Palmyra

by Susan Evans McCloud

  “He don’t work along my stretch. I hardly see the lad, Esther.” He spoke with patience, but also with a matter-of-factness, as if to say, What can I do? Each man to his own fate.

  “Doctor!” I appealed.

  “Perhaps this will bring him to his senses, Esther. Beyond that—well, he’s awful young still. He has to make up his own mind about such things for himself.”

  Bleak! Bleak acceptance. Why are men like that?

  I put on the kettle and cut bread. Anything to keep busy. I half wished, half dreaded that Randolph would wake. “Would you like me to sit the rest of the night with him?” I asked, as the doctor sucked at his hot drink.

  “I’ll do that.” Jonah sat stolid and determined. “I’m used to long hours. And I’ll be able to handle him when he wakes. You get some sleep, miss.”

  Doctor Ensworth nodded in agreement and patted my hand. “Try to do as he says, Esther. Things will work out as they’re meant to. They always do.”

  His words played in my head as I slid between my chilled sheets and tried to make my mind and my body relax. Things will work out as they’re meant to . . . Doctor Ensworth has come to grips with the forces, fair and foul, that determine our mortal lives. He can see some design, I realized, that even the most terrible of tragedies fits into, and make some sense of it all.

  I could not. I fell asleep with frustration still gnawing at me like a bad toothache that made me turn restlessly all night in my bed.

  Father shook me awake. I knew by the grayness of the sky outside my patch of window that the hour was early.

  “What is this business, Esther?” he demanded.

  I explained to him briefly as I slipped into my shift and dress.

  “And how are we to care for a sick lad with Jonathan underfoot and your mother fussing like a wet hen?”

  “I’m sorry, Father. I couldn’t turn him away.”

  “Of course not, daughter. Well, we’ll have to find a way to make do.”

  The way was that we moved Randolph back to my room where we could shut the door upon him and the child could make all the noise he wanted going about his usual play. I saw to the changing of the dressing and administered herbs that were good for healing: bay leaves for his bruises and the aching in his limbs; borage for the fever; comfrey to help heal the wound. Mother punished me for the first day or two by brooding and almost refusing to talk to me. But I knew how to pamper her, and after a while she nearly forgot the presence of our strange, quiet visitor, so slight was the trouble he caused.

  Randolph was awake off and on, sinking into a sort of stupor when the need for sleep overtook him. We had not talked much at all. I saw to his needs and murmured a few soothing words, but asked no questions and administered none of the scoldings that burned on my tongue. Every evening Jonah Sinclair came and changed the dressing for me and fed the patient his thin broth, soaked bread, and tea.

  “How is Latisha?” I asked the second night. “Is she very upset? Does she think to tell anyone else in the family?”

  He glanced at his broad booted feet and kept his uncomfortable gaze there. “I have not told her, Miss Esther.”

  “You have not told her!” I exclaimed. He shifted from foot to foot, muttering under his breath, looking like a shaggy little beast that had been caught in a trap.

  “I couldn’t, I just couldn’t—knew how worried she’d be—sick with worry—meant to a time or two, but couldn’t bring myself—that little face of hers . . .”

  I touched his shoulder. “It’s all right,” I said. “But some time they all have to know of this. He can’t stay here forever. And if his arm . . .” I hesitated. We looked at each other miserably.

  “Randolph won’t take to that, won’t take to it well, I can tell you.”

  “I know. Let me think upon it.”

  The longer I thought, the more I felt impressed to go straight to his father. The idea unnerved me: to confront that icy man with such ill tidings! He would be likely to bite my head off, out of spite. But what course was better—especially for Randolph’s sake? I feared if we “hid him away,” so to speak, with Eugene’s father (I had considered placing him at the blacksmith shop where he might be given odd jobs to do that would help build up his strength) or with Josie and Alexander at the mill (where he might become depressed at the hum of activity around him in which he could not take part)—I was afraid his feelings would fester worse than his wound and the task of facing his father loom greater and greater as the days and weeks passed. However, if I did it for him . . .

