That afternoon Ariah came on a strange structure tucked among the trees near the barn, a roofed framework of chicken wire which seemed to house an unusual growth of plants. As she stared inside, a bird almost as big as a chicken, with a long, trailing tail, burst from the shrubbery inside, squawking loudly. Startled, Ariah leaped backward.
Aroused by the commotion, others scurried off through the grass. Most were dull, unremarkable brown hens, compared to the magnificent males. From the tips of their beaks to the ends of their pointed, cross-barred tails, they were easily three feet long. They were a deep chestnut brown, with blue-black bellies and rich golden-mottled flanks. The iridescent black of their heads appeared emerald green one moment, sapphire blue the next, depending on how the sun struck the feathers. A brilliant red patch marked each eye, and a band of white ringed the necks. Bartholomew's pheasants.
Ariah found them as exotic as their homeland, China, and as handsome as the stained glass windows of a cathedral.
"You like my pheasants?"
She jumped again. "Bartholomew!"
He stood a few yards behind her, leaning indolently against an alder tree, his smile as warm and welcoming as the sunny faces of the yellow violets blooming at his feet.
"They're magnificent," she said. "Easily the most striking birds I have ever seen."
Perched on his shoulder was another bird, as outlandish and nearly as colorful in its own way as the pheasants.
"This is Harlequin,” he said. “He's a horned puffin. They winter on the seastacks with our tufted puffins sometimes. I think this fellow must have flown into the lighthouse. Ever since I mended his broken wing, he's been trailing after me as though I were his mother."
"A broken wing. Oh, poor little bird."
Harlequin eyed her warily as she reached to pet him.
"The wing has mended quite well, actually," Bartholomew said. "I expect he'll be flying off any day now to join the spring migration."
The puffin evaded her touch, moving closer to Bartholomew and pecking at the collar of his shirt.
"But he's your pet. Can't you keep him?"
"He's a wild creature, Ariah, born to fly free."
Ariah watched the affectionate way the bird nibbled on Bartholomew's ear lobe. "But he seems so content with you."
"Yes, I'm worried about that. I've given him too much attention. If he doesn't go with the others when they migrate, he'll stay here and become a cripple—no longer a normal puffin but not a human either. He'd be better off dead then."
The tender way he stroked the satiny blue-black feathers exposed his affection for the bird, and made her want to feel the snowy white breast herself. Instead of feathers, when she went to pet Harlequin, she met Bartholomew's hand. His fingers curled around hers, gently caressing them while they stared at each other, their eyes saying all they didn't dare express out loud.
"I was about to feed the pheasants." He indicated a bucket of grain sitting at his feet. "Want to help?"
"Yes. Please."
He set the puffin on the roof, unlatched the door and waited while she stepped inside. Their hands brushed as they reached into the bucket for grain at the same time. A delicious excitement zinged along Ariah's veins and her heart thrummed. When the bucket was empty they left the pen and he fastened the door securely against the severe winds that frequently buffeted the promontory. In silence they watched the birds scratch for the feed on the mossy ground. After a while Ariah felt his gaze on her and she looked up.
"Is everything all right?" he asked.
She knew he was referring to her small bout with Hester that morning. "Yes, don't worry about me. Please."
He cupped her cheek in one big hand and stared intently into her eyes, his expression so stark with longing that she wanted to wrap her arms around him and smother him with kisses. Her body swayed close enough to feel his warmth and set her heart afire. But Hester's enmity toward her made life difficult enough for him, and Ariah had no wish to worsen matters.
"Tell me more about your pheasants," she said to distract them. "My mother had an old book on Grecian birds, and there was a cock in it called phasianos ornis, the Phasian bird, but I suppose it was of a different species."
He ran his thumb over her lips and gave her a bittersweet smile that told her he understood, that he too wished things were different. His hand fell away and his tone took on a brisk businesslike quality.
