But they noticed that she was thinner (and she had always been a slight, nervous little thing), and that she blinked her eyes rapidly while she spoke, and looked out the window frequently. There were bruises on her wrist and neck. There was an odd long wavering scratch on the back of her left hand. Oh, that’s just a cat scratch! she said, laughing. Don’t take any notice of it.
One day her mother asked her if she wouldn’t like to move back to the manor? Her room was in readiness for her, unchanged; she could at least stay a few nights; and perhaps everything could be discussed. . . .
But there’s nothing to be “discussed,” she said listlessly. I love my husband and he loves me. There’s nothing else.
He loves you—he truly loves you?
Oh, yes.
And you love him?
Well—yes.
You do love him?
Yes.
Hepatica—?
I said yes.
She spoke emphatically but with an air of bewilderment. As if she did not quite know what to say . . . only what ought to be said.
Leaving the manor she turned to her mother, and embraced her, and seemed about to burst into tears; but she restrained herself.
I don’t know, Mamma, if anything is wrong. I’ve never been married before, the poor child whispered.
AFTER THAT SHE stayed away for months. And when her father and one of his brothers drove up to see her, Fox met them in the driveway, and said, or seemed to say (for they could barely understand his slurred words) that Hepatica was “resting” and wasn’t “receiving visitors.”
Now it was clear that Fox had changed considerably. He could no longer be considered even remotely attractive. His teeth were tobacco-stained, he gave off a fetid, meaty odor, tufts of hair grew alarmingly on the backs of his hands and high on his cheeks, and his eyebrows, which had always been thick and glowering, had gone wild. His hair was greasy, tumbling to his massive, muscle-choked shoulders; his small cruel red-rimmed eyes glared like a beast’s. He was a beast. It was suddenly quite clear—both Hepatica’s father and her uncle realized the fact, at the same moment—quite clear, that Hepatica had married a beast.
A bear, it was.
A black bear. (Though he was several inches taller than the full-grown black bear. And his mouth hadn’t yet lengthened into a snout.)
Unwittingly, the poor innocent girl had fallen in love with, and married, a black bear.
They went away, shaken. And returned home where they talked of nothing else. To convince the others (who did not really need convincing, of course) they imitated Hepatica’s husband, stooping and grunting as he did, with their arms hanging loose, and their eyes murderously narrowed. They snarled that Hepatica was resting and not receiving visitors; they ran their hands violently through their hair, and fluffed out their beards. It was alarming, how successfully they imitated him—imitated a half-human bear.
For he was a black bear. No matter how improbable, how incredible, it might seem. A black bear who had cynically named himself “Fox”! . . . And what might they do, to rescue poor Hepatica?
(“What do you think they did?” the Bellefleur children were asked. At first they did not reply—they stared into the fire, frowning—perhaps frightened—and then one of the girls said in a whisper: “Hunted him down, the nasty thing!”)
SO INDEED THEY hunted him down; but not immediately.
Not immediately. For they had to be certain. And they didn’t want to endanger Hepatica.
She did not return to the manor to visit, however, and as the weeks passed the Bellefleurs (who were obsessed with their girl’s tragedy) grew more and more impassioned. Though Hepatica had seemed adamant about loving him, and even more adamant about his loving her, it was clear that something must be done: she couldn’t remain married to a beast: she would have to be rescued.
In the end, not quite with her parents’ knowledge, a group of young Bellefleur men and their friends rode out one night to the farm, their shotguns across their saddles. They dismounted a quarter-mile from the farmhouse, careful that the wind blew into their faces; they were far more cautious than if they had been hunting an ordinary bear. Even so, the Bear-Man must have sensed their approach, for when they burst into the house he was out of bed, staggering toward them, his teeth exposed in a hideous snarl that rose to a shriek. He was naked, of course—yet covered with thick greasy hair—everywhere, even on the backs of his toes—covered with thick dark greasy hair. They fired at him. But he kept coming. Swatting at them with his great clawed hands—managing to rake one of the men viciously in the cheek—catching another in the eye. Never had they heard such unearthly shrieking, they testified afterward.
In all, they emptied the contents of six double-barreled shotguns into him, two at exceedingly close range, before, it seemed, he finally died.
(AND THE CUB, what of the cub?—what did they do with the cub?
