Mittman, Stephanie (22 page)

"You
will not," he said, returning his gaze to her, "ever go to the
courtroom alone again."

Cabot
seemed highly amused by his brother's outburst. "Do the words
remanded
to the custody of Cabot Whittier
mean anything to you? Charlotte is not
some little priss that would be bowled over by some spittle-laden wind, however
strong, that might come within a few feet of her."

"Hit
her cheek," Selma said. "Didn't you tell them, Charlotte? I do admire
you so. There were bets, you know, that you'd cry. Silas Haring lost fifty
cents!"

Ash
Whittiers knuckles were white as he gripped the edge of the table. "If my
brother cannot accompany you, I will see that Moss Johnson is there," he
said through gritted teeth that nearly made his words unintelligible.

"Charlotte
can take care of herself," Cabot said. "She needs to overcome the
odds, and I understand that need. There are few things in this world as we know
it that a woman can take pride in, and I'll not let you rob my wife of
them."

"Your
wife?" Ash said, coming to his feet. "Do you know that may be the
first time I've heard you refer to her as that? Look at this table—you across
from Mother, Charlotte on the side like a guest. Oh, you'll no doubt say she'll
eat all the same. I've no doubt you're quite right about Charlotte. She can
take care of herself. She's had to, hasn't she? There are many things a person
can
do. Why, they can even manage to spend their life in a chair if they have
to. But how many would you actually
choose
for yourself?"

His
mouth was still open, but there seemed to be nothing left to say. His hands
were raised, but they pointed nowhere until one finger warned her. "No
going to court yourself. Understood?"

He
didn't wait for her to nod, and she wasn't sure she could. Could one nod
without breathing? Without moving a muscle at all?

Something
seemed to satisfy him, a look, perhaps, or her very silence, which he might
have taken for some sort of affirmation, since after his warning he simply
strode from the room with just a quick nod of politeness at Eli and Selma.

"He
doesn't understand pride," Cabot said. "Not the way I do."

Two
nights later, when he heard the footsteps on the stairs, he knew they belonged
to her. After all, they were too light for anyone but an angel. He shook his
head at his own foolishness and suffered Liberty's derisive laugh.

"Someday
it's going to happen to you," he warned the bird, watching him break his
nuts into smaller and smaller pieces so that the little chickadee could share
his meal. "If it hasn't already," he added.

He
waited for her to tap on the door, anticipating her knock as if it were a
reprieve from the governor. Not that he cared all that much about his case
anymore, except that it was a shame for the guilty to go unpunished. Still,
Cabot would get him off, or he wouldn't, and Ash would leave Oakland, one way
or the other, and none of it made any difference because she wasn't going to be
a part of it. Sometimes, in his darkest moments, when he lay alone on his bed
in the middle of the night and knew she was alone, too, just a floor beneath
him, he thought it might be best if he pleaded guilty just to keep her safe
from him.

Not
that he would force himself upon her—no, never! He wanted to put the twinkle
back in her eyes, not see it gone for good. What a mess he'd made of Cabot's
life and what a mess Cabot had made of Charlotte's. She might as well be a nun
for all the pleasure afforded her by his unloving, unlovable big brother.

The
knock was soft. Hell, beneath all the starch and serge everything about her was
soft He made sure his shirt buttons were closed, his sleeves rolled down, and
then opened the door slightly. Best that they kept their distance, after all.

And
then he saw those sad eyes, that tiny pink tongue licking that lush bottom lip,
and he swung the door open wide, grabbed her arm, and yanked her inside.

"I
was looking for the little chickadee," she said as if to explain why she
had chosen just that minute to breathe life into his mundane existence.

"He's
here with Liberty," he said with a jerk of his head toward the birds,
pretending that he hadn't been wishing, wanting, making deals with himself and
bargains with God, if only she'd come to him.

Her
jaw fell slightly, in clear concern for the tiny bird's safety, before she
could fully comprehend that the bigger bird was making a meal
for,
and
not
of
her little friend. "I thought I'd better get him fed,"
she said. Her hair had lost its willingness to stay pinned up and was falling
softly around her face like streamers around the prize float at the parade.

"He's
eating," he pointed out unnecessarily.

"Yes,
I see." At the rate they were going they might actually get to the weather
by midnight.

"You
don't seem very pleased." Actually, she was sniffing and fishing around in
her pocket almost frantically. He handed her his handkerchief, grateful Rosa
had left him a clean stack just that morning, and lifted her chin, only to
drown in her eyes.

"Oh,
I'm pleased," she said, her nose twitching, her bottom lip caught between
her teeth.

"Good,"
he said. "That's what we want."

"We?"

"Yeah,
all of us," he said, spreading his arm to include Liberty and the
chickadee and even Van Gogh, who'd nosed out from under the bed at the sound of
his mistress's voice.

"Well,
I'm happy." She smiled at him, or tried to.

"Good."

There
was only the sound of the birds breaking seeds and nuts for a moment.

"You
happy?" she asked, and for the first time let her eyes meet his, search
his, pierce the ridiculous shield he'd raised to fight the dazzling effect of
her. "Are you happy, Ashford?"

He
wanted to be honest with her. Really, he did. He wanted to tell her that he
couldn't be happy as long as she was trapped in a loveless marriage to his
coldhearted brother. He wanted to tell her that, no, he wasn't happy, would
never be happy, because the one thing that could bring him happiness in the
world was forbidden to him forever, that he'd tossed away those rights
unwittingly before she'd even learned her letters.

"If
you're happy, I'm happy," he answered, as honest an answer as he could find
in his heart to give.

