The Bargain (24 page)

“Puff?” echoed Alan with distaste.

“Well, that was how our cook felt, too. She and that dog hated each other on sight. Cook used to insist that Puff gorged himself on purpose, just so he could be sick on her bed.”

“Ugh,” said Hannah. “Why didn't she give the beast away?”

“Bess tried. But he bit, you see. Which tended to put people off.”

“Understandable,” said Lord Alan. “I suppose she didn't wish to have him put down?”

“She couldn't quite bring herself to that.” A reminiscent smile curved Ariel's lips. “Finally, Cook could bear it no longer,” she continued. “She went out into the streets and found a tomcat.” She glanced at her audience; Lord Alan and Hannah looked back at her with a gratifying air of expectation.

“The largest, meanest tomcat in the neighborhood,” Ariel explained. “A huge brindled creature with torn ears from all his fights. She lured him home with bits of beef. Then, she shut him in the dining room with Puff for an entire morning.”

“Did they kill each other?” Lord Alan inquired.

“Oh, no. Puff was a complete coward. He wouldn't fight. He cowered in a corner while the tomcat strutted about before him and yowled, until Cook came back and freed the cat. After that, she kept a cloth with the cat's scent on it, and whenever Puff thought to misbehave, she pushed his nose in it.”

Alan burst out laughing.

“He never bit anyone again,” Ariel finished.

Their eyes met and held. Behind its screen, the fire hissed and muttered as it died to coals and ash. Hannah's knitting needles made steady muted clicks. Outdoors, the grass, dew-silvered, rustled with creatures on nighttime errands. The road was empty, the sky spangled with a million stars. After what seemed like an eternity, the gaze broke. Alan turned away.

Ariel looked down at her hands. She was trembling. She had forgotten to breathe. She drew in a deep breath, struggling to quiet the hammer of her pulse and the disorienting flutter in her throat. She felt as if she had run until she could run no longer, as if she had come within an inch of falling over a cliff.

It had definitely not been mere responsibility she saw in the depths of Alan's eyes, she thought. It had not been the resigned steadiness of a man fulfilling some obligation. She had glimpsed something far more complex than that. She wasn't sure precisely what he felt toward her, but she was certain that it wasn't cool and orderly. The man of science had given way to… someone else.

Hope caught at her, tremulous and exulting, almost too much to bear. She knew that if she stayed in this room, she wouldn't be able to hide it much longer. Rising, she quickly excused herself to go to bed.

Hannah folded up her knitting and made ready to follow. As she was leaving the inn parlor, she threw Lord Alan a sharp glance. But he was leaning on the mantel staring into the fire and did not notice.

***

Ariel had trouble sleeping that night, and she woke when the sky was barely washed with light. She had dreamed of Alan, but the dreams had been shifting and confused, a flurry of scenes where nothing could be pinned down or clearly understood. All she could recall once awake was a series of images of his face running the gamut of emotions from anger to tenderness and seeming very close, as if they were trying urgently to communicate with her.

She sat up in bed. A bird trilled outside the small mullioned window of the inn. Raising her head, Ariel saw the little creature silhouetted against a brightening sky. It was nearly dawn, dawn of the day when they would reach Ivydene Manor, and she would meet her father. Ariel wrapped her arms around her raised knees and shivered with mingled excitement and apprehension. What if he didn't want to see her? He had made no attempt to do so in twenty years. Perhaps he would turn her away at his gate. What if she didn't like him? There must have been some reason Bess had left him. Was he unpleasant, even monstrous?

She was very glad she had not made this journey alone, Ariel thought. Too restless to sleep anymore, she rose and dressed, being very quiet so as not to wake Hannah, then slipped downstairs. The inn was just stirring. She heard a mutter of voices from the kitchen at the back, but there was no one in the entry hall or the taproom. She slipped the bolt on the front door and stepped out into the rose light of sunrise. The air was damp and cool and filled with birdsong. Dew glistened on the spears of lavender planted along the front of the inn, and its fresh scent surrounded her.

