Seamus nodded. "I'll guard 'er like she was me own ship. You gonna be around in case yer needed?"
"Yes. For awhile anyway."
Seamus shook his head and picked up his cold pipe. "'Tis a sad day, lad. A powerful sad day."
Bartholomew watched the old man drag himself up the stairs, looking almost as old as Bartholomew felt. As always, Seamus had perceived the goings on at the cape with a clear and unbiased eye. He had seen straight into Bartholomew's soul and sensed not only the turmoil there, but the cause as well. But to Bartholomew "sad" seemed too small a word to describe the torment inside him.
♥ ♥ ♥
It was ten after eight when Ariah looked up from the flower bed beside the front porch to see Seamus coming up the walk from the light. She waved before turning back to the fringe cups she had transplanted from the forest. The stalks of creamy, minuscule flowers rose as pertly above their maple-like leaves as they had at the clearing where Bartholomew and she had made love. The night's rain had done the plants some good.
"Good morning," she said as she dusted off her hands.
The old man stared at her so long she put her hand to her face, wondering if she'd smudged her cheek with garden dirt.
"Ye've a glow 'bout ye this mornin', lass."
"Why, thank you." The unaccustomed compliment surprised her. "The coffee's on the back of the stove. I'll be in to fix your breakfast in a minute. I thought I'd step over and invite Bartholomew to join us."
Seamus frowned. "Got somethin' ye'd best read first."
Puzzled, she followed him into the house. He sat at the kitchen table and fumbled in his pocket while she poured him a cup of coffee.
"What is it, Seamus?"
Though a sober man by nature, his manner today was gruffer than usual. Almost angry. Ariah's heart fluttered with unnamed fear. Something was wrong, something that had to do with Bartholomew. Had Seamus seen them together in the woods yesterday? Color flooded her face at the thought, but she was more concerned what this gentle old man might be feeling toward the man he obviously saw as the son he'd never had.
Without another word Seamus handed her a sheet of paper and lumbered from the room, taking with him his coffee and the fresh apple fritters she had left on the table for him. Unease ghosted down Ariah's spine as she pondered the folded note. Her name was spelled out on the front in the slanted, spidery script she recognized as Bartholomew's.
Her vision blurred. She blinked moisture from her eyes and tried to dislodge her heart from her throat, took her shawl from its hook and slipped from the house.
Apollo galloped toward her as she headed for the sheltering comfort of the woods. He slowed as he reached her, seeming to sense her mood, and sedately followed her through the tangled, moss-bedecked hemlocks and spruces. The night’s rain had left the ground wet and muddy and she regretted not putting on her rubber overshoes.
Only when she reached the clearing with its strangely naked trees towering overhead did she stop.
In the center, where she and Bartholomew had lain the day before, the false lily of the valley were bruised and bent. Like her heart, she thought. She knelt upon her shawl and tried to smooth the crimped edge of a satin leaf. The breeze carried the briny scent of the sea and the whisper of its roar. Sunshine arrowed through the branches to bathe her in golden warmth, adding to the sense of peace and solitude in the small glen.
The serenity was welcome; the solitude was not. She keenly felt Bartholomew's absence.
Sighing, she pulled his note from her pocket with trembling fingers. Meticulously, she unfolded the paper and smoothed the creases, as she had tried to do with the leaf. The sight of her name scrawled at the top in his strong masculine hand brought moisture back to her eyes. She brushed it away impatiently and focused on the words.
My dearest Ariah
I am leaving this Missive with Seamus as I know
I can trust him to get it to you discreetly. The Tide which will return
your Husband to you this Morn, will also carry Me away.
Last evening Pritchard assured me that he loves
you and wants to make his Marriage work, which caused
me to wonder how much my Presence in your Life has interfered
with the success of your wedded Life. On reflection, I find that I
cannot in all good Faith, steal his Wife from him without allowing
him the chance to win her for himself.
Therefore, I am resigning my Post as Head Keeper.
