Behind the Mask

by Linda Winstead Jones

  “Good,” Josh said softly, and Alex could hear the satisfaction in his brother’s voice. “Needs a coat of paint, but it’s home.”

  Home. Josh could’ve been here weeks ago, if he’d ridden a decent horse that could manage narrow and overgrown paths the wagon didn’t dare attempt. But he’d insisted on escorting Alex personally.

  Alex gripped the seat with one hand, grounding himself. It was the one aspect of blindness that still surprised him, that feeling of always being off balance. That and the lack of darkness. He’d always imagined that the blind lived in the dark, as if they were lost in a cave or shut up in a windowless room, but that wasn’t true. At least, not for him. Not since Yorktown.

  The wagon left the bridge with a small lurch, and Alex was glad of his grip on the solid wood. Five years they’d been gone, since the winter of ‘76. He’d thought of home often, of the tavern and the farm, of his mother and father, of little Caroline—who would be fifteen now. Not so little. He’d thought about home so hard some days he could almost sympathize with the deserters. Almost.

  He’d never expected to come home like this.

  The first sound he heard was his mother’s squeal, unmistakable in its shrillness. It was a familiar sound, one he and Josh had heard often in their younger years. Happiness, surprise, a touch of sadness. He could hear all that and more in his mother’s greeting.

  “My babies,” she said, her voice softening as the wagon halted.

  Alex didn’t move, but waited silently as Josh leapt from the wagon and was welcomed by their mother. Their reunion only lasted a moment, but as the seconds passed Alex felt increasingly isolated, utterly alone.

  “Here you go,” Josh said lightly, taking Alex’s hand and helping him from the wagon in a ritual they had mastered during their journey.

  “Alexander.” He felt his mother’s hand, faltering, shaking, soft against his face. Her uncertainty didn’t last long, and she wrapped her arms around his waist to hold him as only a mother would dare. Alex could even smile. The top of Sarah Stark’s head didn’t even come close to his chin, and she was as amply built as she’d been five years ago.

  They’d been expected, of course, though the exact date of their arrival had been uncertain. The physician who’d cared for Alex after Yorktown had tried unsuccessfully to convince him to remain in bed for a few more weeks, to rest his battered skull in the unlikely prospect that his sight would return. It was a hope Alex still held on to, even though that same physician had been skeptical.

  “You received my letter?” Alex asked as his mother drew away.

  “Yes.”

  It had been a difficult letter to write, informing the family of his blindness. He hadn’t told them that the physician held out a slim hope that his sight, some or all, would return. Offering that false hope to his family seemed too cruel, even as he grasped at it himself. But the letter had been necessary. There were some things he couldn’t face.

  “You told Meghan Campbell I couldn’t marry her?”

  “I did.” Disapproval was clear in her voice. Sarah Stark had never been one to keep her opinions to herself. “But you shouldn’t be so hasty—”

  “Is she still in Port Wentworth?” A long moment of silence followed Alex’s question, a moment when he could hear the roar of the ocean so near.

  “The Campbells sailed three weeks ago for Savannah. Jane has family there.”

  “Will Campbell?”

  “Dead these past two years. Jane and the girls tried to run the farm themselves, but it was just too hard.”

  Alex raised his hand slowly and placed it on his mother’s arm. Jane Campbell had been her good friend, a sweet woman who would never be strong enough to run that farm without a man’s help. And the girls...

  Meghan had been seventeen when he’d left, and the other seven Campbell girls were all younger than she. “Did she sell the farm to Pa?”

  “Yes.” Her answer was joyless.

  “Then there’s really no need for me to marry Meghan Campbell after all, is there?”

  Silence was his answer, an answer that spoke Sarah Stark’s disapproval as surely a snort or a curt word would have done. Finally she whispered, “I know you had reservations about the match your father and Will Campbell arranged, but... Meghan waited for you all these years.”