She walked down the path to the street and turned to look at the great cathedral of Wells, rearing like a mountain against the sky. Pink light washed over the amazing west front, with its tier after tier of carved statues rising into the heavens. Ariel stood transfixed as the light grew, overwhelmed by the power of the place.

“It's very beautiful, isn't it?” said a male voice behind her.

Ariel started violently and whirled around, her heart pounding. “You startled me!”

“I beg your pardon,” Lord Alan answered.

He looked as if he had been up for a while, Ariel thought. His auburn hair was neat; his coat and breeches gave no sign that he had spent days traveling. His mere presence created an atmosphere of confidence and optimism, she thought. It was impossible to imagine anything he couldn't do, if he set his mind to it. “It is beautiful,” she replied belatedly.

“They spent decades building it, then carving and painting and setting glass.”

“And all to make a prayer.”

He looked quizzical. “What?”

“That's what a cathedral is, isn't it? A gigantic prayer?”

“I… suppose.” He gazed up at the intricacies of the monument. “That is one thing it is, anyway.”

“It's amazing,” said Ariel.

“What?” he repeated.

She gestured toward the great building. “It's so huge, and so lovely. They spent all those years and all that effort to show how very much they wanted something.”

“Wanted?” he echoed in an odd tone.

“No one does that sort of thing now.”

“Yes, they do,” he said.

“Build great cathedrals?”

Lord Alan shook his head. “That time is past, it's true. But there are still people who spend years and years searching for truth and constructing works to commemorate and… and honor it.”

“Who?” asked Ariel.

“Scientists,” he answered.

She smiled, wondering if he was joking. “It's not the same at all,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Well, scientists don't make beautiful things like this.” She indicated the cathedral again.

“I find a new piece of knowledge beautiful.”

She looked up at him, impressed by the conviction in his voice.

“And of course it can be far more useful to the human race than a building,” he added.

“Useful, practical, sensible,” Ariel said. “I know science is all those things. You have explained to me that it is vital to be rational and orderly and logical.”

“It is vital,” he said forcefully.

“But artists made this cathedral,” she continued. “They had the intensity, the passion to make their wanting real. Scientists don't have that.”

He took a step toward her. His blue eyes were burning, Ariel saw. His mouth was a tight line. At first she thought she had made him angry. But he didn't argue or rail at her. His hands were trembling slightly, she noticed, as if he labored under some great emotion. Abruptly her chest tightened and her breath grew short. He was looking at her as he had last night.

“You're wrong,” he said.

She swallowed.

“A man who spends endless hours alone in a laboratory, repeating an experiment again and again, has as much passion as a stone carver,” he declared. “The desire for knowledge burns in the veins just as intensely as the desire to create. It
is
a desire to create.”

Ariel stared at him. He looked as surprised as she was by his own words.

“If you think that because a man is a scientist, he does not want…”

His fists had clenched. Ariel held her breath.

“You're wrong,” he said again.

His gaze transfixed her. He was breathing hard. Ariel had to struggle to produce a response, even though she wanted more than anything to speak. “Does he want only science?” she murmured at last.

“Only…?”

Did he also want love, with the same sort of ferocity? Ariel longed to add. But she couldn't quite say it. She didn't want him to tell her again that love didn't exist. Or that she had misinterpreted the emotion she thought she saw in his expression. She couldn't bear the idea that she might be wrong.

“My lord,” someone called from the direction of the inn.

It was a member of their escort, Ariel saw.

“The horses will be harnessed in half an hour,” the man said.

The spell broke. Lord Alan stood straighter, drew in a deep breath. The pink dawn light was gone, Ariel saw, and more prosaic daylight picked out every detail of the scene.

“We'd best find some breakfast,” Lord Alan said. He indicated that Ariel should walk ahead of him, and she had no choice but to do so. “Did you ask directions?” he said when they reached the outrider.

“Yes, my lord. The innkeeper knew the place.”

They began to discuss travel plans. Lord Alan seemed his practical self again, Ariel thought as she made her way toward the inn. There was no sign of the very different man she had seen a few minutes ago. But she knew now that he was there. She knew that hope wasn't entirely foolish. Hugging that knowledge to her and suppressing the shiver of excitement it brought, she vowed to search for other opportunities to lure him into the open.