"The Greeks got the Phasian birds at Colchis on the river Phasis hundreds of years ago," he said. "You're right about there being various kinds. Back east they've been importing blacknecked pheasants from England for years, trying to establish them in naturalized colonies, but so far, none have survived."
He nodded toward the birds in his pen. "These Mongolian ringnecks are the first successfully naturalized in America. I got my start from a fellow in Yamhill County who rescued some of Judge Denny's 1884 shipment when early snow threatened to kill them off before they could be established."
"Mongolian ringnecks?" Ariah bent to peer closer at the proud birds. "But these aren't Phasianus colchicus mongolicus. They’re Phasianus colchicus torquatus."
Bartholomew hunkered down beside her and stared into the pen. "What are you talking about?"
"The torque on Mongolian pheasants is quite narrow and not as white as on the torquatus. See how wide and snowy the collars are on these? They're darker too, and your full-grown cocks have blue shoulder patches. The Mongolian shoulder patches are white."
"You're right about the coloring, but—"
"There is no 'but', Bartholomew. Come, I have a copy of the 1789 Systema Naturae. You can see for yourself."
She took his hand and tugged him to his feet. Together they walked to the house. "I'll be right back," she said, leaving him in the hall at the foot of the stairs.
"I'm counting on it," he answered. Grinning like a love struck school boy, Bartholomew leaned against the wall and watched her climb the three steps to the second landing, and continue upward to the second floor.
At a sound, he turned to see Hester step into the hall behind him. She hadn't come from the kitchen where he had expected her to be this time of day, but from outside. One look told him that she had seen him come from the pheasant coop with Ariah. What else had she witnessed? The way his eyes had devoured the girl as though she were a chocolate sweet? The way their fingers tangled over the grain bucket? The bittersweet moment when he'd cupped her face in his palm and fought off the urge to kiss her? He was going to have to be a good deal more careful in the future, if he wanted to keep his life from becoming more unpleasant than it was already.
"Miss Scott claims my pheasants are of a different species than what they're called here in Oregon," he said, refusing to buckle under to his wife's accusing stare.
"That so?" Hester looked as though she had been eating green persimmons. "Don't know why that should surprise you. Damned little snippet thinks she's Queen Tut."
"It's King Tut, Hester. And in case you have any plans to tumble Miss Scott from her throne, remember what I threatened to do if you caused trouble for her and Pritchard."
Bartholomew moved past her into the parlor and sat down on the sofa facing the fireplace. After a moment, Hester followed and began polishing the new rosewood étagère he had bought her in Portland. A small fire burned merrily on the hearth. Though it was March and virtually spring, the coastal winds still had a bite to them. Bartholomew braced his forearms on his thighs as he held out his hands to the heat. The floor creaked overhead, telling him Ariah would soon come bounding down the stairs.
No doubt Hester would linger, pretending to dust the ugly knickknacks already crowding her new prize. Bartholomew much preferred plain, serviceable shelves to anything so fancy and useless, but he had known that its French name would thrill her. Material objects held only one value for Hester—their ability to impress guests. The one exception was a collection of fine china cups and saucers she kept in the dining room sideboard, unused.
"Here it is, B
artholomew." Ariah sailed into the parlor. Unaware of Hester's presence, she plopped down on the sofa and spread the open book upon his knee with easy familiarity. A slender finger stabbed at the page and the smile she gave him could save gallons of kerosene, could he but figure out how to transfer its power to the great lens in the light-tower. "See," she said. "Phasianus colchicus torquatus, more commonly known as the Chinese ringneck pheasant."
She leaned closer to lift his hand from the book so she could turn the page. "Now, here's the mongolicus, Mongolian pheasant. See the difference?"
"Good hell. I'll have to write my buyers and inform them of the correct name." He chuckled, forgetting his wife's presence. "You know I'm going to be well roasted over this. I'm supposed to be an expert on pheasants."
"Oh, but you are." Ariah put her hand on his. "It's not your fault you were misled by—"
The sound of china shattering on the hardwood flooring brought both their heads around. Hester knelt to gather the remnants of the porcelain figurine she had been dusting. Her face was a study in anger, an emotion Bartholomew knew had nothing to do with the loss of the knickknack.