  “And I should reward her loyal vigilance by forcing her to marry a blind man. An invalid she can attend to for the rest of her life.”

  “Alexander,” his mother admonished lightly, “you can’t think that way. Josh’s letter said there was a chance—”

  “A very small one.’’ He sighed. “I wish he hadn’t told you. I don’t want—”

  They were interrupted by another burst of shouted greetings. Elias Stark’s bellow followed by a squeal much like Alex’s mother’s. Little Caroline, no doubt.

  Alex, allowing himself to be caught up in their excitement, gave in to the chaos that surrounded him.

  Since his injury, order had become his way of life, the only way he could survive. Simple. Quiet. Isolated. It was the only kind of life he could lead, the only way he could have any control.

  But for now, he let the chaos wash over him in a wave as strong as the breakers he heard in the distance.

  Medora didn’t want to intrude on the homecoming, so she remained seated in the back of the room, in a rather comfortably padded chair placed near the foot of the stairs. Her hands were clasped in her lap, perhaps a bit too tightly.

  Sarah looked as if she might burst, with excitement, with love. She was bracketed by her sons, one at each elbow, and she held on tightly as if they might try to leave her again if she let go. Her excitement was understandable. Five years was a very long time.

  Caroline all but twittered, jumping around like a cricket, in her own way as excited as her mother. What did Caroline remember of her older brothers? Laughing, teasing boys perhaps. She likely did not remember the solemn men who stepped into the tavern and removed their battered cocked hats with near reverence.

  She turned her attention to the returning soldiers. Their clothing had seen better days, but was far from the rags so many soldiers had been wearing when they’d returned home. Both men wore linen shirts and dark knee breeches and frock coats. There were even silver buckles on their shoes. They were a bit thinner than they should be, but were far from scrawny. All in all, they looked healthy.

  Introductions would come soon, she imagined, and the prospect frightened her more than she’d expected it would.

  Josh looked around the main room of the tavern, which was deserted at this time of day, a bright smile creeping across his face while Alex stood stock-still and stone-faced, as if he were afraid to move, to smile, afraid even to breathe. There was tension in his stance, in his stiffened spine, his face and his neck. She could even see the strain in the big hands he clenched so tightly.

  “There’s someone I’d like you boys to meet,” Sarah said, leading Alexander and Joshua Stark to the back of the room, where their visitor waited in the shadows. “Medora Hayden,” she said, stopping just a few feet away as Medora stood. “She’s been staying with us here at the tavern for several weeks now and expects to remain until after the New Year.”

  Josh squinted at Medora then opened his mouth, but he was silenced by a glare and a pinch from his mother.

  “I’ve heard so much about you both.” Oddly enough, Medora’s voice was calm. “Your mother is delighted to have you home at last.”

  Josh gave her a half grin and a curt bow, but Alex ignored her.

  His black hair was pulled into a queue with a plain black ribbon; a strand had escaped and fallen across his cheek. His eyes... they were beautiful, even though they stared unseeing past her, through her. So dark a brown they were almost black, those eyes were fringed with long lashes that would have been far too feminine on most men. On Alex Stark they were perfect.

  “Miss Hayden,” Josh said, taking her hand. “What a pleasure to meet you.”

  Josh had an appe
al all his own, but next to Alex he paled. His light brown hair was lackluster, his brown eyes ordinary. His practiced charm was annoyingly boyish.

  “Welcome home,” she said sincerely as she withdrew her hand from Josh’s.

  Alex’s face remained emotionless. What was he thinking? That an outsider had no business intruding on his homecoming? That the last thing in the world he needed was a strange woman underfoot?

  “Welcome home,” Medora said again, reaching forward and taking Alex’s hand in her own. Her boldness apparently surprised him. His hand jerked just once when she touched it, but then he relaxed and allowed his long fingers to fold over hers.

  “Thank you, Miss—”

  “Medora,” she said softly. “Please. Your family has been so kind to me. And your mother has told me so many wonderful stories, I feel as if I already know you.”

