her own brimming with unshed tears. "Stephen, I'm so frightened."

"Well be all right," he said, putting his arm around her. He hated the reassuring, confident sound in his voice, hated her for needing that reassurance, and hated himself for needing to give it Callie had taken his own thoughts from out of his very heart and put them into words. He was afraid. He didn't know what could be done or where to begin attacking the mesh of law that was as strong as steel and as debilitating as disease.

An Englishman held on a capital offense was allowed no counsel. Prisoners conducted their own defense with the disadvantage of not being permitted to give evidence in their own behalf.

There was one other horror that Stephen saw clearly even though Callie did not: She had been able

to say openly that she believed Natalie had killed Rosalind and Albert, while he had not; but Stephen, deep inside himself, admitted it was true. What was also true—and Stephen recognized it—was that no one else, last of all judges and a jury, would ever believe it Peter might think he was protecting Natalie by refusing to proclaim his own innocence, but what little evidence there was all pointed to Peter, and popular opinion had it that he was guilty.

Stephen was painfully aware that the only hope Peter had was for Stephen to find someone who had actually seen the crime, or something that would prove Peter hadn't committed the murder—or more unlikely still, for the murderer to step forward and admit guilt. None of these possibilities seemed likely, and no one was more aware of that than Stephen. He also knew there was very little time in which to search for a witness. If English justice tended to be harsh, it was also unquestionably swift.

Stephen was correct. Peter s trial, to be held in London at Mrs. Foxe's request, was scheduled just three days after his arrest.

Stephen left Callie at the house, then rode off searching for someone or something to prove Peter innocent. He dared not think what he might find, or what it would mean to Natalie. He still could not find it in himself to choose between the love he felt for his sister and the love he felt for his brother. Instead he prayed and left the decision to a higher order.

He rode back to the farm late that evening. When he took the horse to the stables, Frank was there watering and feeding the plow horses. "Where were you? I could have used your help today."

"I was looking for someone to testify for Peter," Stephen said tiredly.

"You re wasting your time," Frank grumbled as they

walked back to the house. "No one is going to stand up for him. Listen to the talk around."

Stephen stood silent and dejected just inside the study, gazing at the spot where Peter had been last night

It was true what Frank said. No one was going to stand up for Peter. He was going to stand alone in that courtroom, and there was no one who could help. Even the truth would not help. There was no way of proving it

All day long he had heard talk of the murder. Mouths overflowed with half-truths and scandal. Eyes lighted with curiosity; people all over the parish had been on Peter s side, but in such a fashion that their very support would help to convict him. He had every right, they all said, to do away with an adulterous wife, no matter how imprudent he had been in shooting Albert as well. They didn't believe him innocent, only justified.

Stephen walked fully into the room and took Peter s seat. He leaned forward, tired deep inside, propping his head up with his hands. It was all so painfully clear why Peter had always longed to leave England, why he had always felt hemmed in and trapped. Peter had always associated with the people who came most under the law's thumb. He understood the fear and futility that Stephen was only now learning. But why, if there were a God, had it to be Peter who became trapped by this thing called justice?

And then he remembered the morning prayer James used to say to begin each day of their lives. "Teach us to be just to those dependent on us."

He stared into the blackness so long and so hard that it seemed to undulate before his eyes, shaping and reshaping itself into human forms, some dependent, and some who prayed to be just It was the whole

essence of the Bloody Code to him that night. One group of people praying faithfully to a god, knowing he was there to answer because he was of their own making. And the others never praying at all, never knowing that God was there because they didn't know they were of His making.

That night he spent hating England and her Bloody Code, which could boast nearly two hundred thirty offenses for which a man could be hanged. English justice!

"What are you doing, Stephen? I've been looking all over for you," Callie said as she came into the study.

"Nothing. Thinking/' he said moodily.

She fumbled at the table, trying to light a rush lamp. "Did you find someone to testify?"

"No."

"You're not giving up? There must be someone. We must keep looking." She turned away from him, biting her lip. "Oh, why did we ever come back here? None of this would have happened if we had just stayed in America."

"Shut up, Callie. Stop talking about it."

"I can't! I can't just sit here and do nothing. How can you? You know who did it. Why won't you just admit it, and do something about it?"

He glared at her. "Shut up, Callie. You're talking like a bloody fool. You want to drag it out of me that I think Natalie killed them? All right, I think it. I think she did it. But get this through that block you call a head, my opinion doesn't mean a bloody thing in a court of law, and neither does yours."

"Stephen—"

"I've ridden this whole parish today and found not one soul outside this house who believes in Peter's innocence, or who has seen or heard anything that

would help. I've heard plenty that would hang him, but not one word that might save him."