"Oh . . .Hester." Ariah stood, moving away from the woman's husband. "How sad. That looks to have been an exquisite Meissen figure. Now it’s broken."
Hester grunted but said nothing.
"I was showing Mr. Noon a volume on birds," Ariah went on. "Do come and join us, the illustrations are quite lovely. The artist was the Duke of Stansbury. I've read that he was a well respected ornithologist in Britain, as well as an artist."
"No, thank you," Hester said in her loftiest voice. "I have more constrictive methods for occupying my time than pursuing bird illustrations."
Ariah grimaced at the woman's misuse of words. Hester set the broken china pieces on a table between two windows while she fussed with the fronds of a live fern, as though uninterested in the other occupants of the room. Ariah followed, hugging the book to her breasts as she searched for a way to appease the woman.
"You have a wonderful way with plants, Hester. That's a lovely fern. My mother would have begged you for a start of it."
"Don't waste my time on such foolishness. Bartholomew put it here." She swatted the fronds she had been fussing over a moment before. "With an entire forest full o' green stuff out there, I don't compromise the rationing behind bringing 'em into the house."
To see Hester trying to be something she wasn't seemed tragically pathetic to Ariah. The woman must have some good points; everyone did. "A plant such as that adds to the loveliness of your parlor and fine furniture, Hester, and emphasizes your good taste," Ariah said, hoping Hester would realize that she had merits of her own.
"Huh! You're as . . .as unenlightened as he is. T'ain't 'parlor' no more, though you'll never perseid him to admit it. It's 'living room'. And as to my fine furnishings, there aren't two pieces in the room that match. Sofa's rococo and mahogany. That lady's chair is Louis XV revival, and these side chairs are Eastlake, made o' walnut." She flashed her husband a look of resentment. "Can't furnish any room proper on a keeper's wage."
Bartholomew came to his feet. "Hester, a Perseid is a group of meteors that can be seen around the second week of August. Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I have work to do in my office. Thank you for showing me the book, Ariah."
Wishing to slap him for his lack of understanding, Ariah handed him the book. "Here, read it at your leisure, Mr. Noon. I’ve a small field guide I usually use, so I won't miss it."
He nodded as he accepted the book, sensing her disapproval and wishing he could call back his calloused words. Baiting his wife did little to ease the tension between them and made him feel small. In his office he sank into the armchair behind his desk and pressed the book to his face. The leather binding radiated the warmth of Ariah's body where she had hugged it to her breasts. Lily of the valley pervaded his senses.
To have Ariah living there in his home until her wedding was proving to be both Heaven and hell. Her presence haunted him no matter where he went, even in the water closet. Lily of the Valley and that youthful effervescence that was the essence of her. At times, like now, he could close his eyes and pretend that only he and Ariah existed, living in the same house, talking, laughing and eating together. If only he could have her with him at night, the way he imagined each time he crawled between his sheets, life would indeed be heaven.
But no matter how marvelously he dreamed it all, Hester always managed to intrude, with her sharp, shrewish voice and her constant complaints, to bring him back to reality.
Heaven and Hell. And he wasn't at all certain that having Ariah married and settled in her own home was going to make life easier. How would he ever get used to the idea of her sleeping in another man's bed? To accept that it would be Pritchard, not him, who could lose himself in the joy of her sweet body each night, wake up next to her in the morning and know that every day of the rest of his life would be equally as happy.
Plato had preached that the health of the soul was more important than that of the body, vice worse than death, and the doing of injustice was worse than to suffer it. Bartholomew could concede the latter, but he was beginning to believe that even his soul would be a good deal sounder if only he could immerse himself in the holy vessel of Ariah's body.
Surely if God had intended for man to do without sexual release, He would not have made the human body crave it so badly that a man might go insane without it, and find even death more preferable than going on without joy, and love.
