by C F Dunn
“Like his brother?”
At the reminder of the betrayal, Matthew’s mouth skewed briefly, and he stabbed at a nearby carrot, severing its knotty head from its shoulders. “Yes,” he said finally, “like his brother. William’s treachery almost destroyed my father, but not his faith, nor his belief that what had happened formed part of God’s plan for me. For all of his naïvety about the frailty of our neighbours, my father believed in people’s innate goodness, and that their faults and failures were just the mistakes they made on their way to finding oneness and healing with God.” Pausing, he looked up. “He had such insight, Emma. Sometimes I wondered if he could see right inside people, past all their shortcomings, right into the very heart of them where their true nature – devoid of sin – lay. That’s why he always seemed surprised when someone did something that he believed to be out of character for them, but also why he was so quick to forgive: he knew what they could be if they had time on their side.”
“So where does that leave you?” I asked. Confused, I would have thought, not that I said so.
Matthew started chopping and slicing again and I had to hurry to keep up with him. “Emma, I’ve seen what people do to each other in the name of religion all over this world – as you are all too aware from your own studies – and I have to say that in four centuries, nothing much has changed. We cloak our justifications and motivations in different words, but the meanings are just the same.”
“That makes it sound so depressing, as if there is no hope that people will ever change.”
He looked surprised. “Do you think so? I find it quite comforting in some respects. Just consider: despite people’s propensity to harm one another, there is still that bedrock of humanity that comes through even in the worst atrocity or natural disaster as if, despite our tendency to do otherwise, most of us can’t help but do good.”
“Yes, but Matthew, where does that leave you?”
He balanced the tip of the knife on the end of his finger, the blade bouncing light as he moved it to keep it upright – an unconscious act that made his differences all too apparent – as he thought about my question. He flipped it into the air and caught it.
“Well, as you know,” he started slowly, “sometimes I find it difficult to accept my place in the great scheme of things and, for a long time, was all but lost to my faith. But, on a good day, I’m in agreement with my father. He continued to believe in my validity in the eyes of God – that forgiveness is mine despite all that I was, or am, or might be – and that’s what I hang on to. So, to answer your question, I continue to hold my faith in salvation through Christ as I was brought up to believe, but my faith is mine, and I pass judgment on no one, and expect no one to pass judgment on me.”
I took a moment to consider the finer points of his explanation, relieved, but not surprised, that we shared the same tenets of faith without having needed to say so before now. “Okey-dokey,” I chirped brightly. “So, basically, Christmas decorations are fine…”
“Ye-es,” he said, patiently, “as are carols, wassailing, and dancing. We weren’t Puritans, Emma, nor was I a Digger or a Ranter. What mattered to us was what went on inside our heads, not the trappings of religious observance. Anyone can don a black hat and a long face.” An involuntary giggle broke from me. “What now?” he asked.
“I just had an image of you in a black hat with long hair. It wasn’t pretty, or rather it was, which is worse.”
He arched his eyebrows and I tried not to laugh again. “For your information, I never grew my hair long, and as for…”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why didn’t you wear your hair long? It was the fashion, after all.”
He looked exasperated. “Because it used to curl when it grew any length, and because those of us in the…”
That did it. Perhaps the sheer relief of surviving meeting his family, or the insane normality of discussing his youth four centuries before while preparing vegetables, finally got to me, but the result was that I bent over, my forehead almost touching the table, and howled with laughter – so much so that I missed the tea towel flying through the air until it hit me damply. I saw that as a challenge and returned fire, but he anticipated the move and leaned back slightly so that the cloth sailed harmlessly past him.
“Whilst you may find me a source of easy amusement, madam, I would remind you that some of us regarded long hair as a sign of lassitude and cut our hair short as a demonstration of our serious demeanour and godly intent.”
Bother, I should have remembered that, but I chucked a small potato at him regardless of the facts. He speared it on the end of his knife, removed its skin, and added it to the pile of naked spuds.
I slammed my peeler down. “Stop being right all the time, and so… quick… it’s infuriating. And you’re smirking – that’s unforgivable. At least have the decency to appear chastened.”