The innkeeper gave their driver exact directions to Ivydene. By midmorning they were well away from the town, traveling along a narrow, twisting lane. Unable to sit still, Ariel leaned out the coach window, breathing the summer air and watching for the last turn. The high silhouette of Glastonbury Tor rose in the distance like a monitor from ancient times. The leaves rustled in a stiff breeze. And then, they were there. An ancient moss-covered boulder stood beside the turnoff, “Ivydene” deeply carved into its surface. Ariel experienced another tremor of doubt. If she said she wished to turn back, to go all the way home to London, no one would object. Now that the moment was here, she wondered whether she actually wanted to meet her father.

She took a breath. She wanted to know, she thought. If she didn't like what she found, then she would leave.

The coach moved forward. The drive, which was somewhat overgrown, wound through thickets and groves of small trees. Though she leaned out again, Ariel could see nothing but the next curve and more trees. Then, they emerged at the top of a small hill, and the prospect opened up. Below was a little valley. Beside a rocky stream, nestled into a fold of the land, sat a stone house that looked as if it had been there forever. It wasn't large, but the mellow stone, almost completely overgrown with ivy, and the arched, diamond-paned windows made it beautiful. Sheep dotted the park, keeping the grass cropped between clumps of oak. An apple orchard covered the opposite side of the valley. There was no one in sight, but a wisp of smoke floated from one chimney.

The driver flicked the reins, and they started down. Ariel took a deep breath and sat very straight, hanging on to the strap and rehearsing the words she had planned to say to whoever opened the door.

In the end, it was simple. The old woman servant made no protest when they asked to see Daniel Bolton, but merely took them through a great hall to a door at the back. Knocking, she opened it without waiting for a reply and said, “Someone here to see you,” before tramping off. Trembling, Ariel stepped into an odd room, which seemed at first to be empty.

Shelves along the whole length of two inner walls held bits of stone and broken pottery, along with piles of manuscript and bundles and jars of dried plants. There were instruments she could not identify and, incongruously, a pickax and shovel leaning in the corner. The trestle table before the two wide windows was strewn with drawings that seemed to be architectural; ink from the quill pen had smeared one. There was a small movement, and Ariel realized that a cat sat on the window ledge—the largest cat she had ever seen. Its gray fur blended into the stone lintel, but its eyes, whose blinking had finally attracted her attention, were bright gold.

It looked astonishingly like Prospero, she thought, and for one wild moment wondered whether he had somehow preceded her here. The cat stared at her as if it knew her thoughts, then rose and wove its way along the ledge to a great carved chair that faced away from the door. It leaped onto the arm, and a man's voice said, “Eh? What? What is it, Ptolemy?”

An arm appeared, and then a head, peering around the tall chairback. Ariel had a moment of sheer panic as the man hidden in the chair rose and stood facing her.

It was like looking in a magic mirror that showed her as a fifty-year-old man, she thought. Like her, Daniel Bolton had glossy brown hair and sparkling hazel eyes. His skin was ruddy, his face rather round. Also like her, he was not overly tall, though he was stocky and strongly built instead of slender. His nose was straight and his lips full. No one could have doubted that they were members of the same family.

“It's Ariel, isn't it?” he said.

Surprised by this immediate recognition, Ariel couldn't speak.

“Little Ariel. I always hoped you'd visit me one day.”

This wasn't right, she thought. He wasn't supposed to know her, to speak as if she had neglected him. Nor was the man himself what she had expected. In her childhood fantasies, he had been a duke, a hero, a diplomat—wondrously handsome, rich, and well-bred. When she had learned his identity, she had feared to find a crude country squire, drinking and hunting and falling asleep before the fire with a belch. “You know who I am?” was all she could manage to say.

“How could I help it? You've been the image of me since you were born.” He was examining her, too, and he looked as if he was pleased with what he found.

“Since I was… you knew?” Ariel felt as if she might fly to pieces from conflicting feelings. “Why didn't you ever visit me?” she cried.

