by Anya Seton
Oh dear, thought Hesper, they must expect a very grand dinner party. She hurriedly introduced them to Charity and Eben. Emmeline cast an astonished glance over Charity’s yellow satin and ringlets, but she was determined to be tolerant. They all sat down.
Hesper said, “I wonder what can be keeping Ma and Pa—Tim left for them ages ago. I hope nothing’s wrong.”
Charity withdrew her gaze from the Englishwoman’s decollete and diamonds. “Naughty Hesper—” she said shaking her head and smiling. “Never give reality to evil, by voicing fear. Of course nothing’s wrong. God constantly works for good.”
“Well, I guess so—” said Hesper absently. She was accustomed to Charity’s spiritual interpretations, and her ears heard the approaching jingle of sleigh bells. “Here they are.” She rose to greet her parents.
Emmeline turned to Charity and murmured, “Do you do much church work, Miss Trevercombe? At least—ah—do you have a Church of England here? Americans seem to have so many denominations.”
“Yes,” said Charity complacently. “Saint Michael’s is Episcopalian and there are half a dozen other churches in Marblehead. But I no longer attend any of them. I find no need. Truth flows direct from the Divine Soul into my heart.”
“Oh, really,” said Emmeline faintly.
Charity continued to expound her doctrine.
“Yes, I see what you mean—” murmured Emmeline, and got up with relief. Mrs. Porterman’s parents at last.
The relief was short-lived. Mr. and Mrs. Honeywood were not at all what she had been led to expect. His appearance was gentlemanly enough, though his old-fashioned coat was shabby, his sparse hair much too long, and his fingers ink-stained.
Still, he had a sweet smile and a pleasant voice and one might forgive the rest in a gentleman scholar. Not, however, by any stretch of imagination could one consider Mrs. Honeywood a lady. A heavy frecklefaced old woman in cheap black alpaca too tight under the arms. Black laced boots like a man’s. And her speech! A thick, heavy burr, and really most uneducated. She cut through all the polite trickles of greeting.
“Domn dirty weather out,” she said, acknowledging her introduction to the Hay-Bottses with a nod. “We’d a time getting here. There’s a drift across Franklin Street high as the horse. And more snow to come. Wind’s backing in again up the harbor.”
“Oh dear—” said Hesper, “I should have sent for you earlier, I didn’t know.”
Her mother regarded her with a certain calm amusement. “You don’t know much about what’s going on in town, Hes—”
It was a statement and not a criticism, but Hesper flushed. I wish Ma wouldn’t speak so loud and rough, she thought. She threw a nervous glance toward Amos, but he and Dorch and George Hay-Botts had drawn together by the empty fireplace and were talking volubly of business conditions.
Roger did not join the other men; he pulled a chair up close to Emmeline, and said with a rather touching shyness—“It’s a privilege to meet English people, ma’am. We’re proud of our English ancestry, you know. The first Honeywoods to come to Marblehead, they came from Dorset, they weren’t Pilgrims, of course, they were Puritans and landed with Winthrop’s fleet. Their flagship was the Arbella, as, of course, you know?...” He had grown very deaf in the last years, and he leaned forward eagerly cupping his hand behind his ear for Emmeline’s response.
She stared at him blankly, drawing back a little, and Susan gave her characteristic snort.
“Good God, Roger!” she cried. “Don’t start that rigmarole now. Your precious Honeywoods left England because they wanted something different, I guess, and what’s there in that to interest Mrs. Botts!”
“Hay-Botts,” said Emmeline coldly. Her broadmindedness and feeling of kinship with Hesper were slipping.
During the first course at dinner—a fish soup, of all extraordinary things—they slipped further. Mr. Honeywood on her right bored her with exploits which had taken place in Marblehead, while Mr. Porterman on her left treated her to a spasmodic geniality, but obviously preferred talking across his mother-in-law at George.