Chapter Fifteen
At Hester's prompting, Ariah had spent most of her time the last few days scrubbing her future home. Even though the house was only a year old, the care given it by its two bachelor residents left a lot to be desired. Hester's main objective, of course, was to keep her husband and their young guest apart. Bartholomew knew it was for the best, yet the loneliness and sense of loss he felt threatened to overwhelm him. Life had lost meaning.
Now Friday had arrived. Tomorrow Ariah and Pritchard would be married. The thought engendered an agony in him so deep that Bartholomew thought surely it would kill him. In truth, he almost wished it would. Only the strength gained from years of enduring unendurable situations, and hiding his emotions behind a wall of apathy, allowed him now to enter the lighthouse and greet his nephew civilly.
Pritchard was waiting for him. Nothing unusual; the boy was always eager to be relieved of his turn at watch. But since Ariah's arrival, he was more impatient than ever. Bartholomew couldn't blame him. Still, it irritated him.
Today the boy was fidgeting with a rope, creating a hell of a snarl as he tried to work a lanyard knot. Seamus's doing, most likely. The old sailor was always trying in his own inimitable way to turn Pritchard into a worthy seaman, which, to Seamus, was the best any man could be. A waste of time, Bartholomew thought. Where Seamus was a plodding old workhorse, Pritchard was a young sea otter, expecting always to float along in life, playing in the waves while his mother fetched supper to him.
Pritchard looked up at his uncle's entrance. "Afternoon, Uncle Bartholomew."
Bartholomew nodded and eyed the boy warily. The last time his nephew had addressed him by his full name, it had been to ask him to pick up Ariah at the train station.
"Any problems with the light?" he asked, careful not to invite personal disclosures.
"No. Looks like a storm's brewing, though." Pritchard gave up on the rope and tossed it onto a battered sea chest.
"Not uncommon for March." Bartholomew headed for the circular metal stairs leading to the lamp, hoping he had misjudged his nephew's pensiveness. He made it to the third step.
"Uncle Bartholomew, may I ask you something?"
Cursing silently, Bartholomew halted. "What is it?"
"I was wondering if, well . . ." He turned away to pick at a bit of peeling paint, obviously ill at ease. "Aunt Hester thinks I should look into Ariah's past. She says a young woman as pretty as Ariah isn't likely to marry a stranger unless there are . . .extenuatin
g circumstances."
Bartholomew clamped his jaw tight on the foul words that came to mind on learning that his wife had ignored his warning about causing trouble.
"I'd rather not ask Ariah outright. It would seem rude, don't you think?" Pritchard flicked a fleck of paint from his fingernail as he sat down at the desk where the keepers kept their logs. "But Aunt Hester does have a point, I suppose, so I was wondering if Ariah said anything to you . . .during the trip back from Portland . . .that might explain why she agreed to marry me."
Bartholomew came to stand in front of the boy, pinning him with his penetrating gaze until Pritchard squirmed in his seat.
"Pritchard, I know you don't like to think ill of your aunt, but in this case—" Pritchard opened his mouth and Bartholomew silenced him with a raised hand "—take my word for it, Hester is acting out of jealousy. Miss Scott lost her father recently, leaving her alone in the world. What else can a young woman in such circumstances do but marry? She is only eighteen; she needs someone to take care of her."
He nodded but Bartholomew could see he was still worried. If the boy had more insight, he would know Ariah Scott was too independent to marry simply because she was alone. Bartholomew didn't dare tell Pritchard the truth. If Hester learned of the possible trouble with Ariah's uncle, she would use that to terrify her nephew into sending the girl away. Bartholomew couldn't risk that. To have her living next door as another man's wife would be hell, to see her walk out of his life forever would be unbearable.
"You don't believe she could have gotten herself . . .you know, in trouble?" Pritchard asked.
"Absolutely not. Speak with her, give her a chance to defend herself. I would call that being fair, not rude. And I have confidence you will know whether or not she's lying."
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