  He was sitting up now and spending some part of each day walking. He had been beaten up rather badly before the gruesome gash along his arm had been inflicted and then had lost a great deal of blood. He did not seem to object to the confining routine of his days; exhaustion still played with his senses as the need for healing sleep overcame all else. He complied, as he must. But he would not talk! He refused to communicate anything—by word, by question, by hope expressed, by complaint.

  Still I postponed the inevitable. In the mornings I looked forward to the boy’s smile, the way he attempted to hide his pleasure at seeing me. The longer he was awake and about each day, the more his hours would drag, I told myself. So I began leaving some of my favorite books about, even volumes of poetry, and casually suggested them for his perusal. To my astonishment, he took them up and consumed their pages with a voracious appetite that must have been born at least partly from the desperation of boredom.

  Once, as he handed Scott’s Waverly novels back to me, he said, “I like both Irving and Cooper better. They may not be as clever as Scott, but their thoughts are more palatable to me.”

  Cleverness . . . palatable . . . I know the Swifts came from a noble line that can justly claim centuries of superiority. But, despite my affection for him, I had judged this boy as concerned only with the most elemental of carnal, self-seeking desires!

  Now things were progressing too quickly. This will get out of hand, I thought, if I wait too much longer. So early one evening I told Father what I was doing, left a note for Jonah Sinclair, and rode Tansy to the big house that took up the space of three or four lots on Washington Street. The house Lawrence Swift selected for his banker son-in-law was only a block away, at the corner of Gates and Main, but at least Tillie would not be there tonight.

  I left Tansy at the post and knocked boldly on the big front door. Mrs. Swift’s maid answered and left me in the hall while she took word to the master.

  “It is Mr. Swift, and Mr. Swift alone, I wish to see,” I stated emphatically. “Please tell him I have come on a matter of great importance to him.”

  How nervous I was during those moments of waiting! I drew a few deep breaths down into my lungs to calm me. When I was given the nod and allowed to follow the servant back to the master’s study, I was sure she could hear the pounding of my heart in my chest.

  Tillie’s father looked up when I entered and indicated a chair for me to sit in, but he did not rise from his desk—which is the only polite thing to do when a lady enters. Perhaps that small, mean act gave me the edge of spirit and determination I needed.

  “Sir,” I launched right in, since he was obviously not in a temper to waste time with the little niceties, “I have some important information about your son, Randolph, that I believe you should know.”

  Not a sign. Not even a raising of the imperial eyebrow. I drew myself up a bit. “Mr. Swift, really, must you play the role with me? Your son has been hurt badly, knifed in a street fight—and, for love of him and Tillie, I have been caring for Randolph these several days in my own house.”

  I had the pleasure of seeing his long face turn white. His hands, spread on the polished surface of the desk, tightened into fists. But still he said nothing.

  “Do you wish to know the details, Mr. Swift?”

  A long moment’s pause. “Yes. Please.”

  I told him, as succinctly and painlessly as possible.

  “I am sorry you have been troubled by this
matter, Esther. You should never have been brought into it.” Anger was hard in his voice.

  “Of course I should have been brought into it!” I cried. “What are friends for but to succor one another in times of need?”

  “Mr. Sinclair had no business. I shall see to him later—and make sure you are compensated.”

  I rose to my feet. “I came here for one reason, sir, and one reason only—to work out the best thing for Randolph, to hope you would bring him home again where he might rest and heal, where he might be renewed by his family’s love and attentions.”

  I was drawing the picture for him on purpose—trying to shame him into it.

  “Randolph cannot come here—for a variety of reasons, none of which, my dear girl, you understand.”

  “He is but a boy—in trouble, in need of guidance, sir.”

  “Esther—” My name. One word, spoken with such a note of imperious warning that it sent shivers along my spine.

  “I am not one of your daughters, that you can think to bully or frighten me. But I am willing to beseech you, sir, on behalf of your son.”