The wine was poor and half the company did not touch it. That little Mr. Dorch was “temperance,” it seemed, and felt it necessary to say so. And this brought out a further revelation. Mrs. Honeywood kept an inn. Emmeline asked a startled question, and from the answer discovered her earlier mistake. The large old house referred to by Mrs. Porterman was nothing but a country inn. Emmeline froze into unhappy silence, genuinely shocked. Her hostess was the daughter of a tavern keeper. Her mother ran a pub. She cast an appealing look at her husband. Had he also heard? Apparently not. He was eating.steadily, and drinking the indifferent wine. George was not perceptive, except in business matters.
Hesper, sitting at the other end of the table, saw the sudden cloud settle over Emmeline and was troubled, though she had not the slightest clue to its appearance, except for a vague suspicion that it had something to do with Ma, or Pa.
I must try harder, she thought, be a good hostess for Amos’s sake. She smiled at Hay-Botts and asked him a question about their coming voyage. She turned to Eben and mentioned the disputed election. Did he think Tilden or Rutherford B. Hayes would eventually win out? Eben, like most Marbleheaders, was a Democrat and hoped for Tilden. He laid down his fork and launched into speech. Hesper tried to listen and could not. She had the sensation of pushing a tremendous burden uphill before her, a dream sensation of futile effort. The fumed-oak dining room, the table damask swathed and laden with dozens of small dishes and platters containing half-eaten food, the faces of her guests, were all blurred and diminished by opaque malaise. She could eat nothing.
The heavy dinner progressed and finished at last in a welter of melting ice cream.
The women got up and left the dining room. Hesper murmured the conventional question. Charity did not wish to go upstairs, she would wait for them in the drawing room. Emmeline said, “Yes. I shall retire to my room for a few minutes,” in a pinched voice.
Susan followed her daughter up to the Porterman bedroom. “What’s the matter, Hes?” she said as soon as the door had closed. “You in the family way again?”
Hesper made a distracted motion with her hand, and sank down on the pink ruffled ottoman by her bureau. “I don’t know. I think so. It isn’t that.”
Susan planted herself in the middle of the rug, and folded her arms; her shrewd eyes appraised the drooping figure. The dense skin was too white, not its normal ivory tone—but greenish. And Hesper’s lips were trembling.
“You ought to get out more, house too hot anyway,” said Susan briskly—“and take a good dose of salts. You wasn’t built to be a niminy-piminy fine lady.”
Hesper’s head jerked up. “Oh, Ma—for the Lord’s sake—” she cried. “There’s nothing wrong with my health! You always make everything seem so—”
“What is wrong, then?” cut in Susan.
Leave me alone, thought Hesper. I don’t know what’s wrong, except nobody fits here tonight. I don’t fit. Go back to your tumbledown old house by the sea. You and Pa. You don’t belong here.
“Answer me, Hes, Stop acting moon-struck.”
Hesper’s mouth tightened. “Amos is worried about the factory,” she said sulkily. “He’s counting on Mr. Hay-Botts to invest some money.”
Susan gave a grim nod. “Aye—things a’nt going so well for Amos, I know. But I’m surprised you do. If ever a woman was coddled and kept clear of worry—you’re her. You put me in mind of those wax flowers under glass.”
“Ma, that’s mean! It’s not true. Amos loves me and cherishes—I had so much trouble before with Evan, he wants to make up...”
“Oh, quit babbling, child.” Susan put her fat mottled hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “I didn’t say it was your fault exactly. Or that it was a fault. You’ve a good marriage, I guess. Now—you better go down to your company, or that long-nosed Englishwoman’ll get even groutier than she is.”
They all gathered again in the drawing room, s
itting along the edges of the wall on the mohair sofa and the Gothic chairs. Annie had turned the gas up, and the gasolier shed on them a bleak white light from its seven hissing mantles.
Outside the snow had stopped falling and a watery moon cast a glow over the Porterman mansion, on the snow piled on the mansard roof, the fretwork curlicues that edged the porch, and on the high cupola, shaped a little like a Chinese pagoda, to which no stairs led. A thin strip of light from the drawing room filtered through the heavy portieres onto the snow. In the basement kitchen where Annie and Bridget were washing dishes, they had not bothered to draw the blinds.
“Moon’s out—” said Annie, slopping a rag around the soup tureen and glancing idly at the window. “Funny—” she said, peering closer. “I thought I saw a shadow-like, over by the stable. But it’s gone.”
