Mittman, Stephanie (23 page)

He
got up from the window, leaving Charlotte quite alone on the roof. But he was
speaking loudly enough for her to hear him as clearly as if she were in the
room with him, and she knew that what he said was as much for her benefit as
for his mother's.

"He
took her as his wife, not his partner. But he offers her no love, no comfort,
no warmth. Didn't that contract call for him to love, honor, and obey? Aren't
those the usual vows to which they had to say
I
do?
Didn't he
promise to put her above him, to cherish her?

"I
want to know why she's the only one held to those vows, vows that he has never
bothered to embrace, just like he's never bothered to embrace her."

"You
should have taken up the law yourself," Kathryn said. "You present
one side of the argument very well. But Charlotte herself knows the other side.
Knows that she got what she wanted
from
the arrangement. Do you know how
many lady lawyers there are in California? Do you—"

"So
I've heard a great deal of lately. And I've heard about arrangements and
contracts and agreements. What I haven't heard about is love."

"He
can't," Kathryn said, her cane striking the floor for emphasis. "You
know he can't."

"Can't
what, Mother? Can't love?"

"You
know very well what I mean," Kathryn said. She was standing by the window
now. Charlotte, trapped, leaned back in the hopes of staying out of sight.

"I
know that my sister-in-law is married in name only. I know that my brother has
broken his vows to love and honor." He was standing by his mother now.
Charlotte could see his arms on her shoulders, leading her away from the
window.

"With
whom did he break those vows?" she demanded.

"With
his wife," Ash said, leaning out the window and looking directly at
Charlotte. "There's nothing wrong with the man's arms, nothing wrong with
his lips, and without being crass, I simply say that if he loved her, he could
make her happy and make their marriage a real one."

"They
have a real marriage," Kathryn said, "considering everything."

He
ducked back into the room and Charlotte ran one finger over her lips. They were
soft, pliant. She closed her eyes and pressed two fingers against them as she
had every night since she had married Cabot.
I will never,
she told
herself, barely able to control her breathing,
kiss myself good-night again.

"A
real marriage, you say? With you at the head of the table across from Cabot?
How fortunate for you that Charlotte had no 'high calling' to become the lady
of the house. Almost like having one of your daughters back, isn't it?"

"I
didn't know you had it in you to be so cruel," Kathryn said. "Or
perhaps so observant either."

"Oh,
my God! The bird!" Ash ran back toward the window and looked out, his
mouth open as the tiny black-capped chickadee flew past Charlotte and swooped
unevenly down toward the trees below.

His
eyes searched hers and reluctantly she shook her head. The little bird was
gone.

"Has
it made its escape?" Kathryn asked from deeper in the room.

"Yes,"
Ash said softly, looking at Charlotte. "It's free."

"Maybe
you should go after it," Kathryn said. "I wouldn't be able to bear
seeing Charlotte unhappy."

"Charlotte
will find something else to love," he said, fingering the paint on the
windowsill's edge, pulling away a rotting chip and flinging it out onto the
roof. "And maybe this time it will be something more worthy."

"I
see. You can tell her who she should love, as well as who she shouldn't. Isn't
that really Charlotte's decision?" Kathryn asked. "I mean which
broken bird it is that's worthy of her affection?"

"Her
birds are all flight worthy, Mother. She'd do well to look after herself for a
change instead of giving that heart of hers to anything she thinks needs
it—even an ingrate who flies off at the first opportunity."

"She
understands loyalty better than most," Kathryn said softly. Charlotte
heard her cane strike the floor. "You should recognize the signs, Ashford.
You're no stranger yourself."

"I
understand the difference between loyalty and love."

"Is
there a difference?" Kathryn asked. "Can you have one without the
other?"

"Undoubtedly,"
Ashford Whittier answered with a sigh so deep, it rattled in Charlotte's own
chest. "And it hurts."

"Loyalty
is important, son, but I don't suppose that if you are lucky enough to have the
opportunity, a body should have to live without love. Maybe it would be best if
you go see whether you can catch that bird?"

"Someone
else will have to catch it." Charlotte sensed him back at the window, but
refused to take her eyes from where she thought the chickadee was. She watched
the green leaves get blurrier and blurrier, and still she kept her head turned
away. "I've been
remanded
to my brother's custody. Never forget
that, Mother."

"Then
she'll get away," Kathryn warned. Charlotte heard the door to Ash's
bedroom open.

"With
all my heart I hope so," Ash answered, closing the door behind his mother
and returning to the window only to crawl out beside her.

***

He
hated the roof, not surprisingly. It dredged up memories better laid to rest.
Carefully he set his feet on the flattest part of the heavy slate shingles, and
tried to block out the image of his brother coming toward him on two good legs,
smiling, his hands out for balance, while Ash backed farther and farther away,
clinging to the ridge of the roof in fear.

None
of it ever made any sense. It had been Cabot, his bear of a big brother, coming
to rescue him. And yet his strongest memories were filled with terror and
confusion.

He
pushed the thoughts back to the corner of his mind that was reserved for them,
where he kept his guilt carefully preserved so as never to forget what he'd
done, and eased himself down next to Cabot's wife, both of them leaning against
the wooden slats that overlapped each other and cut into their backs. He was
forced
by the height of the window sash and all the moldings that
punctuated the frieze to keep his head forward as if he were eager to tell her
something that he'd vowed would never pass his lips.

"He'll
die," she said at great length.

"No,
he's stronger than you think," he answered, confused about whether they
were referring to the bird or the man who had come to depend on her so heavily.