Without replying, he put his knife down carefully and stood up with exaggerated slowness. I watched him from the corner of my eye, wondering what was coming next. He came around and stood behind my chair, and I could feel his cool breath on the back of my neck raising the tiny hairs down my spine.
“So, I’m always right, am I?”
“Yes, you wretch,” I squeaked, my voice thin, not sure if I wanted to laugh or not.
“And you want to hurl missiles at me, do you?”
“Only a little bit.”
“Only a bit, mmm. And how do you propose to do that, might I ask?” His voice had taken on a velvety texture that I didn’t trust. I swallowed. “Perhaps you were considering more vegetable peelings or something a little colder… snow, perhaps?” He placed his hands on the top of my shoulders.
“Um…”
“But then…” his hands slid down the length of my arms, sending shivers through me, “… you would have to catch me first. Do you think you could do that?”
I began to tremble. “Matthew…”
He plucked me off the chair before I had time to draw breath and I was over his shoulder again as he headed for the door to the courtyard, thumping on his back to put me down, and squirming as hard as I could in between fits of crying giggles. And then we were outside in the sunshine – shamelessly, jubilantly, outrageously – laughing as he ducked me in the snow.
I fought to throw as much of it as I could at him before turning over and trying to escape, clawing at the friable crystals, being dragged back towards him by my ankles, my jersey filling with snow around my stomach, making me yelp.
“Yield,” he growled.
“Not a chance,” I said into the snow.
He rolled me over, standing above me. “Yield,” he demanded.
“Never,” I defied, sticking my chin out stubbornly.
He bent closer, until his mouth hovered just above mine. “Yield,” he said, very, very softly.
“What are you going to do about it?” I challenged, although even as I said it, I began to feel my resolve weaken and fade under his burning gaze. His eyes flashed wide, and I made a last-ditch attempt to escape from between his straddled legs before he whipped around and caught me again, and I squealed like a piglet.
“Hm-mm.”
Matthew stopped and looked up, suspending me like an overgrown salmon by my waist, my loosened hair trailing in the snow.
Harry cleared his throat again. “I’ve been sent to help prepare vegetables,” he mumbled, obviously embarrassed by our antics.
Matthew straightened, putting me the right way up on my feet and helping to brush me down as my face flared crimson from my exertions and self-consciousness.
“Excellent,” he grinned, taking me by the hand and leading me back towards the house. Harry trailed behind.
“Nothing in your religious code about frolicking in snow, then?” I muttered.
“Not that I can remember, no,” he murmured back.
I settled down to some serious peeling, this time with Harry’s help as well. He seemed abnormally sub
dued and he avoided my eyes whenever I looked at him. I know Matthew noticed too, but he said nothing, and we kept up a trivial banter that could offend no one. At one point, Matthew pivoted on his chair abruptly, facing the courtyard. Harry stopped and listened too. I strained my ears, and just made out the sound of a car’s engine. “Joel?” Harry said.
Matthew shook his head. “Diesel. I’ll go and see. Stay here.” It was the way he said it. Not a “don’t bother to get up, I’ll go and have a look” type of “stay here”, but more of a “stay here and keep safe”. He moved swiftly to the door and out of my line of sight. Harry remained tense and alert until, minutes later, Matthew returned. “Delivery,” he said and looked at me.
“Delivery?” I mouthed back.
He crooked his finger for me to join him by the door, and led me to the garage block. “Is this anything to do with you?”
“It got here – yes!” I whooped. A large wicker basket with F & M painted on the side sat solidly on the floor of the garage. “I didn’t know if it would get here on time.”
“What is it for?” Matthew asked, his brow furrowed.
I gave him a withering look. “In case you don’t feed me and I need a snack. What do you think it’s for?”
He tapped a foot impatiently. “You don’t have to do this, Emma; we don’t need presents.”
“Well, tough, it’s here now, and yes, I do need to do this. There’s no way I could come and stay and not bring something, now could I?” I stood on tiptoes and kissed him chastely on his cheek, just where it would crease into a smile. “Could I, Matthew?”