“You ’ad a nip too much o’ the master’s cookin’ brandy, that’s wot yer shadow is—” answered Bridget, crossly. She was very tired, mountains of dishes still to be washed, and that Englishwoman hadn’t hardly touched all the good food. Acted like it was poisoned, Annie said.
“I’ve a mind to give notice, I have, lessen they’ll get me a kitchen maid. Too much work, and the madam bone lazy—if ye ax me.”
“Not so much lazy as indifferent-like,” said Annie, judicially. “She don’t notice things.”
The bell above the kitchen door jangled. “That’ll be her wanting Master Henry to say his piece,” said Annie, putting down the soup tureen. She went up the back stairs to the nursery, found Henry cutting out pieces of lead foil to use for money, in a game of store he played incessantly by himself. He needed no slicking up, his sausage curls, velveteen jacket, and kilts were all as tidy as they had been in the morning. He accompanied Annie downstairs, entered the drawing room, and walked toward his mother.
The group welcomed him as a distraction. They were all weighed down by post-prandial torpor. Amos and George Hay-Botts had no more to say to each other for the present. They were going to tour the factory tomorrow morning, and their thoughts were compounded of the hope of mutual benefits, but they had run out of conversation. Eben Dorch was struggling against a gnawing pain beneath his breast bone, which had been plaguing him lately after meals. Susan and Roger were both afflicted by the sudden overwhelming sleepiness of age, and Roger succumbed, his head fell forward on his chest and he drowsed. Emmeline sat withdrawn from the group, her eyes once more fixed on the Spanish galleon with an expression of stony endurance.
They all listened to Charity, who was never troubled by physical discomforts, or averse from talking. She slid imperceptibly from general remarks on Divine Healing, and her own miraculous demonstrations of it, into the lecture she had prepared for the Thursday meeting of her disciples.
Her audience had been listening and waiting with varying intensity for the hour of release.
Henry paused a moment by Hesper’s knee, smiled at his grandmother, whom he rather liked, particularly since she never tried to kiss him, saw at once that his grandfather was sleeping and not to be disturbed, said “How do you do” to everybody else, walked to the center of the carpet, and folded his hands behind his back. He began at once in his clear, precise treble.
What does little birdie say, In her nest at peep of day?
Let me fly, says little birdie, Mother, let me fly away.
Birdie rest a little longer, Till the little wings are stronger.
So she rests a little longer, Then she flies away.
What does little baby say in her bed at peep of day?...
Hesper, watching him with loving pride, nevertheless was seized with revulsion. Why did I teach him that thing? she thought—it’s so silly. There’s so many other things—what things? She thought of the sea chanteys and ballads of her own childhood. “Blow the man down, blast you—Blow the man down—” Impossible to imagine Henry reciting that, nor would I want him to. It’s vulgar.
Henry reached the end of the poem and stopped. He received the applauding murmurs with composure. Even Emmeline unbent, for she was fond of children, and said “Well done, little man,” in the practiced tone she reserved for the small cottagers in the village at home.
Henry said good night and disappeared upstairs. He put himself to bed, and usually fell asleep before Hesper came up for the goodnight kiss.
Relief rippled through the company. They all rose. They’re glad to go, thought Hesper and I’m glad to have them go. The thing is, I’ve nothing in common with Marbleheaders. Just because I happened to be born here. And of course Amos isn’t one. We must get away. I’ll make him sell the factory and this house.
She said good-bye to her father. Poor old darling, maundering about the past. Her good-bye to her mother was tinged with resentment. “Wax flowers under glass—” what did Ma know anyway? Never been out of Marblehead, but always acted like she had the wisdom of Solomon.
She said good night to Eben Dorch, and Charity, who was driving him home. To think I ever envied Charity. Old maid, no matter how she sugarcoats it with her Divine Love and her independence.
She shut the door behind them, and with a sudden rush of tenderness smiled up at Amos who stood beside her. Safe and protected, of course. What happier role for a woman?
“Well, Hes—” he said, smiling back. “Went pretty well, don’t you think?”