Bolton's jaw hardened. “Bess didn't want me to interfere,” he replied crisply.

“Interfere?” echoed Ariel, disoriented. All this time, he had been a few days' journey away, and neither of her parents had seen fit to let her know that.

“When she left, she said she didn't wish to hear from me again. I take it she has changed her mind?” Though he spoke coolly, Ariel heard the eager undertone.

“Bess Harding is dead,” said Lord Alan flatly.

Their host swung around to stare at him as if he hadn't even noticed him until now. “Dead? Bess?”

“She killed herself,” Lord Alan added, looking as if he rather enjoyed the harshness of the words.

Bolton turned white. He put a hand on the trestle table and supported himself. “When?”

“Two months ago.”

The older man rubbed his free hand across his face. “This is dreadful news. Dreadful,” he muttered.

Ariel felt a pang for the way he had been told.

“I have thought of her as alive,” he added dazedly. “I didn't feel it. I didn't know.” He groped his way back to his chair. His eye lit upon an abandoned tankard of ale sitting among his papers, and he picked it up and drained it. “I always thought that, one day, she would regret leaving,” he said. “I knew it was foolish, but I kept believing that she would come back.” He shook his head. “Not really believing, I suppose. More of a daydream.” He shook his head again, as if he couldn't quite assimilate this new knowledge. “Little Bess,” he murmured.

“When did you see her last?” asked Lord Alan. He sounded almost suspicious.

“See her?” Daniel Bolton looked sad. “It's been nearly twenty years since I saw Bess.” He sighed. “Twenty years. How can it be possible?” Making a visible effort, he pulled himself together. “So. Bess is gone, and… and you have come to me,” he said. He focused on Ariel once again.

She didn't know how to react. Was he going to try to pretend this was a simple family visit?

“We tracked you down,” Lord Alan corrected.

“Tracked?” He looked from one to the other.

“I never knew who my father was, or where you were,” Ariel accused. “After Bess… was gone, I found a scrap of paper with a record of her marriage. I never even knew she was married!”

He looked stricken. “She never told you? Nothing about me at all?”

“She made up stories,” replied Ariel bitterly. In her secret heart, she had thought that her mother needed the stories as a defense, that perhaps the truth wasn't something to acknowledge. She had tried to spare Bess's feelings, she thought angrily. No one seemed to have considered hers.

“Stories,” Bolton repeated, bewildered. “Bess liked stories.”

“And she had no reason for them at all?” asked Lord Alan harshly.

The other man's eyes sharpened. “What do you mean by that?”

“She must have had some reason for concealing your existence.”

“Reason?” Bolton gave a mirthless laugh. “Bess always had her reasons, but I could never fathom any of them.”

“But not to tell her daughter…?”

“What are you trying to say?” demanded their host. “Do you imagine I beat her or degraded her in some way? I didn't!”

The two men stared at one another in tense silence. A bird called outside.

“Don't,” said Ariel.

As if to second her request, the huge cat jumped down to the floor and began twining around Bolton's ankles. The latter took a deep breath and relaxed slightly.

To ease things further, Ariel formally introduced Lord Alan and Hannah. The older man nodded to them. “You have thought all your life that I abandoned you,” he said heavily then.

Ariel nodded.

Bolton rubbed his face again. “What a tangle.”

“Perhaps you'd like a bit more ale, sir,” suggested Hannah.

He looked startled, then rueful. “You must excuse me. I have not been a very gracious host. Let us all have some refreshment. I'll go and ask Gladys to bring you some of our cider. It's very fine.”

“I'll go,” said Hannah. And before he could respond, she had slipped out the door. In a few minutes, she returned with the old servant woman, who carried a tray filled with small tankards of cider. Bolton grasped one and lifted it. “A toast to our reunion,” he said and drank. After a brief hesitation, the others joined him.

“I hope you will stay awhile,” he added. “I should like a chance to… explain.”

After a moment Ariel nodded. She very much wanted to hear an explanation.

“Gladys will find you rooms. Ask her for anything you need.” He hesitated, then added, “I'm very pleased you have come, Ariel.”