“I suppose not, but…”
“But me no buts.” I danced away from him, pulling him along with me back outside into the snow-filled courtyard. “Will you help me bring it in? It’s for Pat really.”
He shook his head, laughing. “I didn’t think it was for me.”
CHAPTER
3
Insight and Intuition
Joel arrived home on leave before lunch. We knew he was back because the roar of a car’s engine in the courtyard filled the silence, followed by the back door to the kitchen crashing open. “Where’s my baby brother?” he shouted, accustomed to the noise of the engine.
Harry leapt out of his chair and they whacked each other convivially on the arms, hard enough, it seemed to me, to break them.
“What’ya been doin’, squirt?” Joel thumped Harry again, this time on his back.
Harry indicated the pile of vegetables with his thumb. “Hah, kitchen duties for Grams. Always know I’m home when there’s chores to be done.” Joel flung his kitbag on the floor where it slithered into a corner, sat down without pausing to take off his coat, and picked up the peeler. “Hi, you must be Dr D’Eresby. How’s things? Grams been making you work too?”
“Hello, and you must be Joel. It’s good to meet you and no, Pat didn’t impose peeling vegetables as a punishment – I offered.”
Shaking his head, he pulled a face, and I smiled at his comical expression. I had recognized him instantly as the young man standing outside the deli in town, talking on his mobile as the sun glanced off his wheat-stubble hair the day Elena and I shopped for our All Saints’ outfits. Matthew had told me recently – amongst other, more weighty, confessions – that he and his family had kept a watch over me in the lead up to Staahl’s attack. That he had been unable to prevent it was something I knew played on his conscience. I shuddered slightly, and suppressed the memory of the aftermath of that otherwise happy day.
Joel reached for another carrot. “Where’s everyone else, bro’?”
“Ellie’s out with Dad, collecting stuff from town. Mom’s doing Christmas things. Grams is next door and Grump is with Matthew taking a phone call. Anyone else? Oh, yeah,” he hesitated, “and Maggie’s around… someplace.” Both boys’ eyes swivelled in my direction and away again.
“So you’re left do-in’ the cook-in’, hey, ma’am?” Joel grinned at me.
“Not a chance,” I said rapidly. “Strictly unskilled labour unless you don’t want to eat this Christmas.”
He chucked a carrot on the pile; he had already peeled three in the time it had taken me to peel one. I watched him surreptitiously. His hands flew faster than I thought possible, a scattering of vivid orange shavings appearing on the table in front of him. It wasn’t just the looks the boys had inherited.
“So, you’ve joined us for Christmas, huh? Should be in--te-res-ting.” He rolled his eyes and shuffled in his chair. More heavily built than his brother, broad, and strong, he made the chair squeak as he moved.
Harry shot him a warning look. “Yeah, it’s good to have you here, Emma; the more the merrier.”
“Thanks, Harry.”
“Yeah – grr-eat!” Joel grinned at me. Apart from the length of their hair and Joel’s built-up frame, the boys might have been identical twins.
Voices filtered through the kitchen door and Matthew came in followed by Henry, both still talking rapidly. He saw Joel and broke into a smile, elongating his stride so that they met halfway across the room. To my astonishment Joel lashed out, throwing a double punch with all the weight his hefty shoulders could bring to bear. Matthew didn’t break step, neatly parrying the blows and planting a punch against Joel’s ribcage. “Have to be quicker than that,” he grinned at his great-grandson, who tried to scowl at him but failed totally, breaking into a beam.
“I’ll get you one day, old man,” Joel replied, rubbing his ribs ruefully and playing up his feigned injuries shamelessly.
“I’m sure you will,” Matthew responded amiably. “Keep on trying – you never know, you might get lucky one day.” He dodged a left hook to his head. “Glad to have you home anyway, we need some more free labour. Come to mention it, I’ve a job for you two later on.”
The boys groaned in unison: “It’s supposed to be a holiday.”
“Welcome to the real world, boys.” We all laughed and Matthew added, “Go and get something to eat, there’s time enough for chores later. Now, have you introduced yourself to Dr D’Eresby?”
“He did this time,” I said.
“I certainly hope so…” Matthew looked at Joel sideways and he bolted for the door, picking up his kitbag on the way.