  He looked at me very strangely then. “You are young yourself, Esther. You know little of such matters.”

  “I know much of love, and of fear—and of how important it is that Randolph be forgiven and—”

  “The prodigal son, is it?” Mr. Swift opened his fists and placed his hands, palms down, flat on the desk. “That is my decision to make, young lady.”

  “Aye, yours the power—and yours the responsibility.”

  Perhaps he could see that I was seething. He pushed his chair back and rose. “Ann will see you out now, Esther. Thank you for coming to me. I know you meant well.”

  I stood, but I did not move. “Will you be sending a carriage for him, then?”

  “Esther!”

  “Sir! For mercy’s sake!”

  He sat down again. “Let me think upon it. I will think upon it,” he said, as though by way of some great condescension.

  He must have pushed some button, for Ann appeared at my elbow and gingerly touched my arm.

  “He is a good boy. He needs another chance. He needs care. Please do think upon the matter of your eldest son long and well, sir.”

  I turned and followed the young woman, wordless and tense with misery, all the way through the long hall and out the front door. I leaned against Tansy, enjoying the solid warmth of her body. I stood there for moments before I gathered the resolution to mount and ride away from that pernicious spirit, that implacable will that had conquered my own.

  That very night, while I was absent, a scene took place which, I suppose, Doctor Ensworth would say was the working of fate. I was not there to prevent or amend it. I came too late—I came home to an empty room and an empty bed and the burly figure of Jonah Sinclair pacing my kitchen.

  “Told ’im the truth, miss. He asked and I told him. What else was I to do?”

  The poor man was distraught, his eyes haunted with worry. “What did Randolph ask?”

  “Asked when I thought he might be up and around again. ‘My arm feels so stiff,’ says he. ‘When will I regain the use of it?’ ”

  “I said, ‘The doctor thinks you damaged the nerves, and the arm might never be right.’ ”

  “Why?” I breathed, fighting back a strong urge to shout at him. “He needed to come to that point by degrees.”

  “I don’t know what you mean. I thought it better to level with the boy, man to man.”

  “Level with him?” I was raising my voice now. “He isn’t ready for that.”

  “I couldn’t lie to him.”

  So simple, so straightforward! “Where has he gone?”

  “Back to his room by the canal, I suspect, Miss Esther. I’ll look for him there.”

  “You do that, this very night—this very minute! And bring word back to me!”

  Duly chastened, the man scuttled out of my kitchen. I heard his horse on the road. I heard the wind. I thought I heard a child crying in the smothering dark of the night.

  Jonah did not return that night, nor the next. It was the following morning he came. His eyes were bleary and bloodshot, and I wondered how much sleep he had denied himself during the past two nights and days.

  “Nowhere, miss!” He ran thick, muscled fingers through the curly tangle of his hair. “I swear he’s disappeared off the face of the earth.”

  I sat down, feeling a bit weak at the joints. “Exactly where have you looked?”

  His list was impressive. I could not think of one place to add to it.

  “He must have caught a boat, I figure, that took him someplace else—Syracuse, Rochester, any of the cities along the canal.”

  I nodded. “Will you keep looking?”

  “ ’Course I will! Day ’n night.”

  “You’d better get some sleep first.” He nodded and shuffled toward the doorway. “Will you keep me . . . informed?”

  “ ’Course I will.” The man’s eyes were miserable. “I am sorry—I meant no harm.”

  “I know that.” I took his hand and squeezed it. “Give Latisha a kiss for me.”

  He went out into the day that was suddenly too bright for my eyes. I did not watch after him. I did not let myself think about what might be happening with one young, frightened boy.

  Such clever twistings and turnings fate has in its power! The very next day Mr. Swift sent word that he wished to see me, at my convenience, in his office in town. I kept the messenger waiting at my door while I penned a reply, not even curious any longer as to what his decision might be.

  You are too late, sir, I wrote. Your son has vanished. Those searching have been unable to locate him anywhere. He was discouraged for fear the use of his injured arm might be denied him. Heaven knows where he has gone!