"Stephen, no."

"Yes. If you still believe in that God of yours, you might pray he gets a compassionate jury/' he said and strode out of the room.

Chapter 27

The following Friday, Stephen, Callie, and Frank went to the courtroom. Curiosity seekers crowded in among those present as witnesses or because of a connection with the trial. Stephen was surprised to see so many farm laborers there. It was a strange mixture of people, he thought. Ragged, soil-dirtied clothing rubbed against fur-trimmed velvets. Plumed bonnets waggled in the air over the flat caps of neighboring spectators. There were so many there, but none of them gave Stephen hope. He felt as though he was about to view something that had been preordained, and nothing would change Peters fate or help Callie or him to accept it.

He looked around at the room itself. Golden, oiled panels of wood covered the walls. The judge's seat, high so that one had to look up to him, the lawyers' boxes, all carved and carefully crafted of the finest wood, lined up on opposite sides. The prisoner's box was set back and also built high so that the spectators could view it. Everything Stephen looked at seemed to be enclosed in wood, and while he thought that it

was probably to provide a sense of permanence, it gave him only the apprehensive sense of impenetrability. He couldn't help but feel the truth could never be arrived at in this place, which was already so set in centuries of rules and laws. A man's life meant so little when it was pitted against fixed minds and rigid principles.

There was a stir in the room as people adjusted their seats for better views and the judge's gavel hammered. Robed lawyers moved papers, straightened wigs, and tugged at their robes in a final ritual of preparedness.

Stephen looked up and fixed his eyes on the ceiling, unable and unwilling to watch the final stages of what amounted to the ceremonies of righteousness. He didn't listen to the opening statements, nor to the first few witnesses.

Callie and Frank listened to every word spoken, their hopes rising and dashing as one witness after another told of having known about Rosalind and Albert's affair. Peter's part in the Swing riots came out and was discussed at length. His temper, his impetuosity, his recklessness in years past were repeated so often and with such enthusiastic vigor that it sounded as though he had spent his life riding the highways and stirring up trouble. It was also made clear that he and Albert had been in opposition to one another on several occasions. Mrs. Foxe was having her revenge on the "harlot's keeper" and would forever be satisfied that she had been right.

Callie sat stiffly in her seat. An idea formed as she heard a witness verify that Albert had once arrested Peter during the Swing riots. As the witness stepped down, and there was a lull in the courtroom, Callie kept remembering Albert asking her if she were willing to take the witness stand in Peter's behalf then.

She had been, but it hadn't been necessary. Now it was.

Quite suddenly, before Stephen could realize what she was doing, Callie stood up. "May I speak, Your Honor?"

A hum of motion filled the room as people shifted in their seats to look at the young woman who stood pale and frightened asking to speak to the court

"I ... I have testimony pertinent to the defendant's case, sir," she said, her voice shaking.

Stephen grasped her hand. More than anything he wanted to pull her down into her seat, but he didn't She'd never forgive him; nor would she rest until she had tried her best to s^ve Peter and to tell the truth. Most of all he dreaded what it would do to her when she discovered the truth did not always prevail. He increased the pressure on her hand, gently, reassuringly, letting her know he was there.

"I wish to speak, please," she said louder, her voice firmer.

The judge rapped his gavel as the barristers began objecting to her request

Quickly she took her hand from Stephen's, stepped past Frank, and boldly walked to the witness box. Stiffly, not daring to look at anyone, she sat there waiting for the argument to abate, or for them to forcibly remove her.

When all was quiet and the proceedings resumed, the barrister, his white wig impeccably straight on his head, walked toward Callie. After a sarcastic comment about her audacity, he asked preliminary questions about her place of residence and her connection with the defendant. "Cousin," he repeated her answer. "A close cousin?"

"No, sir, distant I'm not sure of the connection, only that it comes from Aunt Meg's side of the family."

"And were you not the cousin that the witness"—he glanced down at the notes in his hand—"Job MacBride told us about?"

"I don't know, sir. I don't know who Job MacBride is.

"Were you the woman who came into Albert Foxe's headquarters the night of the Swing arrests and claimed to have been out riding in the middle of the night with Peter Berean?"

Callie hesitated, then spoke in a low but clear voice. Yes, sir.

"Cousin, are you? More likely that you'd be the reason he had no use for his wife." He strutted around the immediate area for some seconds, a smile on his arrogant face. "Well, Miss Dawson, shall we now get to the present problem? Here we have Mr. Berean embroiled in another misadventure, and again we have you sitting here telling us he is innocent. Why this time are you so certain of his innocence? Were you also out riding with him on this occasion?"