Three large packing boxes sat on the hall floor. I peeked in the first one as Matthew hovered uncertainly behind me. “It’s all we could find. There’s not much and I don’t know if it’s what you had in mind. Some of it is pretty old.”
I held up a long, heavy string of silver tinsel and peered at him through it. “Not as old as you, though.”
He took it off me and wrapped it around my neck like a muffler. “Do I have to put up with barbed comments about my age?”
I opened the lid of another box. “Ooo, baubles.” I held one up to the light. “You’re as young as you feel,” I smiled sweetly at him. “There’s plenty here, by the way. But,” I chewed the side of my lip, “we could do with a tree.”
He had that self-satisfied look on his face again. “All sorted.”
“Is it? Where?”
“Not where, just when. This afternoon, after lunch – if you can wait that long.”
“I’m learning patience,” I said ruefully.
“It’s good for your soul,” he said, opening the third box, “and for mine.”
Thin, high cloud weakened the sun, adding a halo to the yellow disk, and the air held a promise of snow. After lunch, Joel and Harry attached the trailer to the beetle-black 4x4 and, taking a hefty-looking axe, went in search of a tree.
Pat didn’t have any more jobs for me to do and I retreated to the drawing room to read in front of the fire. Matthew had been looking decidedly twitchy, and asked if I minded him completing something with Henry, and the two of them were now ensconced in his study. I fought the desire to hide in my room and decided I would stake my claim as Matthew wanted, first poking my head around the drawing room door to check the coast was clear. I put more wood on the fire and settled on the sofa with a copy
of Antony Burridge’s Man and Monsters in Medieval Europe, which he had just brought out. Intrigued, I wanted to see how close to my own research he sailed given our extended discussions in recent years, and I admitted feeling slightly piqued that he had already distilled his theories into the book I should have written. There’s nothing quite like professional jealousy to get under an academic’s skin, and I was not immune.
I slid my shoes off and wriggled comfortably in the warmth of the fire. I had delayed starting the book I planned to write for ages, concentrating instead on preparation for transcribing the journal once my proposal to spend the year in Maine, where it resided barely known, had been agreed. Now I felt stumped. I hadn’t given a great deal of thought to what I would do work-wise since my change in circumstance. Obviously I wouldn’t be asking for a sabbatical, so New Zealand would have to wait, perhaps forever. I had made my choice to stay with Matthew and with that decision came a number of certainties that would shape my future. First, that his welfare mattered more to me than anything else. Secondly, that living with him inevitably meant that I would have to accept a semi-nomadic existence. Thirdly, I would always have to guard against any slip that might reveal his true identity. Fourthly – ah, yes, the one thing I would perhaps find the hardest of all – that I would have to sacrifice the journal in order to protect him, because if I had been able to work out who he was, it would only be a matter of time before somebody else did. And even if that wasn’t in my lifetime, it would be in his.
That left me with a quandary, one that I had skirted around but against which I kept on bumping like a piece of flotsam: I always meant to put it back where it belonged – I never really intended to take it – but now that time had slipped without revealing me as a thief, the temptation was to keep it. To keep it would be wrong. On the other hand, if I was caught putting it back, it would draw attention to its existence. No matter what angle I looked at it, I kept going around and around in circles until it became clear that the angles were an illusion, and I remained as trapped by the dilemma as a spider in a glass. I considered discussing it with Matthew as he had the most to lose, but the journal also represented my life, as meaningful to me as his work to him. And, willing though I found myself to give Matthew my future, could I also let go of my past any more than he could his? The journal had shaped me, had largely made me who I was, but its very existence threatened the future we could have together. Could I destroy it and put it beyond the clutch of an ill fate that would lead someone to him? Could I, as a historian, destroy a priceless original document that to anyone else contained the mundane thoughts of an ordinary servant of a modest English gentleman? My sigh filled the empty room. I could as much destroy the journal as I could have lit the torch that incinerated the library at Alexandria. I could not destroy it, and my conscience dictated that I could not keep it. I would have to return it and hope that, for now at least, the safest course lay in its obscurity until another solution could be found.