I apologize most heartily for leaving Seamus and Pritchard to take
care of matters alone until a replacement can arrive.
I can almost taste your ears. Believe me, sweet nymph, I go
not from you unscathed; for mine own Heart has shattered into a
thousand Pieces. But I know that, once your Tears have dried and
you have had time to reflect upon my decision, you will understand
and deem my actions not only fair, but necessary.
Yours Always,
Bartholomew
Ariah crumpled the letter in her fist and pressed it to her heart. He had abandoned her. How could he go off and leave her like this? Had he lied when he said he loved her? Now that he had finally sated himself inside her body, had he tired of her already?
"Damn you, Bartholomew Noon," she raged at the empty sky. "I won't let you do this to me. I won’t let you . . ."
But he already had.
Did Seamus know where Bartholomew had gone? Instinct told her that even if he did, he wouldn't tell her. The old sailor would point out that, had Bartholomew wanted her to know, he would have told her in the letter. She could go to his brother. Even if Bartholomew wasn't there, surely Calvin would know where to find him.
When Pritchard came home this morning, no doubt smelling of whiskey as he always did after a night in town, he would surely see Bartholomew at Barnagat waiting for the boat. Unless Bartholomew stayed out of sight in the trees until his nephew left for home.
How clever of Bartholomew to sneak away in the night, telling only an old man as close-mouthed as a clam.
"It's not fair, Bartholomew," she wailed, unaware of the tears coursing down her cheeks. "It's not fair."
Summoned by her ragged cry, Apollo came from the forest where he'd been sniffing out a hare. Whining, he licked the salty moisture from her cheek. Ariah wrapped her arms around the warm comfort of his furry body and wept. After a long while, she wiped her face on her sleeve and read the letter once more. Though her tears were now dry, she still didn't understand. Neither did she "deem" his actions fair or necessary.
Necessary. What a vile word. Worse even than "fair."
She laid back and stared at the sky, feeling Apollo's warmth curled up next to her and wishing he were Bartholomew. How would she live without him?
With her eyes closed she stretched out her arms until the cool satin of lily of the valley leaves kissed her fingers and sent their fragrance wafting to her nose. Tears ran unheeded down her temples while she relived the precious hours she had spent there with Bartholomew only the day before.
She ran her tongue over her lips and felt his kiss. His gentle hands stripped her bare and her body tingled at the remembered ardor in his gaze as he looked at her. Her mouth spread in a wan smile as she envisioned him standing before her again in all his naked, masculine splendor, so strong and proud and powerful.
Like his brother the eagle.
He had trapped her in the talons of his heart, ravaged her soul with his love. Now he was gone, leaving her broken and incomplete. Didn't he know he was taking her heart with him?
Half-blinded by her tears, Ariah leaped to her feet and ran down the trail, filled with a sudden need for action. Her feet slid on the slick mud, dumping her on her bottom in the muck, but she picked herself up and kept going. Behind her Apollo followed, barking. She had started down a steep grade when she glanced over her shoulder to see him racing after her.
Suddenly her feet went ou
t from under her. Her body hit the ground with a thud and rolled down the steep slope. Twigs raked her hands as she scrabbled for something to stop her descent. When her sleeve caught, bringing her up short, she thought at last her fall had been checked, but the fabric tore free and she plummeted on down the sheer incline. Pain bolted through her as a knee struck a gnarled root protruding from the ground.
Apollo's wild barking became frenzied. She opened her mouth to cry out to him and tasted moss and dirt.
The trail zigzagged and Ariah's tumble came to an abrupt end as she slammed into a moss-encrusted log. Apollo slid to a stop beside her, whining and nosing her inert body. Slowly, she sat up. Aside from scrapes and bruises, she was unharmed. Bracing herself with a hand on the dog's strong back, she limped the rest of the way down until she stood on the bluff above the beach and the crashing, frothing sea filled her gaze, its wild, rumbling voice calling out to her.