  Reluctantly, she pulled her hand away from his. She knew Alex had no reason to smile, but she wished he would. A crooked grin like Josh’s even or a softening of those perfect lips to hint at a smile. But his face remained hard and fixed. His demeanor was coldly remote. What would it take to make Alex Stark smile again? What would release the real man from behind the mask?

  “I think I’ll go to my room now,” she said, taking a single step backward.

  “No,” Sarah said quickly. “We’d like you to stay.”

  “This is a special time for your family, Sarah. Welcome your sons home. I’ll be down for dinner,” Medora promised, backing up two steps carefully, one hand on the polished banister. “Besides, I need a short nap before dinner. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  She turned and ran up the stairs before Sarah could protest again.

  Alex hated meals most of all. It had been bad enough during the long journey home, with no one but Josh to watch his fumbling, but here the prospect itself was torture. His first meal at a table, and the entire family was present to watch him make a fool of himself. The entire family and Medora Hayden.

  She was quiet, but he’d been aware of her since she’d entered the private family dining room and taken her seat across from him. He’d listened carefully to the rustle of her gown, eavesdropped as she’d whispered a soft word of greeting to Caroline, who sat beside her. Medora Hayden had a sweet, almost melodious voice that was more intriguing than it should have been.

  A plate was set before him, and Josh leaned close. “Corn pudding at the top,” Josh said in a low voice. “Sliced beef on your left, a hunk of bread overlapping, and peas to your right.”

  Peas. Damnation.

  “This looks just wonderful.” Medora Hayden’s voice was clear, light as a summer breeze. She sounded lovely, if that were possible. Her hand in his as she’d welcomed him home had been soft and small, smooth and warm. “I love peas and corn pudding. When I was a little girl, my mother made them often, and I always mixed them together.” Her fork scraped loudly against her plate. “I hope no one minds if I make a mess and stir my peas into the corn pudding. It looks a muddled mash, I know, but it’s very tasty.”

  He guessed what she was doing, but how could she know? How could she understand that he was terrified of lifting a fork to his mouth and finding it empty? Of sprinkling the table and the floor and Josh with tiny round peas he couldn’t see? Did she somehow realize what torture this was, or was he just overly anxious and imagining that she’d made the suggestion for his benefit?

  “I think I’ll try it, too,” Caroline said, touching her own fork noisily against her plate.

  Soon all he could hear was the scrape of utensils across tin plates, as everyone mixed vegetables together. Even Josh, who sat at his right side.

  A week ago, Josh would have had to reach over and stir the peas into the corn pudding for Alex. A month ago, Alex was still being fed like a helpless infant. But he’d been practicing the task that had once been mindlessly easy, so he wouldn’t come home and humiliate himself.

  He mixed the stubborn peas into the corn pudding, careful, grateful, disgraced because he was still certain that this was all, somehow, for his benefit.

  The talk turned to the war, to Cornwallis’s surrender at Yorktown. Alex let Josh do all the talking. His little brother had always been better at carrying on a conversation than he had anyway, and now Alex was much more comfortable keeping his mouth shut. Since he couldn’t see what was going on around him, couldn’t tell who had a mouthful of the tough beef, he was cautious about opening his mouth. What if he spoke to his father, only to find that Elias Stark had just quietly left the room? What if he asked Caroline a question and she all but choked on a mouthful of beef in order to answer him promptly?

  There had been countless evenings much like this one around this long table, before the war. Arguments, heated discussions, laughter. Josh always gestured wildly with his hands when he spoke, punctuating each statement with a wave of his hand or defiantly pointed fingers, and Alex found that he missed the sight of his brother’s vehemence more than he’d expected.

  Medora said little, but she laughed lightly on occasion. The comments she made were soft asides to Caroline, who responded in kind. Why was he listening so closely for the voice of a woman he didn’t know, would never know?

  “Alex, what do you think the township should be renamed?” Medora asked, her voice strong and soft.