"Good,"
she said again, resolutely, as if that settled the matter.

"Yes,"
he agreed.

She
made her way to the desk and handed Liberty a nut, watched him crack off the
shell, break the meat down into small bits, and lay them at the chickadee's
feet. "We don't lie very well, do we?" she asked finally.

"Well,
I wasn't trying all that hard," he said, defending his acting skills.

"Really?"
She turned and looked up at him, those piercing eyes stabbing him with their
pain again. "I was trying with all my might."

"Then
we'd better hope you never have to convince anyone of something you don't
really believe."

"I'm
not a good liar," she agreed, tilting her face up toward his. "I'm
not much good at anything but the law, and that relies rather heavily on the
truth of things."

He
wanted to tell her that it didn't seem that way from where he sat, not as
someone who'd always been privy to the machinations of a family involved in the
law from as far back as they could trace and then some, but it seemed to cast
aspersions on something she treasured. The notion that the law was imperfect
and that justice was neither blind nor evenhanded merely sullied it, and her
along with it. And so he just nodded, his head getting that much closer to
hers, his lips nearly brushing her temple, yearning to ask her if she cared for
him, terrified to know. "Do you always tell the truth?" he asked,
letting his lips taste the warmth of her skin.

Before
she could answer he heard the uneven tap of his mother's cane on the steps—rap,
step, step. Rap, step, step. Charlotte's wide eyes and her dash for the window
told him that every now and then she at least attempted to keep the truth to
herself.

"Charlotte,
don't be ridiculous. There's no reason for you to go out there," he said as
he fought her efforts to raise the sash. "There's nothing wrong with you
coming up to my room."

"Look
at my face and tell me I hadn't better hide," she said. There might as
well be big bold letters spelling out a guilt she had no reason to feel.

Unless,
of course, she was feeling what he was feeling, had come for what he had been
hoping she'd come for.

He
lifted the sash and handed her out the window, then hurried to the door, opened
it, and leaned against its frame.

"And
what canary have you swallowed?" his mother asked him as she went around
him and into the room.

***

Charlotte
positioned herself between the windows that faced north and those that faced
east and leaned back against the overlapping wooden boards, grateful she was
short enough to avoid the mansard roof. Cabot had always said her honest face
would be her undoing, and here she was, out on the roof in February hiding from
her mother-in-law to prove it.

"Have
you seen Charlotte?" she could hear Kathryn asking. "I do swear this
room gets higher every time I manage to get up here."

"You
never swear, Mother," Ash answered, obviously trying to avoid the question
rather artlessly.

"I've
looked for her everywhere. I've been down to the cellar where she kept that
poor cat with the horrid eyes, and out to the carriage house where the
squirrels have all but taken over. Did you know she feeds those rodents?"

"No,"
he answered, coming and sitting on the window-sill so that she could watch his
back expand and contract with every breath while he talked with Kathryn as if
not a thing had passed between them.

She
reminded herself it hadn't. Not beyond her mind, anyway.

"Though
I admit it doesn't surprise me. She seems to have a weak spot for all living
things."

"Even
Cabot?" Kathryn said. "Is that what you're thinking?"

"What
would make you come looking for her here?" Ash asked. Apparently he
enjoyed playing with fire after all. Maybe Charlotte ought to rethink his
innocence with regard to the warehouse. "For heaven's sake, Mother. Sit
down and catch your breath."

"It's
those stairs. I believe there's a new one for every year. The older I get, the
more of them there seem to be. Isn't that her bird?"

"Go
ahead, Mother dear. Out with it. I've seen you do it with others, but never
known you to play cat-and-mouse with me before." His fingers traced the
window ledge, reminding Charlotte of how Cabot traced the spokes of his chair
wheels, reminding her they were brothers.

"What
is it you think I have to say?" his mother asked. "That I'm concerned
about you? That I see time hasn't healed that pain, that—"

Ash
cut his mother off. "Did you really come to talk about me, Mother, or
about Cabot? Or about Charlotte and Cabot, perhaps?"

"You're
right, I'm worried about all three of you. I admit it. You want me to say it?
All right. I'm concerned that perhaps you've decided that Charlotte deserves
more than Cabot is capable of giving her."

"Isn't
she?"

Charlotte
swallowed hard. The air was cold and bit at her nostrils and her throat.

"Oh,
Ashford," Kathryn said, and Charlotte could hear the fracturing of her
heart in her voice. "You don't understand Charlotte at all. There is
nothing more important to her than the law. There never has been. Her name is
on that marriage license and I know she sees it as a contract with Cabot.
Charlotte would sooner let one of her precious animals die than go back on her
word. If you think otherwise, Ashford, you'll find yourself wrong, and you'll
be terribly, dreadfully hurt. I know that child as well as one of my own, and
there's no doubt in my mind that she's made of better stuff than you give her
credit for."

"It's
a contract between them, then?" Ash asked. "And nothing more?"

"You
aren't listening to what I'm saying. Yes, there are limits to their marriage
imposed by his condition, I would say. She gave up some things in order to
obtain others. That's what contracts are all about."

"And
his part of this so-called contract? What did my brother give up? Where's his
compromise?"

"How
can you, of all people, ask that?" Charlotte could hear the gasp and the
indignation through the open window and tears stung her eyes as they always did
for all that Cabot had lost. "He will never father a child. What more must
a man do without?"

"But
that's not her fault, is it? Nor is it his choice. You can't give up something
you don't have. She's the one who's given up children, she's the one who has
given up any kind of physical love. From what I can see, she's given up any
love at all. Was that part of their 'bargain'?"