♥ ♥ ♥
Nestled in the gentle cavity between two thick roots of a massive uprooted Sitka stump, Bartholomew leaned back and gave himself up to the sights and sounds of the sea. The bleached wood cradled him like the arms of a chair, sheltering him from the brisk wind. Gulls wheeled overhead, their shrill screams sounding like children one moment, wailing women the next. Beyond the breakers a small fishing craft drifted south toward Pyramid Rock.
The day of the shipwreck, when Pritchard first told him he was marrying a young woman he had never met, seemed long ago now. So much had happened since then. He no longer felt the same person who began that trip into Portland with a crateful of frightened pheasants and an empty soul.
Ariah had filled him with her beauty and generosity. She had given him back his will to live.
He hungered for her with an intensity that shocked him. In all the weeks he had forced himself to stay away from her, to remind himself over and over that she could never be his, he had thought it impossible to want anything more than he wanted her. But that was before he had sunk himself into her warm welcoming body and learned what joy truly was. When, for the first time in his life, he learned how it felt to be fulfilled, complete, whole.
Walking away from Ariah in the middle of the night had been the hardest thing he had ever done. For an hour he had stared at her darkened window, willing her to awaken and look outside, knowing he could never tell her good-bye if he had to do it gazing into those incredible blue eyes.
Forget-me-not eyes.
Bartholomew's throat tightened. If only he could forget her. And yet, even if that were possible, he would not choose to have it so. He was more a man now than before she came into his life. Through her eyes he had seen his weaknesses and his strengths. He no longer hated the part of him that had chosen to do right by Hester. Nor did he hate Hester.
Yesterday he had allowed his need for Ariah to convince him that Pritchard's infidelity negated his wife's need to be loyal in return. Bartholomew had told himself that they could make love with impunity. He had been wrong.
Pritchard had destroyed all his rationalizations with three small words: I love her.
The boy's transgressions, no matter how heinous, failed to justify Bartholomew in casting aside his own integrity, his own honor. Or to cause Ariah to violate hers.
"God forgive me," he murmured, and the sea murmured back.
He closed his eyes, straining to hear redemption in that soft rhythmic whisper. All he heard was the barking of a dog.
Bartholomew's head jerked up. Far down the beach where the trail began, two small figures were emerging onto the strand, one gamboling about the other on four sturdy legs, the other stumbling toward the sea in a muddy, tattered dress.
Ariah!
Bartholomew's heart stilled. His soul soaked up the sight of her the way hot sand absorbs water. This was what he had hoped for, what had kept him from leaving; a last secret glimpse. He drank it in hungrily, his heart surging, pulse racing, until finally it sank in that she was limping.
The sand on which she walked was not the loose sort one sank into, making walking awkward. It was smooth and firm with only a little give to it, nothing to account for her stumbling gait. Without thinking, Bartholomew moved away from the enormous stump and stepped toward her. Three hundred yards of empty beach was all that separated them. He could reach her in a few short minutes.
Something halted him. Something forbidding in her appearance. Her dress was torn and covered with mud. A ripped sleeve fluttered in the wind. Loose, disheveled hair lashed at her face like silk ribbons. She reached the line that segregated dry sand from wet and sank to the ground. Shallow water, marbled and edged with foam, rolled toward her invitingly. The dog, seeming to realize she was in no mood to play, sat down beside her. Together, they stared out to sea looking lonely and forlorn.
No words were necessary to tell him that Seamus had given her his letter, that it was his abandonment of her that had brought her to the state he saw her in now. It was his fault. She was suffering, because of him. He took another step toward her and stopped.
What good could possibly come from going to her now? He could never leave then. And if he stayed . . .? To keep his hands from her would be impossible. To sleep alone while she shared the bed of her husband would be intolerable. Torn between abiding by his heart and breaking it, Bartholomew stood there doing nothing. His hands clenched in helplessness. His throat ached with emotions clamoring to burst free.