There wasn’t any cub, they swore.
But somehow it was disclosed, months or even years later, that there had been a cub; and that they had had to kill it as well. Though the young men involved in the raid always denied it.
There was no cub?
There was no cub.
And what of Hepatica?
She withdrew from the world afterward, and eventually entered a French house of the order of Our Lady of Mount Carmel—much to her parents’ distress, for they were bitterly anti-Catholic.)
The Tutor
Somewhat reluctantly, yet not with the pouty self-pitying resistance her somber face seemed to declare (for though she didn’t love him she didn’t know she didn’t love him, not knowing at that time what love should have been; and anyway since the burning of Johnny Doan on Germaine’s first birthday she had such terrifying nightmares, she yearned to escape the castle), Christabel consented, meekly enough, to be wed to Edgar Holleran von Schaff III, the great-great-great-great-grandson of the Revolutionary hero Baron von Schaff. Edgar was a widower with two children, a wealthy man who owned, among other things, a chain of newspapers throughout the state. The first Mrs. von Schaff was the daughter of Bertram Lund, a U.S. Senator for many years; she had died while still in her twenties, in a tragic hunting accident at Silver Lake. Though Edgar’s puffy, ruddy, creased moonish face was that of a man of middle age, he was in fact only thirty-eight years old. And he adored, as he frequently said, both in person and by hand-delivered letter, dear little Christabel.
Edgar had inherited, along with the newspapers, beautiful Schaff Hall at Silver Lake, some fifty miles from Bellefleur Manor, and the original 25,000 acres of fertile valley land deeded Baron von Schaff by the state, as payment for his services in the Revolutionary War. (The baron—whose nobility was questioned only by the envious—had been an officer in the Prussian Army, who emigrated to America at the request of General George Washington in order to train soldiers at Valley Forge. He later became major general and inspector general of the United States Army, where he served from 1777 to 1784. After the Revolution he became, like a number of other German professionals, a United States citizen; and in addition to the land given him in the Nautauga Valley he owned 30,000 acres in Virginia and 5,000 in eastern New Jersey—not the grandest of empires, but a highly respectable one.) Schaff Hall, a Greek revival mansion with some twenty-five rooms, and six Doric columns, and a superb view of Silver Lake, was erected by the baron’s grandson, a contemporary of Raphael Bellefleur’s, in 1850; it was said that forty yoke of oxen were required to haul the enormous limestone slab on the front portico. But on her first visit to Schaff Hall Christabel, gnawing at her thumb, was not impressed. The gilded wooden eagle over the front door looked, she said, as if termites had riddled it through, and the house wasn’t anywhere near as big as Bellefleur Manor. “Don’t be silly,” Leah said, squeezing her daughter’s hand, hard, in a little spasm of affection. “Don’t be deceived.”
There were Bellefleurs, among them Della, who, not having seen Christabel for a while, were appalled that so young a child was ev
en being considered for matrimony; but when they did see her—tall, lithe, self-possessed (though that was only an aspect of her terror), with her small shapely breasts and her uplifted chin—they were forced to agree, with Leah and Cornelia, that she was certainly mature enough to be wed. After all, many Bellefleur brides had been very young, and in every case—in nearly every case—the matches were excellent ones.
How strange, for Bromwell, grandmother Della said, Christabel’s more than a head taller than he is, and while he looks like a little boy, still, no more than ten, she looks like a young woman of eighteen . . . ! Leah stared at her mother for several seconds, frowning. But why, Mamma, she said finally, why should it be strange for Bromwell? I don’t understand you. . . . she had forgotten that Christabel and Bromwell were twins.
Christabel was required to meet with Edgar only three times, and always, to her relief, in the presence of others. Arrangements between the two families were made: papers signed, contracts sealed. The fuss she loathed took place somewhere beyond her exact awareness, which pleased her, though she came briefly alive at her bridal shower, cutting a wonderful six-tier angel food cake Edna had baked, with the special whipped frosting, vanilla threaded with apricot, Christabel loved: what pleasure it was, she thought suddenly, cutting cake for her girl cousins and friends . . . ! She had wished the lively little party, held in the remodeled Ivory Room, would never end.