  Alex set his fork aside. Why was he so angry? He recognized the fact that she was speaking to him only out of pity, because he was so terribly isolated even with his family around him. “I didn’t know a renaming had been proposed.”

  “Well, Wentworth was New Hampshire’s royal governor, and it makes little sense to keep the name. There’s a town meeting coming up shortly to discuss it. Your father has said that he might rename the tavern as well.”

  “Really.” It had been Wentworth Tavern for years, since Elias and Sarah Stark had opened their large family home for business. “It’s just a name. I don’t see that it makes any difference.”

  “But it does—”

  “Let me make myself clear. It doesn’t make any difference to me.”

  The silence that followed his statement was complete. Perhaps his answer had been harsh, but, dammit, he didn’t need or want some woman with soft hands and a musical voice pitying him, trying to draw him into the conversation out of charity.

  “I just thought—” she began again.

  “Don’t,” he interrupted. “I don’t care where your thoughts might wander any more than I care if or what they rename this town.”

  Caroline gasped almost silently. The only other sound in the warm room was the soft clatter of pewter forks being placed against tin plates. No one challenged Alex or defended him, but the silence was condemning all the same. He could not see the faces of his family, but he could feel their disapproval.

  “Pardon me,” Medora finally said, and he was surprised to hear real animosity in her voice as she pushed back her chair and stood. Her gown rustled loudly. “How silly of me to think that a man who would make such sacrifices for his country would have an interest in the changes he helped to facilitate.”

  She left the room, and Josh immediately tried to make light of the incident.

  “Alex, old boy, we’re going to have to work on your way with women. If you send them running from the room every time you open your mouth—”

  “There’s nothing amusing about sending a very sweet woman from the family table in tears,” his mother snapped.

  He’d heard that bite in her voice many times over the years. Disapproval. Disappointment. Alex could almost feel chagrined. Tears? Had he been that harsh?

  “I didn’t intend to lambaste the woman,” Alex said. “I only want to be left alone.”

  “Don’t be trying that with me, Alexander Stark.” He heard movement, the rustle of another skirt, and then his mother’s strong hand was at his shoulder, her voice low but certain.

  “Trying what?” he asked, though he knew what was coming.

  “You’ll not be using your injury as an excuse f
or rudeness, not in this house. I didn’t raise you that way.”

  No one came to his defense. His father, brother, and sister waited for his response. Of course they did not defend him. He had been rude, there was no denying it. For a moment he wondered if the woman who had been on the receiving end of his bad behavior was still in the room, standing behind him, listening to see how he would respond when chastised.

  No, she was not in the room. He could not see, but he knew. “You’re right, of course,” he conceded. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize to me,” his mother snapped. “Apologize to Medora.”

  2

  Alex occupied the stuffed chair at the bottom of the stairs, sitting so still it was as if he were afraid to move. His face was expressionless, his large hands steady on the arms of the chair.

  Medora wondered if she could really help Alex or if she was simply wasting her time. She’d been so certain before she’d actually had to face him.

  The blindness she could handle. It was the anger that frightened her.

  He’d been home for three days, and she hadn’t seen that anger fade one bit. Somehow, he drew entirely into himself, isolated himself from the rest of the world even when he was surrounded by his family.

  She’d tried, on occasion, to speak to him in passing. A warm greeting, a remark on the weather. Safe comments that required no response but perhaps a nod of the head. Twice he had done just that, nodded briefly and coldly in her direction.

  Safe. Perhaps too safe, too guarded. They could go on like this forever, strangers living under the same roof, exchanging nothing more than an occasional safe greeting.

  She didn’t have forever.

  “Good morning, Alex,” she said, knowing it was unfair to stand there and watch him without letting him know that she was in the room.

  His head turned instinctively in her direction, and he returned her greeting with little enthusiasm. It would have been so easy to leave him there, to walk away and allow him to separate himself from the world, as he obviously wished to do.