Ariah rose onto her knees. She brought her fists to her heart, her head fell back and she screamed, "Bartholomew!"
Never had he heard a more eerie and soul-shattering sound. It drove, with crucifying, iron fingers deep inside his being.
"Bartholo-mew-oo-oo . . ."
Moisture clouded his vision, but he could still see Apollo pacing about Ariah where she sat on her heels, her head on her knees, hair trailing in the wet sand. He could hear the dog whimpering, hear Ariah's sobs, soft and ragged like torn silk.
He had to go to her.
No, Bartholomew. You've done enough damage.
Ariah was hugging the dog now, letting his long, shaggy fur absorb her pain, the way Bartholomew wished he could.
She needs me.
Leave her be. She's young, she'll forget you and go on with her life.
What about me? What will my life be without her? Don't my needs count?
No answer came to that.
Before he could move from the spot where guilt and agony held him nailed to the ground, Ariah came to her feet. She gazed out to sea for a long moment. Then she turned and, with the dog beside her, limped to the path that would take her home and out of Bartholomew's life forever.
With a hand lifted as if to stop her, he moved forward.
His answer came then. His needs did not count, not when they interfered with hers. He had to do what was right. He had to let her go.
His hand fell. Like the shadow of the giant tree stump in which he had sat, he stood frozen, watching her walk out of his life, while his heart crumbled to a billion pieces at his feet.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ariah opened the door to the pheasant pen and stepped inside.
"What are you doing here?"
Pritchard turned to look at her. In his hand he held a bucket of feed. "Good morning. Seamus said Uncle Bart wanted me to take care of his pheasants awhile. Do you know what's going on? I can't believe Uncle Bart would simply up and resign like this."
Ariah glanced away, afraid her husband would see the pain in her eyes and guess its cause. That Bartholomew had asked Pritchard to see to the pheasants instead of her deepened her agony. She felt as though a knife had been slipped between her ribs, straight into her heart.
"Give me the bucket, Pritchard. I'll take care of this. You'd better get to the light."
"Gladly." He handed over the feed. "I don't know how you can stand it in here. It stinks, and I'm always waiting for those darn birds to swoop down on me."
"They spend most of their time on the ground, Pritchard, so they aren't likely to 'swoop d
own' on anybody."
"Swoop on up. Will you be bringing my lunch?"
"Don't I always?"
He looked at her askance. "Sorry, I didn't mean to upset you."
Ariah sighed. "No, I'm sorry. I seem to be a bit edgy today for some reason."
Sensing that he had the advantage for the moment, he bent and kissed her full on the lips. She tasted like marmalade. "Umm, you taste good enough to eat. I missed you last night. Why did you go to bed so early and lock the door?"
Ariah moved out of his embrace and began to scatter the feed. "I wasn't feeling well. It . . . it's my woman's time. You know . . ."
"Oh." Disappointment washed over him. He had hoped to make tonight the big night when their marriage would become real at last. Besides, after being with Nettie, it took days for his hunger for sex to diminish and now that Uncle Bart was gone, it would be impossible to get into to town again until a replacement arrived.
"Does that mean you'll want to sleep alone until it's over?" he asked.
"I think it would be more pleasant for both of us."
His mouth formed in its usual pout. "All right. I'll see you later when you bring lunch."
Ariah didn't bother to watch him go. Her vision had blurred with unwanted moisture. Was this how it would be the rest of her life? Making excuses, lying, to avoid intimacy with her own husband? She wasn't certain which she dreaded more, a lifetime with Pritchard, or being found by Uncle Xenos. The only thing certain was that neither could be as bad as losing Bartholomew.
All night she laid awake pondering how to get word to Bartholomew that she would leave Pritchard. She even wrote a letter to be posted to his brother's house at the first chance. But there would be no chance until the next time they needed supplies, which was a week away. Unless she took it to the post office at Barnagat herself. It wasn't much farther than when she went to the beach. She could do it. And that way, neither Pritchard nor Seamus would know about it.
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