***

Dinner that evening was plagued with silences. When the dishes had been cleared away, Bolton suggested they sit for a while in his study. “It is the most comfortable room in the house,” he told Ariel. “Some say it is the only comfortable room.”

When they were settled before the hearth there, he spoke again. “Perhaps you would listen to my story?” His face and tone were deeply earnest. “I would count it a great favor if you would.”

Alan watched Ariel nod, clearly increasingly drawn to this man. He knew she was intensely curious about the past and the secrets her mother had kept, but it seemed to him that she was going beyond mere curiosity. He wanted to warn her not to trust too far, but he had had no opportunity. And perhaps he hadn't the right, either, he thought bitterly.

Bolton folded his hands before him and gazed at the chimneypiece as if staring into the past. “I want you to understand,” he began. “I have made mistakes, I know. But if I explain, perhaps you…” He made a dismissive gesture. “Never mind. Let me simply tell it.” He appeared to gather his thoughts. “I have always been of a scholarly bent,” he said then, “and in my youth I went to study at Oxford.”

Alan started slightly. This explained the specimens on the shelves and the masses of papers. Logically, this would seem to form a link between them. But he found he didn't like the idea of Bolton as a scholar at all.

“I was extremely happy there,” the other continued. “Learning has been a passion since I was a child. Indeed, my fellow students at Oxford used to mock my diligence and devotion to my work.” Bolton looked at Ariel briefly as if he was a bit reluctant to continue. “It was because of their jokes that I agreed to attend a drinking party one evening, when I was visiting in London. I thought to show them that I was not too wrapped up in my studies to be convivial.” He paused. “So, on that night I was part of a noisy crowd at an inn in the city. I was returning from the… er… the privy when a young girl stopped me in the yard behind the alehouse.”

He paused again, his eyes eons distant, his face sad. “She was the loveliest thing I'd ever seen. Hair the color of sunset, face like an elfin princess. I thought at first she was something the drink had conjured in my brain. Then she said, ‘You're one of them students?' and I noticed her poor clothes and her accent and knew she was real. When I admitted I was a student, she came closer and said that she wanted to learn to read and asked if I would teach her.”

Ariel blinked. She let out the breath she had been holding. She was enthralled, Alan thought. Moment by moment, this stranger was drawing her under his spell, and away from her former friends and life. He noticed that his fists were clenched.

Bolton turned his head away. Alan thought his cheeks reddened slightly. “I wasn't used to drinking so much, and I was still smarting from my fellow students' mockery, so I played the arrogant young sprig and asked her what she'd give me for the teaching. She said, ‘Anything' and took my arm in a way I thought was practiced. I abandoned my friends and hurried her back to my lodgings and… into my bed. By the time I realized that she was frightened, and younger than I'd taken her for, it was too late.”

He stopped then, definitely flushed with embarrassment. After a few moments, he swallowed and sighed. “What fools we are when we're young.”

A nicely abstract excuse, Alan thought sardonically.

“I was appalled at what I'd done,” he went on. “But Bess merely got angry and said I'd promised to teach her and when could we begin?” He shook his head. “She was such an odd combination of cynicism and innocence. How many men would have kept such a bargain?”

Ariel looked touched, Alan thought. And by what? A tale of common seduction. He gazed at Bolton with dislike.

“Or maybe any man would have done anything to keep her,” their host continued. “In any case, I took her back to Oxford with me. I got new lodgings outside the town. And I taught her. How I taught her.” He clamped his lips tight for a moment. “She learned as a starving person eats,” he went on. “I had to make her sleep, some nights, or she would have worn herself out. She wanted to know how to speak properly. And stories—always she wanted more stories.”

He paused, his flush deepening. “Then, she found she was with child.”

“Me,” said Ariel.

He nodded. “By this time, I loved her as I'd never loved before.”

Alan felt his lip curl. That word—“love”—used by so many to excuse so much dishonorable behavior.

“We were married that very week,” Bolton said, “and I brought Bess back to Somerset as my wife. A few months later, you were born.”