Some weeks later she was married, snugly buttoned into great-great-grandmother Violet’s wedding dress, with its magnificent long train and its hundreds of pearls and the lace veil that was, even to Christabel’s skeptical eye, beautiful (though, clowning beforehand with her maids of honor, she draped it over her head and sucked it against her mouth and nose, claiming she couldn’t breathe). Though “Edgar”—she did not call him that, did not call him anything, thought frequently of him as if him were a nebulous shapeless not exactly malevolent presence—though “Edgar” accompanied her back from the altar of the Lutheran church, his hand gripping hers somewhat less firmly than Leah had gripped it that morning, she was not required to speak with him, or even to acknowledge him in any particular, any detailed way. And the wedding party was a merry one. And the farewell, afterward, on the front walk of the manor, was very moving: hoydenish cynical Christabel actually burst into tears . . . !
Farewell, farewell. She hugged and kissed them all, one by one. Her mother, looking radiantly beautiful in a turquoise gown; her father, stooping to kiss her, and to accept her kiss; little Germaine in her white flower-girl dress (which, though somewhat stained, was still adorable); the new baby Cassandra, held wriggling and cooing in Lissa’s arms; grandmother Cornelia in a curly new wig; grandfather Noel; grandmother Della, whose wrinkled prune of a face was wet with sudden, unacknowledged tears; uncle Hiram; cousin Vernon, whose thin-lipped melancholy grin made her cry all the more; aunt Lily; uncle Ewan; her cousins Vida and Albert and Raphael and Morna and Jasper and Louis and . . . And there was little Bromwell, blinking behind his glasses, extending a hand to her for a formal handshake . . . ! And Garth, and pretty Little Goldie; and aunt Aveline and uncle Denton; and Edna; and Lissa; and “the old man from the flood” who had been brought outside by great-grandmother Elvira; and of course great-grandmother Elvira herself, who had had her white hair puffed out for the occasion in a kind of pompadour, and whose frail fingers were surprisingly strong, gripping Christabel’s wrist. (Since his rescue, the “old man from the flood”—who remained nameless because he could not recall his name, and the Bellefleurs were reluctant to assign him one since, as they supposed, they hadn’t the right, and his own people would soon be stepping forward to claim him—had improved considerably, and was no longer in any danger, and capable, even, of playing games with the children (mainly Chinese checkers and Old Maid) and helping with little household tasks, when he felt strong enough. Dr. Jensen had given him injections of vitamin C and left behind a supply of iron tablets, and great-grandmother Elvira prepared for him, in the kitchen, allowing no one else to help, meals laced with special herbs, which were evidently quite beneficial, since the old man—who was a very old man, possibly older than Elvira—seemed to be gaining strength steadily. He was soft-spoken and gentle, and slept often, and caused no one any trouble. Though Elvira fussed in the kitchen, it was always a maid who brought the old man his meal, and Elvira did no more than peek in from time to time, from the doorway, making no response to the old man’s hopeful, rather abashed, and perplexed greeting, when he was awake. Sometimes she complained of him, that nuisance, that old fool, but she was, in fact, the only person who remembered him from day to day.) And last of all tearful Christabel, squatting impulsively, so that her silk stockings broke out in a half-dozen runs and ladders, said farewell to the cats: to great-grandmother Elvira’s Minerva, and to CeCi and Dexter-Margaret and George and Charley and Misty and Miranda and Wallace and Roo . . . and Troilus and Buddy and Muffin and Tristram and Yassou . . . and Mahalaleel, who bumped his large head against her as if nudging her, purring deep in his throat, pausing to lick, with his sandpaperish tongue that was so wet and so ticklish, her stockinged knee: beautiful haughty Mahalaleel himself, the ruff about his head plumped out as if one of the children had just been brushing him, his frosted bluish-gray coat gleaming in the sun. Christabel backed away, stumbling in her high heels, weeping, “I’ll never see you again! If I come back everything will be different! I’ll never see you again like this. . . .”
They called her a silly little goose, and Edgar took her arm, and helped her into the gleaming black Mercedes, which, evidently, he was going to drive himself.