“Oh yes, dear,” she whispered fervently. “Fine.” And in saying it her spirits rose. The earlier guilt and forebodings and disquiet now seemed ridiculous. They had had a good dinner and Hay-Botts would invest in the factory tomorrow. Emmeline’s thoughts, whatever they were, did not matter. She walked back to the English couple in the drawing room, and said cordially—“Wouldn’t you like something to drink before we retire?”
Hay-Botts nodded, Emmeline said nothing.
“I’ll ring for Annie—” Hesper moved to the carpet bell pull. Her fingers touched the strip of carpeting and then closed on it convulsively, her breath expelled itself from her opened mouth in a smothered cry.
She swung around, staring toward the curtained window. The noise she had heard from outside grew louder, a succession of disjointed sounds—soft yet penetrating, like sobbing laughter.
“My God, Porterman—what’s that!” cried Hay-Botts jumping to his feet.
“I don’t know,” said Amos. He moistened his lips and moved protectively towards Hesper. The four of them stood staring toward the window.
The sounds began again, a little further off—a crescendo of soft soulless laughter.
“It don’t sound human—” whispered Hay-Botts. “You got animals ' make a noise like that?”
Amos shook his head. He took a step towards the portieres by the window. “Don’t—” whispered Hesper and she clutched at his arm.
They waited, listening, held by an atavistic fear of the unknown terror by night.
“It’s stopped—” said Amos after a moment. “It was boys playing a prank, I guess.”
Emmeline gave a nervous titter.
Then a new disturbance reached them. Annie’s unmistakable shriek, tearing up from the basement. “Holy Mother! Come back here—you! Stop her!” and then the sound of light running footsteps on the stairs.
The group in the drawing room stood motionless. The steps ran toward them down the hall. A woman in black appeared between the double doors at the entrance to the drawing room. A shawl covered her face and shoulders and behind the sheltering folds her face floated white and shapeless—around the dilated blackness of her eyes.
They heard her quick breathing, and she swayed a little, leaning against the edge of the door. Melting snow lay in the ridges of her shawl, and her thin kid slippers were caked with snow.
“Leah—” whispered Hesper; she took a quick step toward the black figure. “You poor thing—what?...”
“Careful—” Amos’s arm shot out in front of Hesper. He shoved her behind him.
A tremor ran through the figure by the door. She straightened and stood tall. The shawl slipped from her head. A m
agnificent head still. The gray in her loosely bound hair seemed as fortuitous as the snow on her shawl. Her cheeks were no longer rounded, but behind the planes and hollows of her unlined face there lived a weird and ageless beauty.
When Amos spoke the huge dark eyes cleared from their bewilderment, they focused on him, and she smiled.
“There you are—love,” she said with delight. “Leah’s been searching for you so long. She saw you through the window, and she laughed—for joy.”
“She’s mad—” whispered Hay-Botts. “Get up behind her and—”
Leah turned her head slowly in his direction. Her lids fell and she seemed to contemplate him with a reflective sadness. He recoiled against the wall. “Leah has a knife,” she said in the same soft coaxing voice.
Emmeline gave a moan, and shrank further behind a chair.
Has she really a knife? thought Hesper. Leah’s hands were hidden beneath the black shawl. Hesper felt no fear. Her mind seemed to be working with a blinding clarity.
She saw Amos pulling himself together, the increased tension of his muscles. He put his hand out palm upward. “Give me the knife, Leah.” His voice was admirably calm and forceful. But why doesn’t he look straight at her ? thought Hesper.
Leah shook her head, backing off and gazing up at him earnestly. “No, love. Leah might need it. Against Nat, you know. Nat’s bad. He keeps Leah locked in so she couldn’t find you. Sometimes he ties her down with ropes.”
Amos swallowed, his hand dropped. He turned his head toward Hay-Botts, who stood ten feet away at the other side of the fireplace, trying to signal a plan.
Hesper saw this and was sickened. Leah might get violent, she might have a knife, but she wasn’t violent now. There was dignity and pathos about her. Surely there was no need to assault her physically. “And,” said a clear voice in Hesper’s brain, “why has she been searching for Amos, why does she call him ‘Love’? She’s crazy, of course, but...”