  “Take this back to Mr. Swift with my regrets,” I instructed. But I took a shameful pleasure in the pain that cruel man might suffer when he opened the paper and started to read.

  The snow held off for a good long time, but when it came, it came in wagonloads, the heavens opening like broad barn doors to dump their heavy wet burden. And with the snow came freezing night temperatures and ice—lavishly applied by the master painter, coating fence post and lane, and turning every surface where the least bit of moisture lingered into a thin sheet of glaze.

  Life, of necessity, had slowed down now, and I liked it that way: days spent working indoors and long nights by the fire. Josie contrived to celebrate her first wedding anniversary with a very nice little party for us girls and our friends; the days of Christmas came to claim our attentions and pleasure us, then passed on their way; and very slowly the last short, brittle days of the year went by.

  Chapter 13

  Palmyra: February 1829

  It had all been a ruse from the very beginning. I did not recognize that till too late. Josephine nearly four months with child and eating like a bird so as not to show it. Then a nightmare recurring: Alexander’s white face on my doorstep, Josie’s white face on her bed, Doctor Ensworth grimly shaking his head at me.

  “What is the trouble?” I asked him when we were alone.

  “I can’t tell you that.” His tone was more gentle than usual. “If only we knew. I’d guess it has something to do with the individual makeup of each woman’s system—how it is able to tolerate the growing fetus.” He scratched at his whiskery chin. “Some women carry a child without one day of sickness—some without one day of feeling well. Some deliveries take an hour, some take a day. Only the good Lord knows why.”

  Nothing there to take back to Josephine. I wondered if anything could comfort or placate her now. Alexander was devastated and showed it by burrowing deeper within himself. Josephine covered her anger with the brittle flippancy she handled so brilliantly. And such an attitude had the effect of turning honest sympathy aside. She would have none of our tendernesses and certainly no tears.

  “What is done, is done,” she kept chirping, “and all for the best, I imagine. I cannot see
myself with a child anyway.”

  That last statement chilled me. For it meant she had been picturing the sweet reality they both had hoped for.

  Her husband would have comforted her, if she had let him. I think in his mind he accepted the fault for the matter. Certainly this lovely, vivacious creature he had married could be in no way to blame.

  If Josie had allowed him to comfort her, would things have been different? I think so. The loss, the failure—as both of them regarded it—drove a dull wedge between them rather than weaving tender bonds that would have united the two as husband and wife. One does what one must, or each does those things of which he or she is cap-able, and that determines the matter for the moment, and often for years yet to come.

  I took joy in my godson, for so little Laurie was christened. What winsome ways he had—and as beautiful as any girl-child! I believe my mother was envious when I took to doting upon him. But Jonathan, after all, was nearly two years old, speaking a string of words, running wherever his stout legs would take him or his mother allow. Laurie was an infant yet. I wish my mother could have accepted him for his separate needs and separate merits. But Josephine’s disappointments had become, in a way, her own. She felt the depressive hopelessness, as if the loss had happened to her. She could see none of the underlying heartaches of Tillie’s life; those things that were carefully guarded from the casual eye. She chose, instead, to make comparisons and envy my dear friend for her affluence, her social position, her healthy, pampered child. In my mother’s mind I was a bit of a traitor to rejoice with Tillie, who already possessed overmuch and did not need my attentions in the way my poor sister and my own little brother did.

  I knew the bitter anguish Tillie’s family was suffering at Randolph’s disappearance. I had remained true to my trust, albeit reluctantly, and told no one of his terrible injury, nor of the time he spent under my roof. There I did feel like a traitor. After suffering my uneasiness for weeks, I took it up with Jonah Sinclair, briefly drawing him away from his young wife during a visit to Theodora’s. I never went to the big house now. If Tillie had still been living with her parents, I do not know what would have happened. I had no desire to encounter her father, nor to pursue the unfinished matters that stood like a stone block between us.