"Do
you think so?" Huge hazel eyes, swimming in tears, were only inches from
his face, so close he couldn't see them clearly anymore, couldn't see
her
clearly
anymore, couldn't see anything clearly but the pain.

"Look,"
he said, pointing down to the garden, where Davis had just appeared.
"What's he doing?"

They
watched as Davis gestured toward one bush and then to another. He nodded his
head and then pulled out his clippers. Before each move the boy studied the
house, made elaborate motions with his hands, and then nodded.

"Somebody's
directing him," Ash said, finally catching on.

Beside
him Charlotte smiled tightly and brushed at a tear. "Cabot must be having
him bring in some pussy willows. He likes to bring them indoors to bloom."

Cabot
liked to bring everything inside, out of the sun, out of the natural order of
things, and have it answer to his whim. He wanted to cultivate the woman who
was huddled against the cold beside Ash, wanted to train her to grow just the
way he thought best, like some topiary taken to the extreme, and damn nature in
the process.

"Cold?"
Ash asked, rocking his weight forward so that he could get up and help
Charlotte in. Beside him she made no move to rise.

"Are
you sure he'll be all right? What if it gets cold tonight? What'll he eat?
Where'll he sleep?"

He
settled back, putting his arm out for her to lean against, and searched the
trees below for any sign of Charlotte's little bird.

"There!"
He pointed to one of her many feeders just as the tiny bird was lighting there.
"You've taken care of everything, Charlotte. Just relax now. I'll open the
doors to the carriage house tonight so he'll have a warm place to sleep."

"But
he'll be alone...." She snuggled closer against him, robbing the heat from
his body while stoking deeper fires they couldn't afford to risk.

"Not
once he finds a mate," he answered, stiffening to keep some distance
between them. "The right mate."

"Maybe
if I left my window open," she began.

"A
little Charlotte Russe," he said as he stroked her hair and inhaled the
sweet freshness of her skin. "So sweet. There are a million starving
souls, and you keep trying to feed the ones that aren't hungry."

"Everyone's
hungry," she said, her head against his chest so that he could feel the
words penetrate his shirt and tease his skin.

He
had thought he knew all there was to know about hunger, how it rose from his
loins, how it swelled his manhood. But all these years he'd mistaken mere
desire for absolute need. Now it was as if someone had set fire to his skin
where her body rested against his side, and no ointment, no salve, no cream,
would ever be able to cool or soothe it.

Words
strangled in his throat, played havoc with his tongue, and mocked his
sincerity. Hadn't he said
I love you
to a hundred women before her? And
now wasn't he forbidden to even relish the thought?

He
had stolen from his brother the chance to be a real husband.

Someone
else would have to take away the man's very real wife.

Charlotte's
hand was on the conservatory door when she heard Cabot's voice.
"Slowly," he said. "This isn't a race, it's a lesson. And it
ends not at a set hour, but at a set goal. Do you understand that?"

How
well she remembered that creed.
You research a case until you're done, Miss
Reynolds. The facts, not the clock, dictate your completion.
Charlotte
waited along with Cabot for Davis's answer. There was no response.

"I
don't hear nods. A simple
yes
will suffice. A
yes, sir,
would
actually please me, and a
yes, sir, Mr. Whittier,
might get you the
sight of me spinning a little circle in this chair."

"Yes,
s-s—sir," she heard Davis's halting answer. "M-M-Mister
Whit-ta-ta..."

She
pushed the door open slightly. If Cabot was doing roundabouts, Charlotte was
not about to miss them. "I do believe I'll have to start practicing those
circles," she heard him say. There was almost a lilt to the man's voice,
nearly a chuckle in his tone. "Now, you will stay in this room and
practice while I take care of a few matters. You will water all the flowers on
the far wall, but this time not more than this beakerful, understood?"

"Yes,
s-s-sir," she heard Davis respond.

"Pressed
for time as I've been, I've still done a good deal of study on the subject of
stammering and stuttering—you do realize there is a difference and that you are
a stutterer?"

The
boy nodded.
No!
she thought.
Answer him!

"Your
affliction will not be overcome with a nod of the head, but by perseverance,
determination, good diet, good habits, good morals, and, most importantly, good
teaching. Is that understood?"

"Yes,
s-s-sir." If she had a nickel for every Brussels sprout he'd insisted she
eat, a penny for every glass of water—oh, he was a tough taskmaster, Cabot
Whittier was, and never had she learned so much. She remembered coming into his
office from the brisk walks he insisted she take, her cheeks tingling from the
excitement of some new discovery, thinking herself a genius for figuring out
the lessons of the law. Of course, he always set her straight, but that rush of
exaltation—it was almost like being in love.

The
thought stopped her cold, and she listened with only half an ear while Cabot
issued orders to her charge.

"There
is a bicycle in the carriage house. I can think of no better exercise for a
youngster who has completed his studies, eaten his vegetables, and performed
his chores."

"Yes,
s-s-sir."

The
man who had started her dreaming, had pushed her along when her hopes had
faded, and had propped her up when her confidence had faltered, was focusing
intently on Davis's mouth, manipulating the boy's jaw, examining his teeth.
"There is, according to this book, and more importantly to my own
observations, a certain rhythm in all good speech, a stroke of the voice
followed by a partial rest. Lewis here recommends the use of poetry."

The
boy yanked his head away from Cabot's prodding fingers and stood just out of
the chairbound man's reach.

"Excuse
me for assuming that you wish to recover from your affliction. If I am wasting
my time, I'd sooner know it now than waste another moment on a boy as lazy as
Ludlam's dog."