THOUGH THE BARON became a U.S. citizen in 1784 it was clear that he, and his progeny, retained strong Teutonic memories. The Schaff collection, old Mrs. Schaff told Christabel in a whisper, was a national treasure—curious medieval weapons and shields; ancient panels; tapestries more threadbare than those at Bellefleur Manor; sixteenth-century Flemish stonewear; medieval and sixteenth-century stained glass panels; a seventeenth-century German bronze nest of weights; leather-bound books, whole walls of them, in German; etchings, engravings, mezzotints; and of course dark, time-stained oil paintings, one of which—Folly, Cupid, Leda, and Silenus, attributed to van Miereveld—reminded homesick Christabel of a large painting that had been hanging for years on the second-floor landing of the east wing. Entire walls were muffled in the skins of animals. Fireplaces were so festooned with furbelows and brass that they could not be used. In every room, but concentrated in the Main Hall, were bald eagles—wooden, pewter, wrought-iron, brass—some with arrows clutched in their talons. It was said that the baron and his sons had collected hundreds of Indian scalps (properly tanned and treated, of course), but these were not in evidence.
Old Mrs. Schaff, a very short, cork-shaped woman, rose each morning at 6:30. She bathed, aided by a servant; read aloud from the Bible; came downstairs promptly at 7:30 to lead the household staff in prayers; breakfasted; then went upstairs again for a morning of letter writing, sewing, mending, and further reading in the Bible. The main meal of the day, to Christabel’s amazement, was served at 2:00 P.M. It was a formal occasion though only Edgar, Christabel, and Mrs. Schaff ordinarily dined. (The kitchen, Mrs. Schaff pointedly told her new daughter-in-law, was only for servants. It was in the basement. Food was prepared there by persons Christabel never saw, and sent up by dumb waiter to the butler’s pantry above.)
Edgar’s two little boys dined at noon and then again at 5:30, upstairs in the nursery, with their tutor. The very first morning after her arrival at Schaff Hall, Christabel, in a bright-flowered frock, with a yellow scarf tied about her head, passed by the nursery just to peer inside . . . and saw, to her surprise, and very much to her interest, the man who must have been the boys’ tutor: he was standing at an opened window, glasses in one hand, rubbing the bridge of his nose and muttering to himself. He was no age Christabel could determine. His ash-blond hair was ill-cut, falling unevenly across his collar; his jaw, clean-shaven, was strong but almost
too square; the leather patch on the right elbow of his tweed jacket was hanging loose. He was quite solidly built, like a young ox, and more resembled a farmer’s son than a tutor said to have been educated abroad, in England and Germany, and to have been employed by the very best families in the East.
Something about his stance, his air of lassitude and melancholy, touched Christabel to the heart. She stared, standing in the doorway, and halfway thought he looked familiar. That agreeably homely profile, those clumsily broad shoulders that made his coat strain into wrinkles across the back . . .
He turned, suddenly, and drew in his breath at the sight of her.
It was Demuth Hodge . . . !
Passion
It was as a consequence of an astonishing outburst of passion—remarkable in one so frail, and so customarily meek—that Garnet Hecht encountered Lord Dunraven, who was to bring so much guilt-ridden torment into her life.
She had arranged (her heart sinking at his weary politeness) to see her lover once again, after so many months of mutual renunciation: she did not like to think that she nearly pleaded with him, her tear-brimmed eyes if not her words begging O Gideon you must know how I love you, I have always loved you, I continue to love you despite the promise we made never again to see each other, the promise we made in order not to hurt Leah and your children. . . . (And had she not behaved nobly, surrendering her baby girl to the castle, to the Bellefleurs, guessing that this was the baby’s father’s unarticulated wish? How nobly, with what heartrending pain, only she herself knew. . . . Even good Mrs. Pym, who, alone among the Bellefleurs seemed to know, without having been told, of her liaison with Gideon, could not have guessed (for Garnet kept her sobbing to herself, and sometimes, in the pantry or the kitchen, thrust her fingers in her mouth to keep from moaning aloud at the double loss of her lover and her baby) at the depth of her suffering. Della frequently touched Garnet’s shoulder and smiled sadly and spoke of her own terrible bereavement, at the hands of her own people, when she had been a young bride. “We must tell ourselves, Garnet—This too will pass,” Della said. “Every morning, every midday, every evening, when silly hopeful persons say their prayers, like children, we must say, calmly and clearly—This too will pass. For it will, my dear! Never doubt but that it will!”)
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